The Ancient Art of Persuasion across Genres and Topics 9789004412552, 9004412557

Citation preview

The Ancient Art of Persuasion across Genres and Topics

International Studies in the History of Rhetoric Editors Laurent Pernot (Executive Editor, Strasbourg, France) Craig Kallendorf (College Station, u.s.a.) Advisory Board Bé Breij (Nijmegen, Netherlands) Rudong Chen (Beijing, China) Manfred Kraus (Tübingen, Germany) Gabriella Moretti (Trento, Italy) Luisa Angelica Puig Llano (Mexico City, Mexico) Christine Sutherland (Calgary, Canada)

volume 12

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/rhet

The Ancient Art of Persuasion across Genres and Topics Edited by

Sophia Papaioannou Andreas Serafim Kyriakos Demetriou

LEIDEN | BOSTON

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2019038926

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 1875-1148 ISBN 978-90-04-41254-5 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-41255-2 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

To Michael Gagarin An influential scholar, an inspiring teacher, a dedicated mentor, a real gentleman

∵

Contents Acknowledgements xi Editors and Contributors xiii 1

The Hermeneutic Framework: Persuasion in Genres and Topics 1 Sophia Papaioannou, Andreas Serafim and Kyriakos Demetriou

part 1 A War in Words: Dramatic Debates in Poetry 2

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca’s Agamemnon: The Debate between Clytemnestra and Her Nurse 19 Andreas N. Michalopoulos

3

Epic Performance, Poetics and Persuasion in Ovid’s and Quintus’ Reconstructions of the Hoplōn krisis 35 Sophia Papaioannou

part 2 Narrative, Argument and the Failure of Rhetoric 4

Narrative in Forensic Oratory: Persuasion and Performance 55 Eleni Volonaki

5

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech: Teutiaplus’ Speech and the Limits of Persuasion in Thucydides’ Mytilenaean Narrative 73 Antonis Tsakmakis

6

The “Unpersuasive” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87 91 Maria Kythreotou

7 The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7: Failed Persuasion and Decline 104 Georgios Vassiliades 8

The Art of Ruling an Empire: Persuasion at Point Zero 124 Michael Paschalis

viii

Contents

part 3 Emotions 9

Feel between the Lines: Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory 137 Andreas Serafim

10

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero’s Letters to Atticus 153 Gabriel Evangelou

11

Si rerum pondera minutissimis sententiis non fregisset: Protrepsis in Seneca’s De ira 168 Jennifer Devereaux

part 4 Gender 12

Women in the Dock: Body and Feminine Attire in Women’s Trials 193 Konstantinos Kapparis

13

Rhetorical Masculinity in stasis: Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides’ Histories and Plato’s Gorgias 209 Jessica Evans

14

When Women Speak: The Persuasive Purpose of Direct Speech in Livy’s Ab urbe condita 225 T. Davina McClain

part 5 Language, Style and Performance 15

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech: An Interpersonal Analysis 249 Tzu-I Liao

16

Public and Private Persuasion in the Historical Works of Xenophon 270 Roger Brock

Contents

17

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers: Witness Terminology 281 S. C. Todd

18

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt: How to (Re)cite It and How to Recognize It 299 Alessandro Vatri

19

Pliny’s Letters and the Art of Persuasion 319 Margot Neger

part 6 The Rhetoric of Numbers 20 Pericles’ Rhetoric of Numbers 339 Tazuko Angela van Berkel 21

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes 356 Robert Sing Bibliography 371 Index Locorum 403 General Index 407

ix

Acknowledgements The editors would like to acknowledge a number of individuals and institutions whose help and support have been invaluable in the conception and completion of this volume. We thank the contributors, who have been very patient and helpful throughout the process of putting together this volume, in the face of many rounds of revisions and demands on their time from the editors. As editors, we have been fortunate to work alongside the contributors from our initial inquiries and theoretical meanderings, and we have been delighted to see how those exchanges of initial ideas and outlines led to the formulation of chapters that will enhance our knowledge and understanding of persuasion in Greek and Roman antiquity. Many of the contributions to this volume were given as papers at the inter­ national conference, “Addressing Matters in Contexts: The Art of Persuasion across Genres and Times”, which was held at the University of Cyprus, 27–29 August 2015. That conference generated stimulating discussions of papers that formed the basis of many of the chapters included in this vol­ ume, as well as several other excellent papers that are not included here. We are grateful to all the participants, including those not represented in the volume: Adele Scafuro, Andreas Hetzel, Antonis Petrides, Benoit Sans, Brenda Griffith-Williams, Christopher Carey, Costas Apostolakis, Flaminia Beneventano della Corte, Francesca Scrofani, Gabriel Danzig, Jakob Wisse, Jon Hesk, Judith Mossman, Kathryn Tempest, Michael Gagarin, Rebecca van Hove, Sophia Xenophontos and Victoria Pagán. The Department of Classics at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens and the Department of Social and Political Science at the University of Cyprus are to be thanked for generously covering part of the expenses of the conference that allowed the idea of this volume to germinate and grow. Andreas Serafim would especially like to thank two institutions, Trinity College Dublin (2015–16) and the University of Cyprus (2017–19), for granting two postdoctoral fellowships, during which much of the work on the volume was undertaken; and Jonathan Richardson for reading and commenting on several drafts of the Introduction and of other chapters within the volume. The generous support of the Seeger Center for Hellenic Studies at Princeton University offered Sophia Papaioannou, recipient of a Stanley J. Seeger ’52 research fellowship for the spring term 2019, the time and the resources to finalize the manuscript of the volume, and covered last-minute publication expenses.

xii

Acknowledgements

This volume is dedicated to Professor Michael Gagarin, a pursuer of excellence and integrity, both within and outside the confines of academia. Nicosia and Athens June 2019

Editors and Contributors Tazuko Angela van Berkel is Assistant Professor in Ancient Greek Language and Literature at Leiden University. Roger Brock is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the University of Leeds. Kyriakos Demetriou is Professor of Political Science and Philosophy at the University of Cyprus. Jennifer Devereaux is a Classics PhD candidate at the University of Southern California. Gabriel Evangelou is Adjunct Lecturer in Latin at the University of Crete. Jessica Evans is Lecturer in Classics at the University of Vermont. Konstantinos Kapparis is Research Foundation Professor at the University of Florida, and Director of the Centre for Greek Studies. Maria Kythreotou is Adjunct Lecturer in Ancient Greek at the University of Cyprus. Tzu-I Liao is Teaching Fellow in Classics at King’s College London. T. Davina McClain is Professor of Classics in the Scholars’ College at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana, USA. Andreas N. Michalopoulos is Professor of Latin at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens.

xiv

Editors and Contributors

Margot Neger is Assistant Professor of Latin at the University of Cyprus. Sophia Papaioannou is Professor of Latin at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Michael Paschalis is Emeritus Professor of Latin at the University of Crete. Andreas Serafim is Postdoctoral Fellow in Classics at the University of Cyprus. Robert Sing is Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Cambridge. Antonis Tsakmakis is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Cyprus. Stephen Todd is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Manchester. Georgios Vassiliades is Adjunct Lecturer in Latin at the University of Cyprus. Alessandro Vatri is Departmental Lecturer in Classical Philology at the University of Oxford. Eleni Volonaki is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Peloponnese.

chapter 1

The Hermeneutic Framework: Persuasion in Genres and Topics Sophia Papaioannou, Andreas Serafim and Kyriakos Demetriou Persuasion has long been one of the major fields of interest for researchers across a range of disciplines. The present volume aims to establish a framework to enhance our understanding of the features, manifestations and purposes of persuasion across many Greek and Roman genres and in various institutional contexts in ancient Greece and Rome. We consider their impact upon the audience, and how precisely they help speakers/authors achieve their goals. We also explore the ways in which persuasion strategies are deployed in different genres, such as historiography and oratory, and on a variety of topics. A full and nuanced discussion of the above issues contributes towards a more complete understanding of ancient Greek and Roman persuasion that will help to advance our overall knowledge of popular sovereignty and the deliberative decision-making processes in different institutional contexts in antiquity. Chapter 1, the Introduction, consists of three parts that serve to pull together the various threads running through this volume, set out the volume’s overall approach, and locate the individual chapters in the wider scholarly context to which they belong. The first part, “Definitions and the mechanisms of persuasion”, discusses the scholarly attempts to define persuasion, providing information about its sustaining features. Drawing mainly on ancient sources, this part offers an introduction to the study of the mechanisms of persuasion, i.e. how it is manifested and how it functions in specific Greek and Roman texts and contexts. The second part, “Scholarly perspectives and approaches to persuasion”, offers a survey of modern theories, arguments and interpretative approaches to persuasion. The third part, “The art of persuasion across genres and topics”, outlines the main arguments of each one of the twenty chapters of this volume, exploring the ways in which they contribute to the overall enhancement of our understanding of persuasion in a variety of genres and topics in Greek and Roman literature.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_002

2 1

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

Definitions and the Mechanisms of Persuasion

Persuasion is a protean notion, with a wide range of applications. Many images, thoughts, ideas and emotions come to mind when one mentions persuasion: powerful and eloquent politicians, political campaigns and scare-mongering, spinning, propositions for wars, target audiences, religious preachers, schoolteachers, news, advertising, salespersons and the daily telephone interruptions from marketers, advocates, TV presenters and journalists, information, webpages and blogs, Facebook, cultural processes, a couple talking about what to eat or which nightclub to visit – every aspect of our life that involves stirring up emotions and moulding, solidifying or altering attitudes, allegiances and behaviours. Despite the wide range of applications of persuasion and the complexity of what this notion calls to mind, scholars are strikingly homogeneous in defining it: persuasion is a symbolic process that involves communication by the act of submitting messages with the aim of influencing the target audiences in a specific context. These defining features of persuasion can be found in all of the following definitions of persuasion, despite some slight variation in wording: Persuasion is a communication process in which the communicator seeks to elicit a desired response from his receiver;1 Or a conscious attempt by one individual to change the attitudes, belief or behaviour of another individual or group of individuals through the transmission of some message;2 Or a symbolic activity whose purpose is to effect the internalization or voluntary acceptance of new cognitive states or patterns of overt beha­ viour through the exchange of messages;3 Or a successful intentional effort at influencing another’s mental state through communication in a circumstance in which the persuadee has some measure of freedom;4 Or a complex, continuing, interactive process in which a sender and a receiver are linked by symbols, verbal and nonverbal, through which the persuader attempts to influence the persuadee to adopt a change in a given attitude or behaviour because the persuadee has had perceptions enlarged or changed;5 1  Andersen (1971) 6. 2  Bettinghaus and Cody (1987) 3. 3  Smith (1982) 7. 4  O’Keefe (1990) 17. 5  O’Donnell and Kable (1982) 9.

The Hermeneutic Framework

3

Or a symbolic process in which communicators try to convince other people to change their attitudes or behaviour regarding an issue through the transmission of a message, in an atmosphere of free choice.6 Boiling down the defining features of persuasion that all of the abovementioned definitions indicate and adding some ingredients that capture the essence of persuasion as exercised in ancient Greco-Roman contexts and genres, this volume suggests that persuasion might be understood as all the techniques, mechanisms and symbols, both cognitive and emotional, deployed in oral or written discourse, used to influence, voluntarily or not, the attitudes, behaviours and beliefs of target audiences. In the definition of persuasion adopted in this volume, persuasion and coercion are not thought of as being rigidly different phenomena. Unlike the clear-cut distinction made by some scholars between persuasion (as something that entails the freedom of the persuadee to accept or reject the attempt of the persuader to change their attitude) and coercion (as something that involves force or threat),7 the boundaries between these ideas are rather blurred and murky in Greek and Roman genres. The intermingling of persuasion with coercion and indeed deception can be detected when the communicator, and prospective persuader, conveys an implicit threat in their message to the persuadee, aiming to leave them no option but to comply. We see this articulated in how Odysseus instructs Neoptolemus in Philoctetes 54–55: “it is necessary that you steal away Philoctetes’ soul with words when you are speaking to him”. Coercion is, in this context, intermingled with persuasion.8 Both ancient sources and modern studies give us invaluable information about the features and purposes of persuasion, regardless of whether it is coercive or voluntary, in a wide range of Greek and Roman texts and contexts. The persuasive potential of the presentation of characters in varied contexts of ancient public speaking has been examined, for example, both in ancient rhetorical treatises and in modern scholarship within and outside the confines of classical criticism. As early as in Aristotle’s Rhetoric 1356a1–4, three means of persuasion are discussed: content and argumentation (logos), the character of the speaker (ēthos) and the disposition created in the hearer by means of reason and emotion. Logos achieves persuasion by means of reasoning, as it encompasses the content and the arguments of a speech. As Aristotle himself points out, “persuasion is effected through the speech itself when we

6  Perloff (2003) 8. 7  Feinberg (1998) 38. 8  On the overlap between persuasion and coercion: Perloff (2003) 12–17.

4

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

have proved a truth or an apparent truth by means of the persuasive arguments suitable to the case in question” (Rh. 1356a2–3). The techniques of describing and presenting ēthos in the lawcourt have a twofold purpose: the first is to create a persona of the speaker oriented to the expectations of the audience, with the aim of inducing that audience to support and empathize with the speaker. This is termed the ēthos of sympathy, or else persuasive ēthos, “the creation of trustworthy speaker-centred ēthos through reasonable thoughts, standard style and artless composition”.9 As Aristotle puts it, “the orator persuades by moral character when his speech is delivered in such a manner as to render him worthy of confidence” (1356a4–6); and “character has almost, so to speak, the greatest authority in winning belief” (1356a13; cf. 1377b20–4; 1378a6–15). The second purpose of the depiction of character is to create in the audience a negative disposition towards the speaker’s opponents. These two goals have also been articulated in the modern theory of “group identity”, or, to use the term of Benedict Anderson, an “imagined community”. Both notions – group identity and imagined community – denote the conscious, psychological attachment to a group of people with shared civic and religious values and convictions, and the belief that this group has shared interests. Emphasis is also placed on the exclusion of rivals from the group as being alien and inimical to the religious and civic bonds of the community. Psychological and communication studies indicate that the activation of group attitudes and identities, and of inter-group relations – i.e. in-group solidarity and out-group hostility – has a significant impact upon behaviours and attitudes in target audiences.10 For Aristotle to refer to the persuaded hearer as “being disposed in some way” is to refer to his emotional condition, the manipulation of which is central to judicial oratory. The synergy between emotional arousal and persuasion is well-established in ancient sources as well. Emotions – “all those affections which cause men to change their opinion in regard to their judgments”, as Aristotle rightly notes in Rh. 1378a19–20 – affect persuasion in a range of Greek and Roman genres and topics. “[Persuasion occurs] through the hearers when 9  Wisse (1989) 34, 58–9. Further on the ēthos of sympathy: Amossy (2001) 6–7; Riggsby (2004) 181. On persuasive ēthos: Bruss (2013) 37. On the twofold goal of the depiction of ēthos in Attic judicial oratory: Serafim (2017a); on the depiction of ēthos in Roman oratory: May (2014). 10  Selected readings on group identity: Tajfel and Turner (1979) 33–37; Miller et al. (1981) 494–511; Conover (1984) 760–85; Lau (1989) 220–3; Huddy (2003) 511–58. On imagined community: Anderson (1991). In classical scholarship: Carey 37 (1990) 49; Hall (2006) 388; Arena (2007) 151.

The Hermeneutic Framework

5

they are led to feel emotions by the speech; for we do not give the same judgment when grieved and rejoicing or when being friendly and hostile”, Aristotle also points out (Rh. 1356a14–6). Demosthenes notes that judicial verdicts are affected by feelings such as pity, envy and anger (19.228). The use of emotions signals an attempt to forge a rapport between the speaker and the audience, known as “emotional community”: “a group of people animated by common or similar interests, values, emotional styles and valuations”.11 The notion of “emotional community” works in a similar way to the models of “group identity” or “imagined community”: binding an individual (whether this is the public speaker, the writer or the communicator in general) with the audience (hearers and onlookers, readers etc.) and excluding their opponent from the group, thus affecting the disposition of the audience towards the two adversaries. 2

Scholarly Perspectives and Approaches to Persuasion

The existing discussions about persuasion in classical scholarship face three interrelated limitations: first, the overwhelming majority of the current scholarly approaches to persuasion in the ancient context are concerned primarily with how it is exerted in Greek oratory, while only occasionally intersecting with Roman oratory or paying attention to interdisciplinary insights. George Kennedy’s weighty work The art of persuasion in Greece, published in 1963, marked the first major modern attempt to understand ancient techniques of persuasion. In recent years, Persuasion: Greek rhetoric in action, edited by Ian Worthington, offers perceptive insights into the manifestations, features and purposes of persuasion not only in law and oratory, but also in epic, drama and philosophy. Ruth Webb’s book on Ekphrasis, imagination and persuasion in ancient rhetorical theory and practice is distinctive in examining a relatively understudied dimension of Greek rhetoric: ekphrasis – the potential of passages to bring vivid images before the eyes of the audience. Individual chapters in edited volumes also shed light on the ancient Greek art of persuasion; e.g. William Fortenbaugh’s essay on persuasion through character in Christopher Lyle Johnstone’s Theory, text, context: Issues of Greek rhetoric and oratory; Andrew Erskine’s chapter on “Rhetoric and persuasion in the Hellenistic world” in the A companion to Greek rhetoric, edited by Ian Worthington. Olga Tellegen-Couperus, meanwhile, has examined the Roman art of persuasion in her volume Quintilian and the law: The art of persuasion in law and politics. Jane Evans has studied the employment of techniques of persuasion for political 11  Plamper, Reddy, Rosenwein and Stearns (2010) 253. Also: Rosenwein (2002) 821–45, (2006).

6

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

propaganda throughout the Roman Republic in her Political propaganda: The art of persuasion from Aeneas to Brutus; and Henriette van der Blom has illustrated the catalytic role of oratorical skills for the advancement of an aspiring Roman politician’s career (in her Oratory and political career in the late Roman Republic). The second constraint in classical scholarship on persuasion is related to scale: no book-length study exists solely devoted to the generic applicability of persuasion. It is striking, for example, that persuasion in genres other than Greek oratory is only examined in four out of the twelve chapters in Worthington’s volume, and that Webb discusses the persuasive potential of ekphrasis in a single chapter. At the same time, the volume of Tellegen-Couperus focuses exclusively on Quintilian’s theoretical considerations of persuasion, mainly in respect of emotions and communication. The most complete attempt to explore aspects of persuasion is fostered by William Dominik, who, in his edited volume Roman eloquence: Rhetoric in society and literature (Routledge 2003), explores the theory and practice of rhetoric in a variety of social, political and literary contexts, and reveals the important role played by rhetoric in Rome’s major literary genres. This volume is invaluable in enhancing our knowledge and understanding of persuasion, as it is manifested in Roman genres, texts and contexts, but the complicated nature of this topic, with persuasion entailing a plethora of features, processes and outcomes, calls for a more detailed, fully-fledged and updated analysis. The lack of an updated analysis of the modes of persuasion in both Greek and Roman texts and contexts is the third constraint that marks classical scholarship. This is because influential works and important analyses are now some years old and they inevitably do not (fully) take into consideration the advances that have been made in the perception of the ancient world. No-one can reasonably expect, for example, that works compiled one or two decades ago would include interdisciplinary discussions of performance studies, linguistics and other interdisciplinary theories. The broad discussion of persuasion that the volume at hand aims for, a discussion that entails the exploration of pragmatics, semantics and other interdisciplinary theories, seeks to offer a quintessential in-depth examination of persuasion. Just as we learn about a monument by walking around it and by examining every single corner of it, so we learn about Greek and Roman texts by examining them from multiple perspectives. The full appreciation of persuasion is as important to a complete understanding of a wide spectrum of texts as is the appreciation of the arguments, the historical contexts in which they appear and the literary conventions within the framework of the genre to which they belong.

The Hermeneutic Framework

7

The present volume, although indebted to the existing bibliography in both Classics and other disciplines, has a distinct twofold purpose. The first purpose is to examine persuasion in a wide variety of genres: Greek and Roman oratory, historiography and poetry (especially epic and drama). The second purpose is to examine a wide range of mechanisms of persuasion, i.e. the ways in which persuasion is manifested and functions in Greco-Roman texts and contexts. The complexity and interdisciplinary nature of this topic requires a depth and breadth of analysis that is largely missing from the existing scholarship. Despite the interplay between emotions and persuasion being one of the most thoroughly-examined topics in interdisciplinary scholarship, there are aspects that have received less thorough examination, such as the indirect/inexplicit ways of stirring up emotions. A wide variety of topics that have a bearing upon persuasion is under consideration in the twenty chapters of this volume: performance, language, style, sexuality/gender, argumentation, narrative and the rhetoric of numbers. The broad thematic spectrum of the contributions to this volume has the potential to open up the debate about persuasion, and to provide new insights into this fundamental aspect of ancient society. The interdisciplinary character of the volume is developed across six themed parts, each examining a specific aspect of persuasion in a variety of genres. Two parts explore features of persuasion within specific generic categories (i.e. Part 1 on debate in Roman poetry; Part 2 on failed rhetoric in historiography), whereas the remaining parts examine the features of persuasion across genres (i.e. Part 3 on emotions in Greek oratory, Roman epistolography and poetry; Part 4 on the persuasive potential of gender in oratory and historiography; Part 5 on language, style and performance in oratory and historiography; and finally, Part 6 on the rhetoric of numbers in the same two genres). This genre- and theme-based structure allows an in-depth examination of the framework – i.e. the means or restrictions – that specific genres and thematic contexts provide to the speaker or the author regarding the ways in which persuasion is articulated. New Institutionalism argues that different institutions have different “logics of appropriateness”. An institution is an enduring collection of rules and organized practices, embedded in structures of meaning and resources that are relatively static in the face of turnover of individuals and changing external circumstances. Constitutive rules and repertoires of standard operating procedures prescribe appropriate behaviour for specific operators in specific situations.12 12   Readings on New Institutionalism include: Meyer and Rowan (1977); Weaver and Rockman (1993); March and Olsen (1995); Egeberg (2003).

8

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

It has been argued, for example, that the nature of an oratorical case, public or private, affects the options available to the speakers in terms of the content of their speeches, their arguments and the rhetorical strategies employed.13 The same orators, for example, would not use the same techniques of addressing the audience or mocking their opponents in different institutional settings (i.e. in the courtroom, the Assembly, the Boulē etc.) because the same audience-members would think and vote differently depending on the institutional setting in which they were called to make decisions.14 This volume aims to extend the discussion of institutional and contextual “logics of appropriateness” by examining how emotions, gendered approaches, linguisticand performance-insights, to mention a few examples, are used in a variety of prose and poetic genres to influence the audience, as well as considering what strategies the speaker or author has at his disposal, and what limitations he has to bear in mind. 3

The Art of Persuasion across Genres and Topics

Part 1 in this volume, “A War in Words: Dramatic Debates in Poetry”, comprises chapters 2 and 3. In Chapter 2, Andreas N. Michalopoulos discusses the rhetorical aspects of the beginning of Act 2 of Seneca’s Agamemnon (125–225) – the domina-nutrix scene between Clytemnestra and her nurse. His chapter explores the principles and techniques of persuasion employed by the two women: the ways in which they present their arguments, the depiction of their characters, the power-play and the relationship between them, and their appeal to logic and/or emotions. The nurse urges Stoic restraint and then exits. Her final speech remains unanswered by Clytemnestra and the matter remains unresolved. Parallel to the actual controversia between the nurse and Clytemnestra, another controversia between the nurse and Aegisthus is taking place in the background. Clytemnestra’s debates with the nutrix and with Aegisthus vividly show how reason (ratio) is pushed aside by irrational anger (ira) and irrational hope (spes). Sophia Papaioannou, in Chapter 3, identifies various elements of persuasion employed by Ovid and Quintus Smyrnaeus in their accounts of the Hoplōn krisis, “Judgment of the Arms”, a famous debate that originated in epic but was fully developed on the tragic stage. Her aim is to evaluate the “believability” of 13  Rubinstein (2004) 187–203. 14  On the use of addresses to the audience: Serafim (2017b) 26–41. On the Greek oratorical contexts of mockery and comic invective: Serafim (forthcoming c).

The Hermeneutic Framework

9

the persuasive strategies in the context of an actual trial vis-à-vis their function as determined by poetics. The treatments of the Hoplōn krisis in the epic compositions by Ovid and Quintus of Smyrna (who according to critical consensus composed his epic independently from Ovid, but was certainly informed by the same intertexts) came at the end of a long literary tradition, which capitalized on the combined forces of performance and persuasion, the two key elements of every debate seeking to win over a judging audience. Both Ovid’s and Quintus’ accounts of the Hoplōn krisis combine dramatic techniques that embrace persuasion for metaliterary purposes. Given that the outcome of the debate is known and predetermined by tradition (i.e. Odysseus wins), the attractiveness of the contest depends on the inventiveness of the argumentation and its performative delivery. Both epicists experiment with the structure and staging of the conflict because the audience is interested not in the outcome, which is common knowledge, but in the development of the agōn: how it will reach the predetermined end. Part 2, “Narrative, Argument and the Failure of Rhetoric”, includes chapters 4 to 8, and aims to examine persuasion in Greek and Roman oratorical and historiographical narrative. It evaluates the potential of argumentation and rhetorical strategy to influence the attitudes, behaviours, and beliefs of target audiences – in other words, to persuade them. In Chapter 4, Eleni Volonaki examines a wide range of techniques and strategies by which forensic narratives can function effectively as a rhetorical means of persuasion. Her examination looks at the structure of speeches, narratives, composition, the thematic principles and the use of various arguments. Narratives incorporate elements of dramatic characterization, argumentative proofs, emotions and the narration of a series of events, all adding plausibili­ty to the litigant’s case and enhancing the argumentation used for persuasion. Variations in form and structure of the narrative may depend upon the nature of the speech or the identity and role of the speaker in a private or public case. In Chapter 5, Antonis Tsakmakis explores the persuasive strategies in the speech of Teutiaplus in Thucydides 3.30, discussing how speeches and narrative contribute to an interpretation of the events surrounding the revolt in Mytilene, as well as to the characterization of the protagonists. The speeches of Thucydides are embedded in a narrative context which contains abundant information about their impact on audiences. The narrative sometimes provides the opportunity to identify the factors that influence persuasion apart from the content of the speech and the rhetorical devices applied by the speaker. Teutiaplus’ speech is an exemplary piece of rhetoric which takes into account the requirements of the situation and the personality of Alcidas, his main

10

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

target. It fails because of Alcidas’ fixation on precaution, which directs him to avoid risk at any price. He thus acts against the interests of Sparta, as defined after its decision to start war with Athens and to assist the Mytilenaean revolt. In Chapter 6, Maria Kythreotou examines speeches that Thucydides describes as ineffective or situations where the speaker has failed to gauge a speech’s effect on different audiences. Thucydides himself points out that the speech of Brasidas at Acanthus (4.85–87) does not play any significant role in the final decision of the Acanthians to let Brasidas and his army enter their city walls. The decisive factor seems to be the fear of their harvest being destroyed by the Spartans if the Acanthians had resisted. The impression initially created is that Thucydides seems to undermine the power of logos and to ignore the fact that pathos is one of the effects the speech can create. A careful examination of Brasidas’ speech, however, shows that pathos is employed to serve logos: various figures of speech emphasize the creation of fear, which in turn operates as a means of persuasion. Thucydides, additionally, stresses the problem of the alleged “ineffectiveness” of some of the speakers in his Histories, which, indirectly, stresses the importance of logos throughout his work. In Chapter 7, Georgios Vassiliades argues that the ways in which Livy builds up each speaker’s argumentation in the debate on the abrogation of the lex Oppia (Liv. 34.1–8) indicate that the arguments and persuasive strategies used by Cato and Valerius are addressed to the readers of Livy, who are well-informed about the role of luxuria in the Livian scheme of Rome’s decadence. From the perspective of Cato, the consul, the lex Oppia was a sumptuary law aiming to limit women’s appeal to luxury. Accordingly, its abrogation would bring about the propagation of luxuria. The tribune Valerius, however, considers that the law was just an austerity measure, which was voted for in the exceptional circumstances of the war. Its abrogation, thus, constituted no threat to morality. In contrast to the common tendency of scholars to try to find the “winner” of the debate in Livy’s view, Vassiliades argues that Livy juxtaposes two strategies of persuasion which equally failed to prevent Rome’s decline: Valerius has persuaded his contemporary audience, but neither he, nor Cato, should persuade the readers familiar with Livy’s narrative. This juxtaposition allows readers to explain and better understand the propagation of luxuria in the subsequent books of Livy’s histories. In the last chapter of this part, Chapter 8, Michael Paschalis discusses the peculiarity of rhetoric in the Aeneid. In Vergil’s epic, the most common type of speech is that which receives no reply, while most dialogues seem to be parallel monologues, with the participants oblivious to, or inattentive of, their interlocutors’ arguments. To the extent that the aim is persuasion, the speeches

The Hermeneutic Framework

11

fail; instead, they serve to convey ēthos and pathos by shedding light on the emotions and the psychology of the parties involved, and to portray individual morals and attitudes vividly. Furthermore, decision-making is not determined by the persuasiveness of an interlocutor’s arguments, but is activated by factors outside the sphere of rhetoric, which rouse overpowering emotion in the interlocutors (or at least one of them, who initiates further action). Also notable is a number of persuasively detailed arguments relayed by various gods, yet these well-crafted speeches have no practical effect because they do not promote epic action, since the success of Aeneas’ mission is predetermined by the fates. Part 3, “Emotions”, comprises three chapters that explore the indirect activations of emotion to show how indirect persuasion works in similar ways even across genres. Andreas Serafim, in Chapter 9, explores how language stirs up emotions in indirect/inexplicit ways, and how this use of emotions enables speakers to forge a relationship with the audience that allows them to create a specific disposition in the judges and the onlookers, and influence their attitude and behaviour. Two categories of techniques are recognized and discussed: medical metaphors reinforced by the use of the imperative; and the use of religious argumentation, i.e. references to the gods as inspecting the judges in the lawcourt and to the speakers’ opponents as being impious. It is argued that the exploitation of the emotion of fear, either as a result of the references to medical metaphors, or the references to divine oversight of the audience, aims to put the audience into a frame of mind in which they are amenable to taking decisive actions. In Chapter 10, Gabriel Evangelou examines emotion as a method that Cicero used to persuade Atticus to comply with his requests. This chapter offers an analysis of Cicero’s letters to Atticus from his exile. It argues that because of Atticus’ consistent refusal to provide the type of assistance that Cicero needed, the speaker resorted to appeals to emotion in his effort to evoke feelings of pity and guilt; pity for the wretched state in which he was during his banishment and guilt over the role that Atticus had played in Cicero’s decision to leave Rome instead of fighting against Clodius’ forces with the help of his supporters, and further guilt for the fact that he did not try to protect Cicero during his journey to Greece, despite his life being in great danger. The chapter ends by drawing parallels between Cicero’s requests during his exile and his requests concerning Tullia’s marriage, as well as the shrine that he wanted to build in her honour, showing that, in all three cases, the use of emotion was a common, but rather ineffective, method in terms of managing to persuade Atticus.

12

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

Lastly, Jennifer Devereaux, in Chapter 11, examines Quintilian’s discomfort with Seneca’s dangerously persuasive style and its popularity amongst Rome’s youth. Devereaux suggests that Quintilian’s criticism stems from language structures indelibly marked with emotion which scaffold Senecan protrepsis in his De Ira. Seneca uses this scaffolding to exploit ambiguities of language so as to teach ethics by creating identification between readers and narrators in a quest for truth. The complex use of language embodies emotional and moral ideas for rhetorical persuasion in Seneca’s didactic and philosophical prose. Citing work which demonstrates that textual embodiment plays an important role in the structuring of exempla in moral-emotional terms, Devereaux engages with Seneca and Quintilian to bring to light a particular literary procedure used by Seneca that involves individual words or phrases which activate networks of thought that grow throughout the text, thereby reflecting what we observe in Stoic etymology, namely that language is naturally linked to its meanings and even single words can sometimes yield profound insights. The three chapters in Part 4, “Gender”, examine the ways in which refe­ rences to others’ unusual physical characteristics, attire, sexuality and lack of martial prowess serve to raise gendered expectations in such a way as to undermine arguments, discredit moral worth and social standing and create a negative disposition in the audience towards the target of criticism, again exploring the application of this kind of persuasive practice across generic boundaries. In Chapter 12, Konstantinos Kapparis investigates factors of gender and sexuality in the prosecution of women in Athenian courts that contributed to the building of the case and the outcome of trials, with emphasis on images of body, dress, jewellery and feminine attire, and their contribution to the art of persuasion. These topics luckily attracted the attention of later grammarians and lexicographers, allowing us to see how gender and sexuality could become significant factors, even when they were unrelated to the core charge. Some of these memorable cases, like the trial of Phryne for impiety, and the unusual defence strategies of Hypereides, the renowned conviction of the priestess Ninos, the trial against Lais which contained uncustomary obscenities and references to sexual positions that shocked later scholars, the vicious prosecution of Aristagora, and the case involving the priestess of Athena, for which Lycurgus delivered a much admired speech, were all remembered in later centuries not so much for their core arguments, as they were for these gender-related stratagems and vectors of attack. The second chapter in this part, Chapter 13 by Jessica Evans, aims to exa­ mine how gender identities – both of the speaker and audience – function as a persuasive mechanism in the Sicilian debate speeches. The main arguments are two: first, it is argued that Thucydides in the Corcyra episode offers the reader a theory of how masculinity operates. Second, it is suggested that

The Hermeneutic Framework

13

an examination of Pericles’ and Nicias’ speeches, focusing on the words and concepts relevant to Thucydides’ understanding of masculinity, reveals that Nicias’ patriotism, shaped by a constrained masculinity that prevailed under the leadership of Pericles, could not stand up to Alcibiades, whose masculinity was shaped by an excess that knew no bounds. In his narrative of the Sicilian Debate, Thucydides shows how the rhetoric of patriotism shaped by hyper-masculinity prevails over one informed by reason, however irrational the speaker’s claims may be. Davina McClain, in Chapter 14, examines all the extant direct speeches by women in Livy’s history, discussing several patterns, especially repetition and the use of questions and conditions that give the women’s speeches their power. The rhetorical nature of Livy’s Ab urbe condita has long drawn the attention of scholars. In particular, scholars have examined the historian’s use of direct and indirect speech to explore the techniques and devices Livy used to create persuasive passages that fall logically within his narrative of Rome’s history. Although the speeches of men have attracted significant attention, the same cannot be said for the speeches of women. There are nine women (individuals or groups) who deliver ten speeches in direct discourse: The Sabine Women, Tanaquil, Tullia, Lucretia, Veturia, Verginia, Sophoniba, Hispala Faecenia and Theoxena. Women challenge men’s identity by reminding them of their familial relationships and responsibilities, by questioning their status as men and by berating them for lacking ambition. Women’s speech always results in action: Livy has women speak out to protect the state in military situations, to demand justice when crimes have been committed, to commit crimes to take power, to urge women to rival men in virtue and to attempt to find safety when they are in danger. Part 5, the longest in this volume, has the title “Language, Style and Performance”. It includes seven chapters that offer a detailed and thorough examination of the persuasive potential of language, style and performance in oratory, historiography and epistolography. In Chapter 15, Tzu-I Liao discusses the ways in which Demosthenes’ On the Crown (speech 18) transcends the theoretical generic borders and serves as an example of the fluid mechanisms of persuasion in the ancient political context. This speech transcends the theoretical boundary, not only in its references in the forensic context to previous speechmaking and discussion of leadership (which is considered more appropriate to the symbouleutic genre), but also in its interactional strategies, which are finely tweaked for specific moments. Using statistics as a starting point, Liao discusses the distinct profiles of each referent in the discourse, accompanied by comparative examples from both forensic and symbouleutic speeches. It is shown how the general symbouleutic tone in the interactional strategies of Demosthenes 18 serves the speaker’s

14

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

purpose of elevating personal feuds to matters of national concern. The spea­ ker does not see the theoretical boundaries as rigid limits, but rather as resources that could be meaningful and in fact powerful, when used at the right times, to an audience which is familiar with political conventions. The next chapter, Chapter 16, by Roger Brock, examines the use of direct speech as a means of persuasion in historiographical works, a topic that remains understudied in classical scholarship. Xenophon’s use of direct speech in his historical works covers a wide spectrum, from formal set-piece debates in political contexts of the kind we associate with Thucydides, a practice Xenophon continues in the Hellenica, to often informal exchanges in what Vivienne Gray called “conversationalized narrative”; indeed, the dialogic format, sometimes didactic in a Socratic vein, sometimes more like forensic cross-examination, is a characteristic feature of his historiographic writing. Whereas in his traditional historiography Xenophon recognisably combines the practices of his predecessors Herodotus and Thucydides, albeit with greater flexibility, in other works he is more innovative: in Cyropaedia, direct speech is carefully stage-managed, deployed in the service of Cyrus’ project (and Xenophon’s didactic agenda), persuading his men to implement his plans, winning over allies and neutralizing criticism and hostility. Direct speech is deployed most flexibly in the Anabasis, a work in which the need to adapt and respond to constant vicissitudes rhetorically as well as militarily is foregrounded, and Xenophon’s own management of communications as a historical agent, deftly mixing symbouleutic and forensic techniques according to the situation, and paying attention to indirect as well as direct audiences, is clearly intended to be just as exemplary as that of the elder Cyrus. Indeed, it is that work which also brings out most clearly that Xenophon’s readers are always an indirect audience, invited to eavesdrop on revealing conversations of historical figures: for him, direct speech is a way to learn lessons not only about policy and decision-making, but also about effective leadership. Chapter 17, by Stephen Todd, approaches the inter-generic theme of the volume by exploring how Greek writers from one genre (historians, broadly defined) deploy for persuasive effect a group of terms derived from martus (“witness”) that are normally associated with another genre and another area of public activity (oratory and the lawcourt). He sees the primary function of a martus as being not so much that of primary informant (“eyewitness”) but more that of “somebody who is prepared publicly and authoritatively to back your version of events”. His chapter, therefore, focuses on argumentative strate­gies and the construction of an authoritative authorial persona rather than on appeal to emotions (or to put it in Aristotelian terms, on logos and certain aspects of ēthos, rather than pathos), though it should be noted that this is

The Hermeneutic Framework

15

one of few contributions explicitly to avoid an approach based on Aristotelian rhetorical theory. In Chapter 18, Alessandro Vatri offers a detailed discussion of the contribution to the persuasive strategy of 29 verbatim poetic quotations that can be found in the extant corpus of fourth-century Attic speeches. It is likely that these quotations reflect a real practice and that they were not simply added to the written version of the speeches. Their persuasive effect was certainly connected to the appeal and authoritativeness of poetry, but this chapter argues that it also depended decisively on the way in which quotations were performed. Poetry was a repertoire of examples, it could be taken as historical evidence and would be quoted for its content. In principle, the content could be summarized, and verse could be paraphrased instead of being quoted literally. Even summaries and paraphrases, however, are punctuated with direct literal quotations, which indicate that the very formality of verse itself played a role in the rhetorical effectiveness of quotations. This suggests that quotations needed to be recognizable as such, and not simply blended into the text. Metre, as a phonological feature of sequences of words, was not always sufficient, nor is the vocabulary of quoted lines always distinct enough from that of the surrounding prose. This was to be well planned by a speaker in order to avoid conveying the wrong ēthos: public speakers who quoted poetry could be seen (or presented by their opponent) either as well-educated and patronizing snobs, or as insincere and manipulative dissemblers, especially if they adopted a theatrical style of delivery. In the last chapter of this part, Chapter 19, Margot Neger examines the ways in which Pliny the Younger, in his Letters, discusses a wide range of means and techniques of persuasion and puts them into praxis. Within the epistolary framework, three different levels of communication can be identified: first, Pliny the editor of the letter-collection and his general readers; second, Pliny the writer of individual letters and his various addressees; and third, Pliny as an acting figure and his audience in the letter-narratives on trials. This chapter examines Pliny’s reflections on persuasiveness in his correspondence with Tacitus (Ep. 1.20) and his thoughts on successful oratorical performances (Ep. 2.3; 2.11; 2.19) as well as his accounts on his own success as a speaker. Trial-narratives form a significant letter-cycle within the entire letter-collection, beginning with Ep. 1.5 and ending with 9.13. Most of these letters are centred on Pliny’s ēthos as a speaker as well as his rhetorical skills (including the art of eloquent silence) which he is able to use in perilous situations. By choosing the form of the private letter, Pliny avoids the dangers of self-praise, a problem which was also in the focus of the rhetorical and philosophical discussion of the early Principate.

16

Papaioannou, Serafim and Demetriou

The last part of this volume, Part 6, with two chapters, one by Tazuko Angela van Berkel and the other by Robert Sing, examines the persuasive rhetoric of numbers in historiography and oratory. In Chapter 20, Van Berkel discusses the rhetoric and ideology of numbers implicit in Thucydides’ representation of Pericles’ Third Speech (2.13), arguing that leaders were capable of taking control over the way numbers are interpreted. Pericles’ speech before the Assembly in Thucydides’ Histories 2.13 has often been interpreted as a financial paragraph with a didactic communication style: by listing the resources of the Athenian empire, Pericles is teaching the Athenians that “money is power”. Van Berkel proposes to read the paragraph as an instance of numerical rheto­ ric: Pericles uses numbers for non-cognitive and exhortative purposes in a speech that is shaped as a battle speech. Comparison of Thucydides 2.13 and Diodorus Siculus 12.39–40 brings out Thucydides’ historiographical choices in rendering the speech not as a deliberative speech functioning in a context of decision-making, but as a speech aiming to boost confidence (θάρσος) in a decision that has already been taken. The communicative function of quantification in such contexts should not so much be understood in terms of informative value, but in terms of a capacity to motivate and encourage, to incite confidence or inspire caution in addressees and to overrule the visceral effects of direct persuasion by sight (ὄψις). Comparison with other Thucydidean speeches that boost θάρσος by addressing the topic of numerosity and superiority (2.11, 2.87, 2.89 and 4.10) reveals interaction between these speeches, suggesting a thematic significance of the meaning of numbers and the ways in which military leaders control the interpretation and choice of numbers in crisis situations. Sing, in Chapter 21, discusses Thucydides’ distorting influence on our picture of Athenian financial discourse, by comparing Pericles’ arguments about Athenian and Spartan financial power in 431 BC with those of Demosthenes regarding Athenian and Macedonian financial power in the 340s. Thucydides uses Pericles to advocate a narrowly fact-based model of persuasion and deliberation. Demosthenes, by contrast, uses popularly held beliefs, doxai, about Macedon and the nature of tyranny as the basis for an evolving characterization of Philip as a dangerous enemy. Rather than the Thucydidean conviction that sound financial decision-making can only take place with technical advice and close guidance from a single expert, Demosthenes’ speeches indicate that the successful persuasion of a sceptical audience depended on the skilful aggregation of popular and specialist knowledge. This persuasive strategy, as part of a wider debate, helped the dēmos to speculate intelligently in situations where full information was not available and the future was uncertain, and thereby to act as a responsible financial decision-maker.

part 1 A War in Words: Dramatic Debates in Poetry

∵

chapter 2

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca’s Agamemnon: The Debate between Clytemnestra and Her Nurse Andreas N. Michalopoulos Seneca’s plays are an obvious choice for rhetorical analysis, given Seneca’s rhetorical skills and his warm interest in the art of persuasion.1 Rhetoric plays a vital part in Act 2, Scene 2 of the Agamemnon (125–225), the debate between the queen Clytemnestra and her nurse. On the one hand, Clytemnestra presents the reasons why she seeks revenge against Agamemnon: a) the sacrifice of Iphigenia, b) her injured pride, c) Agamemnon’s infidelities, and d) his new mistress, Cassandra. On the other hand, her unnamed nurse struggles to persuade Clytemnestra to change her mind and abandon her disastrous plans.2 This chapter aims to discuss certain important rhetorical aspects of this domina-nutrix scene, focusing on persuasion. The following issues are addressed: what are the principles and techniques of persuasion, cognitive and emotional, employed by the two women in this debate? How do they present their arguments? What is the content and nature of their argumentation? What can we make of their character and the relationship between them? How does the nurse’s rhetoric influence Clytemnestra? Does she manage to persuade the queen? If not, what are the reasons for her failure? What is the importance of this rhetorical exchange for the development of the play? How does the nurse’s speech relate to Aegisthus’ effort to convince Clytemnestra to stick to their original decision and to further their plan? Does Aegisthus feel compelled to rebut any of the nurse’s arguments when he appears on stage after the exchange between Clytemnestra and the nutrix? The debate between Clytemnestra and her nurse is anticipated by the queen’s monologue, in which she declares her intention to take revenge on Agamemnon. The nurse is not on stage at the time, so she is not aware of Clytemnestra’s intentions.3 Hence, their discussion starts from scratch. 1  On the declamatory style of Senecan tragedy: Boyle (1997) ch. 2. According to Eliot (1951) 91 “the art of dramatic language … is as near to oratory as to ordinary speech or to other poetry”. 2  For the so-called “passion-restraint” scene in Seneca’s tragedies, in which a subordinate character tries to restrain the protagonist: Zanobi (2008) 107 n. 32. 3  For Clytemnestra’s first speech as a soliloquy, unheard by the nurse: Calder (1975) 33; Tarrant (1976) 193; Kohn (2013) 55. The Chorus is not present either; Calder (1975) 33.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_003

20

Michalopoulos

The structure of this debate is as follows: first, there is an exchange of brief statements, followed by a stichomythia, and then a couple of longer speeches by Clytemnestra (41 lines) and the nurse (23 lines). Their initial statements (before the stichomythia) are uneven: 6 lines are delivered by the nurse, 14 lines by Clytemnestra. Likewise, Clytemnestra’s speech is almost twice as long as that of the nurse. Clytemnestra dominates this domina-nutrix debate. She has the upper hand both because of her social status – she is the queen of Argos talking with her nurse – and because of her part in the story, since she is the protagonist. The debate begins with an opening statement by the nurse:4 Nut. Regina Danaum et inclitum Ledae genus, quid tacita versas quidve consilii impotens tumido feroces impetus animo geris? licet ipsa sileas, totus in vultu est dolor. proin quidquid est, da tempus ac spatium tibi: quod ratio non quit, saepe sanavit mora.

125

130

Queen of the Greeks, Leda’s illustrious child, what do you ponder in silence, what mad deed, ungoverned in your purpose, are you planning with restless soul? Though you say nothing, your face reveals all your anguish. Wherefore, whatever it may be, give yourself time and room; what reason cannot, delay has often cured. Tr. Miller (1917) adapted

The nurse’s opening statement is well structured. It comprises: a) an elaborate and multivalent address, b) a question which opens the floor for Clytemnestra, c) an exhortation, and d) a sententia. Her words are full of apophthegms and good advice,5 as she urges restraint and pragmatism.6 Notice her address to Clytemnestra (125): Regina Danaum and inclitum Ledae genus. In effect, these are two opposing addresses picking up two contradictory qualities of Clytemnestra: wife and mistress. On the one hand, the lofty phrase “Queen of the Greeks” befits the status of the wife of king Agamemnon, leader of the Greeks. On the other hand, the phrase “child of Leda” indirectly conjures up 4  Unless otherwise indicated, the Latin text is taken from Tarrant’s edition (1976). 5  According to Calder (1975) 33 the nurse elicits information from Clytemnestra in the manner of a classical koryphaios. 6  Calder (1976) 31 notes that the nurse helps to extract revelation of character from Clytemnestra while avoiding a lengthy and artificial monologue. Sipple (1938) 72, however, claims that the nutrix is simply Seneca’s mouthpiece.

21

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

the adulterous aspect of Clytemnestra. Born from Leda’s adulterous affair with Zeus, Clytemnestra herself now is now having an extra-marital affair with Aegisthus. History repeats itself, and this time the consequences will be tragic. Right after the address, the nurse wants to know what is on Clytemnestra’s mind, although it is clear that she has already formed an opinion about that. She talks about the ferox conduct of the queen and about her impetus (127).7 The silent face of Clytemnestra is eloquent; it reveals her inner thoughts and feelings. Before the queen even says a word, her nurse already understands what is on her mind. To put it differently, it is not the nurse that opens the discussion, but Clytemnestra with the “silent rhetoric of her face” (126 tacita, 128 sileas, totus in vultu est dolor).8 The nurse proposes a cure for the sick queen: time and space (tempus ac spatium), a mora which will cure (sanavit) Clytemnestra who is beyond the control of ratio. Clytemnestra’s reply is as follows: Maiora cruciant quam ut moras possim pati; flammae medullas et cor exurunt meum; mixtus dolori subdidit stimulos timor; invidia pulsat pectus, hinc animum iugo9 premit cupido turpis et vinci vetat; et inter istas mentis obsessae faces fessus quidem et deiectus et pessumdatus pudor rebellat. fluctibus variis agor, ut, cum hinc profundum ventus, hinc aestus rapit, incerta dubitat unda cui cedat malo. proinde omisi regimen e manibus meis: quocumque me ira, quo dolor, quo spes feret, hoc ire pergam; fluctibus dedimus ratem. ubi animus errat, optimum est casum10 sequi.

135

140

7  For the important role of impetus in the Stoic account of emotions see Tarrant (1976) ad loc., who further points out that it is a recurrent theme in domina-nutrix scenes. 8  See Mader (1988) 67 n. 25 and Aygon (2014) n. 16 on these outward signs of affectus and on silence as expression of an intense emotion. On silence as an aspect of rhetorical eloquence: Paschalis, Chapter 8, and Neger, Chapter 19, in this volume. 9  Aygon (2014) n. 41 notes that the noun iugo (134), which refers to Clytemnestra’s affair with Aegisthus, picks up ironically Clytemnestra’s amor iugalis for Agamemnon. 10  For the possible associations of the term casus with dice and its interpretation by the nurse as inescapable Fortune: Rosenmeyer (1989) 70f. on Ag. 144f.

22

Michalopoulos

Passions rack me too strong to endure delay; flames are burning my very marrow and my heart; here fear blent with anguish plies the spur, and my breast throbs with jealousy; there base love forces its yoke upon my mind and forbids me to give way. And midst such fires that beset my soul, shame, weary indeed and conquered and utterly undone, still struggles on. By shifting floods Ι am driven, as when here wind, there tide harries the deep, and the waters halt uncertain to which foe they will yield. Wherefore I have let go the rudder from my hands – where wrath, where pain, where hope shall carry me, there will I go; I have given my bark to the waves. Where reason fails, it is best to follow chance. Tr. Miller (1917) adapted

As already mentioned, Clytemnestra’s reply is longer than the nurse’s opening statement and contains no salutation. The different status of the two interlocutors is instantly noticeable; this is not a rhetorical debate between equal parties. The queen immediately rejects the nurse’s proposal and describes in detail her mental and emotional state: she is on fire (132),11 she feels pain and fear (133), jealousy (134) and love (134f.); her pudor (136–8) has been crushed (fessus, deiectus, pessumdatus).12 This is a complete psychological analysis of Clytemnestra performed by herself;13 it is enhanced by the simile of the ungoverned ship tossed about on the waves of passion (138ff.). The simile begins with waves (fluctibus 138) and ends with waves (fluctibus 143). Clytemnestra admits that she is driven here and there by ira, dolor and spes (142–4). She uses the strategy of speaking of the passions as independent to shield herself from responsibility.14 The storm is the cosmic counterpart to the inner war in her.15 11  For similarities between Seneca’s Clytemnestra and Vergil’s Dido at Sen. Ag. 138–43: Fantham (2008) 383. 12  On the possible interpretations of the sequence medullas-cor-pectus-animus-mens Mader (1988) 56 notes: “The sequence of terms charts not merely the local advance of affectus, but also suggests how passion develops from an embryonic physical sensation ( flammae medullas … exurunt) to a force which assails also the intellectual faculties; passion, in other words, is represented as a psycho­somatic phenomenon”. 13  Tarrant (1976) 199 points out that Clytemnestra displays a distinguishing feature of Seneca’s characters, namely the combination of emotional chaos and detached intellectual analysis, a feature which they share with several Ovidian characters (especially women) often caught between conflicting forces (amor vs pudor, ira vs pietas). On Clytemnestra’s complex but psychologically coherent portrait in the Agamemnon and its broad consistency with the Stoic analysis of affectus see Mader (1988). More generally, on Seneca’s ability to draw the psychological profile of his characters: Herrmann (1924) 492; Marti (1945) 222f. and 229–33; Pratt (1948) 10f.; Paratore (1957) 56f.; Shelton (1977) 33–43. 14  Fitch and McElduff (2008) 170. 15  Rosenmeyer (1989) 154 rightly detects in the violence of the storm an analogue or reformulation of the turbulence in Clytemestra’s shifting heart. See also Mader (1988) 57,

23

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

But not only that: the ship simile also paves the way for Clytemnestra’s later reference to the events at Aulis, where the Greek fleet was delayed by the total lack of winds. The contrast is sharp: the lack of winds caused Iphigenia’s sacrifice, which in turn ensured fair winds to the Greek fleet, but caused a storm in Clytemnestra’s soul. Furthermore, from a dramaturgical perspective, the simile of the ship in a storm prefigures Eurybates’ later account of the storm that struck the Greek fleet on its way back from Troy. Just like her nurse, Clytemnestra closes her opening statement with a sententia;16 this gives a sense of balance and correspondence to the debate (143): ubi animus errat, optimum est casum sequi. In this sententia Seneca probably has in mind the etymological connection of animus with the Greek ἄνεμος “wind” (Serv. Aen. 1.57): animos id est ventos ἀπὸ τῶν ἀνέμων.17 The debate becomes livelier in the ensuing stichomythia: Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut. Cl. Nut.

Caeca est temeritas quae petit casum ducem. Cui ultima est fortuna, quid dubiam timet? Tuta est latetque culpa, si pateris, tua. Perlucet omne regiae vitium domus. Piget prioris et novum crimen struis? Res est profecto stulta nequitiae modus. Quod metuit auget qui scelus scelere obruit. Et ferrum et ignis saepe medicinae loco est. Extrema primo nemo temptavit loco. Rapienda rebus in malis praeceps via est. At te reflectat coniugi nomen sacrum. Decem per annos vidua respiciam virum? Meminisse debes sobolis ex illo tuae. Equidem et iugales filiae memini faces et generum Achillem: praestitit matri fidem. Redemit illa classis immotae moras et maria pigro fixa languore impulit.

145

150

155

160

who notes that Clytemnestra is given over to ira, dolor and spes, and has abandoned the regimen – which is symbolic of guiding and controlling reason. 16  For the gnomai, the sententiae, as a standard feature of Seneca, especially in stichomythiae, see Hancock (1917) 23ff., Seidensticker (1969) 180ff. 17  See Rosenmeyer (1989) 134, who further points out that the imagery of motion and of flux comes naturally in Clytemnestra’s wavering between plans of aggression and thoughts of secret flight. See Maltby (1991) s.v. for more sources on the etymology ἄνεμος-animus.

24

Michalopoulos

NURSE Blind is he and rash who follows chance. CLYT. When fortune is at its worst, why fear its hazard? NURSE Your sin is safe and hidden, if you allow it so. CLYT. Open to view is a royal house’s every sin. NURSE Do you regret the old crime, yet plan the new? CLYT. Surely it is folly to stop midway in sin. NURSE Whoever piles crime on crime, makes greater what he dreads. CLYT. Both knife and cautery often take the place of drugs. NURSE Desperate remedies no one tries at first. CLYT. In midst of ills, we must snatch at headlong ways. NURSE But let the hallowed name of wedlock turn you back. CLYT. For ten years widowed, shall I still think on husband? NURSE Your offspring of him you should remember. CLYT. I do remember my daughter’s wedding fires, my son-in-law, Achilles; true faith he showed a mother! NURSE She freed our becalmed fleet from delay, and roused the sluggish sea from its deep repose.

145

150

155

160

Tr. Miller (1917) adapted

The stichomythia between the nurse and the queen is balanced: the nurse begins, and Clytemnestra follows, with one line at a time. This gives the queen the strategic advantage of having the last word. Still, this is not an ordinary dialogue between ordinary people trying to persuade one another; it rather gives the impression of a contest of sententiae and rhetorical questions.18 The nurse begins with a sententia (145): Caeca est temeritas quae petit casum ducem; Clytemnestra replies with a sententia in the form of a rhetorical question (146): Cui ultima est fortuna, quid dubiam timet? Clytemnestra uses questions twice, whereas the nurse only once. Clytemnestra, who has the upper hand, replies to the nurse with questions. Apart from the question at line 146 just mentioned, Clytemnestra replies to the nurse using a rhetorical question also at line 156: Decem per annos vidua respiciam virum? On the other hand, the question of the nurse – in fact, two questions in the same line (149) – is not rhetorical and begs for an answer from Clytemnestra: Piget prioris et novum crimen struis?

18  On the gnomic stichomythia of lines 145–54: Seidensticker (1969) 181. Mader (1988) 57 notes that Clytemnestra evades specifics in this stichomythia and takes refuge behind generalizations.

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

25

In her reply, which is yet another sententia, Clytemnestra seems determined (150): Res est profecto stulta nequitiae modus.19 She declares that there is no way (or reason) to turn back now and that she is ready to go all the way. Continuing at the same rapid pace the nurse uses a sententia again (151: Quod metuit auget qui scelus scelere obruit); Clytemnestra’s reply is yet another sententia (152: Et ferrum et ignis saepe medicinae loco est). This informal contest of sententiae continues over the next two lines. The nurse uses a new sententia (153: Extrema primo nemo temptavit loco), only to receive a reply from Clytemnestra in the form of another sententia (154: Rapienda rebus in malis praeceps via est). Both women (in effect Seneca) display their full rhetorical power in their effort to persuade their “opponent”. The nurse abandons the sententiae at line 155, in order to invoke the sacred institution of marriage and to remind Clytemnestra of her conjugal responsibilities: At te reflectat coniugi nomen sacrum. Her appeal, though, is rejected by the queen, who distorts logic and considers herself a widow; using a rhetorical question, she reminds the nurse that Agamemnon has been absent for ten years (156): Decem per annos vidua respiciam virum?20 Very artfully Clytemnestra suppresses the obvious reason for Agamemnon’s absence, the Trojan war, which lasted ten whole years. The balance in the stichomythia is upset; the dialogue effectively comes to an end, when the nurse asks Clytemnestra to remember her obligations towards her children (157): Meminisse debes sobolis ex illo tuae. Now the nurse appeals both to reason and emotion (logos and pathos); her method of persuasion is both cognitive and emotional. She addresses Clytemnestra as a mother who must take care of her children, Orestes and Electra (meminisse debes). Nevertheless, this exhortation fails to achieve the desired outcome and to bring Clytemnestra to her senses; instead, it has the opposite effect. The mention of Clytemnestra’s children triggers an initial, more extended response from the queen – two lines instead of one (158f.: Equidem et iugales filiae memini faces / et generum Achillem: praestitit matri fidem) – which paves the way for the exchange of lengthy speeches. Instead of Orestes and Electra, Clytemnestra thinks of (memini) her other daughter, Iphigenia, whom she lost because of Agamemnon. The nurse fails spectacularly because she does not

19  Judging from the line of thought from lines 108–15 to 116–24 Mader (1988) 54 rightly claims that Clytemnestra has already decided to commit a crime before the issue is debated with either the nurse or Aegisthus. 20  See Mader (1988) 59.

26

Michalopoulos

take into account that Clytemnestra’s mind is permanently set on Iphigenia and on Agamemnon’s crime.21 Clytemnestra’s two-line reply is counterbalanced by a two-line response from the nurse (160–1): Redemit illa classis immotae moras / et maria pigro fixa languore impulit. The nurse again places reason before emotion and appears to be strikingly insensitive to Clytemnestra’s pain over the loss of her daughter. What matters more to her is the “national” dimension of Iphigenia’s sacrifice22 and the benefit for the Greek fleet, which finally managed to sail out of Aulis. The nurse presents Iphigenia as a civic benefactor and returns to the issue of mora. This imparts a sense of unity to the debate. The nurse had recommended mora to Clytemnestra (130) and now (160) she refers to the positive lift of the Greek fleet’s mora thanks to Iphigenia’s sacrifice. For the Greeks, the mora at Aulis was harmful, whereas for the nurse the mora appears to be the proper cure now that Clytemnestra is about to commit a crime. The nurse’s comment on the lift of the mora for the Greek fleet thanks to Iphigenia’s sacrifice prompts Clytemnestra to begin her more lengthy statement in this debate, her Affektrede, which is central to understanding her character. Clytemnestra recalls the past,23 looks forward to the future and explains the reasons for her decision to kill Agamemnon. Although her speech is emotionally charged, it is well-structured, it appeals to reason and aims at persuading the nurse (and the audience). It can be divided into three sections:24 a) the sacrifice of Iphigenia (162–73), b) Agamemnon’s love affairs (Chryseis, Briseis, Cassandra) (174–91) and c) Agamemnon’s forthcoming murder (192–202).

21  See Mader (1988) 59 on how Clytemnestra redirects the discussion towards the immolation of Iphigenia and Agamemnon’s guilt. 22  For the nurse’s pragmatism and reason see Mader (1988) 59. On the popularity of the sacrifice of Iphigenia in declamation-oratory see Tarrant (1976) 205. 23  According to Mader (1988) 57f. Clytemnestra’s rhēsis at 162–202 illustrates the genesis and evolution of the dolor and ira mentioned at 142. This evolution is in line with Seneca’s conception of the origin and growth of anger as detailed in the De Ira. 24  Tarrant (1976) on 162–202 points out the similarities of Clytemnestra’s Affektrede with Clytemnestra’s post factum defence in Eur. El. 1011ff. and with Ovid’s treatment of the story at Ars 2.399ff. Contrary to Aeschylus, in all three writers Agamemnon’s infidelities and not the sacrifice of Iphigenia is the most important cause for Clytemnestra’s actions. Along the same lines Mader (1988) 60 remarks that Seneca has greatly amplified the motif of Agamemnon as adulterer, which is a noteworthy departure from Aeschylus. On the relationship of Seneca’s Agamemnon with Aeschylus’ Ἀγαμέμνων: Marcucci (1996); Lavery (2004) and Degiovanni (2004). On the possible sources and models of Seneca’s Agamemnon see Kugelmeier (2013) 493 n. 1.

27

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

Cl. Pudet doletque: Tyndaris, caeli genus, lustrale classi Doricae peperi caput! revolvit animus virginis thalamos meae quos ille dignos Pelopia fecit domo, cum stetit ad aras ore sacrifico pater quam nuptialis! horruit Calchas suae responsa vocis et recedentes focos. o scelera semper sceleribus vincens domus: cruore ventos emimus, bellum nece! sed vela pariter mille fecerunt rates? non est soluta prospero classis deo; eiecit Aulis impias portu rates. Sic auspicatus bella non melius gerit: amore captae captus, immotus prece Zminthea tenuit spolia Phoebei senis, ardore sacrae virginis iam tum furens. non illum Achilles flexit indomitus minis, non ille solus fata qui mundi videt (in nos fidelis augur, in captas levis), non populus aeger et relucentes rogi; inter ruentis Graeciae stragem ultimam sine hoste victus marcet ac Veneri vacat reparatque amores; neve desertus foret a paelice umquam barbara caelebs torus, ablatam Achilli diligit Lyrnesida nec rapere puduit e sinu avulsam viri – en Paridis hostem! nunc novum vulnus gerens amore Phrygiae vatis incensus furit, et post tropaea Troica ac versum Ilium captae maritus remeat et Priami gener. Accingere, anime: bella non levia apparas. scelus occupandum est; pigra, quem expectas diem? Pelopia Phrygiae sceptra dum teneant nurus? an te morantur virgines viduae domi patrique Orestes similis? horum te mala ventura moveant, turbo quis rerum imminet. quid, misera, cessas? [en adest gnatis tuis furens noverca] per tuum, si aliter nequit, latus exigatur ensis et perimat duos; misce cruorem, perde pereundo virum: mors misera non est commori cum quo velis.

165

170

175

180

185

190

195

200

28

Michalopoulos

Oh, shame! oh, anguish! I, child of Tyndareus, of heavenly lineage, have born a sacrifice for the Greek fleet! Once more in memory I see my daughter’s wedding rites, which he made worthy of Pelops’ house, when, with prayer on lip, the father stood before the altars, how fit for nuptials! Calchas shuddered at his own oracles and at the recoiling altar-fires. O house that ever overtops crime with crime! With blood we purchased winds, and war with murder! But, say you, by this means a thousand ships spread sail together? It was by no favouring god the fleet was freed; no! Aulis from port drove forth the impious ships. Thus beginning, not more happily did he wage the war. With love of a captive smitten, unmoved by prayer, he held as spoil the child of Smynthean Apollo’s aged priest, then as now mad with passion for a sacred maid. Neither Achilles, unmoved by threats, could bend him, nor he who alone sees the secrets of the universe, (for me and mine sure seer, for slave-girls of no weight), nor the plague-smit people, nor the blazing pyres. Midst the death-struggle of falling Greece, conquered, but by no foe, he languishes, has leisure for love, seeks new amours; and, lest his widowed couch ever be free from some barbaric mistress, he lusted for the Lyrnesian maid, Achilles’ spoil, nor blushed to bear her away, torn from her lord’s embrace – he, the enemy of Paris! Now, wounded afresh, he rages with passion for the inspired Phrygian maid; and after Troy’s conquest, after Ilium’s overthrow, he comes back home, a captive’s husband Priam’s son-in-law! Now gird you up, my soul; no trivial strife are you preparing. Crime must be forestalled. Sluggish, what day do you await? Till Phrygian wives shall wield our Pelops’ sceptre? Do the virgin daughters of your house and Orestes, image of his father, hold you back? Nay, it is the ills that threaten them that should urge you on; over them a storm of woes hangs lowering. Why, wretched woman, do you hesitate? Through your own side, if not otherwise it can be done, let the sword be driven, and so slay two. Mingle your blood with his, in your death destroy your husband; death has no pang when shared with whom you would. Tr. Miller (1917) adapted

Clytemnestra calls herself “child of Tyndareus” (Tyndaris) “of heavenly lineage” (caeli genus) (162), evidently seeking to exalt herself and her status, thus enhancing her ethical appeal and credibility (ēthos). The phrase caeli genus is not merely generic but picks up the queen’s origin from Zeus. Notice that in contrast to the nurse’s address in line 125 (inclitum Ledae genus) Clytemnestra does not mention Leda, because she does not want to associate herself with her adulterous mother at this point. By the same token, she avoids naming

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

29

Agamemnon. She refers to him scornfully with words and phrases such as ille (165), Paridis hostis (188), captae maritus (191), and Priami gener (191); likewise, Clytemnestra calls Cassandra Phrygia vates (189), Phrygia nurus (194), and furens noverca (199).25 The phrase dignos Pelopia domo (165) ironically conjures up the troubled past of the house of Pelops, as is confirmed a few lines below (169): o scelera semper sceleribus vincens domus. Clytemnestra places Iphigenia’s sacrifice among the abominable events taking place in this royal house. The emphatic occurrence of pater at the end of line 16626 stresses the crime of Agamemnon, who slaughtered his daughter. Agamemnon’s campaign, which started with blood and death (cruore, nece 170), will also end in blood and death – his own. Clytemnestra underlines the impiety of the Achaeans (impias rates 173), since their mission started with an impious and monstrous act and is not approved by the gods (non prospero deo 172).27 Line 174 is the bridge between the first two sections: Sic auspicatus bella non melius gerit. In the second part of her speech, Clytemnestra picks up Agamemnon’s infidelities at Troy, which is the second reason for her revenge. She stresses his sacrilege against Apollo and his priest, Chrysis, and she calls Chryseis (without naming her) a sacra virgo (177). Agamemnon himself is depicted as amore captae captus28 (a polyptoton, 175) and furens. The irony of the situation is that Clytemnestra is also possessed by furor, yet of a different kind. Clytemnestra also attacks Agamemnon’s profile as a leader;29 she accuses him of not caring about the destruction of his army because all he cares about is his love affairs (182–4). Interestingly enough, she who blames Agamemnon for his concubines has now become the concubine of Aegisthus (185). In effect, Clytemnestra projects her own situation on Agamemnon.30 Agamemnon is accused of behaving like a second Paris (186–8)31 and of abducting Briseis 25  Tarrant (1976) on 165 (ille). 26  See Mader (1988) 59 on the irony of pater (166). 27  On the use of religious argumentation in Attic oratory for persuasion: Serafim (forthcoming d). 28  This is a typically Senecan echo of Horace’s Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit (Epist. 2.1.56): Calder (1976) 31 n. 34. 29  See Mader (1988) 60 on Clytemnestra’s criticism of Agamemnon’s capacity as general. 30  For a psychological interpretation of Clytemnestra’s attacks on Agamemnon’s infidelities along the lines of “projection” or “transference”: Mader (1988) 60. 31  For the murder of Agamemnon as re-enactment of and revenge for Priam’s death and the fall of Troy see Boyle (1997) 35. On the connection Agamemnon/Priam see also Berno (2004). According to Schiesaro (2014) sec. 12 the insisted parallelism between Argos and Troy is one of the most far-reaching thematic developments that Seneca introduces in his play compared to Aeschylus.

30

Michalopoulos

from Achilles, although he is supposed to wage war in order to avenge Helen’s abduction by Paris. Again, this argument could be easily turned against Clytemnestra, since Aegisthus did precisely the thing for which she now blames Agamemnon; even worse, Aegisthus seduced a married queen and not a barbarian prisoner of war. In the third part of her speech, Clytemnestra addresses herself32 and tries to find the courage to move on with the decision she has already made. She declares that she is determined to kill Agamemnon and then to commit suicide.33 She also responds to the nurse’s exhortation to think of her children and states that she wants to protect her children from their Trojan stepmother, Cassandra (195–7). This is highly ironic: it is Cassandra who is actually threatened by Clytemnestra and not vice versa. Orestes is the only child that Clytemnestra mentions by name (196); given his future role as avenger of his father’s murder, with whom he looks alike (patri similis 196), this is ominous and ironic as well. The phrases turbo quis rerum imminent (197) and en adest natis tuis / furens noverca34 (198f.) are clear prefigurations of future events and of what Electra and Orestes are going to suffer, especially since the Erinyes who will persecute Orestes are called Furiae in Latin. Overall in her Affektrede Clytemnestra attacks her opponent’s ēthos and attempts a character assassination, as if she were a good pupil of Aristotle. Her real opponent is certainly not the nurse, but the absent Agamemnon, Clytemnestra’s virtual interlocutor. In effect, this debate between the nurse and Clytemnestra substitutes for the debate between Clytemnestra and Agamemnon which never takes place in the play. Clytemnestra struggles to justify Agamemnon’s coming murder. She depicts him as a criminal father and as an irresponsible leader who puts his desires before the interests of his army; he is furens, a prey to his passions and hence unable to think and act reasonably. 32  On address in tragedy and elevated poetry see Tarrant (1976) 194f. on anime (Ag. 108). See also Tarrant (1976) 210 on accingere anime (Ag. 192): “a motif of rhetorical self-address which may derive from Euripides”. On animus as a constant point of reference in Senecan discussions of the self and as a sort of synecdoche for the whole person see Tarrant (2006) 11–13. 33  Mader (1988) 60f. notes that the motif of self­justification is developed still further in the third phase (192–202) of Clytemnestra’s rhēsis, while Rosenmeyer (1989) 184f. points out the series of commands, impersonal observations, questions, and third-person jussives in the passive voice in Clytemnestra’s monologue (Ag. 192–202), which screen out any intimation of the first person. 34  On Clytemnestra’s furens noverca and on her outburst of maternal concern as a pretext for the planned crime: Mader (1988) 61.

31

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

After Clytemnestra’s speech it is the nurse’s turn to reply: Nut. Regina, frena temet et siste impetus et quanta temptes cogita: victor venit Asiae ferocis, ultor Europae, trahit captiva Pergama et diu victos Phrygas; hunc fraude nunc conaris et furto aggredi? quem non Achilles ense violavit fero, quamvis procacem torvus armasset manum, non melior Aiax morte decreta furens, non sola Danais Hector et bello mora, non tela Paridis certa, non Memnon niger, non Xanthus armis corpora immixta aggerens fluctusque Simois caede purpureos agens, non nivea proles Cycnus aequorei dei, non bellicoso Thressa cum Rheso phalanx, non picta pharetras et securigera manu peltata Amazon, hunc domi reducem paras mactare et aras caede maculare impia? Vltrix inultum Graecia hoc facinus feret? equos et arma classibusque horrens fretum propone et alto sanguine exundans solum et tota captae fata Dardaniae domus regesta Danais – comprime adfectus truces mentemque tibimet ipsa pacifica tuam.

205

210

215

220

225

O Queen, restrain yourself, check your impetuous wrath and think what you are daring; the conqueror of wild Asia is at hand, Europe’s avenger, dragging in triumph captive Pergama and the Phrygians, long since subdued. Against him now with guile and stealth do you essay to fight, whom Achilles with his savage sword hurt not, though in grim wrath he armed his insolent hand, nor the better Ajax raging and bent on death, nor Hector, sole bulwark against the warring Greeks, nor the sure-aimed shafts of Paris, nor swarthy Memnon, nor Xanthus, rolling down corpses and arms commingled, nor Simoïs, its waves running red with blood, nor Cycnus, snowy offspring of the Ocean-god, nor warlike Rhesus and his Thracian horde, nor the Amazon, with her painted quiver, battle-axe in hand, and crescent shield? Him, home-returning, do you prepare to slay and to defile your altars with slaughter impious? Will victorious

32

Michalopoulos

Greece leave such a deed unavenged? Horses and arms, the sea studded with ships, set these before your eyes, the ground flowing with streams of blood, and the whole fate of the captured house of Dardanus turned against the Greeks. Control your fierce passions, and set your own soul at peace. Tr. Miller (1917) adapted

In this suasoria35 the nurse appeals to reason, not to emotion. These are the main lines of her argumentation: first that it is impossible for Clytemnestra to kill Agamemnon, and second that her action will have dire consequences because the Greek leaders will avenge Agamemnon’s death. The irony is again palpable: the nurse could not possibly foresee that Agamemnon’s killing would not be avenged by the Greek leaders, but by his own children, Electra and Orestes, in whose name Clytemnestra is about to perform her abominable crime. In sharp contrast to her first address which was much longer and loftier, this time the nurse calls Clytemnestra simply regina.36 Using imperatives and a polysyndeton (frena … et siste … et … cogita 203f.),37 she tries to inspire fear to the queen, and she talks about Agamemnon’s greatness and power. The nurse’s argument is ex maiori and cognitive: Agamemnon is too powerful for Clytemnestra to harm; others, much stronger than her, have not been able to do so. The nurse cites an impressive list of Agamemnon’s opponents (Ajax, Hector, Paris, Menelaus, Xanthus, Simois, Cycnus, Rhesus, Penthesilea) who did not manage to harm him. She seems to be well-informed on the events of the Trojan war. On a meta-literary level, she knows much from the Iliad and from other works on Troy; on the level of the plot, her source of information may have been the captive Trojan women who form the secondary chorus of the play. Notice, in particular, the nurse’s reference to the Amazons who bear axes (217); this is an ironic prefiguration of Agamemnon’s murder and decapitation by Clytemnestra, as has been foretold by Thyestes in the prologue of the play (45f.: enses secures tela, divisum gravi / ictu bipennis regium video caput).

35  See Tarrant (1976) on 203–25. 36  Mader (1988) 62 rightly points out that the nurse implicitly appeals to Clytemnestra’s obligations in her capacity as queen. 37  Tarrant (1976) on 203 frena … impetus points out that Seneca’s nurses (and other foils) invariably use the language of restraint, and he cites numerous examples.

The Art of Persuasion in Seneca ’ s Agamemnon

33

The nurse’s second argument, that the whole of Greece will avenge Agamemnon’s assassination (220), is based on reason and is also intended to inspire fear upon Clytemnestra.38 This is yet another sharp irony, since there will be no need for the whole of Greece to take revenge. Revenge will come from the immediate family, from Clytemnestra’s own son, Orestes, on whose behalf she is supposedly acting. The nurse ends her speech the way she started it (κύκλος), i.e. with imperatives: comprime (224) and pacifica (225). In effect, she tries to fight one passion of the queen, her ira, with another, metus. After urging Stoic restraint, the nurse exits,39 and her speech remains unanswered by Clytemnestra.40 Although she has employed a wide range of persuasion mechanisms, it seems that she has not achieved her goal, i.e. to influence and change the behaviour and belief of her “target audience”, Clytemnestra. The matter remains unresolved,41 and Aegisthus appears on stage unannounced. Nevertheless, Clytemnestra seems to start hoping42 that she will actually manage to live again in harmony with Agamemnon. She now appears to have second thoughts about the murder (239–43, 260–7); Aegisthus will try to disperse these ideas in the discussion which follows.43

38  See Aygon (2014) sec. 25 and n. 44. 39  Pace Kohn (2013) 56, who claims that the nurse remains on stage after her final words, because in this way the audience can actually see Clytemnestra physically caught between the voices of propriety and viricide. 40  Aygon (2014) sec. 2.2, 3 interpretes Clytemnestra’s silence after the nurse’s speech as acceptance and agreement. Other scholars, too, agree that the nurse seems to have convinced Clytemnestra. See Herrmann (1924) 411–3; Streubel (1963) 56–9; Herington (1966) 454; Perutelli (1995) 24 n. 22. 41  Schiesaro (2014) sec. 6 points out that contrary to other Senecan plays (e.g. Thyestes, Phaedra, Medea) in the Agamemnon the exchange between Clytemnestra and her nurse ends without any agreement between the two characters, as the nurse sticks to her initial advice to the queen to wait and calm down. Tarrant (1976) 193 states that Clytemnestra’s sudden change of attitude only a few lines later (239ff.) does not have any dramatic reality. He concludes that the Clytemnestra-nurse dialogue and the Clytemnestra-Aegisthus scene are designed by Seneca as independent dramatic units. Cf. Zwierlein (1966) 106; Croisille (1964) 464; Martina (1981) 157; Grimal (1983) 126f.; Perutelli (1995) on 239–43; Kugelmeier (2007) 193. More recently Aygon (2014) sec. 7 has argued in favour of the close relationship between the two Scenes of the second Act. 42  Mader (1988) 63 writes about Clytemnestra’s illusory, excessive and unrealistically optimistic spes, which is the antidote to her fear. 43  Mader (1988) 63 notes that Aegisthus revives and expands all the motifs (except revenge) which Clytemestra herself had earlier identified as driving her on.

34

Michalopoulos

It is impossible to know for sure whether Clytemnestra’s turn after her debate with the nurse is sincere or whether it is a ploy intended to strengthen Aegisthus’ determination for the murder of Agamemnon. Personally, I cannot rule out either possibility; persuasive arguments have been presented on both sides.44 I would also like to suggest that, parallel to the actual controversia between the nurse and Clytemnestra, one might also identify another controversia, between the nurse and Aegisthus. This peculiar controversia is not carried out during the simultaneous presence of the two interlocutors on stage, the one facing the other; however, the target of their persuasion is the same person, Clytemnestra. Clytemnestra has already listened to the views of her nurse, and now she wants to listen to the views of Aegisthus. Clytemnestra is the one who needs to be persuaded by two opposing suasoriae employing techniques, mechanisms and argumentation both cognitive and emotional. After listening to both sides she decides to move on with her plan, so she is wholly responsible for her actions. Seneca’s Clytemnestra is a woman with a complex personality, motivated by diverse factors, tossed about by conflicting emotions. The debates with the nutrix and with Aegisthus vividly show how reason can be vanquished by ira and dolor on the one hand, and spes on the other. Ratio is pushed aside by irrational anger and irrational hope. This is a recipe for disaster. 44  Croisille (1964) 466–9 believes that Clytemnestra manipulates and deceives Aegisthus until he is ready for the deed. Cf. Calder (1976) 31f., Boyle (1997) 35. According to Herrmann (1924) 412 Clytemnestra makes up her mind during her conversation with Aegisthus. Other scholars believe that the nurse’s intervening speech succeeds momentarily in changing Clytemnestra’s mind, see Heldmann (1974) 117; Streubel (1963) 52, 72 n. 4; Shelton (1983) 166; Brandt (1986) 263; Mader (1988) 63.

chapter 3

Epic Performance, Poetics and Persuasion in Ovid’s and Quintus’ Reconstructions of the Hoplōn krisis Sophia Papaioannou 1

Literacy Performed. The Hoplōn krisis and the Greek Literary Tradition

The Hoplōn krisis, “Judgment of the Arms” (hereafter HK), the verbal contest between Odysseus and Ajax over the weapons of Achilles, in its long history across the centuries exemplifies the dramatic essence of rhetoric.1 A performance (including a speech or a debate, since both are performed) can be enacted many times, but a shift in situation and attitudes of the audience changes its effectiveness. Likewise, the reproductions of the HK attest to a methodology of persuasion in ongoing evolution, conforming to ever-changing situations and performance circumstances. And yet, in its original, epic form, the HK is not an actual contest, but one that was devised, designed and directed in order to be orally narrated, not to be dramatized and visually realized. This progymnasma or re-enactment of a hypothetical rhetorical contest, which developed its own independent tradition in ancient rhetoric, both in Greece and in Rome, had acquired distinct dramatic character ever since it was first put on stage by Aeschylus. Aeschylus’ initiative underscored the “believability” of the epic HK as both an actual oratorical debate and a drama. More importantly, it exposed the debate as a scripted contest, and the two speeches as the product of a single party. In an actual contest, the opposing parties compose, present and direct their respective speeches. In a scripted contest, the director has foreknowledge of both the structure of the contesting arguments and the outcome of the debate before the debate begins. The two contestants need to demonstrate their persuasion skills on two levels: first, they need to produce well-organized arguments that could win over the direct audience (especially the judges), 1  The editions used in this chapter are, for Quintus Smyrnaeus, Vian (1966); for Homer, Monro and Allen (3d ed., 1920); for Ovid, Hopkinson (2000). Translations are my own unless otherwise noted.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_004

36

Papaioannou

and second, they need to convince the larger audience, i.e. the readers, going through yet another version of their debate, that the re-enactment at hand contributes something original and important to the literary tradition of the HK, and that this originality is important enough to be inscribed in the collective memory (or literary tradition) of the HK. The treatments of the HK in the epic compositions by Ovid and Quintus of Smyrna (who, if composed his epic independently from Ovid, was very likely informed by the same intertexts2) are milestones in the long and diverse literary tradition of a debate that originates in the Epic Cycle. The earliest surviving version of the HK, Antisthenes’ speeches of Ajax and Odysseus, has a political mission – it comments on a society that was going through groundbreaking political change.3 An admirer of Odysseus, Antisthenes detects in the Homeric hero’s character and overall conduct the leading qualities and intellectual values of the ideal Athenian democratic leader; Odysseus is as versatile as a fifth-century sophist and a mythical antecedent of Socrates.4 Antisthenes’ Odysseus is a reaction to the denigration of the hero in fifth-century tragedy, rhetoric, philosophy and art, where Odysseus was consistently portrayed as a crafty wordsmith who preyed on a series of guileless, noble Homeric heroes such as Ajax, Achilles and Priam.5 Antisthenes’ Ajax is similarly monolithic and dismisses speech in all forms, because for Antisthenes Ajax, the man of brawn and action, embodies the polar opposite of the argument-based democratic society. This portrayal misreads not only Ajax’s Homeric performance, but also the heroic ideal of the Iliad, which stresses the importance of words and action (Iliad 1.247–9, 2.370–4, 3.209–24, 9.443, etc.). In Iliad 9, which comprises probably the most conspicuous implementation of persuasion in surviving epic, Ajax is chosen to be part of the three-member embassy to Achilles,

2  Quintus’ awareness of Ovid’s treatment is a matter long debated and as yet unresolved; James and Lee (2000) 80–1 have recorded several thematic similarities between the two texts, and so has Vian (1966) 10–13, who denies direct influence and suggests that both authors relied on a common source. Personally I believe that Quintus’ knowledge of Ovid should be revisited, in light of an ever rising number of recent critics who substantiate convincingly Quintus’ familiarity with the Latin tradition, especially Vergil’s Aeneid. On Quintus’ direct interaction with Vergil see recently Gärtner (2005) 279–87 and (2013) 98–104 and 113–28; Maciver (2012a) passim. 3  Caizzi (1966). 4  On Antisthenes’ defence of Odysseus, see Montiglio (2011) 20–37; on Odysseus as “ancestor of sophistic and Athenian versatility”, see Morgan (2000) 105–19; on Odysseus as the mythological forefather of Socrates, see Caizzi (2009) 126–33. 5  Montiglio (2011) 2–19.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

37

along with Odysseus and Phoenix. Each of them by means of a different set of arguments tries to persuade Achilles to return to the fight.6 None of the three speakers is convincing because they do not assess properly what their addressee expects to hear from them. Still, Ajax delivers an effective speech and receives a significant concession from Achilles (Il. 9.624–42), contrary to Odysseus, who is accused by Achilles that he behaves like a deceitful enemy (Il. 9.312–3). Antisthenes’ sophistic artistry and political perspective are alien to the forces of literary antagonism that govern Ovid’s and Quintus’ accounts of the HK.7 Given that the outcome of the debate is known and predetermined by tradition (i.e. Odysseus wins), regardless of who the judges are, the attractiveness of the contest in a non-dramatic version (in a version that does not benefit from body language and modulation of voice) depends on the inventiveness of argumentation. Both epicists experiment with the structure of the conflict because the audience is interested not in the outcome, which is common knowledge, but in the way Odysseus’ victory came about; in the particular articulation of the course of the agōn,8 in how it will reach the predetermined end in comparison to earlier treatments of the conflict, and how this new reproduction advanced the literary agenda of a new author. This chapter explores the persuasion strategies employed by the contesting heroes, first in Ovid and then in Quintus, and the two different literary versions of this imaginary debate thus produced, and assesses the persuasiveness of these strategies in light of their function as statements of epic poetics.

6  The art of persuasion is part of the essence of the archetypal epic hero, which is distinctly verbalized by Achilles in Il. 9.443: muthōn te rhētēr, prēktēr te ergōn (“a great orator and an accomplished leader in action”). See O’Sullivan (2005) for an overview of rhetoric in Homer as a heroic precept. 7  On the possible influence of Antisthenes on Ovid, see Müller (1997) 304–5 n. 216, which casts doubt on the possibility that Ovid actually knew Antisthenes’ contest between Ajax and Odysseus. 8  The HK in Rome (Lat. Armorum iudicium) had a long history as rhetorical exercise, especially of the suasoria kind. See Bonner (1949) 151. Also, Bonner (1977) 278–83 discusses Greek sophistic education in Rome and especially the use of historical themes in speeches. Dippel (1990) 71–101 approaches Ovid’s reading of the HK as the only complete surviving controversia on a popular rhetorical topic. Quintus’ revival is received by an audience of intellectuals brought up with the ideas of the Second Sophistic. For Bär (2010) this conditions the composition of the HK on the principles of a Second Sophistic rhetorical contest.

38

Papaioannou

2 The HK “Metamorphosed”: Ovid’s Armorum iudicium In Rome the verbal duel between Ajax and Odysseus had a long dramatic tradition already in the Republican era;9 this may explain why performance in Ovid’s recollection becomes the backdrop against which Ajax and Odysseus embody opposite views on epic composition. The double juncture between oral epic performance and drama/court debate is reflected in the employment of the verb considere, “to seat”, twice in three lines (12.626; 13.1), to describe the gathering of the audience10 and introduce the debate. Ajax reports the facts as recorded in the Epic Cycle and seeks to maintain the archaic epic tradition faithfully. His persuasion strategy relies on two main principles. First, in his version of the Trojan War he portrays himself as a replacement “best of the Achaeans” in Achilles’ absence. Thus, he emphasizes his primacy in a number of key episodes: he opens his speech (13.21–33) by noting his kinship ties (cousin) to Achilles. Subsequently (34–42), he announces that he was the first to join the Trojan campaign (34 in arma prior nulloque sub indice veni, “I was the first to answer the call to arms, at nobody’s suggestion”); Odysseus entered the cause too late (36 ultima [arma] qui cepit, “he took up arms last of all”). The same adjective, “first, foremost”, qualifies Ajax’s prompt participation in the epic action (42 obtulimus … nos ad prima pericula, “I was the one to confront the first danger”). He also considers Odysseus’ claim to the weapons of Achilles a personal insult, comparable to the insult to Achilles by Agamemnon in Iliad 1: he refers to himself as “unhonoured” and “deprived” of the gifts that are due to him (41f. nos inhonorati et donis patruelibus orbi … simus? “Shall I go unhonoured and deprived of my cousin’s gifts?”). His complaints clearly echo the Homeric Achilles’ protest that Agamemnon is depriving him of his “prize” (Il. 1.161 καὶ δή μοι γέρας αὐτὸς ἀφαιρήσεσθαι ἀπειλεῖς, “and you are threatening to take away my prize of honour yourself”). Yet the recollection of the famous strife of the Iliad in the presence of Agamemnon jeopardizes Ajax’s chances to gain favour with the head of the judges, who in Ovid’s version are the Greek leaders.

9  Nearly every Roman tragedian of the Republican era known to date, counting specifically Livius Andronicus, Ennius, Pacuvius and Accius, is reported to have composed a drama inspired by this myth; on the remains of the relevant Roman tragedies, see Currie (1981) 2721 and 2725–26. 10  According to the Lewis-Short Latin Dictionary, one of the meanings of considere is “to sit, take a seat, take one’s place”, while waiting for a theatrical performance to start; cf. Cic. Fl. 7.16: cum in theatro imperiti homines consederant, “when people unversed took their seats in the theatre”.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

39

Second, Ajax undertakes a systematic effort to denigrate Odysseus’ character by enforcing his own reading of certain unfortunate moments in Odysseus’ Iliadic activity. At 13.71–81 Ajax recalls the battle before the Greek ships in Iliad 11, when Odysseus along with most Greek leaders, with the exception of Diomedes and Ajax, was hit and left the battlefield wounded. Ajax was the man who helped him withdraw safely from the fighting (Il. 11.459–88). The re-presentation of the events is manipulated in the Metamorphoses, for Ajax, in addition to extolling his own role as Odysseus’ saviour, debases his opponent’s morality. Initially, he derides Odysseus’ panic-stricken reaction (13.73 conclamat socios, “he screams out to his comrades”). On three of the four additional occasions the verb conclamat is employed in Ovid’s epic, it describes the reactions of desperate females in “fairly hysterical contexts”.11 Then, Ajax implies that Odysseus was not actually wounded but, rather, he was faking his wound to attract immediate assistance and reach safety faster (80–1). Contrary to the Homeric “reality” where Odysseus is both wounded (Il. 11.458f. αἷμα δέ οἱ σπασθέντος ἀνέσσυτο … Τρῶες δὲ … ὅπως ἴδον αἷμ’ Ὀδυσῆος …, “he pulled [the spear] out and blood came gushing forth; and the Trojans, when they saw the blood of Odysseus …”) and fighting effectively against numerous attackers (Il. 11.482–4), the Ovidian Ajax’s portrayal of Odysseus as a deceiving coward by nature is provocative. Ajax prefigures the contest as one of words, which he dismisses outright as false (13.9 fictis … verbis; dicere), versus deeds (13.10 pugnare; 11 facere; 13 facta), while he claims for himself uncontested virtus (21). And he stresses the mutual exclusivity of words and deeds by introducing a second pair of contrasting values, eyewitness testimony versus hearsay evidence. By analogy, his deeds have no need of words to make them known because they are visible to everybody (14 vidistis enim), and therefore real – literally, facts (13 facta). Odysseus’ deeds, on the other hand, mostly nocturnal enterprises (15 quorum nox conscia sola est, “only the night has knowledge of them”), are inconspicuous, therefore their existence depends on words (13.14–15 sua narret Ulixes, / quae sine teste gerit, “let Odysseus report his own deeds, which he accomplished without witness”). By severing martial performance from oratorical performance and polarizing

11  The examples are listed and commented upon in Hill (2000) 131 ad 13.73; they describe Andromeda chained on the rock (4.691), the spear-struck Procris (7.843), and Myrrha’s nurse (10.385); and the only non-female victim is Niobe’s eldest son (6.227), who is still a boy. The image of a screaming Odysseus imprints in the mind of the audience the following sequence of words denoting fear and terror: trementem / pallentemque metu et trepidantem (73–4 “trembling and pale with fear and shaking”. Also: 78 tuum solitumque timorem, “and your habitual fear”: for Ajax, fear is Odysseus’ natural trait).

40

Papaioannou

the contest, however, Ajax fails to persuade because he misreads the Homeric heroic culture he professes to embody. Odysseus is Achilles’ opposite in the Homeric epic world.12 In the Metamorphoses, he personifies the Ovidian spirit of epic rivalry, the ambitious post-Alexandrian/neoteric epic poet who is also a deconstructionist critic of the archaic epic tradition. In his reply to Ajax’s speech (twice as long: Met. 13.128–381), he does not alter the facts (the Homeric tradition), and yet he reframes them by enriching the original version of the story or by introducing new assessment criteria. His rereading of the Trojan War follows two lines of argumentation. First, he identifies those episodes in the development of the Trojan legend which describe Achilles’ participation, and offers a new narrative. In this narrative Odysseus appears as the leading force behind Achilles’ actions. Odysseus offers, in other words, a new reading of the Homeric Achilles’ performance as an open script, composed by Odysseus. Second, he rewrites Ajax’s martial performance, inspired by Ajax’s own denigration strategy against him. In addition, he professes that his own intelligence has been more effective than Ajax’s brawn, all the while being very sensitive of his treatment of Achilles’ character. Even though his victory over his opponent depends on the devaluation of the model of the mighty hero, idolized by Ajax and exemplified by Achilles, Odysseus during his disparagement of biē abstains from any reference to Achilles. Instead, he takes apart Ajax’s speech by arguing that the Salaminian hero’s arguments are based on a bad reading of the Iliad and the broader Trojan legend. From the start, the persuasiveness of Odysseus’ performance is founded on evoking Ajax’s activity in the Iliad. The hero rises conscious of the fact that he is expected to speak in a specific way: donec Laertius heros adstitit atque oculos paulum tellure moratos sustulit ad proceres exspectatoque resolvit ora sono, neque abest facundis gratia dictis Met. 13.124–7

12  The Iliad and the Odyssey celebrate the contrasting values embodied respectively by Achilles and Odysseus; see Griffin (1980) 49ff. Achilles hates people of mētis, which he interprets as deceptiveness. He explicitly states so to Odysseus himself, as the latter delivers Agamemnon’s proposal for appeasement in Iliad 9: ἐχθρὸς γάρ μοι κεῖνος ὁμῶς Ἀΐδαο πύλῃσιν / ὅς χ᾿ ἕτερον μὲν κεύθῃ ἐνὶ φρεσίν, ἄλλο δὲ εἴπῃ, “for as I detest the doorways of death, I detest that man, who hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks forth another” (Il. 9.312–13).

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

41

Next the heroic son of Laertes stood, and his eyes, which dwelt on the ground for a little while, he raised to the chiefs, and began speaking with the words they expected to hear, nor was grace lacking in his eloquent speech. Odysseus assumes a specific pose that imitates his Iliadic self as portrayed in Il. 3.216–23, especially line 217 (στάσκεν, ὑπαὶ δὲ ἴδεσκε κατὰ χθονὸς ὄμματα πήξας, “he would stand there, and stare down, eyes fixed on the ground beneath him”). A few lines below, and in accordance with his Homeric self, Odysseus adds tears to his performance act. As soon as he first mentions Achilles’ name, he pretends to wipe away tears: Met. 13.132–3 manuque simul veluti lacrimantia tersit / lumina (“and at the same time with his hand, as if weeping, he rubbed his eyes”). Odysseus is never seen to weep in the Iliad, but he does so quite often in the much more explicitly theatrical space of the Odyssey. Stanford notes sixteen occasions of a tearful Odysseus in the Odyssey, additionally remarking that on all sixteen the hero’s tears are sincere.13 Ovid’s counterpart, then, persuades the judges of the sincerity of his emotional suffering: he has recourse to ēthos, literally, “character”, the (conscious and studied) self-portrayal of the speaker – according to Aristotle, “the most effective means of persuasion”14 – and he fakes the sincerely tearful persona of his Homeric self, with which the readers are familiar. Odysseus begins his reply by stressing the power of his acumen (137 ingenium), contrasting it to Ajax’s slow wit (135 quod, ut est, hebes esse videtur, “that he seems to be, as he indeed is, slow of wit”). He acknowledges his superior eloquence only indirectly, as a quality deserving attention on account of its beneficial impact upon the entire Greek army: 137–8 meaque haec facundia, si qua est, / quae nunc pro domino, pro vobis saepe locuta est, / invidia careat (“and let this eloquence of mine, if I have any, which now speaks on behalf of its master, but has often spoken also for your sake, incur no enmity”).15 Met. 13.162–215, the opening section of Odysseus’ speech, is particularly illuminating in this regard. Odysseus revisits four crucial incidents set prior 13  All sixteen references are listed in Stanford (1963) 122 n. 9. 14  “Persuasion is achieved by the speaker’s personal character when the speech is so spoken as to make us think him credible. We believe good men more fully and more readily than others: this is true generally whatever the question is, and absolutely true where exact certainty is impossible and opinions are divided. His character may almost be called the most effective means of persuasion he possesses”. Arist. Rh. 1.2.1356a.4–12 (tr. Ross 1924). 15  This is the second time in ten lines that Odysseus’ eloquence is underscored: cf. facunda dicta (127); the only other hero in the “little Iliad” to be labelled so is Nestor (12.178 o facunde senex).

42

Papaioannou

to the events reported in the Iliad, the first two of which are tied to Achilles’ participation in the Trojan War. Important episodes of the pre-Homeric action at Troy are retold in order to introduce the Iliad as a script conceived by Odysseus and executed at his own direction. The account begins with the uncovering of Achilles, who was hiding in disguise among the daughters of the king of Skyros (13.162–80), and next follows the resolution of the Aulis stalemate (13.181–95). The extrication of Achilles from Skyros represents the cornerstone of the Trojan legend, for it functions as a catalyst for the composition of the Iliad. By “appropriating” Achilles, at 170–1, Odysseus rules that Achilles’ accomplishments – the Telephus adventure, the fall of Thebes, the capture of various cities and islands along the coast of Asia Minor and, finally, the death of Hector – are accomplishments of his own genius (171–80).16 The second episode concerns the resolution of the Aulis standoff (181–95), the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and the role of Achilles therein. The events are presented from Odysseus’ perspective as an exemplary demonstration of diplomatic skills in combination with deception. The deception of Clytemnestra (193–4 quae non hortanda, sed astu/ decipienda fuit, “she would not be talked into it [sc. the sacrifice], but she ought to be deceived with cleverness”) is mentioned also because it was designed with Achilles as the bait. The recollection of the Aulis episode, furthermore, ensures the emotional engagement, in Odysseus’ favour, of Agamemnon, who solicited Odysseus’ services to deceive Clytemnestra and Iphigenia into coming to Aulis. By using the gerundive construction, at 193, Odysseus introduces deception as a necessity, at once underscoring the cardinal importance of his role and subtly reminding Agamemnon of his debt to him. After appropriating Achilles, Odysseus proceeds (at Met. 13.216–95) to obfuscate Ajax’s aristos epic image as recorded throughout the Iliad. He also magnifies his own traditional epic record of martial deeds. Thus, at 13.216–37 (esp. 13.223f. quid quod et ipse fugit? vidi, puduitque videre / cum tu terga dares, “what of the fact that he, too, took to flight? I saw you, and I was embarrassed to see you fleeing away”), Ajax is made to “join”, in self-conscious embarrassment, the disorderly flight towards the ships in the incident reported in Iliad 2, even though the Homeric text never actually specifies this. Next, the narrative focus of the Dolonia is readjusted. In the Iliad, the nocturnal spy mission was the brainchild of Odysseus. Now it is the undertaking of Diomedes who chose Odysseus of all Greeks to join him in a murderous raid (13.238–67). The switch 16  Odysseus’ appropriation of Achilles’ character is transcribed in the recurrent use of the first person possessive and personal pronouns seven times in eight lines (170–8). Bömer (1982) 249.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

43

in leadership transforms the Dolonia from a nocturnal enterprise of deception and stealth into a heroic attack culminating in actual fighting which develops into an aristeia for Odysseus, in the most profound manipulation of Homeric tradition. In the Ovidian version of the Dolonia, Odysseus appropriates the execution of Dolon (13.245) and asserts that he killed Rhesus all by himself (13.249–52).17 The culmination of his accomplishments comes four lines later, at 257–60, in the form of an epic catalogue of conquered foes, which strings together the two different killing sprees in the Iliad credited to Odysseus. The first two lines transfer into Latin the couplet at Il. 5.677–8, and lines 259–60 condense the text of Il. 11.422–6.18 Odysseus acquires a list of conquered foes as lengthy and noble as those of the major Homeric leaders, Achilles, Diomedes, Agamemnon and Ajax. The knowing reader detects that the four dead Trojans comprising the second half of the list, the part that draws on the aristeia of Odysseus in Il. 11.396–488, are not killed sequentially, as presented in Ovid. They are killed in different episodes and are reassembled in different order, while the Ovidian Odysseus has deleted from the original catalogue Socus, the warrior who wounded Odysseus and forced him to cut short his aristeia and withdraw from the fighting. The actual reason for the omission of Socus rests with Odysseus’ manipulation of his wounding. Socus caused Odysseus only a superficial lateral injury that did not threaten the hero’s life. This injury the Ovidian Odysseus (at Met. 13.262–5) supplants with multiple frontal wounds which he proudly displays by baring his breast, “a common device in Roman courts to gain the judges’ sympathy”.19 Manipulation of tradition affects even Ajax’s activity in the Trojan legend: Odysseus, next, rewrites the account of the dead Achilles’ rescue informed by the Epic Cycle, according to which Ajax carried on his shoulders the body, arms and all, away from the battlefield and appropriated the rescue (13.280–5).20

17  Met. 13.245 interimo, “I slay [him]”; contra Il. 10.455, where – as also in Aen. 12.351ff. – the slayer is Diomedes, and, likewise, in the lines immediately following Diomedes’ role in the slaying of Rhesus is silenced. 18  For full discussion of the intelligent politics of this intertextual fusion see Papaioannou (2007) 187–97; brief commentary in Hopkinson (2000) 134–6; also Hill (2000) 143; Lorenzetti (2001) 238. 19  Hopkinson (2000) 137. 20  Ovid’s Odysseus follows Sophocles, who first replaced Ajax with Odysseus in the tradition. According to the earliest iconography, which likely originates in the literary version recorded in the Aethiopis, nobody but Ajax carried Achilles’ body away from the battlefield; see Burgess (2001) 184–7. Quintus likewise follows Sophocles, yet his Odysseus describes the rescue of Achilles’ body not during the HK but in a conversation with Neoptolemus; cf. Müller (1997) 303–4 n. 212.

44

Papaioannou

The last section of Odysseus’ speech counter-attacks Ajax’s strategy of character denigration. Odysseus turns once again to the persuasiveness of ēthopoiia,21 now in order to depict the character of his opponent as negatively as possible by drawing on Ajax’s conduct in the Trojan War, and he “revisits” Ajax’s performance in a number of episodes for which Ajax earlier had produced his own version.22 He begins with the accusation that he cravenly feigned madness to stay away from the Trojan campaign, and overrules it by comparing the circumstances to those of Achilles hiding in feminine disguise (13.296–305). Similarly, the death of Palamedes and the abandonment of Philoctetes (13.306–32) are presented as communal initiatives of the Greek army, rather than enterprises plotted by Odysseus alone. Also, since the dramatic timing of the HK precedes the return of Philoctetes, the anticipated success of the enterprise offers one final opportunity for Odysseus to stress with confidence his skill in persuasion. The testimony of a respectable audience is crucial in order to provide witnesses who would verify Odysseus’ version of the story. The hero names some of the most prominent Homeric heroes (i.e. Diomedes, the lesser Ajax, Eurypylus, Thoas, Idomeneus and Meriones), who witnessed his deeds and hailed his leadership (Met. 13.350ff.). These “judges”, now seated among the jury of the chiefs, are asked to uphold their earlier, officially recorded (inscribed in the text of the Iliad), verdict and offer Odysseus the victory in this contest. In his peroration (13.370–80), Odysseus predicts the fall of Troy, which will prove the effectiveness of his mētis-based enterprises: 13.373–5 iam labor in fine est; obstantia fata removi / altaque posse capi faciendo Pergama cepi (“now my labour has reached the end; I have removed the obstructing fates and I have conquered Pergama by making it conquerable”). Ovid’s assessment of the HK immediately after Odysseus’ conclusion ascertains the decisive impact of the latter’s superior persuasive skill: 13.382–3: manus procerum est, et quid facundia posset, / re patuit, fortisque viri tulit arma disertus (“the council of princes was moved, and it shows what eloquence can do: the gifted speaker carried away the arms of the brave hero”).

21  In the “modern sense” of the term as defined in Wisse (1989) 58 n. 233. 22  According to Serafim (2017a) 26, “the ability of ēthopoiia to affect the mind and emotions of the audience, and to invite … interactions between the speaker, the judges and the onlookers, makes it an important aspect of oratorical performance. […] The interactive aspect of ēthopoiia is a continuous and shifting process, which requires attention throughout the speech. The speaker can assume different tones, roles, attitudes, emotional states and relationships at different points in the speech”.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

45

3 The HK and Quintus’ Transformation of Homer The treatment of the HK in Quintus is closer to a trial in a Roman court because Ajax and Odysseus deliver two speeches rather than one each.23 This exhibition of rhetorical mastery of sophistic perfection is part of Quintus’ broader strategy of reinventing epic poetics by emulating the technology of the Homeric text24 and simultaneously transcending, though not dismissing, key practices of Second Sophistic literature.25 Quintus’ version of the HK is a contest of rivalling persuasion strategies, as much as it is another original meta-composition of a much-retold (in a variety of generic contexts) episode of the Epic Cycle; an exercise on producing yet another version of this popular suasoria theme. It is a mockery of the perfect pair of set court speeches26 in opposition, and also of an epic neikos debate, the typical exchange of flyting speeches given by two heroes just before they engage in single combat.27 Quintus in Homer’s voice offers a new version of the HK, as he formulates the persuasion strategies of Ajax and Odysseus to reflect and draw on their counterparts’ performances in the Epic Cycle, especially the Iliad: Ajax structures his speech in the pattern of a neikos by which he contests Odysseus’ credentials. His performance, however, is predictable, lacking originality: he lists the same arguments he put forward in earlier literary accounts of the HK. Odysseus, on the contrary, defu­ ses Ajax’s arguments by engaging with them in a narrative that is never before recorded as such, but is at the same time distinctly Homeric, since it revolves around mētis and eloquence, the two virtues for which Odysseus is repeatedly praised in Homer, and sounds quite Homeric, not only in language and style but also in narrative development and characterization.28 Quintus did not just 23  Vian (1966) 12–13; James and Lee (2000) 80; Bär (2010) 298. 24  “The heroic grandeur of a Homer challenges imitation at the same time as it creates the fear of inferiority”; thus Hardie (1993) 100, capturing the perennial anxiety of any aspiring emulator of Homeric epic. 25  The unit in Baumbach and Bär (2007), sub-titled “Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic Epic”, comprises papers that discuss various ways in which practices of Second Sophistic literature were integrated in Quintus’ work. 26  The playfulness of the debate as well as the signal to begin is given by Quintus directly when he certifies the appointment of the Trojan prisoners as judges by calling them ἐρικυδέες, “very glorious”, an adjective attributed by Homer only to the gods, which echoes (and surpasses in prestige) the corresponding Homeric attribute Ἀρήιοι for the Greeks. 27  Maciver (2012b) discusses in detail how the HK is designed to reflect a Homeric neikos contest. 28  On the remarkable closeness between Quintus and Homer see now Maciver (2012a), capping a long discussion; other recent notable studies on Quintus’ Homeric pen include Bär (2009) 53–68 (and passim in the commentary) and Appel (1994); the starting point for the

46

Papaioannou

aspire to write like Homer; he aspired to compose a text infused with Homer in order to appropriate the great epic poet – to offer a critical reading of Homer in Homer’s own voice. Like Ovid, Quintus sees his epic self being reflected in Odysseus, and his epic aspirations served by Odysseus’ victory, though Ovid’s Odysseus and Quintus’ counterpart would likely be rivals should they have had to share the same literary space. The characterization of the contest as “martial neikos” (Post. 5.179 νεῖκος ἀρήιον) is set right at the beginning, in lieu of a title. This suggests that the particular type of debate was set by Ajax, who is reportedly aristos in neikos.29 In a neikos speech the speaker begins by praising his own prowess, while dismissing the opponent as worthless.30 Prowess was typically considered a necessary complement to military expertise. A neikos contest advocates rejection of elaborate speaking in battle in favour of fighting. The curt speech and personal insults of the neikos are ideally suited to the martial profile of Ajax. Even so, neikos was the standard, preliminary stage of an actual single combat, which means that it required training to master the art of composing effective neikos speeches. Ajax’ profile of biē is as much the outcome of training as eloquence is for Odysseus, who thereby projects his mētis. This polarised approach to the contest is suggested by Nestor, who at 5.150–1 introduces the contestants by noting that Ajax excels in war and Odysseus in council (boulē).31 In reality, the mētis displayed by Odysseus in the epic time beyond the Iliad is not identical to his Iliadic boulē. Odysseus’ aristeia becomes manifest in the episodes of the Trojan War following the end of the Iliad. The speeches of the two contestants are of equal length (when the longer first speech and the shorter reply are combined, they add up to exactly the same number of lines for each speaker). I shall presently focus on the first pair of speeches, that is, the longer ones. Ajax, speaking first, produces a speech with fourteen points arranged in a way that reflects perfectly the articulation of a forensic speech, with a prothesis (points 2 and 3), the proofs (points 4–10) and a conclusion that recaps the prothesis (points 11 and 13), and he advances four issues: Odysseus is a coward; Odysseus’ mētis is tied to deceit (dolos);32 relationship between the languages of Quintus and Homer is Vian (1959), with statistics on Quintus’ Homeric phraseology on pp. 182–3. 29  Ajax himself is addressed as: neikos ariste, by Idomeneus at 23.483; cf. Maciver (2012b) 611. 30  On neikos speeches in the Iliad see Martin (1989) and more recently, Hesk (2006). 31  At Il. 19.216–9 Odysseus himself introduces this antagonistic binary: he acknowledges the preeminence of Achilles in martial art as he professes his own excellence in insight (noēma); cf. Maciver (2012b) 613. 32  Odysseus’ rhetorical artistry, especially his unique ability to persuade, is perfectly illustrated in Greek tragedy; it usually has negative associations since his success often

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

47

Odysseus is ungrateful; and Odysseus’ eloquence is useless when the situation requires action. Odysseus responds with a speech of thirteen points. James and Lee offer a point-by-point analysis of the two speeches.33 This analysis forms the basis of my assessment of the two clashing lines of argument, starting with Ajax’s speech: (1) 181–2: Ajax, convinced that he is the rightful heir, holds Odysseus responsible for the contest and, by extension, for creating division in the Greek army. (2) 183–6: Odysseus is a coward: at the crucial battle over Achilles’ body, he was absent, in contrast to Ajax, who dominated the battlefield. (3) 186–90: Odysseus is inferior to Ajax in courage and strength; he excels in deceit. For Ajax, Odysseus’ mētis equals dolos. (4) 191–4: Odysseus tried to evade service at Troy; his mētis is inspired by cowardice. (5) 194–6: Odysseus was responsible for Philoctetes’ abandonment; his envy led to dolos. (6) 197–9: Odysseus was responsible for the plot that led to the death of Palamedes; envy, this time of a rival master of mētis, incited dolos. (7) 200–10: Odysseus is ungrateful, for he owes his life to Ajax, who saved him in battle. (8) 211–4: The coward Odysseus did not beach his ships in an exposed position, as Ajax did. (9) 214–6: Ajax, not Odysseus, saved the Greek ships from fire and Hector. (10) 216–7: Hector yielded to Ajax, but (cowardly) Odysseus feared Hector. (11) 218–23: The weapons of Achilles should have been awarded to Ajax as soon as the latter had rescued the body of Achilles. Ajax confesses that the cards are stacked against him in a verbal contest. This is an important point: Ajax acknowledges that the HK being a speech contest favours by definition the better speaker, not the better fighter. Yet [(12) 224–8], Achilles’ weapons are too heavy for Odysseus but just right for Ajax. As a result, the heir should be decided in a new contest of deeds, not words [(13) 229–34]. The statement is fitting to conclude a neikos speech and herald the fighting. (14) 235–6: Ajax is the cousin of Achilles and deserves the weapons. Ajax employs last the argument with which his counterpart opened his speech in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. This transposition underscores the striking structural proximity between the two Ajax speeches,34 which in terms of presupposes dishonest rhetoric and deception; see esp. Worman (1999). On the conspicuous failure of Odysseus’ deception rhetoric (dolos) in his encounter with Philoctetes as dramatized by Sophocles, see Taousiani (2011). 33  (2000) 80–1 (for Ajax) and 91–2 (for Odysseus). James and Lee offer a point-by-point comparison of the Quintian Ajax’s argumentation vis-à-vis that of his Ovidian counterpart, and prove the closeness of the two. 34  Of the fourteen points in Ajax’s speech, thirteen have counterparts in Ovid’s account, while four points are in the same sequence in both. On the contrary, only seven of the thirteen

48

Papaioannou

metapoetics transcribes Ajax’s resistance to embrace change across literary spaces and eras. Odysseus’ reply addresses one by one all of Ajax’s fourteen points from his own perspective and ultimately proves that he is a better neikos-speaker than the so-called aristos Ajax. His alternative story stresses his mētis accomplishments, repeatedly argues for the superiority of mētis and eloquence over strength, and associates bravery and heroism with the outcome, not the means, of an enterprise. Quintus stresses the Homeric identity of Odysseus when he qualifies his hero’s words with the Homeric adjective πολύτροπος, which features prominently in the introductory line of Odysseus’ reply (5.237–8): τὸν δ’ ἀλεγεινὰ παραβλήδην ἐνένιπεν/ υἱὸς Λαέρταο πολύτροπα μήδεα νωμῶν, “and the son of Laertes answered him provokingly in turn with grievous words, plying nimbly his cunning ideas”. In this line πολύτροπος qualifies μήδεα, a cognate of mētis. Already in his opening line (239) Odysseus pokes fun at Ajax’s self-profiling as a man of deeds who despises eloquence, by addressing him with an adjective that implies the exact opposite: ἀμετροεπές, “unbridled in words” (5.239). Ἀμετροεπής is a term that prior to Quintus is used only twice in Homer, in two very distinct occasions, both of which are evoked here. In Il. 13.824, Hector employs the adjective to address Ajax, also in a context of neikos, shortly before the two engage in combat. In the same address, Ajax is degraded further by being called βουγάϊος, “ox-like in size”.35 The same adjective in Il. 2.212 opens the description of Thersites before the latter verbally attacks Agamemnon a few lines later (2.224). This description is proffered by the Homeric narrator and so is of uncontested authority. Thersites, the “worst of the Achaeans” (Il. 2.216 αἴσχιστος δὲ ἀνήρ), was accustomed to engage in verbal altercations against Achilles and Odysseus and had attracted their hatred (2.221–2). Thersites’ abusive speech is described as profuse yet unstructured (213–14): ὃς ἔπεα φρεσὶν ᾗσιν ἄκοσμά τε πολλά τε ᾔδη, / μάψ, ἀτὰρ οὐ κατὰ κόσμον (“the man knew words, but they were many and unstructured in his mind”), suggesting that the speech of Quintus’ Ajax just concluded should be viewed in a similar light.

points of the speech of Quintus’ Odysseus have counterparts in the Metamorphoses, and not even two of them are in the same sequence. See James and Lee (note 28 above); also Keydell (1961) 280–1, who asserted that Ajax’s speech in the Posthomerica so closely parallels Ajax’s speech in Ovid, Met. 13.1–127, in theme and argumentation, that Ovid is “extremely likely” to have been Quintus’ source. 35  A term of “mere abuse” in general, according to Hainsworth (1993) 284; Maciver (2012b) 619 translates the same adjective as “big and awkward like an ox” and takes it to describe Ajax as “an animalistic, near-immoveable object with little intellectual capacity”.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

49

By declaring that their debate is a contest of eloquence, Odysseus claims his superiority to Ajax on the latter’s own verbal turf and asserts that, when combined with intelligence and skill (mētis), eloquence confers unrivalled power (240–2). Prior to producing evidence for this from the Homeric world, Odysseus proves its application in the real world: he devotes the lengthiest part of his speech (243–52) to the importance of mētis as the driving power behind human achievements.36 καὶ γάρ τ’ ἠλίβατον πέτρην ἄρρηκτον ἐοῦσαν μήτι ὑποτμήγουσιν ἐν οὔρεσι λατόμοι ἄνδρες ῥηιδίως· μήτι δὲ μέγαν βαρυηχέα πόντον ναῦται ὑπεκπερόωσιν, ὅτ’ ἄσπετα κυμαίνηται· τέχνῃσι δ’ ἀγρόται κρατεροὺς δαμόωσι λέοντας πορδάλιάς τε σύας τε καὶ ἄλλων ἔθνεα θηρῶν· ταῦροι δ’ ὀβριμόθυμοι ὑπὸ ζεύγλῃς δαμόωνται ἀνθρώπων ἰότητι. νόῳ δέ τε πάντα τελεῖται. For men that are quarriers, by wit easily cut away in the mountains a beetling / rock that is unbreakable; by wit sailors cross the great deep-echoing sea, when it swells to an unspeakable size; by their skills hunters overcome / stout lions and leopards and boars and the species of other animals; stout-hearted / bulls are tamed to carry the yoke by the will of men. Thus everything is brought about through know-how. Tr. Maciver (2012b) 621

The generalizing tone of this hymn to wit is counterbalanced by its echoing a specific passage from the Iliad, which records Nestor’s advice to his son Antilochus, as the latter is getting ready to enter the chariot contest in the funeral games for Patroclus (Il. 23.313–18).37 ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ σὺ φίλος μῆτιν ἐμβάλλεο θυμῷ παντοίην, ἵνα μή σε παρεκπροφύγῃσιν ἄεθλα. μήτι τοι δρυτόμος μέγ’ ἀμείνων ἠὲ βίηφι· μήτι δ’ αὖτε κυβερνήτης ἐνὶ οἴνοπι πόντῳ νῆα θοὴν ἰθύνει ἐρεχθομένην ἀνέμοισι· μήτι δ’ ἡνίοχος περιγίγνεται ἡνιόχοιο. 36  Maciver (2012b) 620 calls it “a priamel to the importance of mêtis in tasks of strength and danger”. And he aptly compares it to the Sophoclean choral ode “to man” in the Antigone (332–52). 37  On the parallels between the passages see Maciver (2012b) 621; James and Lee (2000) 94.

50

Papaioannou

So use all your skill, my boy, if you do not want to see the prizes slip away. It is skill not mere strength that makes the better woodsman; skill lets the helmsman on the wine-dark wave steer a sailing ship, buffeted by the wind; and skill too sees one charioteer beat another. Tr. Kline (2009)

As seen earlier with the double echo of Thersites’ speech, the Homeric intertext may support two different interpretations for this passage. First, apart from offering a hymn to Odysseus’ wit, it places the hero beside Nestor,38 the embodiment of authority and wisdom in the Iliad. Second, Odysseus is also seen as a parallel to Antilochus: Nestor’s speech is set at the beginning of a very antagonistic race, during the course of which Antilochus follows his father’s advice and benefits from it at the expense of Menelaus. Like Nestor’s son, Odysseus’ keen implementation of dolos is part of a contest against a mightier opponent, whom he had faced already in the same funeral games (Odysseus and Ajax faced each other in the wrestling match). In those games, the king of Ithaca managed to avoid defeat through cleverness: the match ended in a draw. This eulogy to mētis, which captures the dual perspective that can be taken on Odysseus’ deeds, is an apt metaphor for the effectiveness of the persuasive skill that is inherent to wit, and by extension, for affirming a gifted poet’s artistry, which Odysseus in Quintus’ epic exhibits in supreme fashion, not unlike his Ovidian counterpart. The second half of Odysseus’ speech consists of a carefully listed series of accomplishments that stress his mētis, starting off with the recognition it receives from a third party – Diomedes, the second-best of the Achaeans (253– 5). A substitute Achilles in many respects, Diomedes chooses Odysseus as his war partner. Odysseus’ mētis is celebrated with respect to the real Achilles. Posthomerica 2.256–62 comments on how Odysseus secured Achilles’ service at Troy, by combining intelligence (devising the way to find Achilles) and persuasion (convincing him to join the Trojan enterprise). Quintus’ Odysseus, too, considers his role in procuring Achilles as catalytic for the turnout of the Trojan War and the best manifestation of how intelligence and persuasion redefine strength, which in Ajax’s rhetoric identifies with courage and physical might. The two are juxtaposed in an assertive statement (262–7), which recasts and amplifies the hymn to mētis at 243–52, while situating the recovery of Achilles at the core of the entire speech. Eloquence becomes the focus in the remainder of Odysseus speech, as the next six points (268–89) revise Ajax’s 38  Suggested also in Maciver (2012b) 622.

Reconstructions of the Hoplon krisis in Ovid and Quintus

51

accusations of cowardice – thus proving at the metaliterary level how poetic ingenuity can tell the same story anew – and secure a victory. Throughout his speech Odysseus has never contradicted the storyline of the Epic Cycle, and yet in Homer’s epic voice he has managed to offer new perspectives for considering the Trojan narrative in a fresh light. 4 Conclusions The Hoplōn krisis has offered across the centuries and literary genres many opportunities for testing the contestants’ skills in persuasive rhetoric, each time with different primary objectives. In the epic poetry of Ovid and Quintus, the rivalry between a traditional hero unwilling to undergo change, i.e. Ajax, and a hero who embodies change, i.e. Odysseus, becomes a parable for the two epicists’ respective efforts to challenge the Homeric tradition and advance the artistry and originality of their work, along with their contribution to the evolution of the epic genre. For Ovid, the contest between Ajax and Odysseus embodies his own theory of epic composition: in the wily Odysseus, the man of many turns, who redefines epic heroism, Ovid sees his own heroes, who literally change forms and reinvent epic narratives, and also himself, who alters the rules that determine epic thematics. Quintus, who aspires to write the continuation of the Iliad and prove that he knows Homer so well that he can offer a seamless narrative transition, strives to show that his Ajax and Odysseus are the very heroes of Homer, untainted from their centuries-long transformation in the numerous progymnasmata-narratives of their contest. Both advertise their epic talent not least by proving that they have mastered the art of persuasion.

part 2 Narrative, Argument and the Failure of Rhetoric

∵

chapter 4

Narrative in Forensic Oratory: Persuasion and Performance Eleni Volonaki 1

Ancient Theory of Narrative

The narrative in the oratorical context usually denotes one of the major divisions of a speech. Some scholars define the narrative as a continuous, distinct part of a speech, whereas others distinguish the continuous “narrative” from pieces of “narration” that appear in other parts of the speech.1 There is, however, a gap between ancient rhetorical theory and practice concerning the role of the narrative in a speech, and matters of structure and content. These issues involve firstly, whether a narrative is necessary or not; secondly, what the appropriate form of composition for narratives is; and thirdly, what the thematic principles of a narrative, which are meant to have a rhetorical effect upon the whole persuasive technique of a speech, are. This chapter aims to explore the areas of diversion between rhetorical theory and oratory, and, subsequently, focusing on several and different narratives from forensic speeches, to examine a wide range of techniques and strategies by which each narrative can function effectively as a rhetorical means of persuasion. To that effect, the three means of persuasion mentioned by Aristotle (Rh. 1356a1–4), “argument (logos), the character of the speaker (ēthos) and the disposition created in the hearer (τὸν ἀκροατὴν διαθεῖναί πως) by means of reason and emotion” appear to be essential to the orators’ strategies when composing their narrative in forensic speeches.2 According to Aristotle, not every speech needs a narrative. The necessary and appropriate parts of each speech are the statement of the case (prothesis), which states the subject, and the proof (pistis), which proves it (Arist. Rh. 1414a37–1414b18). Aristotle in the Rhetoric considers that a narrative belongs, in a way, to forensic oratory, whereas it is not necessary for a 1  de Brauw (2007) 193. 2  For the techniques and strategies used for persuasion in the depiction of character or arousing emotions in order to get the audience’s sympathy or their enmity towards one’s opponent, see further Chapter 1 to this volume, pp. 3–5.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_005

56

Volonaki

deliberative or epideictic speech (Arist. Rh. 1414a37; 1417b). The audience may already know the facts of a deliberative speech; thus, there is no need to present a case. Nevertheless, parts of narrative can be found in the use of examples from history offered to instigate deliberation over future actions. Furthermore, mythological and historical narratives constitute important sections of epideictic oratory.3 On the other hand, the Rhetoric to Alexander argues that every speech should have a narrative in some form: if, for example, the audience already knows the facts, it is possible to attach the narrative to the prooimion, but it is still necessary to refer to the factual case. Alternatively, the narrative may serve as a means of presenting the facts that are going to occur and, as a whole, a speech without a narrative may seem too brief and incomplete ([Rh. Al.] 1438a2–16). In practice, the narrative is often omitted in the orators, and not only in deliberative speeches. As a further possible explanation, Aristotle also argues that in a defence speech a narrative is not necessary since the prosecutor has already presented the case (Arist. Rh. 1417a). Our knowledge as far as the defence speeches are concerned, however, indicates that defendants need to give their own version of the story, a “counter-narrative”, and, in many cases, such a “counter-narrative” constitutes a detailed and extensive narrative section. The potential reasons for the omission of a narrative may vary, depending on whether a case is private or public, the crime committed and the nature of the speech, main or synēgoria. Ancient rhetoricians tend to accept that narration as a form of composition can be used in an oratorical context as a distinct, continuous section or as scattered segments in a speech or as a part of a prooimion or as a prothesis. They provide, however, little or no indication that a narrative can be a means of persuasion as well as a statement of the facts. Evidence reveals, as will be shown, that the narrative can function as a powerful vehicle for persuasion. The telling of a story, the depiction of a persona (dramatic characterization) and the acknowledgement of emotional or psychological attachment are all intended to create in the audience either a positive disposition towards the speaker or a negative disposition towards his opponents.4

3  Edwards (2004) 352. 4  For the modern theory of “group identity” or “imagined community” denoting the conscious connection with a group of people with shared civic and religious values and convictions, see Chapter 1: pp. 6–8.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

57

The Rhetoric to Alexander states that a narrative should be clear and concise. Aristotle (Rh. 1416b) writes (showing his sense of humour), “but nowadays they all ludicrously say that the narrative should be rapid. Yet, as the man said to the baker, when asked whether the dough should be kneaded hard or soft, ‘What? Can’t it be done right?’”. The orators often promise to be as brief as possible (e.g. Isoc. 21.2, Dem. 37.3, 40.5, 54.2). They also promise to tell the story from the very beginning without omitting any detail. The idea is that the speaker will tell the whole truth without deceiving the judges or concealing the facts. This does not necessarily imply that it will be a long narrative, but rather a clear depiction of the true version of the story. In any case, when the orators use a discrete narrative, it is typically introduced by a formulaic transition sentence such as “I wish to recount these matters from the beginning”, and then begins with the particle γάρ.5 Edwards’ survey of the narrative sections in speeches from all orators concludes that the start of the narrative is clearly defined by “meta-narrative narratorial interventions” and the close of the narrative is indicated by a variety of concluding remarks.6 The narrative may, in line with the theoretical discussion of Aristotle in the Rhetoric, be a single, extended passage within the speech, but even from the speeches of the earliest orators it appears that in practice a narrative might well be divided into two or more sections, which deal with different temporal stages or thematic aspects of the story. Thus, Antiphon employs both strategies, with a single narrative in the Prosecution of the Stepmother For Poisoning (1), and discrete, shorter narratives in the defence speeches, On the murder of Herodes (5) and On the choreutes (6), in line with the requirements of each case. In Antiphon 1, the prosecutor’s story constitutes a long narration of the events that concluded with the death of the father and his friend, whereas in Antiphon 6, the chorēgos offers three distinct narrative sections. In the first, he details the organization of his chorēgia and, in the other two parts, he narrates the whole story of his personal enmity between him and the prosecutors, from the initial charge to the present case.7 It may be assumed that an extended narrative would have been more suitable to a prosecution case, since the prosecutor needs to offer the whole story of the facts to prove his case against the offender. In a defence case, however, narrative segments would have been more effective because of the way they repeatedly build up the case with narrative details.

5  de Brauw (2007) 193. 6  Edwards (2004) 317–52. 7  For a detailed analysis of the three narrative sections in Antiph. 6: Edwards (2004) 318–23.

58 2

Volonaki

Narrative and the Case of Argumentation

In both strategies of narrative composition, the narrative is presented in such a way as to prove or disprove the accusation for the alleged offence. In this sense, the narrative serves as a means of persuasion; in particular, the narrative in a forensic speech not only tells the story but establishes and proves the arguments that surround the legal case and the whole story. Hence, if we take as an example Antiph. 1, the Prosecution of the Stepmother For Poisoning, the speaker is one of the dead man’s sons, who prosecutes his stepmother for plotting the murder of his father. He describes the events that had taken place several years earlier when he was still a child. The order of the events narrated does not follow a chronological order but aims at proving the charge and portraying the stepmother as a vicious murderer. The speaker starts with his father’s order from his deathbed to avenge his death (1.1). Subsequently, the speaker challenges his stepbrother to consent to the slaves giving evidence under torture – basanos – and is rejected (1.6–13). Then, the speaker presents his stepmother as having made previous attempts on his father’s life (1.9). And the story continues with a reference to Philoneos, a friend of the speaker’s father (1.14). Philoneos had a mistress whom he was going to put into a brothel (1.14). From this point onwards, the speaker actually presents the story of the murder, as follows: the stepmother persuades the mistress to go as a servant to her house at Piraeus and offer a love philtre to the father and Philoneos, who will have gone there in order to make a sacrifice. She gives a double dose to Philoneos who dies immediately, while it takes a few days for the father to die (1.15–20).8 Antiphon’s narrative makes clear two significant points: firstly, that his prosecution was prescribed by his father’s wish and he did not wish to be in conflict with his own family, but due to his brother’s rejection of the basanos, he was left with no choice; and secondly, that the mother had wished long before to commit the murder but succeeded only when she found an accomplice. The details of the events are left to the end of the narrative.9 As becomes clear, the narrative serves to “build” the personae of the pro­se­ cutor himself, on the one hand, and the stepmother, the vicious and dangerous plotter of a murder, on the other. Moreover, in the narrative it is implied that she is comparable to the most famous tragic husband-slayer, Clytemnestra (Antiph. 1.17: ἔδοξεν οὖν αὐτῇ βουλευομένῃ βέλτιον εἶναι μετὰ δεῖπνον δοῦναι, τῆς Κλυταιμνήστρας ταύτης [τῆς τούτου μητρὸς] ταῖς ὑποθήκαις ἅμα διακονοῦσαν, “finally, following the advice of this Clytemnestra – this man’s mother – she 8  On the case and the litigants: Gagarin (1997) 104–6. 9  On the narrative levels of this speech: Edwards (2004) 51–63.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

59

decided it would be better to give it after dinner”). This cunning allusion suggests that the speaker is an Orestes who avenges the unjust murder of his father, by offering the woman up to the judges of Athens, in strong opposition to his stepbrother, who is accused of defending a murderer against his father’s wish for revenge. The identification of the stepmother with Clytemnestra has a mythical but also tragic and, in effect, dramatic dimension. If the stepmother is a Clytemnestra, it is particularly important that her son, that is the speaker, should assume his proper role, to imitate Orestes and take revenge for his father’s death. As Wohl has lucidly demonstrated, the Oresteia is used here as a legal precedent.10 She argues that “the speaker uses the Aeschylean model in order to prejudge the issue of his stepmother’s intent and to pre-empt it, to rule it inadmissible”.11 Clytemnestra is the plotter and with the aid of Aegisthus, which here could be identified with the help of the pallakē, she has planned the revenge for a long time, as he is waiting for Agamemnon to return from Troy. Following the Eumenides, the speaker should be given justice whereas the stepmother should be punished. Of course, as scholars have suggested,12 the stepmother would be best identified with Deianeira, Sophocles’ heroine in Trachiniae, who in despair of losing Heracles’ love uses a love charm, which turns out to be a deadly poison, and when she realizes that she has murdered her husband, she kills herself.13 10  Wohl (2010a) 33–70; (2010b) 90–8 offer a detailed analysis of the dramatic use of Clytemnestra as well as Sophocles’ Deianeira in Antiphon’s speech, drawing parallels in plot, language, style and dramatic effect upon the same Athenian audience. The story bears resemblance to that of Clytemnestra and Orestes. The sacrifice before the dinner, just before the moment of poisoning the men, is reminiscent of the sacrifice of Agamemnon when murdered by a knife, trapped in a net. The polar antithesis between the stepmother’s son who defends her (probably on the grounds that she did not know that it was poison or even that she had nothing to do with the killing but is unjustly accused by her stepson), and the speaker who has been instructed by his father, when very young, to avenge his death, mirrors the contrast and contest between the Erinyes who defend Clytemnestra, the mother, and Apollo and Orestes who defend Agamemnon, the father. 11  Wohl (2010a) 50. 12  Wohl (2010a) 51; Gagarin (2002) 150. 13  Drawing on tragic stereotypes of the two heroines, Clytemnestra and Deianeira, Antiphon attributes to the stepmother the characteristics of a betrayed woman who seeks revenge on the one hand, and of a despaired woman in love on the other, to distract the judges’ attention from the facts of the case and the absence of relevant evidence, so as to obtain the verdict of death; for death also resulted from the scheming of the two tragic women. Antiphon, however, needs to go beyond the dramatic effect of the tragic stories and depict two real female members of Athenian society. The use of tragic figures in a forensic context may not be welcomed given that the judges are called to vote on a factual case.

60

Volonaki

The dramatic, mythical and tragic implications of the narrative enhance the portrayal of the stepmother, aiming to prejudice the judges and persuade them that she is capable of murder. In effect, therefore, the dramatic implications strengthen the plausibility of the prosecutor’s story. Thus, the narrative effectively constructs the persona of a killer, thereby adding to the persuasive force of the argumentation. 3

Narrative and Dramatic Characterization

Aristotle (Rh. 1417a) notes that the narrative should be “ethical”, and that a speaker can reveal moral character through the narrative by attracting attention to deliberate choices. Aristotle further discusses the technique of saying things that relate to one’s own virtue or the opponent’s villainy. As Carey points out, “the advantages of this technique are that the exposition of character appears uncontrived and that the hearer draws the character by inference for himself. The resultant persona is, therefore, more plausible”.14 Appeals to the Athenians’ virtues and behaviour constitute in effect arguments from pathos, encouraging the judges to show either sympathy or enmity toward the speaker. Another aspect of the use of character as a means of persuasion in the narrative is dramatic characterization. In most cases in lawcourt trials, litigants used to buy speeches from logographers and perform them as if they were speaking spontaneously in their own words. The Athenians disapproved of ­professionalism, and would be more sympathetic to litigants who appeared convincing in their own manner and personality. In the opinion of Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Lysias 18), Lysias was “unquestionably the best” of the orators at writing narrative; his skill lies in the way in which he characterizes his clients in order to persuade and win their case in court. A dominant feature of many of his works is an extensive diēgēsis, which is usually intermingled with pisteis and is used to create a portrait that is meant to support the speaker’s factual case. Thus, for example, the narrative plays a key role in the portrayal of Euphiletus’ character, in speech 1 (On the killing of Eratosthenes), as the speaker tells a simple story of deception and discovery.15 The appeal, however, to tragic stereotypes influences the judges to feel sympathy for the son by blurring the dividing line between reality and fiction. Moreover, this stepmother typically treats her stepson badly, as one would expect of her and thus appears capable of plotting, scheming and conspiring against her husband. 14  Carey (1994) 39. 15  For a detailed analysis of the role of Euphiletus as an internal narrator: Edwards (2004) 334–6.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

61

Euphiletus is accused of homicide and his defence is that the killing was lawful since he caught Eratosthenes in the act of adultery with his wife. The relatives of the dead man are alleging that Eratosthenes was the victim of a plot. The characterization is central to the defence case, for the personality that emerges is such a naïve individual that he would be incapable of the cunning attributed to him.16 Lysias’ narrative artistry is revealed by a unique simplicity in the telling of the story, but also by the portrayal of the husband, as well as the female roles.17 Euphiletus is portrayed as a solid Athenian citizen abiding the law of the city, an unsophisticated man and incapable of plotting, a caring husband, a naïve person but firm when he needs to be. Thus, characterization and narrative are linked in many ways in order to represent the killing of Eratosthenes as a normal reaction to his adultery.18 A noticeable feature of the narrative as a whole is tense variation. Dramatic vividness is added to Euphiletus’ account by the use of the historic present at certain key points, as for example the birth of the child (1.8), the corruption of his wife (1.8), the deception perpetrated by the wife when she closes the bedroom (1.13), and the approach to Euphiletus of the old servant woman (1.15). As Todd points out, the narrative of this speech is characterized by an almost complete absence of rhetorical figures but by the presence of considerable repetition, both elements that help to sustain the impression of Euphiletus’ naivety.19 Euphiletus killed Eratosthenes, the lover of his wife, because of his adultery (moicheia), after he had caught him in the act; his persona is perfectly constructed upon the characteristics of naivety, self-restraint, prudence, devotion and trust. Euphiletus is a comic but simultaneously tragic figure, since the audience knows the story well in advance, while he narrates it step by step from the very beginning to the moment of discovering the truth and revealing, together with a few friends, the crime of adultery. The creation of Euphiletus’ dramatic character is very successful, but it is also so fictitious that the whole narrative resembles an imaginative story taken from a novel rather than from a speech delivered in court. Such an impression may depend on the way it is presented and on its distinct dramatic elements, such as dialogue. A persuasive device adding to the dramatization in the performance of the speaker’s story is the use of direct speech, in the form of an assumed, fictitious dramatic dialogue between Euphiletus, and other 16  Carey (1994) 41. 17  On the narrative art of the speech: Carey (1989) 66–77; Edwards (1999) 58–67. 18  Todd (2007) 50. 19  Todd (2007) 52.

62

Volonaki

persons who could not obviously have been present at court, the old servant who informed Euphiletus about Eratosthenes, the servant who used to go to the market place and Eratosthenes himself at the scene of the murder. In this way, a new performance of what supposedly took place in private is presented now in public, in the court. A good example of the use of direct speech is the presentation of the evidence from the old servant woman, who supposedly revealed to Euphiletus the truth about his wife’s relationship with Eratosthenes. The dramatic tone in the climax of the story, when the servant, who knows everything and can give more details, responds to Euphiletus’ pressing questions on the identity of the seducer, is impressive in portraying Euphiletus as a tragic figure, a victim of deception and manipulation (1.15–16): [15] μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα, ὦ ἄνδρες, χρόνου μεταξὺ διαγενομένου καὶ ἐμοῦ πολὺ ἀπολελειμμένου τῶν ἐμαυτοῦ κακῶν, προσέρχεταί μοί τις πρεσβῦτις ἄνθρωπος, ὑπὸ γυναικὸς ὑποπεμφθεῖσα ἣν ἐκεῖνος ἐμοίχευεν, ὡς ἐγὼ ὕστερον ἤκουον: αὕτη δὲ ὀργιζομένη καὶ ἀδικεῖσθαι νομίζουσα, ὅτι οὐκέτι ὁμοίως ἐφοίτα παρ᾽ αὐτήν, ἐφύλαττεν ἕως ἐξηῦρεν ὅ τι εἴη τὸ αἴτιον. προσελθοῦσα οὖν μοι ἐγγὺς ἡ ἄνθρωπος τῆς οἰκίας τῆς ἐμῆς ἐπιτηροῦσα, ‘εὐφίλητε’ ἔφη ‘μηδεμιᾷ πολυπραγμοσύνῃ προσεληλυθέναι με νόμιζε πρὸς σέ: [16] ὁ γὰρ ἀνὴρ ὁ ὑβρίζων εἰς σὲ καὶ τὴν σὴν γυναῖκα ἐχθρὸς ὢν ἡμῖν τυγχάνει. ἐὰν οὖν λάβῃς τὴν θεράπαιναν τὴν εἰς ἀγορὰν βαδίζουσαν καὶ διακονοῦσαν ὑμῖν καὶ βασανίσῃς, ἅπαντα πεύσῃ. ἔστι δ᾽’ ἔφη ‘Ἐρατοσθένης Ὀῆθεν ὁ ταῦτα πράττων, ὃς οὐ μόνον τὴν σὴν γυναῖκα διέφθαρκεν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἄλλας πολλάς: ταύτην γὰρ τὴν τέχνην ἔχει’. [15] After this, gentlemen, there was an interval of some time, during which I remained completely unaware of my misfortunes. But then an old woman came up to me. She had been secretly sent, or so I later discovered, by a lady whom this fellow had seduced. This woman was angry and felt cheated, because he no longer visited her as before, so she watched until she found out why. [16] The old woman kept an eye out and approached me near my house. “Euphiletus”, she said, “please do not think that I am being a busybody by making contact with you. The man who is humiliating you and your wife is an enemy of ours as well. Get hold of your slave girl, the one who does the shopping and waits on you, and torture her: you will discover everything. It is,” she continued, “Eratosthenes of the deme Oe who is doing this. He has seduced not only your wife but many others as well. He makes a hobby of it”. Tr. Todd (2000)

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

63

The old servant addressing Euphiletus here uses direct speech; the female’s voice sounds serious and decisive in announcing that Eratosthenes is the guilty person whereas Euphiletus is obviously the victim. The old servant’s tone, as used by Euphiletus himself here, is purposely directed to arouse the sympathy of the judges toward the husband and thus persuade them to believe the alleged story of his discovery of the adultery committed by Eratosthenes. Furthermore, direct speech adds to the plausibility of the adultery story while presenting Euphiletus as completely unaware of what was going on in his own house, as clearly reflected in the phrase later used by him: ταῦτά μου πάντα εἰς τὴν γνώμην εἰσῄει, καὶ μεστὸς ἦ ὑποψίας (1.17: “all these thoughts flashed into my mind, and I was full of suspicion”). Another case of a private scene presented in court is Euphiletus’ interrogation of his own slave girl, who used to go to the market place and was allegedly relaying the messages from Eratosthenes to Euphiletus’ wife (Lys. 1.8). Here again the whole conversation is presented by Euphiletus, while the female servant’s voice is used to dramatize Euphiletus’ deception and in effect is taken to constitute evidence, though not actually substantiated and established by torture (1.18), as was normally the case when a slave’s testimony was used in a trial. Furthermore, direct speech is also used for the scene of adultery, when Eratosthenes is caught in the act and avows his guilt in front of witnesses, and Euphiletus is taking revenge by enforcing the city’s law and killing him (1.25–6). Here, Euphiletus’ direct justification for the murder portrays him as the law-abiding citizen, while Eratosthenes is cast as a criminal who disobeys the laws for his own pleasure. The dramatic element is enhanced in the description of the murder scene, where Euphiletus stands over Eratosthenes before executing him, announcing all the formality of a judge reading a sentence, “it is not I who shall kill you, but our city’s laws” (‘οὐκ ἐγώ σε ἀποκτενῶ, ἀλλ᾽ ὁ τῆς πόλεως νόμος’). Thus, the speaker influences the judges to accept his action of killing as an act of Athenian justice. In the lawcourts, female speeches were often delivered in direct speech to great effect by men, who thus took on female roles on the forensic stage. Women could not normally be called in as witnesses. The best example of such a case is in Lysias’ speech Against Diogeiton (32.11–13), where the speaker cites the powerful speech of Diodotus’ widow on behalf of her children. It starts in a dramatic tone, underlining the lamentation that took place in the speaker’s house so as to highlight the widow’s supplication and plea. The widow’s speech effectively turns the judges into recipients of her supplication, even though there are reasons for doubting that she ever did give a speech of exactly this kind. In this narrative, too, Lysias creates characteristic vividness

64

Volonaki

by the use of direct speech (32.9, 12–13, 15–17). The speaker does not emerge as a lively personality but Lysias keeps his narrative consistent with the restrained persona introduced in the proem. Lysias prepares the way for the emotional effect through the medium of the mother’s intense denunciation of the treatment of the orphans (32.15–17). The speeches which Lysias ascribes to the mother are so effective that he creates the illusion that she is actually speaking in court. Moreover, the plausibility of her words here is such that Lysias also creates the impression that something like her speech had really been said.20 Thus, the persona of the mother emerges powerfully, even though no detail is given about her character or personality. The point that needs to be emphasized in the narrative for the purposes of the case is that this woman was a good mother, consistently interested in her children, a modest and decent woman who is about to gain the judges’ sympathy. Hence, Lysias uses the narrative to create various characters by combining characterization and the narration of the story as proof. Another case indicative of Lysias’ narrative art in combining elements of ēthos and pisteis is speech 3, Against Simon, a defence speech against a charge of intentional wounding. We are presented at the outset with an elderly man highly embarrassed to find himself in court since the case arose from a dispute between two rivals for the sexual favours of a young man, an individual who is incapable of behaving in the aggressive manner alleged.21 Here, again, Lysias achieves plausibility by the vividness and internal consistency of the narrative. As Carey points out, “the vividness results from the relaxing swiftness of the narrative, together with the effective use of detail (3.8, 12, 16), and the internal consistency results from the repeated acts of malicious violence by Simon and the repeated attempts of the speaker to avoid trouble”.22 The detailed account of the enmity between the two persons adds to the characterization of the litigants as two opposing types of personality – the opponent an aggressive man and the speaker a patient and wise person – as well as to the plausibility of the speaker’s case. In the case against Agoratus (13), the narrative constructs, through a detailed narration of a series of events before the negotiations for peace between Athens and Sparta in 405 until the establishment of the Thirty (404), the persona of an unscrupulous man of slave origin who was used by the oligarchs to eliminate Athenian democrats in exchange for bribes and other benefits. The prosecution’s case of homicide is solely based upon the characterization of a 20  On the narrative art in this speech: Carey (1989) 210–12. 21  Carey (1994) 41. 22  Carey (1989) 95ff.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

65

traitor, an enemy of democracy, a slave from a criminal background, as emerges in the narrative section. Agoratus was involved as mēnutēs, an informer, against them and was summoned to give information before the Boulē and the Assembly. The prosecution needs to convince the judges that Agoratus deliberately denounced the victims in order to establish the charge of responsibility for murder. The claim that Agoratus was part of the oligarchic conspiracy against the democrats is stressed throughout the speech. According to the speaker’s description of the oligarchic plot Agoratus’ denunciation was organized to seem involuntary (13.19ff.). For this purpose, the Boulē made decrees for Agoratus’ arrest on the basis of an allegation from a man named Theocritus that there were people acting against the constitution. The presentation of the decrees made for Agoratus’ arrest adds plausibility to the speaker’s case. In order to convince the judges of the existence of the plot, Lysias attacks the Boulē before the Thirty for its oligarchic conspiracy against the democracy. The whole idea of conspira­ cy and plotting is rhetorically elaborated throughout the narrative sections in order to underline the timescale of the oligarchic criminality and illegality. It all started with the Boulē’s initiative to bring cases of eisangelia against citizens who clearly objected the oligarchic plans. Agoratus was used, according to the speaker’s case, for this purpose. In order to support the argument that Agoratus willingly became a tool of the oligarchs, the speaker repeatedly points out that he had rejected the chance he was given by his sureties to rescue his life and avoid giving any names (13.25–38, 52–54). The narrative section in the speech Against Agoratus ends with the presentation of all the misfortunes which befell the city during the oligarchy of the Thirty. Emotional appeal is central to narrative and is elaborated through auxēsis or deinōsis. Lysias maintains the fiction of a politically undifferentiated audience in order to engage their support. He manipulates the enmity against the Thirty and emphasizes their injuries to the city, with the effect that he arouses hostility against Agoratus, a man of servile origin who preferred to betray the democratic constitution in exchange for benefits and power rather than leave the city of Athens and spare the democrats from being tried and convicted to death by the Thirty. The same technique of including characterization in the narrative is to be found in the narrative of Demosthenes’ Against Conon (54), who is accused of an assault that took place in the Agora. Conon, the speaker’s opponent, apparen­ tly planned to argue that the fight in question was nothing but youthful struggle, that the speaker provoked it, and that his decision to bring the matter in court was unmanly and litigious. The account of the background to the reported behaviour of Conon’s son (54.3–5) anticipates and indirectly refutes each of these claims. In a lengthy narrative that presents the alleged events (3–12),

66

Volonaki

Ariston, the speaker, is characterized as a shy and reserved man, in contrast to the drunken and violent Conon, his sons and their friends. Demosthenes shows that the character indicated through narrative and the facts the narrative reports can in effect corroborate one another.23 The account of the “factual” details forms the basis of the speaker’s case and the narrative consists of two parts, the prehistory of the alleged attack (54.3–6) and the attack itself and its consequences (54.7–12). The account of the events in Panactum (54.3–6) not only elicits prejudice against Conon by offering a portrayal of a violent and aggressive persona, but also engenders the desired emotion in the judges and offers the blueprint for his behaviour pattern, thus adding plausibility to the subsequent account of the attack in the agora.24 On balance, characterization with dramatic and emotional elements is often built into the narration of the story in forensic speeches, in order to add credibility to the argumentation, and strengthen the arguments that are to follow in the proof section, which constitute the foundation for all subsequent arguments. As a result, dramatic characterization enhances the persuasive value of the narrative section while it emphasizes arguments from pathos, generating emotional reactions in the judges. 4

Narrative and pathos

As well as ēthos, pathos is also present in narrative sections through a variety of stylistic modes and rhetorical strategies, such as emotive vocabulary, use of direct speech, interaction with the judges, use of rhetorical questions, emotional appeals and personal attacks. A few examples from narratives that follow the practice of breaking up the story into two or more sections will outline the impact of pathos on the texture of a narrative. Andocides in his speech On the mysteries is faced with a complex set of circumstances spanning fifteen years, and his defence is adapted to the needs of the situation. It is divided into several parts thematically rather than chronologically, with narrative details provided at regular intervals. One section, for example, tells the emotive story of what happened to Andocides after his arrest (1.48–53): “we were all thrown into one prison. Darkness fell, and the gates were shut. Mothers, sisters, wives, and children had gathered. Nothing was to be heard save the cries and moans of grief-stricken wretches bewailing the calamity which had overtaken them”. He first quotes his cousin Charmides’ appeal to him for help in direct speech, and then presents his own thoughts as he wrestled with his conscience, 23  de Brauw (2007) 194–5. 24  Carey and Reid (1985) 77–8.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

67

whether or not to reveal what he knows, first in direct and then in indirect speech. These musings incorporate the contrasting evaluations ἀδίκως (wrongfully) and δικαίως (rightfully).25 A typical tragic scene used in forensic narratives that involves the incrimination of the opponent or the elevation of the victim to hero status is the prison scene, where the victim gives directions to his relatives before his death (episkēpsis). In Andocides’ speech for his own defence against the accusation for impiety (asebeia) in relation to the Eleusinian mysteries and the mutilation of the Herms, there is a vivid description of his imprisonment where a moving discussion takes place between himself and his cousin Charmides on the issue of submitting the requested information in order to save his family (And. 1.48–51). Andocides describes the episkēpsis made by the victims of the informer, Diokleides, in prison, where mothers, sisters and wives went to visit them. This narration presents the events just before Andocides’ denunciation and aims to justify his action. Andocides explicitly displays the emotions of female rela­tives mourning for the victims: “there were cries and moans from the men as they wept and carried on about the trouble they were in” (ἦν δὲ βοὴ καὶ οἶκτος κλαόντων καὶ ὀδυρομένων τὰ παρόντα κακά). Moreover, the dramatic dialogue between Charmides and Andocides, where the former tries to persuade Andocides to make the denunciation in order to save those who have supported him, appeals to their emotions under the threat of death, especially after the murder of Andocides’ friends. Finally, the dramatic tone reaches its peak with a series of rhetorical questions, which set out Andocides’ own misfortune and show how desperately he is trying not to let three hundred Athenians perish unjustly. Episkēpsis – the process during which the victim gives last-minute instructions to relatives and friends on family matters and asks them to take revenge on his murderer – is important for homicide cases because it can provide evidence of the murderer’s identity. It, furthermore, arouses the audience’s sympathy for the victim, and to that effect dramatic elements are normally used.26 Thus, the instructions given by the father to his young son for revenge in Antiphon’s Against the Stepmother for Poisoning (1.29–30) constitute an effective argument to arouse pathos. Similarly, in Lysias 13, Against Agoratus 25  For an analysis of the structure of narrative in Andocides 1: Edwards (2004) 325–31. 26  The episkēpsis scene constitutes a typical dramatic scene and presents a combination of vivid dramatic and rhetorical elements enhancing a fictitious version of the story. It reflects similar scenes from tragedy, when the tragic hero is about to die and gives their final advice and instructions, as for example in Sophocles’ Oedipus in Colonus (1518–55), when Oedipus refers to his homeland and relatives, and in Euripides’ Alcestis (280–325), when Alcestis instructs Admetus not to bring another woman to be a mother to her children.

68

Volonaki

(39–42), the prosecutor narrates the scene in prison before the execution of his relative, where the victim had revealed the identity of the accused and given instructions to his own family. Lysias’ description is more restrained than Andocides’ and emotions here are indirectly presented, stimulating the audience’s imagination. The style is vivid because of repetition and the changes from historic present to imperfect. The transition from a general to a specific point adds tension and is dramatically effective. At first, the speaker hints at the mourning of the relatives of all victims, who are coming into prison: “they did this so as to greet their families for a final time before dying” (ἵνα τὰ ὕστατα ἀσπασάμενοι τοὺς αὑτῶν). He proceeds with the arrival of the Dionysodorus’ wife, “dressed in a black cloak” (μέλαν τε ἱμάτιον ἠμφιεσμένη), who as the next of kin takes instructions about Dionysodorus’ will. In consequence, Dionysodorus asks his brother, brother-in-law and friends to take revenge on the murderer, Agoratus. Finally, the scene reaches its tragic climax when Dionysodorus refers to his unborn son, ordering him to take revenge against Agoratus, the man accused of murder. Pathos is also created by the use of mythical parallels, which can introduce an element of ridicule to the characterization and thus give added force to the argumentation. An instance of such a use of a mythical dramatic parallel is to be found in Andocides’ speech, On the mysteries (1.129), where Andocides describes Callias’ allegedly lively private life. Callias is supposed to have been married to a mother and her daughter simultaneously, and even to have fancied the grandmother to begin with: οἶμαι γὰρ ἔγωγε οὐδένα οὕτως ἀγαθὸν εἶναι λογίζεσθαι, ὅστις ἐξευρήσει τοὔνομα αὐτοῦ. τριῶν γὰρ οὐσῶν γυναικῶν αἷς συνῳκηκὼς ἔσται ὁ πατὴρ αὐτοῦ, τῆς μὲν υἱός ἐστιν, ὥς φησι, τῆς δὲ ἀδελφός, τῆς δὲ θεῖος. τίς ἂν εἴη οὗτος; Οἰδίπους, ἢ Αἴγισθος; ἢ τί χρὴ αὐτὸν ὀνομάσαι; I should not think anyone is good enough at calculating to work out what to call him. There are three women with whom his father will have lived, and he is the son of one (so he says), the brother of another, and the uncle of the third. Who can he be? Oedipus? Aegisthus? Or what name should we give him? Tr. MacDowell in Gagarin and MacDowell (1998)

So, asks Andocides, “who can he be? Oedipus? Aegisthus?” In this case, the mythological example is used to create a comic effect and ridicule Callias, in order to provoke the audience’s contempt. Myth and tragic prototypes are

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

69

drawn upon by forensic orators to arouse pathos, to add a dramatic and emotional tone and persuade the court in favour of the speaker’s case. Dramatic parallels enhance the orator’s authoritative voice and aim to manipulate the judges’ ideals in order to construct a convincing and appealing case. As Hall remarks, “the mythical parallels are left engraved upon the jury’s imagination, suggesting that Callias has transgressed the most basic socio-sexual tabus”.27 5

Narrative and Proof Sections (pisteis)

Another aspect to the narrative composition is the alternation of narrative and proof sections. This pattern can work effectively in the complex narratives consisting of two or more sections. An example of this approach can be seen in Demosthenes 29, Against Aphobus III, a supporting speech in a dikē pseudomarturiōn, for Phanus, a witness who had given testimony concerning Milyas, the foreman of a workshop of slaves manufacturing knives which formed part of Demosthenes’ estate. This supporting speech asserting that Phanus did not give false testimony would have followed Aphobus’ speech of accusation and Phanus’ own speech in defence, and consequently Demosthenes probably does not find it necessary to explain all the facts, since these would already have been reported by the previous speakers.28 The circumstances of the case may have directed Demosthenes to adopt the specific technique of alternating narrative accounts and proof sections in order to persuade the judges of Phanus’ innocence. On other occasions there is no clear distinction between the sections of narrative and proof in terms of introductory or concluding formulaic expressions of the respective parts (e.g. Dem. 36 and 38), but it is usual to repeat narrative accounts when proceeding with arguments from probability. Demosthenes tends to insert several sections of narrative in his longer speeches in order to avoid monotony, as for example in the speech On the Crown, where he divides the narrative of his own career into three major stages (18.17–52, 53–109, 160–226) and adds in a narrative of Aeschines’ treachery in connection with the war against Amphissa (139–159). Typical of Demosthenic narrative are two features that add vividness and plausibility to his cases, the extensive use of rhetorical questions and the personal attacks his narrators or he himself make on their opponents. The best example of a personal attack is the one saved for Aeschines in the Crown speech (18.129): “I am at no loss for 27  Hall (2006) 386. 28  MacDowell (2004) 48–50.

70

Volonaki

information about you and your family; but I am at a loss where to begin. Shall I relate how your father Tromes was a slave in the house of Elpias, who kept an elementary school near the Temple of Theseus, and how he wore shackles on his legs and a timber collar round his neck? Or how your mother practised daylight nuptials in an outhouse next door to Heros the bone-setter, and so brought you up to act in tableaux vivant and to excel in minor parts on the stage? However, everybody knows that without being told by me”. Apart from rhetorical questions, we often find in forensic speeches regular interactions between the speakers and the judges, in the form of reference to their own knowledge of the persons and places involved in a case. Interactions of this sort are emotional appeals which aim to influence decision-making, but also constitute a screen for lack of solid evidence or an attempt by the speaker to make himself seem a trustworthy character who shares their conception of proper behaviour. A final example of a narrative, which incorporates in the story arguments from pisteis and ēthos, aiming to arouse hostile emotions in the audiences, is the diēgēsis sections in [Demosthenes] 47, Against Evergus and Mnesibulus. The diēgēsis in this speech consists of two sections.29 The first section (18–48) deals with the dispute between the speaker and Theophemus from the beginning until the latter’s trial for assault against the speaker. It details numerous attempts on the part of the speaker to recover naval equipment from the ex-trierarch Theophemus, in accordance with a series of decrees and laws of the city. The second narrative section (49–73) covers all the events following the conviction of the speaker at the dikē aikeias until the present trial for false testimony. Both narrative sections contribute to the composition of ēthos argumentation and dramatic characterization, as already stated in the proem: νῦν δὲ πλείων μοι λόγος ἔσται ἐξελέγχοντι τὸν τρόπον αὐτῶν ἢ τὴν μαρτυρίαν ψευδῆ οὖσαν (“and now the largest part of my speech will be devoted to examining their character rather than determining whether the testimony is false”). Sections 47–48 constitute a transitional section between the two narratives, where the speaker asks for double punishment, the one for the false testimony and the second for the injustice perpetrated against him, a good and law-abiding citizen. The narrative of the speech Against Evergus and Mnesibulus consists of two sections. The first narrative section involves the events before the original trial of dikē aikeias, offering a detailed account of the dispute, the testimonies, and the negotiations between the two litigants. The second narrative section involves various facts that had occurred after the conviction of the speaker at 29  For the use of two narratives in forensic oratory: Edwards (2004) 318.

Narrative in Forensic Oratory

71

the original trial until the present case of dikē pseudomarturiōn, such as the seizure of the speaker’s property, the violent behaviour of the defendants, the murder of an old nurse who lived in the speaker’s house. In both narrative sections the evidence may seem circumstantial, but numerous witnesses are presented at various places in the narrative so that it appears persuasive. In this way, narrative and proofs are interconnected and interwoven in the narrative section. The extensive description of the sufferings of the speaker while he was attempting to recover the naval equipment from Theophemus and the injustice committed against his family and property by his opponents (to the extent that all the property left in his house was seized, his wife and children were violently treated by the defendants, and his nurse was almost killed and died a short time afterwards), is used to add vividness and dramatic characterization to the story. Moreover, it builds up the ēthos and violent personality of Theophemus and his relatives, who are the defendants at the trial for false testimony, namely his brother Evergus and his brother-in-law Mnesibulus. In terms of pathos, the detailed account of violence and brutality that ended with the death of the speaker’s nurse, an old freedwoman who used to live in his house, is manipulatively used to appeal for the judges’ sympathy towards the speaker while arousing their hostility against the false witnesses. Characterization is central to the long narrative sections of the speech and all the events and legal details narrated are geared towards the negative portrayal of the opponents, in order to arouse the anger of the judges. The speaker is depicted as a loyal citizen who would repeatedly offer his services to the city, and a reserved family man in private life who cared for his wife, children, nurse and the slaves of his oikos. On the other hand, Theophemus and (mostly) his brother Evergus, who is probably the defendant in the trial for false testimony for which the speech was composed, are presented as men who did not comply with the decrees and laws of the city. They behaved violently and with rage against members of the speaker’s family while he himself was away from his house offering his services to the city. All the details included in the two narratives are calculated to successfully depict the character of the speaker’s opponents as immoral and reprehensible, in direct contrast to the speaker’s own goodness and law-abiding behaviour. 6 Conclusions In the context of narrative composition, we can find a mixture of short and longer narrative sections intermingled with argument, as for example in Aeschines 1, where the speaker tells how Timarchos lived in turn at the

72

Volonaki

houses of various partners. Even in extended narrative forms, it is usual to have comments by the speakers on the events narrated or insinuations as to the motivations and guilt of their opponent, appealing for immediate action or punishment. In conclusion, the ancient theoretical approach to narrative composition, limited to the conventional form of a distinct part of speeches, does not cover the whole range of variations both in form and theme. Aristotle may allude to the importance of dramatization but he does not mention its persuasive value. From the brief presentation of narratives in well-known forensic speeches, it has emerged that in practice there is flexibility in the form, proportion, interac­ tion, order, pattern and blend of various elements in narrative composition in forensic oratory. This flexibility depends upon the specific circumstances of each case as well as the type of each speech, i.e. prosecution or defence/ main or synēgoria. Moreover, as to the necessity of using a narrative in a forensic speech, it appears that not only was telling a story crucial to the presentation of a case, but narrative itself was also proof, upon which the rest of the arguments could be founded. As has been demonstrated from a variety of aspects of its use in forensic speeches, narrative incorporates much diversity of structure, form and thematic motifs. A narrative can vary in form, in the interchange of different sections within a speech, and can contain elements of dramatic characterization, argumentative proofs, pathos to arouse the emotions of the judges, or a depiction of a person or a series of events which adds plausibility to the litigant’s case and enhances the persuasive force of the argumentation. It is clear that narrative cannot be fitted into a single category, but rather incorporates many diverse elements used at different moments and in different combinations in order to construct the most persuasive case in court. As a means of persuasion, narrative in forensic oratory is used to enhance ēthos argumentation, i.e. the character and personality of the opponents; pathos argumentation, i.e. emotional appeals and dramatic elements that increase sympathy towards the accused or the prosecutor; and finally the pisteis, i.e. arguments that constitute the basis for the proof section and the speaker’s case.

chapter 5

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech: Teutiaplus’ Speech and the Limits of Persuasion in Thucydides’ Mytilenaean Narrative Antonis Tsakmakis In a paper devoted to the so-called Mytilene Debate (the public speeches by Cleon and Diodotus in Athens on the treatment of the defeated islanders, 3.38–48), Thomas Schmitz has convincingly argued that “[t]he topic of ‘perceiving’ and ‘understanding’, of failed or successful communication, is a leitmotif of Book 3 of the History”.1 A frequent form of failed communication is the rejection of suggestions made in a speech, which is reported in direct discourse. The failure to persuade is particularly accented in the case of speeches that do not belong to an antilogy, i.e. they are not paired, directly or indirectly, with another speech, which expresses an opposite opinion. Such a speech is found in the section about the revolt of Mytilene, namely the short speech of the Eleian general Teutiaplus (otherwise unknown) to the Spartan admiral Alcidas and other commanders of the Peloponnesian fleet, which had sailed with the aim to assist the island but could not prevent its surrender (3.30). Exceptional is also the fact that this speech, unlike all other set speeches in indirect speech in Thucydides, is primarily addressed to an individual, not to a collective audience.2 Earlier scholarship on Thucydides’ rhetorical parts mainly has focused on speakers, as they are represented through their speeches, or on the speeches themselves (especially on matters of style and argumentation, as well as on the question of authenticity). However, the audiences’ disposition and receptiveness are no less important for an appropriate understanding of Thucydides’

1  Schmitz (2010) 58. 2  Although the setting seems to be a council, it becomes progressively evident that the power of decision rests with Alcidas. There is only one unpaired deliberative speech in Thucydides which fails, the speech of the Spartans in Athens, 4.17–20, but in this case the reasons for the Athenians’ negative response are reported by the historian in the ensuing chapters 21–22. The speech of Nicias in 6.20–23 is not formally coupled with another speech, but it is the speaker’s second statement in a debate.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_006

74

Tsakmakis

text.3 Thus, whereas narrative is mostly treated as the background against which a speech can be framed and interpreted, in the case of failed communication the reverse perspective is equally promising: speeches may also be treated as a prerequisite for a comprehensive evaluation of the recipients’ decisions and actions. In case of ineffective speeches, an additional issue is raised: what were the consequences of ignoring them? A speech is expected to influence the recipients’ beliefs and arouse emotions. Rhetorical theory and practice developed various techniques to maximize the effectiveness of speeches. Inversely, the failure of a speech can signal the existence of opposite forces (the recipients’ character, attitudes, beliefs, interests, or external influences), which proved stronger than the instruments of persuasion. In the case of the speech under examination, Thucydides is silent about the causes of its failure. Therefore, the reader is referred to the entire narrative about Mytilene, in order to figure out why it was neglected – and with what consequences.4 Accordingly, in this chapter our task will be twofold: to study the rhetorical strategies and devices employed by the speaker and to decode the cues provided by the narrative about the factors that inhibited persuasion. This approach will enhance our knowledge and understanding of one of the most neglected speeches in Thucydides’ Histories by offering a fresh look at the interplay between narrative and speeches that has hitherto been widely discussed in classical scholarship. As the reason for the inclusion of the speech is far from obvious and its impact on the events is negligible, an analysis that seeks to advance the view that the speech is an organic and indispensable part of the narrative is important. At the same time, the examination of Teutiaplus’ speech within its historical setting draws attention to one of the most underdeveloped areas in the study of classical rhetoric, namely the mechanics of audience response. The speech may be less interesting for the historian of rhetoric for its own sake, as it is not authentic, but it nonetheless provides insights into ancient perceptions of the psychology of audiences. Surviving speeches certainly take the identity and the characteristics of their recipients into account. Τhey do not, nevertheless, come with any kind of information about the effects they had on their original audience. The speech of Teutiaplus, on the contrary, is part of a narrative, which includes abundant information about its exact Sitz im Leben. Thus, we 3  The most comprehensive study of Thucydidean audiences (focusing on Sparta) is Debnar (2001). 4  Other parts of the work can also provide supporting evidence; cf. Lateiner (1975), who points out similarities to 2.93–94.

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

75

have the opportunity to study what happens after the speech, and integrate our findings into a comprehensive appraisal of the communication event as a complex phenomenon of social interaction, embedded in the wider historical context. The revolt of almost all the cities on the island of Lesbos (Mytilene, Eressos, Antissa and Pyrrha; only Mythemna remained loyal to Athens) is deservedly narrated at length (it dominates in the first section of Book 3, chapters 1–50) because Mytilene was one of Athens’ strongest allies, with navy of its own.5 The result of its attempt to change sides could even have decided the war. For Sparta, the revolt was a major opportunity to materialize exactly those aims which had prompted the change of its traditional, isolationist policy and compelled it to start the war against Athens. Significantly, the Mytilene affair is variously linked to the pre-war deliberation. First, it is repeatedly asserted in the opening of Book 3 that a revolt had been considered even before the war, but then the Spartans had been reluctant to encourage it (3.2.1; 3.13.1). Thus, the reader interprets Sparta’s support of the revolt in terms of an opposition to her earlier policy and associates it with the change that manifested itself in the decision for war.6 Second, the Mytilenaeans, in their speech to the Spartans (3.9–14) explicitly related their situation to the developments that had led to the war, namely the transformation of the Delian League into a hegemony, a topic that is directly related to the discussion about the causes of the war.7 Third, the Spartans let the Mytilenaeans present their case in a meeting of their allies, a setting which is similar to the congress of the Peloponnesian League which preceded the Spartan decision for the war in Book 1 (3.8.1; cf. 1.67; 1.87.4). Fourth, the historian lets the unnamed Mytilenaean speakers use the terms προφάσεις καὶ αἰτίας (3.13.1: “grounds and reasons”) which coincide with the terminology applied by Thucydides himself to the causes of the war (1.23.5–6). Finally, the motif of fear of the Athenians links the present instance to the pre-war deliberations in a very significant way. In particular, the Mytilenaeans’ worries about the future in Book 3 resemble mutatis mutandis

5  This is pointed out in the present context: 3.3.1 (unlike other allies: 3.10.5; cf. 1.99.3). 6  Cogan (1981) 47 points to the breakthrough in Spartan policy, as they now sent their vessels to the Eastern Aegean. In my view, this is but a natural consequence of the decision to take on this war. It was prefigured in Archidamus’ estimations about the need to engage in naval operations in case of war (1.80.4; 1.81.4). 7  3.10.2–11.4; cf. the speech of the Athenians in Sparta (1.75) and the Pentekontaetia (esp. 1.89.1; 1.96ff.).

76

Tsakmakis

those of the Spartans in Book 1,8 the “truest cause” (ἀληθεστάτη πρόφασις) of the war (1.23.6, reconfirmed in 1.88).9 In both cases, fear prompts a decision for energetic involvement in a military confrontation to prevent adversities to come, a strategy that is in sharp contrast with Spartan conduct hitherto.10 It follows that, according to Thucydides, Sparta’s decision to make an alliance with the Mytilenaeans and support their revolt is in absolute consonance with its newly redefined strategic aims to stop the growth of Athenian power, to reduce Athenian dominance in the Aegean and to secure the interests of Sparta’s own allies against Athenian antagonism. It is against this background that Alcidas’ mission and his response to the speech of Teutiaplus have to be examined.11

8  The Mytilenaeans admit in their speech that it is their fear that leads them to revolt (3.10.4; 12.1; 13.1; cf. also 3.11.2; 11.6; this fear is rooted in the awareness that they are inferior in power to the Athenians, who are their allies only formally. Similarly, Diodotus in his speech discusses at length the preventive function of the fear of punishment (3.45) and, in the conclusion of the speech, he qualifies his proposal as τοῖς ἐναντίοις φοβερά (3.48.2: “terrible to the enemies”). Inversely, Cleon blames the Athenians because of the lack of fear in their public life that makes them ignore the necessity of fear in international relations (3.37.2). In all these cases, the rightness of a decision caused by fear depends on the successful “reading” of the intentions and practices of the other side. 9  The effort to preempt undesired developments is a further motif which permeates the Mytilene narrative from the very beginning to the end; cf. Lateiner (1975) 177–8. The desire for preventive action is caused by a mental state, which has both an emotional and a rational component and is mostly referred to as φόβος and δέος (“fear”). Scholars earlier distinguished the two terms by applying to them the opposition between emotion (φόβος) and reason (δέος); see de Romilly (1956); Huart (1968) 122–3; cf. also von Haehling (1993). But this distinction, whose roots can be traced in antiquity (Ammonius), does not hold; cf. Taylor (1991) 205–6; Konstan (2006) 154. Petersen & Liaras (2006) apply to the individual’s intense fear before an expected severe harm the term “terror”. This emotion is a salient motif in both narrative and speeches in the last major operation narrated by Thucydides’, namely the collision of Athenians under Phormio and Spartans under Cnemus in Acarnania and around Naupactus (2.80–92); cf. Konstan (2006) 140–4. 10  The Corinthians had most eloquently illustrated Spartan βραδυτής (“tardiness”) in their speech at the Congress of the Peloponnesian League in Sparta (1.68.1–2; 71) and compared it unfavourably with the character of the Athenians (1.69–1.70.4). On his part, Thucydides essentially agreed with their analysis but he explicitly minimized the influence of the allies’ arguments (1.88) and emphasized further that, once the decision was taken, Sparta implemented it with determination and consequence (1.118.2). Heath (1986) argues that Thucydides’ “true reason” of the war explains particularly the decision to react swiftly, not merely the decision to take on the war. 11  Cf. also Dewald’s remark (2006) 79: “Thucydides uses the speech of military command in the narrative of the Archidamian War as one important means of conveying non-Athenian tactics and morale”.

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

77

The preparations for the mission of the navy commander Alcidas to Lesbos started in the summer 428 (3.16.3). A fleet of forty-two ships sailed at the beginning of the next summer (3.26.1), but it is only after the surrender of Mytilene that we hear of them again (3.29). “The Peloponnesians in the forty ships, who were supposed to arrive quickly, allowed time to pass even while they were still sailing round the Peloponnese, and then proceeded slowly on the rest of their voyage. They escaped detection by the Athenians in the city until they reached Delos; and from there they reached Icarus and to Mykonos, where they first learned that Mytilene had been taken. Wanting to obtain reliable information, they sailed to Embatum in the territory of Erythrae, reaching Embatum on about the seventh day from the capture of Mytilene. On obtaining reliable information they discussed what to do in the circumstances, and a man from Elis called Teutiaplus addressed them as follows” (tr. Rhodes 1994). The delay of the fleet contrasts sharply with the precipitous moves of almost all actors in the Mytilene narrative12 and to the spirit of προθυμία (“zeal”) which had been attributed to the Spartans in general at the outset (3.15.2; it retrieves πάσῃ προθυμίᾳ from 1.118.2).13 The reader is left with the question of whether Alcidas is to be blamed for harming Spartan interests, and even whether the capitulation of Mytilene could have been avoided had Alcidas not lost time.14 12  3.2.1 εὐθύς; 3.3.3 εἰ μὴ προκαταλήψονται ἤδη; 3.3.1 προκαταλαβεῖν ἐβούλοντο; 3.3.2 ἐξαπιναίως; 3.3.3 ἐπειχθέντας … ἄφνω; 3.3.5 τριταῖος ἐκ τῶν Ἀθηνῶν ἐς τὴν Μυτιλήνην ἀφικόμενος; 3.4.2 ἐξαίφνης; τὸ παραυτίκα; 3.5.2 φθάσαι δὲ οὐ δυνάμενοι; 3.6.1 θᾶσσον; 3.13.1 εὐθύς; 3.13.2 θᾶσσον; διὰ ταχέων; 3.15.1 κατὰ τάχος; πρῶτοι ἀφίκοντο; 3.5.1 διὰ τάχους; 3.5.2 κατὰ τάχος; 3.18.1 διὰ τάχους; 3.18.2 κατὰ τάχος; 3.18.4 αὐτερέται πλεύσαντες; 3.29.1 ἐν τάχει; 3.31.2 ὅτι τάχιστα; 3.33.1 κατὰ τάχος; 3.34.3 ἐξαπιναίως καὶ οὐ προσδεχομένων; 3.36.2 κατὰ τάχος; εὐθύς; on the idea of προαμύνεσθαι in the speech of the Mytilenaeans see 3.12.3. Cf. Lateiner (1975) 176–8. Time pressure is also suggested by the fact that some operations are dated to the winter: 3.18.5, 3.25.1. Liotsakis (2016) 86–95 shows that in a different episode, the revolt of Chios in book 8, Thucydides’ narrative is structured around four pivotal issues: key cities, fear, secret negotiations, speed – urgency – precaution. The similarities with the Mytilene narrative are obvious (with secret negotiations replacing the more general form of communication, namely the acquisition and evaluation of information). 13  The implementation of the new Spartan policy was not without problems. The allies were not willing to participate in a new invasion of Attica (3.15.2; they collect βραδέως, “slowly”, in contrast with the Spartans who act προθύμως, “eagerly”); in Sparta, after the first adversities, doubts are raised about the Mytilenaeans’ confidence (3.16.2). Spartans are confronted with the παράλογος of war (“the non-logicality of warfare”, for the second time; cf. 2.85.2, between the two naval battles around Naupactus). Archidamus had warned against the παράλογος (1.78.1), but since his strategy was rejected, the Spartans’ only choice now is to follow their new policy. 14  Cf. 3.27.1. Roisman (1987) argues at length that Alcidas’ image by Thucydides is “biased and unfair” (403). Our aim is not to contradict his arguments, but to provide an interpretation of what Thucydides reports. One has to keep in mind that Thucydides did not

78

Tsakmakis

Various answers have been suggested: that Alcidas’ delay was necessitated by objective constraints and, hence, was justified);15 that it was an example of Spartan cautiousness (as e.g. Alcidas’ insistence on the collection of reliable information as a prerequisite for action) and, therefore, fully explicable and almost predictable;16 or, that it was a reproachable misdeed – the preamble to a miserable personal failure.17 Thucydides’ text is full of hints that cue the last interpretation. The significant detail that the ships “ought to have arrived earlier” gives grounds to suspect Alcidas of culpable default, but also hints at a disharmony between his conduct and the new Spartan policy. Still, the situation is not irreversible despite the delay. On the contrary, Teutiaplus’ speech will endorse the estimation that the enemy had not noted the presence of the Peloponnesians in the area, and that, in consequence, the Peloponnesians still enjoyed a tactical advantage. It is exactly this advantage on which Teutiaplus seeks to capitalize. Teutiaplus’ speech stands apart from other Thucydidean speeches for a number of reasons. The speech is not delivered in an instance where a set speech is expected; it is a rather informal and spontaneous communication during a consultation of top officers, and, as we have noted, its main addressee is a single person. In addition, the way the speech is embedded into the narrative differs from Thucydides’ usual practice: the demonstrative pronoun used in the introductory formula is τάδε (“the following words”, found only here, instead of the recurrent τοιάδε, “words of this kind”). Τάδε is otherwise used for the introduction of written documents such as treaties (5.17.2; other types of the same pronoun: 4.117.3; 5.22.3; 5.46.5; 5.76.3; 5.78; 8.17.4; 8.36.2; 8.57.2), letters (1.129.3, but, significantly, not in 7.10 for Nicias’ long letter to the Athenians which is akin to a speech) and inscriptions (1.128.7; 6.54.7), for the citation of poetic passages (3.104.5) and for brief verbatim quotes of remarkable sayings, which could have been easily memorized by people (1.139.3; 5.112.1). The use of encourage his intended audience to doubt his version of the events or to cross-check his account with other sources – rather the opposite is the case. 15  See Wilson (1981) 159–61; Roisman (1987) 396–404. 16  Cf. Cogan (1981) 177: “Alcidas’ decision reflects a characteristic Spartan diffidence toward unauthorized military actions and probably a specific Peloponnesian timidity about naval confrontations with the Athenians – this timidity the result of the Spartan estimation of Athenian naval prowess following Phormio’s victory in the Gulf of Corinth. It is worth emphasizing that these attitudes are accessible for our consideration only because Thucydides included Teutiaplus’ speech which enabled us to see that a decision (which reflects attitudes) was taken”; Luginbill (1999) 112; Debnar (2001) 123: “The choice of commanders suggests that the more conservative strategists had not altogether lost their influence in Sparta”. 17  Stahl (1966) 109; Lateiner (1977); Karavites (1979); Rawlings (1981) 192.

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

79

τάδε in the transition to Teutiaplus’ speech may point to Thucydides’ attempt to show that he conveys accurate information and reports an authentic speech. However, this cannot be proved, nor can we make any use of such an information independently from its implications in the specific context. Thucydides’ readers were not supposed to be interested either in the biography or in the speeches of a completely unknown “man from Elis”. Furthermore, despite the fact that the speech culminates in a gnomic expression, it is far from being comparable to epigrammatic sayings like those usually memorized and transmitted orally by people. There is reasoning, with arguments drawing on rhetorical techniques, such as the use of probability (εἰκός), which places the speech in a different generic frame. Consequently, it is more probable that the historian is interested in eliciting the idea of accuracy than indicating authenticity. This idea triggers concrete expectations in the reader: utterances which are transmitted literally by Thucydides usually convey important content. In addition, a situation which requires the insertion of a memorable citation is marked as a decisive moment in the flow of events. Consequently, the reader is indirectly encouraged to pay particular attention not only to the speech, but also to its surrounding narrative. As, however, the speech is more than a brief declaration, a comparison with other Thucydidean speeches is also instigated. The pronoun commonly used to introduce Thucydidean speeches, τοιάδε, implies a departure from the original form and indicates a higher degree of responsibility on the part of the historian for the form of the speech, in alignment with the principles outlined in the so-called methodological chapter (1.22.1–2).18 In contrast, τάδε diminishes the author’s share in the re-writing of the speech and endorses the illusion of an unmediated representation of what was actually said. As a consequence, the distance between external and internal audience is minimized; the reader is not only situated at a vantage point within the setting of the (allegedly original) speech, but also assumes the role of a primary addressee, party to every detail in the context and critically disposed towards others’ responses. After the speech, the transition to the narrative is signaled with the words ὁ μὲν τοσαῦτα εἰπὼν οὐκ ἔπειθε τὸν Ἀλκίδαν (“this is what he said, but Alcidas was not persuaded”). The pronoun τοσαῦτα is the less usual option, though its use for a speech is not unique. It is mainly used for short speeches (2.12.1; 4.11.1; 5.10.1; 7.65.1) or interventions (6.41.4), and it is also preferred for brief declarations by envoys (3.52.3 and 4.98.1 after indirect speech) or statements in discussions (2.72.1; 2.72.2; 2.75.1; 5.113). In all these cases, the indication of length primarily suggests brevity. It is further used after the quotation of Pausanias’ 18  See Tsakmakis (2016) 272–4.

80

Tsakmakis

letter to Xerxes (1.129.1) and of the verses from the hexameters quoted in 3.104.4. In both these instances the pronoun mainly guarantees that nothing essential has been omitted (especially in the case of the poetic extract which presupposes selection from a longer work); its implied meaning can be accordingly rendered as “so much is relevant to the present subject of discourse”. Only four times is τοσαῦτα used after lengthier public speeches, and in these cases it seems to contribute to the implication of an antithesis. In 6.24.1, after Nicias’ second speech (which is noticeably shorter than the preceding two speeches from the same assembly), the limited length of the speech is contrasted with the weight of the matters under discussion, which Nicias falsely estimated might suffice to convince his audience (ὁ μὲν Νικίας τοσαῦτα εἶπε νομίζων τοὺς Ἀθηναίους τῷ πλήθει τῶν πραγμάτων ἢ ἀποτρέψειν … “with this Nicias concluded, thinking that he should either disgust the Athenians by the magnitude of the undertaking …”, but τοσάδε means literally “so many words”). Similar is the situation in 4.88.1; after Brasidas’ speech in Acanthus, the pronoun τοσαῦτα implicitly contrasts the speech to the large amount of talks exchanged by the Acanthians among themselves (πολλῶν λεχθέντων πρότερον ἐπ᾽ ἀμφότερα, “after much had been said on both sides of the question”) only to conclude that the motive which eventually dictated their decision was fear (i.e. it is irrelevant to verbal persuasion, regardless the length of the speaker’s communication). In 6.35.1, τοσαῦτα is used for a speech that, as it turns out, had been delivered completely in vain: Hermocrates’ speech provokes the opposite reaction to what the speaker intended (Hermocrates is the only Thucydidean speaker who is laughed at after his direct speech). The focus on quantity implies that the more words were used, the more time was wasted. Finally, in the case of Alcibiades’ speech in Sparta τοσαῦτα is used in the context of a different antithesis: the length of the speech is in contrast with its much greater impact (6.93.1: ὁ μὲν Ἀλκιβιάδης τοσαῦτα εἶπεν, οἱ δὲ Λακεδαιμόνιοι διανοούμενοι μὲν καὶ αὐτοὶ πρότερον στρατεύειν ἐπὶ τὰς Ἀθήνας, μέλλοντες δ᾽ ἔτι καὶ περιορώμενοι, πολλῷ μᾶλλον ἐπερρώσθησαν διδάξαντος ταῦτα ἕκαστα αὐτοῦ καὶ νομίσαντες παρὰ τοῦ σαφέστατα εἰδότος ἀκηκοέναι, “such were the words of Alcibiades. The Lacedaemonians, who before had themselves intended to march against Athens, but were still waiting and looking about them, at once became much more in earnest when they received this particular information from Alcibiades, and considered that they had heard it from the man who best knew the truth of the matter”). We can, therefore, draw the conclusion that the pronoun τοσαῦτα implicitly refers to the length, most often the brevity, of a verbal statement or speech: it usually implies that the speech was not lengthier than necessary, comprising all the essential information. (This makes sense e.g. for speeches addressed to

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

81

a Spartan audience or by a Spartan speaker, where laconic expression is expected; still, the use of τοσαῦτα is never compulsory). When, however, length is not foregrounded per se, this is because it is regarded as relevant in a given context. Therefore, compared to τοιαῦτα, τοσαῦτα is a marked option, which invites the reader to decode its contribution to the construction of meaning in each individual case (its use after the four longer speeches suggests an implied antithesis pertaining to the impact of these speeches).19 While τοιάδε denotes the approximation of the reproduced speech to the original speech in terms of content and hence raises the issue of the relation between text and reality, τοσαῦτα (like ταῦτα in the introductory formula of Teutiaplus’ speech) minimizes the gap between reality and its textual representation in terms of a measurable, objective criterion and puts more emphasis on text-internal relations. Especially in cases of failed communication, the question which is implicitly raised by τοσαῦτα concerns the reason for the implied opposition between the speech and its limited impact on the original audience. The omission of the speaker’s name after the end of the speech is also unusual. It occurs only on one further occasion in Thucydides, after the speech of Sthenelaidas. A comparison of the two passages is illuminating. After the speech of Sthenelaidas (who was an ephor and spoke last, as Thucydides notably points out in his introduction to the speech in 1.85.3) the speaker both remains active as an agent and is the syntactical subject of the main verb: τοιαῦτα λέξας ἐπεψήφιζεν αὐτὸς ἔφορος ὢν ἐς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν τῶν Λακεδαιμονίων (1.87.1: “with these words he himself, as Ephor, put the question to the assembly of the Lacedaemonians”). The illustration of the way the ephor handles the vote to ensure the desired result follows immediately (1.87.2). The omission of the speaker’s name in the resumption of the narrative accelerates the reader’s shift of attention from the speech to Sthenelaidas’ subsequent actions, with the ultimate effect that the narrative diminishes retrospectively the erstwhile dominance of the speech in the consciousness of the reader; in turn, this reflects Thucydides’ view that Sparta’s decision to go to war was not the result of rhetorical persuasion. In the case of Teutiaplus’ speech there is a significant difference; no action follows the speech: ὁ μὲν τοσαῦτα εἰπὼν οὐκ ἔπειθε τὸν Ἀλκίδαν (“this is what he said, but Alcidas was not persuaded”). As in other occurrences of τοσαῦτα after a speech, a problematic situation is looming. The omission of the speaker’s

19  It becomes clear, that the antithetical relations between the intended impact of a speech and its eventual reception by the internal audience can take various forms according to the Thucydidean principle of variation.

82

Tsakmakis

name and the expectation of a shift of focus to Alcidas20 only amplifies the mystery caused by the omission of any cue that could illuminate Alcidas’ impervious response to the speech.21 Alcidas’ silence suggests that his stance does not result from rational refutation of the speaker’s proposal, but is rather related to other factors. The ensuing narrative is rich in detail which sheds light on Alcidas’ performance and, by implication, contributes to an evaluation of Teutiaplus’ speech and to an assessment of the events and their protagonists. Teutiaplus’ speech (3.30) is second in brevity only to Hippocrates’ exhortation (4.95), which is interrupted by the attack of the enemy and remains unaccomplished. In a disproportionally long opening address (Ἀλκίδα καὶ Πελοποννησίων ὅσοι πάρεσμεν ἄρχοντες τῆς στρατιᾶς, “Alcidas and my fellow Peloponnesian commanders of the expeditionary force”; tr. Rhodes 1998)22 the speaker resorts to the inclusive first person plural, which minimizes the distance between speaker and addressees, between proposal and decision. The reminder that other commanders are present at the side of Alcidas prescribes the character of the meeting: it is an opportunity for productive exchange of views among competent peers.23 Listening to others, following sound counsel or disagreeing by providing superior arguments is part of the Greek conception of effective political and military leadership, a tradition which goes back to Homeric epic. Certainly, in a brief, semi-formal communication as is Teutiaplus’ speech, the opening address would not be indispensable (there are even public speeches without an opening address in Thucydides). By resorting to a convention of public speeches the speaker not only fosters in-group solidarity, but also imbues his intervention with a more solemn tone, and claims for it a function similar to other Thucydidean speeches, which add to each particular instance a paradigmatic value. After the address, the speaker articulates his proposal clearly and concisely. His only recommendation has minimal length: πλεῖν ἐπὶ Μυτιλήνην πρὶν ἐκπύστους γενέσθαι (“sail to Mytilene … before we are discovered). The foregrounding of the speaker’s mental activity (ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, “it seems to me”) betrays self-confidence. In parallel, the indication of subjectivity can be interpreted as a concession to the recipients which allows them more freedom to disagree – an example of politeness in discourse (like the inclusive first person in the 20  Cf. Pavlou (2012) 430. 21  Debnar (2001) 224 rightly remarks that Spartans were not expected to reply to each speaker who addressed them in the presence of others; but in the present context this is not a sufficient explanation and justification of Alcidas’ stance. 22  7.61.1 ἄνδρες στρατιῶται Ἀθηναίων τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ξυμμάχων (“soldiers of the Athenians and of the allies” – in the longest military exhortation in Thucydides). 23  Cf. 4.92.1 (Pagondas).

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

83

opening address which diminishes the discomfort which inevitably emerges when a speaker instructs another person what to do). Two further first person plural forms (personal pronoun and verb) restore the balance between personal and group-oriented perspective and underscore Teutiaplus’ commitment to collective action (strictly speaking ἡμᾶς is dispensable, while the appositive expression ὥσπερ ἔχομεν, “just as we are” is only attached for emphasis). Πρὶν ἐκπύστους γενέσθαι revives the theme of timely and reliable information, which has been salient throughout the Mytilene section, and, by implication, combines it with the motif of speed and urgency – a sine qua non condition for a successful operation that is particularly accentuated in the Mytilene narrative. Its importance is so evident that the addition ὥσπερ ἔχομεν not only adds emphasis to the speaker’s proposal, but also testifies to Teutiaplus’ unerring judgment as regards what should be particularly emphasized. In the main part of the speech, which is introduced with γάρ, Teutiaplus tries to justify his viewpoint through rational argumentation. According to the requirements of the subject matter, his analysis of the military situation is structured in two parallel statements, following the distinction of two types of warfare, at sea and on land. The first statement is introduced by the expression κατὰ μὲν θάλασσαν (“by sea”) which corresponds with the first words of the argumentation section (κατὰ γὰρ τὸ εἰκός) and, as a consequence, fosters formal coherence. On the other hand, a construction with κατά has to be avoided in the second statement (on land warfare). The ensuing statement (εἰκὸς δὲ καὶ τὸ πεζὸν αὐτῶν … “and it is likely that their infantry also will …”) resumes the motif of εἰκός with a double effect: it highlights the importance of a rational processing of the available knowledge about the situation, and reinforces the overall coherence of this central passage of the speech.24 Teutiaplus’ estimations of the enemy’s disposition and concerns are based on the psychology of victory. In this respect, he takes up a line of thought that has been of central importance in the narrative about Phormio’s operations in Naupactus. In their speeches between two battles (2.87; 2.89) the commanders, Phormio and Cnemus, scrutinized the psychology of both the victorious and the defeated. In contrast to them, however, Teutiaplus avoids the adjective ἀδεής or any other expression containing terms related etymologically to φόβος or δέος, roughly translated “fear” – another salient topic of the Mytilene account. The adjective he uses instead is ἀνέλπιστος (“unforeseen”). The reason for focusing on the rational rather than the emotional aspect of the Athenians’ 24   Debnar (2001) 124 assesses the use of probability negatively, but this is a rather un-Thucydidean implication; cf. in similar situations 2.11.8 (Archidamus); 5.9.3, 5.9.7, 5.9.9 (Brasidas); for an (unmistakably) undue use Nicias in 7.77.4; cf. also Gommel (1966) 20–6.

84

Tsakmakis

estimated state of mind (free from any apprehension about a possible threat) is that lack of φόβος is generally associated with positive connotations, while lack of expectation is likely to be evaluated as an intellectual flaw. A third section is devoted to arguments that reinforce Teutiaplus’ main syllogism. After having reflected on the current state of affairs in the opposite camp, the speaker focuses on the details of the proposed operation: it has to be executed suddenly, during the night; he also expresses his firm expectation (ἐλπίζω, in pointed contrast to ἀνέλπιστοι) that pro-Spartan Mytilenaeans would make the occupation of the city easier. This is quite a reasonable assumption; still, the cautious formulation εἴ τις ἄρα ἡμῖν ἐστὶν ὑπόλοιπος εὔνους (“if any are left who are well disposed towards us”; tr. Rhodes 1988) indirectly encourages listeners to make their own decision about the matter – a better strategy than inviting them to passively accept the speaker’s authoritative opinion.25 Individual terms used by Teutiaplus further contribute to the persuasiveness of his speech. The adverb ἄφνω (“suddenly”, which reiterates the motif of haste) has been used twice by Thucydides up to this point. At the very beginning of the Mytilenaean conflict, a sudden attack on the city had been part of the Athenians’ plan to surprise the rebels during the festival (3.3.3), a plan which was not executed because it was reported to the Mytilenaeans – in this case the element of surprise was neutralized by the timely acquisition of information by the enemy. Earlier, however, in Book 2, the adverb had been used in connection with the most decisive moment of the second battle between Phormio and Cnemus. A stratagem of the Peloponnesians took the Athenians by surprise and led – if only temporarily – to a spectacular reversal of the result of the first battle against every expectation (it is to be noted that Teutiaplus also strives for a reversal, once Mytilene has already fallen to the enemy). A favourable reception of Teutiaplus’ speech is also cued by the specification that the operation has to be executed during the night (νυκτός). This motif is still present in the minds of attentive readers, as the story of the revolt had been interrupted by a captivating narration of the escape of two hundred and twelve men from the besieged Plataea (3.20–24), after a series of clever and courageous manoeuvres, whose success largely depended on the exploitation of darkness. The impression of darkness is dominant in the detailed narrative, which would have stimulated readers to imagine the scenes vividly. 25  Gomme (1956) 291–2 privileges a sarcastic reading of the clause, but I am inclined to assume that the speaker’s tone rather suggested a less unambiguous implication; casting doubt upon the possibility of any Mytilenaean support would undermine the purpose of the speech.

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

85

The conclusion of the speech consists of an epigrammatic exhortation which is supported by a gnomic expression. The exhortation, like the opening of the speech, contains an inclusive first person plural which mitigates the imperative force of the utterance and confirms the speaker’s collective spirit (a further politeness strategy). The appeal μὴ ἀποκνήσωμεν τὸν κίνδυνον (“let us not shrink from the danger”) reiterates an expression which had been used only few chapters before, in the episode of Plataea (3.20.2): half of the men who intended to escape “hesitated, believing that the danger was immense”; thus they failed to be saved. This reminiscence supports Teutiaplus’ standpoint, as ἀπόκνησις (“shrinking”) from a danger is associated with the idea of a lost opportunity. Later, the Ionians will name φόβος as Alcidas’ motive; but whereas the attribution of fear to a recipient who happens to be a Spartan commander sounds offensive and obliterates solidarity between speaker and addressee, Teutiaplus’ more reserved formulation is less difficult for the recipient to accept. In the gnomic coda (νομίσαντες οὐκ ἄλλο τι εἶναι τὸ κενὸν τοῦ πολέμου ἢ τὸ τοιοῦτον, ὃ εἴ τις στρατηγὸς ἔν τε αὑτῷ φυλάσσοιτο καὶ τοῖς πολεμίοις ἐνορῶν ἐπιχειροίη, πλεῖστ᾽ ἂν ὀρθοῖτο, “but remember that the moment of opportunity in war is exactly this kind of situation, and a general can best succeed if he guards against it in his own case and exploits it when he sees it in the enemy”) the speaker’s claim for authority reaches its peak: he provides instruction about a general’s duties at wartime.26 The speaker, however, takes advantage of the rules of politeness, as his suggestion is presented indirectly in a participial clause. In addition, Teutiaplus does not put forward completely new ideas of his own, but simply proposes an interpretation of an already familiar expression. The expression τὸ κενὸν τοῦ πολέμου (literally: “the void in warfare”) is attested in various later sources and the context of its use suggests that it derives from military jargon. It always refers to situations of unequal military preparation or readiness (fighting against a disorderly or significantly inferior opponent or even in a false alarm). For Teutiaplus, a good general is confronted with a double challenge: to be cautious and defensive whenever the situation requires it, and to take initiatives and offend (ἐπιχειρείη) when he discerns the right opportunity. It follows that when such opportunities arise, avoidance of action is a mistake – an idea that is endorsed by the subsequent narrative. Was Teutiaplus’ advice sound? Scholars have drawn attention to a number of adverse conditions he seems to neglect: the sympathisers of Sparta had been deported from the island, while Paches is reported by Thucydides to have 26  Only a competent commander has the authority to formulate theoretical principles on matters of military tactics beyond traditional topoi; cf. Pagondas 4.92.2.

86

Tsakmakis

administered everything in the camp as he judged best (3.28.2–3); in addition the number of the Peloponnesian ships (42) was rather small for a confrontation with the Athenian forces.27 Teutiaplus might not have had access to the information provided by Thucydides in 3.28.2–3; on the other hand, he does not come across as a thoughtless adventurer. It is the choice of the expression κενὸν τοῦ πολέμου that buttresses this estimation: in all the instances where it occurs,28 it refers to opportunities which end in a clear victory, regardless of any initial assets of the enemy. Thus, the identification of a specific situation as a κενὸν τοῦ πολέμου seems to promise a positive outcome. What is more, the superior number of the Athenians and Paches’ skillful command do not make them immune to the emergence of such a situation. A surprise attack relies on the emotions of panic provoked in soldiers, and no commander can anticipate and prevent it throughout. Human nature prompts reactions that can be neither precluded nor controlled. Of course, these considerations do not guarantee the success of the enterprise; they indicate, however, that the proposal deserved attention. Moreover, once a reasoned proposal has been articulated, it cannot be erased from the mind: the reader expects to find cues for an assessment of its soundness somewhere in the work. As no explicit refutation of Teutiaplus’ arguments occurs anywhere, attention is redirected to the possible causes of the rejection, i.e. to the forces that inhibited persuasion. The silence about the reason of Alcidas’ dismissive stance inevitably causes a disturbing state of limbo, and raises suspicions about the historical consequences of Alcidas’ overall command. Having only briefly mentioned Alcidas’ reaction to the speech, Thucydides proceeds immediately to a summary of the discussion that followed. Ionian refugees and some Lesbians who were present made alternative suggestions to the admiral: with many arguments, they encouraged him to seize another coastal city in Asia Minor, in order to motivate more allies to revolt from the Athenian League. Alcidas, however, remained unmoved. His only concern was to sail back to the Peloponnese “as quickly as he could” (3.33.1: Alcidas can also be hasty – but for the wrong reasons). The reactions, however, of the populations and troops who took notice of the Spartans’ presence in the area strongly advocate the feasibility of the alternative proposals (3.32.3–3.33.3). More evidence for Alcidas’ mentality can be gathered from a further episode that is reported by Thucydides. The navy commander killed a number of captives he had arrested at some earlier stage that is not specified. This action caused the sarcastic remarks by the Samian envoys who “told him that it was not a good 27   Müller-Strübing (1881) 96–7; Wilson (1981); van der Ben (1998) 64; Debnar (2001) 124. 28  See Wheeler (1988).

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

87

way of liberating Greece to kill men who had not raised their hands against him and were not enemies of his, but were allies of Athens under compulsion: if he did not abandon this practice, he would turn few of his enemies into friends and make far more of his friends enemies” (3.32.2). Now, for the first time, we read that Alcidas “is persuaded” and, as a consequence, releases further captives who had been spared. The Spartan is persuaded only when he is bluntly accused of harming Sparta: he disappoints Sparta’s friends, destroys its image and boosts Athenian influence. It becomes obvious that the only argument that persuades Alcidas is the estimation of the negative consequences of his actions. On the contrary, the apparently unfriendly tone of the address does not have any influence on its persuasiveness. Finally, Alcidas’ return to the Peloponnese is reported. The words chosen by Thucydides for the epilogue of his mission sound almost malicious: his journey will be called “a flight” (φυγή), he “feared” (δεδιώς) persecution by the Athenians (3.33.1). These expressions come as no surprise: they are consistent with Alcidas’ belated arrival and avoidance of fighting. Alcidas was not interested in gaining anything, but he was disproportionally worried about any possible loss. He rejected in advance any initiative that might bring profit, as he apparently assessed even the least price required for its accomplishment as too high. His only martial act was one that seemed to entail no risk at all: the execution of prisoners. Even if Alcidas appears sensible to Sparta’s interests, his conduct is in dissonance with his city’s priorities. He is neither a typical representative of inherited Spartan reluctance and cautiousness, like Archidamus,29 nor does he follow the policy of open confrontation with Athens. Although this new Spartan policy was determined by the fear of Athenian power and Alcidas seems, according to both the Ionians and the narrator, to be acting out of fear. The two types of fear are different: Sparta’s fear calls for action, whereas Alcidas’ fear leads to inaction; hence, it is in contrast with Spartan policy and undermines Sparta’s 29  A comparison of Archidamus’ first military address to the Peloponnesian commanders with the representation of Alcidas in Book 3 reveals fundamental differences. The Spartan king appeared fully aware of the support of most Greeks for Sparta (2.11.2). On the contrary, the admiral had to be reminded of the impact of his actions to the Greek community. Further on, Archidamus’ instructions to his fellow commanders do not differ from Teutiaplus’ analysis of the κενὸν τοῦ πολέμου: he warns against carelessness and points out that “[o]ften inferior numbers, afraid for themselves, have gained the upper hand in fighting superior numbers who despised them and so were unprepared” (2.11.4). Finally, in his speech in Sparta (1.80–85.2) Archidamus considers a well-thought-out sequence of actions, and also in Plataea we notice that the Lacedaemonians proceed according to a long-term plan (3.52.2; 3.68.4) – quite the opposite of Alcidas’ improvisation and embarrassment.

88

Tsakmakis

interests. Alcidas’ fear is not caused by Athenian power, but by the idea of a possible loss. Therefore, he cannot be persuaded by Teutiaplus’ rational arguments and the Ionian’s strategic considerations – he cannot even discuss them, because he values the avoidance of loss as his absolute priority. He thus rejects every suggestion that might entail a risk, even if this is small. Consequently, he is unable to evaluate a situation by rational means, to identify problems and opportunities, and to make decisions; the reason is that he cannot weigh up the expected profits and costs, as he fears risk above everything. His behaviour is typical for a person who follows the so-called Precautionary Principle, a principle which leads people to avoid hazards, even if they are far from certain. It can be reduced to the simple formula “better safe than sorry”.30 Cass Sunstein notes that “[t]he real problem is that the principle offers no guidance – not that it is wrong, but that it forbids all courses of action […]”. At the same time, however, “[t]he principle is cost-blind”,31 i.e. it does not take into consideration the disadvantages its application may entail. In Alcidas’ case, the consequences of inactivity may well have caused Sparta more severe damage than the casualties of a victorious enterprise. Thucydides’ narrative exposes Alcidas as the main person responsible for Sparta’s failure to support the Mytilenaean revolt, which she had encouraged. The historian does not endorse a counterfactual theory (“what might have happened if …”), but he guides the reader to realize the possibilities of action offered to the protagonists at various stages in the story. In the Mytilene narrative Thucydides frequently uses techniques of “side shadowing”, i.e. he “alerts the reader to other possible historical outcomes and thereby drives home the openness of the past when it was still the present”.32 While the artful, captivating closure of the Mytilene narrative suggests that Cleon’s “Final Solution” was most likely to happen until, thanks to the efforts of the Athenian crew, its repeal reached Paches on time, Teutiaplus’ speech expands the reader’s horizon of possibilities with another extreme scenario, namely that Mytilene could have been saved and the Athenians defeated. In the first case the triumph of the darkest side of Athenian tyranny, represented by an influential demagogue, has been avoided thanks to the human reaction of ordinary people – those who are frequently depreciated by Thucydides. In the second, a commander who appears as a unique caricature of Spartan qualities cancels every prospect of a different outcome at the very moment his city intensified its efforts to confront 30  Sunstein (2005) 13. 31  Sunstein (2005) 26. 32  Grethlein (2012) 107; on hindsights in Thucydides cf. also Hau (2013) esp. 81–2; Grethlein (2010) 324–7. On counterfactuals: Tordoff (2014).

The Wrong Way to Listen to a Speech

89

Athenian power, even by challenging Athens’ naval supremacy. The Mytilene narrative as a whole underpins the importance of human agency in historical developments. While the historian is usually concerned with the investigation and unveiling of laws, and patterns in historical processes, in this section of his work he demonstrates how human agency can determine the course of events with wide-ranging consequences. Thucydides’ Mytilene narrative with its four speeches focuses in a masterful way on the dialectics of contingency and necessity, of intention and opportunity, of factuality and possibility; above all the narrative explores the obscure limits between failure and success, between what eventually happens and what has been lost. For Thucydides, events in the Mytilene narrative are the result of an interplay between personal, national and universally human qualities; of individual and collective agency; of emotional and rational motivation; of the actors’ political, military and social (rhetorical, communication) skills. Reversals, ironies, suspense, all function as marking devices that highlight the absence of certainties and, simultaneously, suggest the limits of human control over history. More specifically, the speeches included in this section explore the limits of persuasion in the above outlined context. At first sight, the battle of arguments between Cleon and Diodotus seems to suggest a different frame for the interpretation of the final decision than Thucydides’ explicit or implicit references to the emotions of the Athenians (3.36.2–5; cf. 3.49.2–4). Although formally the decision is taken after the debate, Thucydides consistently hints at the importance of pre-existing emotions, as being most likely to have determined the outcome. Still, the decision was made by a small margin, and so even the least impact of the debate on it may have been significant. Emotions and beliefs are distinct but not antagonistic by definition: both contribute to the shaping of people’s attitudes and Thucydides’ narrative illustrates this in an emphatic way. Thus, persuasion by arguments is not an isolated phenomenon. Persuasion does not happen instantly, nor is it a straightforward path, nor follows a pre-defined route; it is a gradual process which involves an influence on the recipients’ beliefs and emotions. In this process, verbal and non-verbal (symbolic) factors play a role.33 Therefore, the debate between Cleon and Diodotus is only one (important) event among several factors that led to the specific decision. Thucydides’ detailed account of what was going on in Athens eloquently suggests this complexity and sheds light on the role of rhetoric in the context of the ever-changing, unstable, tension-filled microcosm of Athens. Elsewhere, however, things happen quite differently. In the military cabinet of the Peloponnesian League, hierarchical relations were 33  This sketchy outline is mainly indebted to Perloff (2003).

90

Tsakmakis

of paramount importance. In the narrative about Alcidas’ campaign this is demonstrated in an exemplary way. Decisions ultimately depend on one individual, and therefore personal attitude is the key to interpreting the failure of Teutiaplus’ speech and the Ionians’ proposals. Teutiaplus takes the requirements of the situation sufficiently into account and adapts his speech to his Spartan addressee. The merits of the speech indirectly indicate the reasons for and the intensity of Alcidas’ resistance to persuasion. The speech is ideal for a communication addressed to a Spartan general: it is concise, and the speaker aptly addresses issues of military tactics. Rhetorical artifice is avoided, but the structure of the argument is clear. The hierarchical relationship to the main recipient is sufficiently taken into account, as rules of politeness are fully respected. The fact that there are no objections anticipated is a clear sign that there are no fundamental reservations to be presumed; on the contrary, the verbalized plea “not to avoid the risk” of an attack on Mytilene, suggests that Alcidas’ reluctance was correctly identified as the main obstacle for the success of the speech. Alcidas’ precautionary attitude makes him deaf to Teutiaplus’ and the Ionians’ arguments: he is not involved in a process of examining them. His silence suggests that he refuses even to evaluate the situation. Fear of risk is the only key to understanding his behaviour. Only when he is confronted with arguments that point to a potential risk does he revise it; his change of behaviour is consistent with his deeply rooted attitudes. It is only accidentally that this change aligns with Spartan interests. His overall attitude deprives him of the capacity to understand the priorities set by the recent changes in Spartan policy. To conclude, the Mytilene narrative provides evidence to assess the impact of rhetoric in Thucydides’ work through exemplary case studies. We have shown that in Thucydides persuasion strongly depends on the recipients’ attitudes as they are influenced by their emotions and beliefs. The impact of rhetoric cannot be studied in isolation from the wider context that shapes these attitudes. Alcidas, the main recipient of Teutiaplus’ speech, is an extreme example of an individual who fails to engage in a process of productive decision-making, as his attitude (a caricature of traditional Spartan character) becomes an insuperable obstacle. Although the form of the speech is ideally adapted to a Spartan recipient, the content of the proposals collides with Alcidas’ precautionary mentality, which leads him to avoid risk at any price. From a historical perspective, the case ultimately points to unresolved tensions in Sparta between realists and representatives of a traditional mentality, unable to adapt to the new conditions and to support Sparta’s war policy.

chapter 6

The “Unpersuasive” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87 Maria Kythreotou Thucydides includes 41 speeches in direct discourse in his Histories. These speeches variously have: 1) significant influence on the course of events, 2) only a partial influence on events, or 3) no influence at all.1 Concerning the last category of orations, what is noteworthy is that the historian himself stresses their ineffectiveness. In this chapter, this last category of speeches is examined, specifically the speech of Brasidas at Acanthus (4.85–87). Before proceeding to the examination of this speech, a brief theoretical dis­ cussion is necessary in order to make the features of the three categories above clear. In the first category, the speeches are fully effective. Pericles is the most persuasive speaker in the Histories.2 In introducing Pericles, who addresses the Athenians before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war, Thucydides charac­ terizes him as “the first man of his era at Athens and the greatest orator and statesman”: (1.139.4: ἀνὴρ κατ’ ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον πρῶτος ὢν Ἀθηναίων, λέγειν τε καὶ πράσσειν δυνατώτατος).3 After his speech, reported at 1.140–144, Thucydides points out that the Athenians approved of his words and gave an answer to the Spartans, according to his suggestions. Pericles’ last speech, meanwhile, occurred in the context of the destruction caused by the plague (2.60–64). Thucydides describes how the Athenians were in a desperate position and blamed Pericles, since he had persuaded them to go to war, declaring that he was the perpetrator of their troubles, and that they were anxious to come to terms with the Lacedaemonians. Thucydides states the purpose of Pericles’ speech: he wanted to encourage them and to convert their angry feelings into a 1  The funeral oration of Pericles (2.35–46) is not included in this survey, as well as the majority of the military harangues, since their aim is not to persuade the audience, but to exhort. Teutiaplus’ speech at Embaton (3.30) and the speech of Pagondas (4.92) are judged to per­ suade as well as exhort, despite their military context. 2  As Yunis (1991) 183 points out, in the fifth century Pericles had already become legendary as an orator of the utmost persuasive power. Yunis assumes that the elaborate speeches put in Pericles’ mouth by Thucydides may have contributed to the growth of this legend. According to Yunis, Pericles, as portrayed by the historian, avails himself of numerous rhetorical devices and aims to persuade the assembly. As Monoson and Loriaux (1998) 286 point out, Pericles “is a master of the art of persuasion”. 3  I use Jowett’s (1881) translation and Alberti’s (1972–2000) edition of the ancient Greek text.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_007

92

Kythreotou

gentler and more hopeful mood (2.59.3). The result of Pericles’ speech is posi­ tive: the Athenians took his advice (2.65.2: τοῖς λόγοις ἀνεπείθοντο).4 The second category of speeches are those that have a partial influence on the course of the events. Two instances fall into this category; in the Mytilene debate (3.37–48), for example, a decision taken is superseded by another decision.5 During the first debate about Mytilene, the Athenians had decided to put to death not only the men responsible for the revolt, but also all the grown-up citizens of the island, and to enslave all the women and chil­ dren. The next day a second assembly was held, in which Cleon and Diodotus speak, and in which the first decision was negated by a more moderate one: the Athenians decide to punish only those involved in the rebellion. In the second instance, the Corcyrean-Corinthian antilogy (1.32–43), a compromise between two proposals was preferred. The Corcyreans speak in favour of an alliance with Athens, while the Corinthians speak against such an alliance. The Athenians, finally, decide to make a defensive alliance with Corcyra, in order to attempt to satisfy both parties, even though this option was not offered either by Corinth or Corcyra.6 The third category of orations do not seem to affect, in any way, the pro­ cess of the war. This at least is what Thucydides claims by either mentioning their insignificance at the very end of the speech, or referring to other factors as being more decisive than reasoning and argument, or making no reference to the speech. Thus, the impact of these speeches on the narrative seems to be insignificant. There are nine orations of this kind: the tetralogy at Sparta before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war (1.68–86), the speech of the Corinthians at Sparta (1.120–124), Teutiaplus’ speech at Embaton (3.30), the Plataean-Theban antilogy (3.53–67) and the speech of Brasidas at Acanthus (4.85–87). To give one example, let us consider the concluding remarks of the historian after the tetralogy at Sparta, which takes place before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war. The Corinthians speak in favour of the war (1.68–71), the Athenians against it (1.73–78). Then the Spartans withdraw and form a 4  Other effective speakers in Thucydides’ Histories are the Syracusan Hermocrates speaking at the conference at Gela (4.59–64) and Pagondas, a Boeotian general, delivering a speech to his troops at 4.92. 5  Kagan (1995) 22, referring to the instability of the democratic constitution of Athens, men­ tions that the Athenians could adopt a policy one day and reverse it the next, or accept the plan of one leader and put its execution into the hands of another. 6  According to Morrison (1999) 111, 123, the reader comes to learn that speeches from cities may skew a third city’s options into an “either-or” situation while, in fact, more flexibility is possible.

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

93

separate council to deliberate alone. In this council King Archidamus speaks against the immediate declaration of war, suggesting the need both to make the necessary preparations and to attempt arbitration first (1.80–85), where­ as Sthenelaidas speaks in favour of the war (1.86). After the presentation of these four speeches, Thucydides remarks that in arriving at this decision and resolving to go to war, the Lacedaemonians were influenced, not so much by the speeches of their allies (οὐ τοσοῦτον τῶν ξυμμάχων πεισθέντες τοῖς λόγοις), as by the fear of the Athenians and of their increasing power; for they saw the greatest part of Hellas already being subjected to them (1.88). This statement clearly diminishes the impact of these speeches on the narrative. This chapter, as has already been mentioned, concentrates on a second ex­ ample of such an “unpersuasive” speech; that of Brasidas (4.85–87), even though the failure of the speech is not explicitly stated. According to Thucydides, dur­ ing the summer of 424 BC, immediately on his return from Lyncus and a little before the harvest, Brasidas, reinforced by Chalcidian troops, marched against Acanthus, a colony of Andros in North Greece. The purpose of his expedition was to encourage the Athenian allies to revolt and enter the Peloponnesian League. At first, the inhabitants of the city did not agree to admit him, but later on they decided to receive him alone and hear what he had to say. Before his oration Thucydides informs his readers that Brasidas was not a bad speaker, despite being a Lacedaemonian: ἦν δὲ οὐδὲ ἀδύνατος ὡς Λακεδαιμόνιος εἰπεῖν (4.84.2). Similarly, in a previous paragraph, he describes Brasidas in very flattering words. At Sparta, according to Thucydides, Brasidas had always been considered a man of energy (δραστήριον) and on this expedi­ tion he proved to be invaluable (ἄξιον) to the Lacedaemonians. Meanwhile, he gave an impression of justice (δίκαιον) and moderation (μέτριον) in his behav­ iour to the cities, which induced most of them to revolt (4.81.1–2).7 Thucydides also stresses the notable abilities Brasidas possessed, recording that at a later period of the war after the Sicilian expedition his goodness and intelligence (ἡ τότε Βρασίδου ἀρετὴ καὶ ξύνεσις) was a major factor in attracting the Athenian allies to the Lacedaemonians; for he was the first Spartan who had gone out to them and proved himself to be a good man (ἀγαθός) in every way. Thus, he left in their minds a firm conviction that the others would be like him 7  According to Hornblower (1996) 59, 272, the assessment at 4.81 is certainly intended to bring out the impression Brasidas made on other people, but there is an irreducible quantum of Thucydidean approval. Cf. also 4.108.3 where it is mentioned that the cities that were subject­ ed to Athens, when they heard of the taking of Amphipolis and of Brasidas’ promises and his gentleness, were more impatient than ever to rise and sent embassies to him privately, asking him to come and help them, every one of them wanting to be first.

94

Kythreotou

(4.81.2–3).8 Possessing these qualities of being both a good orator and a man of action, Brasidas thus combined the two halves of the Homeric ideal as set out by Phoenix at Il. 9.443, an ideal otherwise embodied only by Pericles in Thucydides’ Histories (and to a certain degree by Hermocrates), who was also described as a very able man in speech and action (1.139.4) and the most per­ suasive one, as has already been noted.9 Having this portrait of Brasidas in mind, one would expect that he would have given a persuasive speech. Brasidas in his speech (4.85–87) informs the men of Acanthus that the Lacedaemonians had sent him with his army to fight against the Athenians for the liberty of Hellas.10 He apologizes for the delay and promises that from this time on he will do his best to overthrow the Athenians, with the help of the Acanthians. His first intention is to flatter his audience: he characterizes the Acanthians as “allies in spirit” and believes that they will joyfully receive him and his army.11 On the basis of this hope, he claims, the Spartans have suf­ fered the greatest dangers, marching for many days through a foreign country, and have shown the utmost zeal in their cause. He adds that people will be less likely to join him if the Acanthians, to whom he first came, representing a powerful city and reputed to be men of sense, do not receive him. The Spartan general intentionally deceives his audience, offering false information about the events at Nisaea. He claims that the Athenians, though more numerous, refused to engage in a battle with him and believes that they are not likely to send an army against him at Acanthus equal to that which they had at Nisaea.12 8  Cf. 4.105.2, 4.106.1, 4.108.2, 4.108.7. It is a commonplace in the bibliography that the Thucydidean Brasidas is an unusual type of Spartan. See Hornblower (1996) 52, 269 (see also pp. 38–61 where Hornblower, discussing 4.11–5.11, is referring to the aristeia of Brasidas); Wassermann (1964) 294; Westlake (1968) 148; Lateiner (1975) 182; Ellis (1979) 42; and Luginbill (1990) 113, 137. Debnar (2001) 2, 10 remarks that, as the Spartans shift their activities away from Sparta, they tend to confirm the Athenians’ observation (1.77.6) that they act less like Spartans when they are away from home. Over the course of the war, she adds, the Spartans increasingly use arguments that would seem more at home among the Athenians and consequently sound more like their enemies. 9  Cf. Hornblower (1996) 276. See also footnote 2 above. 10  With this declaration the Spartans had won the goodwill of the rest of the Greeks. Cartledge (1979) 247 mentions that Brasidas’ Thracian campaign was triumphantly suc­ cessful, not least because he had made great play with Spartan’s “liberation” propagan­ da. Cf. 2.8.4, 2.72.1, 4.85.1–5, 4.86.1, 4.86.4, 4.108.2–3, 4.114.3, 4.121.1. See also Hooker (1989) 128–9, 135; Rood (1998) 72; Debnar (2001) 40. 11  Tsakmakis (2006) 214; Powell (1989) 176–7, who notes that flattery seldom fails completely, appealing as it does to wishful thinking. 12  See the narration of the events at 4.73.4. Thucydides informs his readers that the Athenians came out and drew up near the Long Walls, but they were not attacked, and thus they re­ mained inactive. They had gained the greater part of what they wanted, they would be

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

95

Later on, he asserts that he had bound the government of Lacedaemon by the most solemn oaths to respect the independence of any state which he might bring over to their side.13 He assures the Acanthians that he does not want to gain their alliance by force or fraud, but to free them from the Athenian yoke. He also promises that he will not implicate himself in any political strife and that he will not hand over the city to any political party, and consequently ben­ efit the oligarchs.14 In the last section of his speech, however, Brasidas warns the Acanthians that if they do not accept the proposals which he offers, he will not hesitate to ravage their country, since he had come for their benefit and they would not be persuaded by him. He justifies his threat by saying that the use of violence is not prohibited in cases of people who assist Sparta’s enemies, and that the Hellenes must not lose their hope of liberation on the Acanthians’ account.15 At the end of his speech, he assures the Acanthians that by helping the Spartans they will take the lead in liberating Hellas and lay up a treasure offering battle against a superior force and their own danger would be out of proportion to that of the enemy; whereas the Peloponnesians were more willing to take a risk. Both armies waited for a time, and, when neither saw the other moving, first the Athenians retired into Nisaea and soon afterwards the Peloponnesians returned to their previous position. Whereupon, the party in Megara, friendly to the exiles, took courage, opened the gates and received Brasidas and the generals of the other cities, considering that the Athenians had finally made up their minds not to fight and that he was the conqueror. It should be noted that Brasidas himself was unwilling to fight, but deliberately misled his audience to win their approval. Cf. 4.108.5, where Thucydides clearly states that Brasidas deceived the allies by lying to them in a clever way (ἐφολκὰ καὶ οὐ τὰ ὄντα λέγοντος), and that at Nisaea the Athenians had refused to fight with him. See also Gomme (1956) 553, 556; Powell (1989) 177 and n. 31; Hornblower (1996) 47, 280; Tsakmakis (2006) 214. Powell mentions that it was unusual for Thucydides to intervene in order to say explicitly that Brasidas lied. Powell comments that the Greeks were given to telling lies and he adds that modern experience suggests that lying flourishes especially in wartime. Morrison (1999) 95 remarks that it is only with the introduction of speeches that the reader must address the ways in which speech and narrative confirm or undermine each other, as the histori­ an’s voice alternates and competes with that of his characters in speech. 13  According to Hornblower (1996) 51, 53, Brasidas’ claim about the oaths implies both that he had enormous prestige and that he was, to some extent, carrying out a policy which had been agreed before he left. Cf. 4.88.1. On whether the oath-taking at Sparta was a historical fact, and whether Brasidas accurately represented the official Spartan external policy, see Hornblower (1996) 268–9, 281, 285. 14  This had in fact happened at Megara. Gomme (1956) 554 believes that had the Acanthians learned of it, their suspicions against Brasidas would have been strengthened. Cf. Grayson (1972) 64 and n. 2, who points out that Spartan-backed oligarchies were a notorious in­ strument of Spartan control within the Peloponnese as well as outside it. 15  It should be noted that of the two compelling reasons, the Spartan interests come first, showing that for Brasidas they were more important than the benefit of all the Greek people. See also Gomme (1956) 555.

96

Kythreotou

of undying fame. They will also save their own property and crown their city with glory. After Brasidas’ speech, Thucydides remarks that the Acanthians voted by a majority to revolt from Athens, partly because of the allure of his words (διά τε τὸ ἐπαγωγὰ εἰπεῖν τὸν Βρασίδαν), and partly because they were afraid of losing their crops (περὶ τοῦ καρποῦ φόβῳ, 4.88.1). These concluding remarks of the his­ torian may puzzle the reader. Thucydides characterizes the words of Brasidas as seductive (ἐπαγωγά), but he somehow undermines the power of his speech by saying that the other factor which determined the Acanthian decision was their fear about their crops. This phrase brings to mind the reason that initially forced the Acanthians to let Brasidas enter their city walls and give a speech: out of fear for their still ungathered vintage, they were induced to consent (4.8: διὰ τοῦ καρποῦ τὸ δέος ἔτι ἐξω ὄντος πεισθὲν τὸ πλῆθος).16 With the speech thus circumscribed, this external reason becomes the decisive factor for the deci­ sion of the Acanthians, and to some extent the speech loses its power.17 The reader recalls this first reason, through the repetition of the same phrase, i.e. the fear about their fruit, and is guided to think that Brasidas’ speech is not instrumental in the ensuing decision. Consequently, the question that needs to be answered is whether Thucydides in this and similar cases is deliberately trying to undermine the power of logos (i.e. reasoning and argument), which was so exalted in the teachings of his contemporary sophists. One of the most famous sophists, Gorgias, in his Encomium of Helen (§§6, 20), aiming to justify Helen’s actions, mentions the power of logos as being among the causes for the most dramatic and significant of events, Helen’s voyage to Troy.18 Gorgias also considers speech to be a pow­ erful lord (§8: λόγος δυνάστης μέγας ἐστίν).19 Is the historian condemning the Athenian obsession with speeches that is also condemned in Cleon’s speech?20 Taking into account also that, in the majority of these cases, the speaker ad­ dresses a Doric (mainly Spartan) audience, one may assume that Thucydides 16  Cf. “a little before the vintage” (4.84.1: ὀλίγον πρὸ τρυγήτου). 17  As Grayson (1972) 62 n. 4, 65 n. 2 remarks, external factors cloud the political spectrum at Acanthus, where fear for the crops (and lack of support from Athens) was probably the operative cause for the secession. 18  For the great power of speech cf. also §12. See Pl. Grg. 452e, who refers to the capability of logos to persuade. Cf. also the definition of rhetoric as producer of persuasion (τέχνη πειθοῦς δημιουργός) in Grg. 453a, 455a and in Quint. Inst. 2.15.4. 19  The text used is that of Buchheim (1989). According to Segal (1962) 100, the dating of the Helen falls into the last quarter of the fifth century BC; a period contemporary to the life of Thucydides. 20  Cf. 3.38.4–7 where Cleon accuses the Athenians for being prone to be deceived by rhetoricians.

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

97

is trying to show that this power of logos is only effective in the context of democratic cities (like Athens and Syracuse), while in the oligarchic ones only external factors prevail. Besides, an audience that feels fear is in a difficult posi­ tion and sometimes is not able to follow the argumentation of a speaker. Thus Gorgias in his Encomium of Helen §17 mentions that fear can crowd out rational thought.21 This is a possible answer to the present question: an already fear­ ful audience listening to a speech and unable to follow the speaker’s advice. One may raise one more question, however: why does Thucydides consider the speech worth mentioning? He could have proceeded with his narrative without interpolating the speech, so there must be a reason for the speaker’s intervention. Additionally, since Brasidas is presented as a competent speaker, he should have known the emotional situation of his audience and prepared his speech accordingly. To find a solution to the problem of Brasidas’ ineffectiveness one must have in mind the requirements needed for a speech to be effective. According to Aristotle’s Rh. 1356a 1 onwards (cf. 1377b 21 onwards), there are three kinds of proofs (pisteis) that can be furnished by a speech.22 The first depends upon the moral character of the speaker (ēthos).23 As has been mentioned, Thucydides has already noted that Brasidas possesses important qualities of character.24 In his speech, he also assures his audience that his promises will be fulfilled by the vows he appeals to. Additionally, Aristotle (Rh. 1378a 6–9) mentions that for the orator to be persuasive three qualities are necessary: prudence (phronēsis), virtue (aretē) and grace (eunoia), qualities that Brasidas is presented as possessing.25 The second requirement for an effective speech, according to Aristotle, concerns the audience, which the speaker is encouraged to put into 21  As Hunter (1986) 419 remarks, Gorgias in his Helen’s Encomium develops a “theory” of fear. According to Segal (1962) 117, the emphasis here is rather upon the complete vanquishing of the rational powers by the emotive force of the present phobos. As Ober and Perry (2014) 4 notice, human rationality is limited because the emotions of fear and hope affect how people assess and respond to risk and opportunity. 22  The translation used is that of Freese (1926). 23  As Kennedy (1963) 91 remarks, the moral character of the speaker is the most important for Aristotle, since the audience must rely upon him. 24  See p. 93. 25  Virtue is mentioned at 4.81.2 and grace at 4.87.2 and 3 as an emotion felt by the Acanthians towards the Spartans. It is worth noticing that Brasidas does not refer to his moral charac­ teristics, but the historian himself represents the speaker as possessing moral qualities. As has already been noted, Brasidas tries to gain the goodwill of his audience, claiming that the purpose of the Spartans is the liberation of Greece from the Athenians (4.85.1), and that the Spartans have suffered many dangers, because they thought that the Acanthians were their friends (4.85.4). Cf. Rh. 1366a 27–28 where Aristotle refers again to virtue (ἀρετή) as one of the qualities needed from a successful speaker. Cf. also Quint. Inst. 3.8.13.

98

Kythreotou

a certain frame of mind (pathos).26 The third requirement is upon the speech itself, in so far as it proves, or seems to prove, the situation (apodeixis).27 The arguments used by Brasidas, the historical example he supplied and how he tried to seduce his audience by offering false information, have already been explained above.28 Having already examined the first and third of these requirements, a consid­ eration of the second one is needed,29 namely what kind of emotion (pathos) the speaker is trying to impose on his audience. Aristotle, in Rh. 1378a 20–23, defines emotions as affections that cause men to change their opinion con­ cerning their judgments, and he notices that they are accompanied by pleas­ ure and pain. He gives anger, pity, fear and their opposites as examples. In the same mode Gorgias, in his Encomium of Helen §8, mentions that logos is capa­ ble of stopping fear, banishing grief, creating joy and nurturing pity,30 and he compares the effect of speech upon the soul to the effect of drugs on the body,

26  As Arnold (1992) 56 remarks, the mysterious process by which words provoke another person to act depends on the speaker’s understanding of circumstances, of the psycho­ logical or emotional disposition of the audience, and of the values on which an audience is likely to base their decisions and actions. Kennedy (1963) 63, 94 notes that much of the speaker’s art consists in the subtle way in which he insinuates his cause into the soul of his hearers, evoking their unconscious sympathy, horror, astonishment and indignation as the case unfolds. He also mentions that the fifth-century oratory uses ēthos and pathos as two forms of proof. Debnar (2001) 1 remarks that when audiences decide whether or not to follow a speaker’s advice, they base their decisions not only on rational calcula­ tions, but on what they feel (fear, ambition, greed, anger) and what they believe is most important, whether it is honour or revenge, safety or prestige. Solmsen (1938) 390 notic­ es a close association, amounting almost to identity, between rhetoric and playing upon one’s feelings. 27  As Kennedy (1963) 37–8, 96–8 points out, the arguments used can be scientifically prova­ ble or based on probabilities, with the use of syllogism (scientific proof) or enthymemes (arguments based on what is true for the most part) and examples (historical or ficti­ tious). Cf. Rh. 1356a 35, 1356b 5, 1393a 25. 28  See pp. 94–96. 29  Aristotle at Rh. 1356a 1–4 refers to three means of persuasion: argument, character of the speaker and disposition in the hearer. The disposition of the audience is not examined here, since it is a positive one: the Acanthians permitted Brasidas to enter their walls, and generally the impression Brasidas made on the Greeks was a positive one, according to the historian. 30  Segal (1962) 120–1 points out that Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen treats logos as a practical tool of persuasion and as an aesthetic medium for emotional release, since the stimula­ tion of pity, fear, pleasure and pain is the immediate aim of logos. The divine attributive of logos, he adds, refers to the power assigned to it and to the emotions it creates Cf. also §13. Segal (1962) 108 and Hunter (1986) 420 notice that Gorgias and Thucydides employ a sim­ ilar vocabulary of fear.

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

99

saying that the speeches may bring distress, delight, fear, courage, and some may drug and bewitch the soul (§ 14).31 On examining the speech of Brasidas carefully, the reader notices that words and patterns that create and reinforce fear circumscribe the speech. Brasidas refers to violence three times in his speech.32 In the first case, he purports to reject it saying: “I do not want to gain your alliance by force or fraud” (4.86.1: καὶ ἅμα οὐχ ἵνα ξυμμάχους ὑμᾶς ἔχωμεν ἢ βίᾳ ἢ ἀπάτῃ προσλαβόντες), but in the final two he promotes it; more emphatically in the last case, creating a climax: “for men of character there is more disgrace in seeking aggrandizement by specious deceit than by open violence” (4.86.6: ἀπάτῃ γὰρ εὐπρεπεῖ αἴσχιόν τοῖς γε ἐν ἀξιώματι πλεονεκτῆσαι ἢ βίᾳ ἐμφανεῖ), “I shall then use force and ravage your country without any more scruple” (4.87.2: γῆν δὲ τὴν ὑμετέραν δῃῶν πειράσομαι βιάζεσθαι).33 The speech imposes fear on the audience, with Brasidas’ threat34 being used early in speech, declaring that it would be monstrous for the Acanthians to be of another mindset and to set themselves against the lib­ erties of their own city and of all Greeks35 (4.85.4–5: ὑμεῖς δὲ εἴ τι ἄλλο ἐν νῷ ἔχετε ἢ εἰ ἐναντιώσεσθε τῇ τε ὑμετέρᾳ αὐτῶν ἐλευθερίᾳ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων Ἑλλήνων, δεινὸν ἂν εἴη). Likewise, at the end of his speech36 Brasidas warns his audience to consider his words carefully, in order not to impose harm on themselves (4.87.6: καὶ αὐτοὶ τά τε ἴδια μὴ βλαφθῆναι).37 Brasidas, as has already been noted,

31  According to Segal (1962) 104–5, 115, 127–8, Encomium of Helen attributes to logos a strong emotional effect, commenting also that the force of logos works directly upon the psyche, and that they have an immediate, almost physical, impact upon it. Cf. Pl. Phdr. 261a, where rhetoric is characterized as an art which leads the soul by means of words (ψυχαγωγία τις διὰ λόγων). 32  According to Kirby (1990) 215 who studies the triangle πειθώ – βία – ἔρως, the πειθώ – βία axis is typically antithetical and is used in this speech of Brasidas. The rhetor implies: I will try to persuade you, but failing that, I will force you. 33  Cf. Arist. Rh. 1382a 21–22, where fear is defined as a painful and troubled feeling, caused by the impression of an imminent evil that causes destruction or pain. 34  As Gomme (1956) 556 notices, Brasidas promises fairness, but gives a veiled threat. The “march to the aid of Acanthus” was also a march against it. Freedom was not only offered; it would be imposed, if refused. Not until 4.87.2, Gomme adds, does the threat appear near the surface, but it has been underlying throughout the speech. Cf. Hornblower (1996) 280. 35  As a category of people to be feared, Arist. Rh. 1382b 10 mentions those who have been, or think they are being, wronged (καὶ οἱ ἠδικημένοι ἢ νομίζοντες ἀδικεῖσθαι). 36  Cf. Arist. Rh. 1419 b 10–13 who says that in the epilogue the orator can excite the emotions of the hearer again. 37  It should be mentioned that the threats used do not specifically refer to the destruction of the crops. Cf. de Romilly (1967) 269.

100

Kythreotou

falsely claims that at Nisaea the Athenians refused to fight with the Spartans.38 Thus, he gives the impression that, if the Spartans can beat the Athenians who are stronger, then they can easily beat the Acanthians should they choose to resist.39 Fear and confusion are foregrounded through the antithetical patterns the speaker uses (especially syntactical antitheses of the type οὐ(κ) … ἀλλά, οὐ(κ) … δέ “not … but”).40 This continuous contradiction of opposite terms, one eliminated and one accepted, with the negative thesis used first (type: not A, but B), brings to mind the way Gorgias speaks about the power of logos, which has the capability to substitute one conviction (doxan) with another.41 According to Tsakmakis, the striking repetition of this figure in Brasidas’ speech is equivalent to brainwashing, with this form of expression being the 38  See n. 12. Gorgias in his Encomium of Helen §11, refers to speakers who persuade people by creating a false argument, using as a justification the fact that people cannot easily recall the past, understand the present, and anticipate the future. Cf. also §13: speeches not spo­ ken with truth can persuade. Segal (1962) 112 points out that Gorgias does not regard this kind of persuasion as an immoral deception, since it provides terpsis. 39  As Aristotle mentions in Rh. 1382 b 15–16, someone feels fear in respect to those who are stronger than him, for, if they can injure the stronger ones, they will be able to injure the weaker. Cf. Rh. 1383a 8–10: whenever it is preferable that the audience should feel afraid, it is necessary to make them think they are likely to suffer, by reminding them that other people greater than them have suffered too. 40  There are many cases of such syntactical antitheses in Brasidas’ speech: not only that you resist me yourselves, but wherever I go people will be less likely to join me (4.85.6: οὐχ ὅτι αὐτοὶ ἀνθίστασθε/ ἀλλὰ καὶ οἷς ἂν ἐπίω), I shall not be able to give a satisfactory expla­ nation, but shall have to confess either that I offer a spurious liberty, or that I am weak and incapable of protecting you against the threatened attack of the Athenians (4.85.6: τὴν αἰτίαν οὐχ ἕξω πιστὴν ἀποδεικνύναι / ἀλλ’ ἢ ἄδικον τὴν ἐλευθερίαν ἐπιφέρειν ἢ ἀσθενὴς καὶ ἀδύνατος τιμωρῆσαι τὰ πρὸς Ἀθηναίους, ἢν ἐπίωσιν, ἀφῖχθαι), I do not want to gain your alliance by force or fraud, but to give you ours, that we may free you from the Athenian yoke (4.86.1: οὐχ ἵνα ξυμμάχους ὑμᾶς ἔχωμεν ἢ βίᾳ ἢ ἀπάτῃ προσλαβόντες/ ἀλλὰ τοὐναντίον ὑμῖν δεδουλωμένοις ὑπὸ Ἀθηναίων ξυμμαχήσοντες), not to injure, but to emancipate (4.86.1: οὐκ ἐπὶ κακῷ/ ἐπ’ ἐλευθερώσει δέ), you ought not to doubt my word, nor should I be re­ garded as an inefficient champion; but you should confidently join me (4.86.2: οὔτ’ αὐτὸς ὑποπτεύεσθαι, οὔτε τιμωρὸς ἀδύνατος νομισθῆναι/ προσχωρεῖν δὲ ὑμᾶς θαρσήσαντας), should receive no thanks in return for our trouble, but, instead of honour and reputation, only reproach (4.86.5: οὐκ ἂν ἀντὶ πόνων χάρις καθίσταιτο / ἀντὶ δὲ τιμῆς καὶ δόξης αἰτία μᾶλλον), should not in justice be forced upon any one, but gently brought to those who are able to receive it (4.87.2: οἷς καὶ δυνατὸν δέχεσθαι/ ἄκοντα δέ), I shall deem myself justified by two overpowering arguments (4.87.3: οὐκ ἀδικεῖν/ προσεῖναι δὲ τὸ εὔλογον), we are far from de­ siring empire, but we want to overthrow the empire of others (4.87.5: οὐδ’ ἀρχῆς ἐφιέμεθα/ παῦσαι δὲ μᾶλλον ἑτέρους) and with the comparative – contrastive particle ἤ: by specious deceit than by open violence (4.86.6: ἀπάτῃ αἴσχιον/ ἢ βίᾳ). 41  Cf. Gorgias, Encomium of Helen §13.

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

101

deliberate antithesis of logical clarity. Consequently, Brasidas seems to be try­ ing to seduce and manipulate his audience through this restless repetition of antithetical patterns.42 Brasidas also uses opposite terms related to the themes he discusses, such as: freedom/ slavery,43 strong/ weak44 and just/ unjust,45 and he deliberately repeats important terms, such as impose (ἐπιφέρω),46 freedom (ἐλευθερία),47 punishment (τιμωρία)48 and violence (βία).49 The recurrence of important no­ tions shackes the mind of the audience, which makes the speech more forci­ ble, strengthening the expression of emotions.50 Furthermore, Brasidas uses extended sentences. According to Tsakmakis, Brasidas uses longer sentences than other speakers in the Histories. This ex­ tended development without pause frustrates the audience and becomes

42  Tsakmakis (2006) 216–7. In a similar way Arnold (1992) 56 notes that the rhetorical ma­ nipulation of the audience and the stylistic disguise of the speech is one of the ways in which Thucydides makes his debates more vivid. Additionally, Segal (1962) 127 comments that the metron, the formal aspect of logos, seems to play a significant part in causing the emotive reactions upon which persuasion rests. Natural and cautious formalism is so im­ portant in the carefully balanced antitheses, rhyming cola, calculated sound-effects and metrical patterns in Gorgias’ own style. For the emotive force of the type “non x, sed y”: Lausberg (1990) 386–7 (§785, 1). 43  Cf. τὴν ἐλευθερίαν/ δουλώσαιμι (4.86.4), δουλείας/ ἐλευθεροῦν (4.87.3–4), not to injure, but to emancipate (4.86.1: οὐκ ἐπὶ κακῷ/ ἐπ’ ἐλευθερώσει δέ, αὐτονόμους/ δεδουλωμένοις). 44  Cf. I am weak and incapable of protecting you against the threatened attack of the Athenians (4.85.6: ἀσθενὴς καὶ ἀδύνατος ἀφῖχθαι/ πρὸς Ἀθηναίους [δυνατούς]), ἀδύνατοι/ δυνατόν (4.87.2). 45  Cf. δικαιώσει/ ἀδίκου (4.86.6), δίκαιον/ ἀδικεῖν (4.87.2–3). 46   L SJ9 s.v. ἐπιφέρω Α.I.4: bring, confer, and impose upon, in good or bad sense. Cf. 4.85.6, 4.86.4, 4.87.2 and 4.87.5. 47  The word “freedom” and its cognates occur eight times in this speech: ἐλευθεροῦντες (4.85.1), ἐλευθερίᾳ (4.85.5), τὴν ἐλευθερίαν (4.85.6, 4.86.4, 4.87.2), ἐπ’ ἐλευθερώσει (4.86.1), ἐλευθεροῦν (4.87.4) ἐλευθερίας (4.87.6). The opposite term “slavery” occurs only three times (δεδουλωμένοις (4.86.1), δουλώσαιμι (4.86.4), δουλείας (4.87.3)) and therefore “freedom” is given more prominence as the central theme of the speech. See also Hornblower (1996) 47, 276–7 who points out that the speech’s first main theme is “liberation”. 48  Cf. 4.85.6, 4.86.2. 49  Cf. p. 99. See Hornblower (1996) 47, 277, who also remarks that the second main theme of Brasidas’ speech is force (violence). The first, according to him, is freedom, which is stated and developed immediately, the second is introduced obliquely at first and then explicitly. At the end, he adds, the two themes are recapitulated on a footing of equality. Cf. also footnote 47. 50  Lausberg (1990) 310–1 (§§608, 612), who examines sources that indicate that repetition is a “pathos formula”. For the figure of anaphora and its effect on the speech cf. Arist. Rh. 1413b30–1414a6; Demetr. Eloc. 61 and 141; Longin. 20.1.

102

Kythreotou

annoying.51 This manner, used intentionally, facilitates intimidation. Thus, the purpose of the speaker is to confuse and frighten his audience.52 Additionally, Brasidas does not use many maxims in his speech. Maxims are addressed to logic and tend to persuade an audience, since when the audience accepts their meaning they give authenticity to the speaker’s words. The lack of maxims in this speech confirms the conclusion that Brasidas’ speech is not addressed to logic, but to emotion.53 It can be concluded, therefore, that the emotion aroused by Brasidas’ speech is fear. Brasidas exploited and manipulated the psychological condition of his audience to the best rhetorical effect. He knew very well that his audi­ ence was fearful, and through the rhetorical techniques he used in his speech he was trying to reinforce this feeling and compel his audience to follow his advice. Thucydides, however, pretends to ignore the fact that the speech cre­ ates this feeling which at last prevails. He could have commented that fear was created or enhanced due to the speech, as he did very convincingly on the oc­ casions of Pericles’ speeches, where he refers to the change in the emotions of the audience. As Thucydides comments, when Pericles saw the Athenians unreasonably elated and arrogant, his words humbled and awed them; and when they were depressed by groundless fears, he sought to reanimate their confidence (2.65.9).54 Thucydides knew well the capability of speech to gener­ ate emotions.55 It may be assumed that he wanted to prove Pericles the most skilful leader among his peers. Thucydides, however, seems to appreciate the personality of Brasidas and furthermore there are other speeches which, as has been argued, face the same problem. Thucydides was aware of the theories of the sophists and of the professional rhetoricians about oratory.56 In my opinion, his aim was to make his careful readers notice the problem of the “ineffectiveness” of some speakers in his Histories and therefore admit the power logos has in creating emotions that the 51  Aristotle in Rh. 1409b, speaking of the periodic style, points out that it is unpleasant nei­ ther to foresee nor to get to the end of anything. Referring also to the long sentences, he asserts that “they leave the hearer behind”. 52  Cf. Tsakmakis (2006) 218–9. 53  See Kennedy (1963) 99; Tsakmakis (2006) 221. 54  Cf. Segal (1962) 130, who notices that the use of the emotional capabilities of logos is attested in Pericles’ use of rhetoric. 55  As Segal (1962) 130, 133 points out, the emotional potentialities inherent in the logos were clearly visible to political thinkers in the later fifth century. The rhetor, aware of the artifi­ cial nature of the logos, and of the flexibility of human doxa, commands a technē, which can guide or control human action. 56  Kennedy (1963) 48. Hunter (1986) 425 asserts that Thucydides did understand the power of logos to persuade, to charm, to bewitch and even to deceive, and used that understand­ ing in reconstructing debates.

The “ Unpersuasive ” Brasidas in Thucydides 4.85–87

103

speaker imagines to be supportive of his purposes; in this case that of fear. As Arnold points out, the Thucydidean reader is not allowed to remain a passive eavesdropper on historical debates. By including debates within his Histories, Thucydides asks his audience to consider the factual, ethical and psycholog­ ical factors that lead to crucial decisions. Once the reader perceives, Arnold continues, the ways in which Thucydides’ style disguises fallacious arguments within the debates, he is warned to weigh each assertion against the informa­ tion that Thucydides has carefully woven throughout the Histories. Only then can the reader perceive how facts and alleged facts are manipulated for spe­ cific rhetorical ends and judge both means and ends in the light of the course that history eventually took. The detection and understanding of rhetorical fallacies in Thucydides’ work should be especially useful for those readers who are not seeking entertainment, but “who wish to consider the truth of what happened and of what will happen at some time again in the course of human events” (1.22.4). Thucydides therefore places his readers on guard and challeng­ es them to integrate, as he himself has, the λόγοι and ἔργα. Although the reader stands as rational and objective judge of arguments in the debates, the active, intellectual involvement demanded by the style of Thucydidean speeches re­ quires him to become more of a participant in and less of a passive witness to not only the debates, but also the historian’s analysis of the war.57 In a similar way, Morrison asserts that the reader of Thucydides is forced to participate actively in creating the meaning of the work. His task is to find the connec­ tions between the episodes or events and to juxtapose relevant passages.58 As Morrison points out, in putting the reader in a position analogous to that of the historian and the statesman, Thucydides invites him to make connections and juxtapose arguments.59 The reader’s task, Morrison adds, becomes proportion­ ately more demanding, as the Histories unfold, since Thucydides appeals to the reader’s involvement.60 It seems then that, once more, Thucydides is addressing the conscious and well-disposed listener, namely τὸν ξυνειδότα καὶ εὔνουν ἀκροατήν (2.35.2). He wants his readers to notice the problem of the alleged “ineffectiveness” of some of the speakers in his Histories and therefore admit the great power of logos, which he himself had used throughout his work so effectively.

57  Arnold (1992) 46, 56–7. 58  Morrison (1999) 97, 110. Cf. Solmsen (1971) 389, who notes that Thucydides wishes his readers to employ their intelligence. 59  Morrison (1999) 126. 60  Morrison (1999) 128–9, who concludes that in Thucydides’ work the reader encounters the engaged, participatory dimension of critical political history.

chapter 7

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7: Failed Persuasion and Decline Georgios Vassiliades 1 Introduction In 215 BC, during the Second Punic War, the tribune C. Oppius enacted a law imposing specific restrictions on women. Roman matrons could not possess more than half an ounce of gold, wear multi-coloured garments or ride in animal-drawn vehicles except in the case of public religious festivals.1 Scholars disagree on the exact purpose of these measures. Some claim that the lex Oppia was an austerity law occasioned by the harsh economic circumstances of the war,2 while others tend to consider it an early sumptuary law, like those enacted during the second and first centuries, which aimed to control extravagance for social rather than economic reasons.3 The Oppian law was repealed in 195 BC, when the tribunes M. Fundanius and L. Valerius proposed its abrogation. Cato, a consul at the time, delivered a speech attempting to persuade his audience not to repeal the law. The tribune L. Valerius refuted Cato’s arguments in his own speech. Instead of stating his own opinion on the law, Livy reports this debate at the beginning of Book 34 of his Ab urbe condita (AUC), offering through his speakers two different perceptions of the purpose and relevance of this law. These two approaches are based on a different interpretation of the law’s relation to luxuria, whose propagation *  I would like to express my gratitude to the editors of the volume, Sophia Papaioannou and Andreas Serafim, for their valuable suggestions, which helped me improve my chapter. 1  On the content of the Oppian law, Liv. 34.1.3; cf. Tac. Ann. 3.33–34 and Val. Max. 9.1.3. Ovid (Fast. 1.619ff.) might be alluding to the Oppian law and its abrogation, when he explains the origins of the second day of celebration of the Carmentalia on January 15. According to Ovid, old Ausonian matrons drove in carriages (carpenta), which took their name from the goddess Carmenta. This honour was taken from them (as it happened after the enactment of the Oppian law); then, women reacted by refusing to bear children. The Senate reprimanded women but restored their privilege and ordained that a second festival in honour of Carmenta should be held, in order to promote the birth of boys and girls. 2  Haury (1976). 3  Culham (1982); Agati Madeira (2004) 87–92; Feichtinger (2015) 683–8.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_008

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

105

is central to Livy’s view of the process of Rome’s moral decline. From Cato’s perspective, the lex Oppia was a sumptuary law aiming to curtail women’s desire for luxury. Accordingly, its abrogation would cause the spread of luxuria. By contrast, Valerius considers the law to be a mere austerity measure enacted to address the exceptional circumstances of the war. Its abrogation thus constitutes no threat to morality. Livy himself provides no explicit evidence about his own view on the original scope of the law and the consequences of its abrogation.4 This chapter argues that Livy builds up each speaker’s arguments in a way that allows him to express his own view not only on the original purpose of the law, but also, and most importantly, on the abrogation of the lex Oppia. The composition of the speeches is designed for paired delivery: the one may not stand without the other, since their argumentation is interactive and antagonistic, thus introducing persuasion through the lens of rivalry. Persuasion is meant to include “all the techniques, mechanisms and symbols, both cognitive and emotional, deployed in oral or written discourse, to influence, voluntarily or not, the attitudes, behaviours and beliefs of target audiences”.5 In the case of the Livian debate on the lex Oppia, there are two target audiences, whose opinions are expected to be influenced voluntarily by the cognitive and emotional techniques deployed.6 The first is the contemporary audience of 195 BC, attending the oral discourse of the two speakers; and second audience consists of the readers (or hearers) of the AUC, who can evaluate whether both speakers’ arguments are well founded and form their own opinions regarding the decision they should make. The persuasive influence of the two speeches is exerted in a different way, according to the target audience involved: Valerius’ speech has managed to convince the audience of 195 BC. Nevertheless, Livy constructs both speeches in such a way as to show that neither Cato’s nor Valerius’ speech should persuade the readers of the AUC, since neither of the two orators has been useful to the res publica in the long term, having failed to prevent Rome’s decline. By constructing and juxtaposing the two speeches as examples of failed persuasion, the historian prompts a reflection on the place and function of this debate within the

4  This ambiguity has also been stressed by Desideri (1984). 5  Introduction, p. 3. 6  There is no coercion involved in the persuasion strategies employed by the two speakers, as Livy constructs the debate under question. On voluntary and coercive persuasion, see Introduction pp. 2–3.

106

Vassiliades

development of Rome’s decline.7 Marincola’s statement that “historiographical speeches could become political, almost philosophical analyses in miniature” seems especially applicable to the analysis of this episode.8 2

The Debate and Livy’s Scheme of Decline

In the first place, it may be useful to examine the specific way in which Livy associates these two rhetorical speeches with the major philosophical issue of Rome’s decline. As already mentioned, the debate concerns a matter, i.e. the propagation of luxuria, which is closely related to the evolution of Roman mores. Livy, in the preface, sets out the progress and decline of the latter as the central theme of his history.9 Later on, Livy analyses the introduction of luxuria to Rome as an important symptom of Rome’s decline.10 In this way, the debate seems to hark back to the prefatory theme of moral degeneration. Livy’s narrative choices place emphasis on the importance of the debate in his presentation of decline. It is the first time in the AUC that someone warns of the development of luxury in Rome and uses the term luxuria per se. The historian introduces the account of the debate with the following phrase: Inter bellorum magnorum aut vixdum finitorum aut imminentium curas intercessit res parva dictu, sed quae studiis in magnum certamen excesserit. Liv. 34.1.1

7  Cf. Biesinger (2016) 194–205, who also reads the debate as a juxtaposition of two different interpretations of the law’s purpose, based on two different conceptions of Rome’s historical course: Cato analyses the relationship between past and present in terms of decline, whereas Valerius insists on the continuity of Roman mores. However, Biesinger does not investigate the persuasiveness of both speakers according to Livy and the place of the debate within the presentation of decline in the AUC. 8  Marincola (2007) 119. 9  Liv. praef. 9: ad illa mihi pro se quisque acriter intendat animum, quae vita, qui mores fuerint, per quos viros quibusque artibus domi militiaeque et partum et auctum imperium sit; labente deinde paulatim disciplina velut desidentis primo mores sequatur animo, deinde ut magis magisque lapsi sint, tum ire coeperint praecipites, donec ad haec tempora, quibus nec vitia nostra nec remedia pati possumus, perventum est. “Here are the questions to which I would have every reader give his close attention – what life and morals were like; through what men and by what policies, in peace and in war, empire was established and enlarged; then let him note how, with the gradual relaxation of discipline, morals first gave way, as it were, then sank lower and lower, and finally began the downward plunge which has brought us to the present time, when we can endure neither our vices nor their cure”. Tr. B. O. Foster (1919). 10  Liv. praef. 11–12 cited and commented infra. 111–112.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

107

Amid the anxieties of great wars, either scarce finished or soon to come, an incident occurred, trivial to relate, but which, by reason of the passions it aroused, developed into a violent contention.11 Despite admitting that this is a trivial event to narrate (res parva dictu), Livy chooses to recount it in detail at the beginning of Book 34. He also turns it into an arena of rhetorical combat, including two long opposing speeches arguing in favour of and against the abrogation of the law and drawing links with the broader theme of decline.12 Indeed, the two speakers, as will be argued, employ a variety of means of persuasion in their strategy of rhetorical inventio: the arousal of the audience’s emotions (pathos), the appeal to the character of the speakers (ēthos), the use of rational arguments (logos) mainly based on historical exempla and metaphors.13 These means of persuasion should not be analysed solely with reference to the narrow oratorical context of the debate. For they are not simply strategies that the two speakers could eventually develop in their deliberative speeches,14 in order to convince the audience in 195 BC. The two speakers’ arguments and strategies are also (and mainly) addressed to the readers of Livy, who are well-informed about the important and precise role of luxuria in Rome’s decline according to the author. It is worth mentioning, at this point, that, in the preface, having set out the progress and decline of the res publica as the main theme of the narrative, Livy addresses his reader in the second person singular. The latter is exhorted to read the work in order to find exempla to imitate and to avoid, for himself and for his own state (tibi tuaeque rei publicae).15 In this way, the historian constructs a “learned” reader,16 who should interpret all the episodes of the narrative as exempla, and evaluate them according to the moral categories of progress and decline as they are outlined in the prologue. As Marincola has argued, “in light of his later knowledge, the reader can watch the debate unfold and analyze the deployment of exempla made by the speakers, and reflect upon which were 11  Tr. Sage (1936) as well as all translations of passages from Book 34. 12  See Feichtinger (2015) 671. 13  See Arist. Rh. 1.1356aff., for a detailed examination of these three main means of persuasion. 14  For the traditional classification of speeches into deliberative, judicial and epideictic see Arist. Rh. 1.1358ff.; Cic. Top. 23.91, Inv. 1.5.7; Rhet. Her. 1.2.2; Quint. Inst. 3.4. 15  Liv. praef. 10. 16  The notion of the “learned” reader is close to that of the “implied reader” (der implizite Leser), introduced by Wolfgang Iser. This reader is passive and active at the same time: on the one hand, the text is a fixed reality whose structures are there to guide the reader; on the other hand, the reader is expected to construct the meaning of the text by freely connecting these fixed structures.

108

Vassiliades

accurate, which significant, which appropriate”.17 This dynamic could be valid for the AUC, especially if one adopts the categories of analysis proposed by Chaplin, who distinguishes between the internal and the external audience of the work, corresponding to the characters and the readers of the narrative respectively; each can provide a different interpretation of the same e­ xempla.18 This distinction transforms the reader into a target of persuasion and ­implies that an exemplum, which could be convincing for the internal audience, is not necessarily equally persuasive for the external audience. The readers’ knowledge of the past and future is more informed, since they have at their disposal the first 34 books of Livy’s work. There is no doubt that the two speeches are largely the work of Livy himself, given that it was a common practice among ancient historians to elaborate on historiographical speeches before publication.19 In the light of this practice, some arguments attributed to the two speakers are chosen in such a way as to invite the reader to check their validity by comparing them with the wider narrative of Livy and more precisely his historical presentation of the decline. Thus, the act of persuasion concerns not only the actual audience of the debate in 215 BC, but also, and more importantly, the readers of the AUC and the author. The latter, by choosing to include in both speeches arguments which are a priori convincing or unconvincing, comments on the persuasiveness of the two speakers. By comparing both speakers’ arguments with the rest of the narrative, the reader can determine how the author answers the main question raised by the debate: was the abrogation of the Oppian law a correct decision or did it rather encourage the propagation of luxuria and thus the acceleration 17  Marincola (2007) 131. 18  Chaplin (2000) passim (especially 4, 50ff.). 19  See Walbank (1965); Fornara (1983) 142–68; Marincola (2007) for a general discussion on this practice of ancient historians. See on the way Livy adapted Cato’s speech Tränkle (1971) 9–16; Briscoe (1981) 39–42, with a discussion of the older scholarship. See also on this issue Perl and El-Qalqili (2002) 414–39, who even doubt the historicity of the Oppian law. Ullmann (1927) 6, 139–43 shows that both speeches have been reworked by Livy. Krüger (1940) 75ff. claims that Cato’s speech has been reworked by Livy and shows that Valerius’ speech has been composed in order to distort Cato’s speech. In this context, some scholars insist on the fact that both speeches reflect contemporary debates on various questions. Hellmann 1940 claims that, through this debate, Livy wanted to show that Augustus’ effort to reform Roman morals through legislation were in vain. Schubert (2002) 93–105 points out that the arguments used by both speakers regarding the role of women in Roman society recall the debates on this matter in Livy’s times. Likewise, Cato’s speech includes concepts related to Augustus’ marriage legislation. See Feichtinger (2015) 675–83, who analyses the two speeches as the product of a purely literary work, which aims to contrast two opposite conceptions of the moral and social role of luxuria while reflecting the realities of the historical debate on luxuria in Rome.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

109

of moral decline? In other words, who was right? Cato or Valerius? This would be a good way of understanding the author’s interpretation of the law, since Livy makes no mention of it in the narrative of the Second Punic War. Before proceeding to the analysis of the speeches, it is important to note that scholars who have already dealt with this question have not studied the persuasiveness of the two speeches as each relates to the circumstances recorded in the narrative. They tend instead to adopt a radical approach, in order to investigate the degree of persuasiveness of each speaker’s arguments separately. Their purpose is to determine the “winner” of the debate. On the one hand, according to Krüger,20 Valerius’ speech is intended to parody Cato’s speech and highlight some dark aspects of his character. Likewise, Briscoe21 claims that Cato’s speech offers Livy the opportunity to illustrate the severe character of the consul, and to juxtapose it with the moderation of Valerius, who appears to be the more attractive person.22 On the other hand, some scholars23 tend to emphasize the prophetic value of Cato’s words, even if they do not deny that his arguments contain some exaggerations and inaccuracies. The consul is considered the “winner” of the debate because he rightly stresses that the abrogation of the Oppian law would facilitate the propagation of avaritia and luxuria due to foreign influence. In the following pages the two speakers’ arguments are juxtaposed with the Livian narrative. Through extensive comparison, this chapter aims to show that from Livy’s perspective, it is probable that neither Cato nor Valerius would be considered the “winner” of the debate. In effect, neither Cato’s nor Valerius’ argumentation entirely conforms to Livy’s historical presentation of the decline. Neither speech, therefore, is wholly persuasive, since neither should convince Livy’s “learned” reader, who is aware of the overall pattern of decline in the AUC. 3

The Speakers’ Arguments and Livy’s Narrative

The context of the debate and the main ideas of the two speakers need to be summarized before comparing some of their arguments to the Livian narrative. The proposition of the tribunes M. Fundanius and L. Valerius to repeal 20  Krüger (1940). 21  Briscoe (1981) 42. 22  Biesinger (2016) 203 n. 135, 205, also concludes that Livy prefers Valerius’ reading of the law as an austerity measure. 23  See Luce (1977) 250–3; Chaplin (2000) 98–101; Mineo (2006) 327; Ducos (2010) 273–5.

110

Vassiliades

the Oppian law divides the college of tribunes. A crowd of women blocks all the streets leading to the forum, begging men to support the abrogation of the law.24 Then, the consul M. Porcius Cato delivers his long speech in favour of the law. He expresses his indignation at the turmoil provoked by women, who are supposed to stay in the domestic sphere according to the mos maiorum. He also warns his audience of the danger that luxury might propagate if the Oppian law is repealed.25 In his reply, the tribune Valerius tries to expose the exaggerations in the consul’s argumentation.26 Let us now turn to the specific arguments of the two speakers and their relation to Livy’s narrative. Cato refers to the Oppian law as if it were a sumptuary law. According to the consul, women protest against it because they wish there to be no limits to expenditure and luxury: 8. Quid honestum dictu saltem seditioni praetenditur muliebri? 9. ‘Ut auro et purpura fulgamus’ inquit ‘ut carpentis festis profestisque diebus, velut triumphantes de lege victa et abrogata et captis et ereptis suffragiis vestris per urbem vectemur; ne ullus modus sumptibus, ne luxuriae sit. Liv. 34.3.8–9

8. What pretext, respectable even to mention, is now given for this insurrection of the women? 9. ‘That we may glitter with gold and purple,’ says one, ‘that we may ride in carriages on holidays and ordinary days, that we may be borne through the city as if in triumph over the conquered and vanquished law and over the votes which we have captured and wrested from you; that there may be no limits to our spending and our luxury. In accordance with this interpretation of the lex Oppia as a sumptuary law, all the second half of Cato’s speech is a warning against the power of luxuria and avaritia. Both vices are analysed as two opposing evils (diversisque duobus vitiis)27 that threaten the state (civitatem laborare) and as pests that have

24  Liv. 34.1. 25  Liv. 34.2–4. Robert (2003) explains that Cato’s “misogyny” in this speech must be considered in the context of the protagonist’s struggle against luxuria. 26  Liv. 34.5–7. 27  On this topos, see Nagy 1968. The passage is most likely a reminiscence of Sallust, Cat. 5.8: Incitabant praeterea corrupti civitatis mores, quos pessuma ac divorsa inter se mala, luxuria atque avaritia, uexabant. Cf. Vretska (1976) and Ramsey (2007) ad loc., who suggest that it is more probably Sallust who has imitated Cato.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

111

destroyed every great empire (quae pestes omnia magna imperia everterunt).28 If this statement is compared to what Livy declares in the preface about avarice and luxury, it can be concluded that Cato might serve here as Livy’s spokesperson. In the prologue, Livy stresses that it is only in Rome that avarice and luxury moved in (immigraverint) so late and that humble means and thrift were held in honour so highly and for so long: 11. Ceterum aut me amor negotii suscepti fallit, aut nulla umquam res publica nec maior nec sanctior nec bonis exemplis ditior fuit, nec in quam civitatem tam serae avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint, nec ubi tantus ac tam diu paupertati ac parsimoniae honos fuerit. Adeo quanto rerum minus, tanto minus cupiditatis erat; 12. Nuper divitiae avaritiam et abundantes voluptates desiderium per luxum atque libidinem pereundi perdendique omnia invexere. Liv. praef. 11–12

11. For the rest, either love of the task I have set myself deceives me, or no state was ever greater, none more righteous or richer in good examples, none ever was where avarice and luxury made their entrance so late, or where humble means and thrift were so highly esteemed and so long held in honour. For true it is that the less men’s wealth was, the less was their greed. 12. Of late, riches have brought in avarice and excessive pleasures the longing to carry wantonness and licence to the point of ruin for oneself and of universal destruction.29 As Chaplin argued,30 Livy, like Cato, links luxuria with avaritia, and associates both vices with the expansion of the Roman Empire. Both Livy and Cato show the same respect for paupertas (humble means) and parsimonia (thrift).31 28  Liv. 34.4.1ff.: 1. Saepe me querentem de feminarum, saepe de virorum nec de privatorum modo sed etiam magistratuum sumptibus audistis, 2. diversisque duobus vitiis, avaritia et luxuria, civitatem laborare, quae pestes omnia magna imperia everterunt: “1. You have often heard me complaining of the extravagance of the women and often of the men, both private citizens and magistrates even, and lamenting 2. That the state is suffering from those two opposing evils, avarice and luxury, which have been the destruction of every great empire”. 29  Tr. B. O. Foster (1919) with some modifications. 30  See Chaplin (2000) 100–1. 31  Liv. praef. 11, in comparison with 34.4.13: Pessimus quidem pudor est vel parsimoniae vel paupertatis; sed utrumque lex vobis demit, cum id quod habere non licet non habetis: “The worst kind of shame, I tell you, is that derived from thrift or humble means; but the law

112

Vassiliades

Moreover, the image of the state, subverted by the power of luxury and avarice, is in absolute accordance with what is noted in paragraph 12 regarding the role of these two passions in Roman history: riches have fostered avarice, and excessive pleasures the desire to destroy everything by means of luxury and licence. The foreign origin of luxuria and avaritia is also highlighted by Cato, who expresses his anxiety about the presence of the Romans in Greece and Asia, “places filled with all the allurements of vice”: Haec ego, quo melior laetiorque in dies fortuna rei publicae est imperiumque crescit – et iam in Graeciam Asiamque transcendimus omnibus libidinum illecebris repletas et regias etiam attrectamus gazas – eo plus horreo, ne illae magis res nos ceperint quam nos illas. Liv. 34.4.3

The better and the happier becomes the fortune of our commonwealth day by day and the greater the empire grows – and already we have crossed into Greece and Asia, places filled with all the allurements of vice, and we are handling the treasures of kings – the more I fear that these things will capture us rather than we them. Cato’s worries are confirmed not only in the preface, but also in the following books, where Livy describes the process of decline. The year 187 BC is a high point in Livy’s scheme of decline: as reported in Book 39, “the beginnings of foreign luxury were introduced into the City by the army from Asia” after the campaigns of Manlius against the Gauls there.32 Both Livy and Cato insist on the foreign origin of luxury and admit its corrupting power. In the same context, like Livy in the third decade, Cato acknowledges too that the spoils of Syracuse transported to Rome by Marcellus have played a damaging role in the evolution of Roman morality:

takes from you the chance of either, since you do not have what it is not allowed you to have”. Tr. Sage (1936) with some modifications. 32  Liv. 39.6.7: Luxuriae enim peregrinae origo ab exercitu Asiatico invecta in urbem est. Ii primum lectos aeratos, vestem stragulam pretiosam, plagulas et alia textilia, et quae tum magnificae supellectis habebantur, monopodia et abacos Romam advexerunt […]: “for the beginnings of foreign luxury were introduced into the City by the army from Asia. They for the first time imported into Rome couches of bronze, valuable robes for coverlets, tapestries and other products of the loom, and what at that time was considered luxurious furniture – tables with one pedestal and sideboards […]”. Tr. Sage (1936).

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

113

Infesta, mihi credite, signa ab Syracusis illata sunt huic urbi. Iam nimis multos audio Corinthi et Athenarum ornamenta laudantes mirantesque et antefixa fictilia deorum Romanorum ridentes. Liv. 34.4.4

Tokens of danger, believe me, were those statues which were brought to this city from Syracuse. Altogether too many people do I hear praising the baubles of Corinth and Athens and laughing at the fictile antefixes of our Roman gods. Livy could not agree more with this remark. All one needs to do to confirm Cato’s analysis is to read what Livy himself has said about the spoils of Marcellus: 1. […] Marcellus, captis Syracusis, […] ornamenta urbis, signa tabulasque, quibus abundabant Syracusae, Romam devexit: 2. hostium quidem illa spolia et parta belli iure; ceterum inde primum initium mirandi Graecarum artium opera licentiaque hinc sacra profanaque omnia volgo spoliandi factum est, quae postremo in Romanos deos, templum id ipsum primum quod a Marcello eximie ornatum est, vertit. 3. Visebantur enim ab externis ad portam Capenam dedicata a M. Marcello templa propter excellentia eius generis ornamenta, quorum perexigua pars comparet. Liv. 25.40.1–3

1. […] Marcellus, after the capture of Syracuse […] as regards the adornments of the city, the statues and paintings which Syracuse possessed in abundance, he carried them away to Rome. 2. They were spoils of the enemy, to be sure, and acquired by right of war. Yet from that came the very beginning of enthusiasm for Greek works of art and consequently of this general licence to despoil all kind of buildings, sacred and profane, a licence which finally turned against Roman gods, and first of all against the very temple which was magnificently adorned by Marcellus. 3. For temples dedicated by Marcus Marcellus near the Porta Capena used to be visited by foreigners on account of their remarkable adornments of that kind; but of these a very small part is still to be seen.33

33  Tr. F. G. Moore (1940).

114

Vassiliades

It follows that both Livy and Cato consider that the bringing to Rome of sophisticated Greek artworks has led to the degeneration of pietas towards the Roman gods. Even though the word luxuria is not mentioned in either of the passages, both Livy and Cato would agree that Marcellus’ initiatives set a bad precedent, which prepared the ground for the ultimate invasion of Rome by luxury. There is, however, an important claim of Cato that Livy could not accept. Cato uses the following historical exemplum to prove the necessity of the Oppian law as an impediment to luxury: Pyrrhus, through his agent Cineas, tried to corrupt both men and women with his presents, but he failed, despite the fact that the Oppian law had not yet been enacted: Nondum lex Oppia ad coercendam luxuriam mulierum lata erat; tamen nulla accepit. Liv. 34.4.6

Not yet had the Oppian law been passed to curb female extravagance, yet not one woman took the gifts. According to Cato, the reason for Cineas’ failure was the same as that which caused the ancient Romans to enact no law on the subject: there was no extravagance to be restrained (nulla erat luxuria quae coerceretur).34 A medical metaphor is then added in support of this idea: Sicut ante morbos necesse est cognitos esse quam remedia eorum, sic cupiditates prius natae sunt quam leges, quae iis modum facerent. Liv. 34.4.8

As it is necessary that diseases be known before their cures, so passions are born before the laws which keep them within bounds. The exemplum and the metaphorical topos used by Cato show implicitly that luxuria was introduced to Rome during the third century, somewhere between the war against Pyrrhus and 215 BC, when the necessity of restraining luxury led to the enactment of the lex Oppia. In other words, luxuria was already present in Rome before 215 BC. It must be underlined that this perception is in 34  Liv. 34.4.7.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

115

direct opposition to Livy’s scheme of decline. Let us recall that, when the historian comments on the luxury objects introduced to Rome by the soldiers of Manlius in 187 BC, he points out: Vix tamen illa, quae tum conspiciebantur, semina erant futurae luxuriae. Liv. 39. 6.9

Yet those things which were then looked upon as remarkable were hardly even the germs of luxury to come. As already mentioned, Marcellus has just set a bad precedent in this matter by transporting to Rome the spoils of Syracuse, some three years after the enactment of the Oppian law.35 Thus Cato’s argument, according to which it was the necessity of restraining luxury that forced the enactment of the lex Oppia in the past, seems unconvincing. On the contrary, Cato is probably right in the way he describes the moral standards of his contemporary Romans, and especially when he makes projections for the Roman morals in the future. He supposes that in his day Cineas would have found many women willing to receive his gifts.36 Then, he warns that the abrogation of the law will encourage a race to luxury among Roman women.37 The consul concludes his long speech, mostly based on reason-oriented arguments, with a metaphor intended to instil fear in the audience.38 With this end in view, he compares luxury after the repeal of the law to a wild beast, first rendered angry and then let loose. Luxury will thus be less endurable than it would be if left undisturbed, and a return to the previous situation will no longer be possible. This warning is in complete accordance with his conviction about the propagation of luxury in the days to come: 35  Chaplin (2000) 98 also stresses that Cato’s claims about the introduction of luxury to Rome are anachronistic and incompatible with Livy’s scheme of decline. 36  Liv. 34.4.11: Si nunc cum illis donis Cineas urbem circumiret, stantes in publico invenisset quae acciperent. “If it were to-day that Cineas were going about the city with those presents he would have found women standing in the streets to receive them”. 37  Liv. 34.4.15: Vultis hoc certamen uxoribus vestris inicere, Quirites, ut divites id habere velint quod nulla alia possit; pauperes, ne ob hoc ipsum contemnantur, supra vires se extendant? “Do you wish, citizens, to start a race like this among your wives, so that the rich shall want to own what no other woman can have and the poor, lest they be despised for their poverty, shall spend beyond their means?” 38  On fear as pathos and so an agent of persuasion, see Arist. Rh. 2.5; Cic. De or. 2.209; also Wisse (1989) 283, 288–9; and ibid. 15–16.

116

Vassiliades

Nolite eodem loco existimare futuram rem quo fuit antequam lex de hoc ferretur. Et hominem improbum non accusari tutius est quam absolui, et luxuria non mota tolerabilior esset quam erit nunc, ipsis vinculis sicut ferae bestiae inritata, deinde emissa. Liv. 34.4.19

Do not think, citizens that the situation which existed before the law was passed will ever return. It is safer for a criminal to go unaccused than to be acquitted; and luxury, left undisturbed, would have been more endurable then than it will be now, when it has been, like a wild beast, first rendered angry by its very fetters and then let loose. In the same way, the validity of Valerius’ argumentation, too, can be checked, if compared to the rest of the Livian narrative. Valerius tries to convince his audience that Cato’s arguments against the gathering of women in the first part of his speech are exaggerated. To this end, he uses ēthos as a means of persuasion, by appealing to the consul’s well-known harsh character in the exordium of his speech. M. Catonem oratorem non solum gravem sed interdum etiam trucem esse scimus omnes, cum ingenio sit mitis. Liv. 34.6.15

We all know, too, that Marcus Cato is an orator not only powerful but sometimes even savage, though he is kind of heart. Cicero mentions the appeal to the ēthos of the opponent as a device used by the speaker to elicit the goodwill of the audience, by arousing hatred and contempt against the opponent.39 In the context of the debate, the appeal to the ēthos of Cato is potentially persuasive, since it would probably arouse the pathos of the audience by alluding to Cato’s unpopular insistence on supporting the Oppian law. The persuasive technique used by Livy’s speaker is also addressed to the reader of the AUC, who, with the benefit of hindsight, is well-informed about Cato’s severe character, which became apparent in his later fierce struggle against luxury during his censorship in 184 BC, and in his obsession with 39  See Cic. De inv. 1.22; Rhet. Her. 1.8: Also Wisse (1989) 97–8 for a discussion of “negative ēthos” as a means of persuasion connected with ēthos and pathos. See also the Introduction to this volume, pp. 3–5, with previous bibliography.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

117

destroying Carthage. The juxtaposition of Valerius’ argument with the Livian narrative is a more direct way of guiding the readers towards the correct assessment of Valerius’ persuasive strategies: one might reasonably argue that Valerius’ description of Cato is an abridged foreshadowing of Livy’s portrayal of the protagonist later in the narrative. Having exposed Cato’s moral qualities in detail, the historian hints at his stern temper and his bitter and immoderate tongue: Asperi procul dubio animi et linguae acerbae et immodice liberae fuit, sed invicti a cupiditatibus animi, rigidae innocentiae, contemptor gratiae, divitiarum. Liv. 39.40.10

Without question he had a stern temper, a bitter tongue and one immoderately free, but he had a soul unconquerable by appetites, an unwavering integrity, and a contempt for influence and wealth.40 After the appeal to the ēthos of Cato, Valerius mentions some historical exempla, which prove that the intervention of women has often been profitable for the state and that Cato’s displeasure at the mobilization of women is thus unjustified.41 The tribune reminds us that it was the intervention of the Sabine women which stopped the fight between the Romans and the Sabines.42 The matrons also turned away from Rome the Volscian legions led by Marcius Coriolanus.43 In addition, Valerius recalls that, during the Second Punic War, widows assisted the treasury with their wealth and the matrons went down to the sea to receive the Idean Mother: would they, then, not 40  Cf. Cic. Mur. 31.66: the moderatio of Cato the Elder is opposed to the stern morality of Cato the Younger. On the portrait of Cato in Livy, Girod (1980); Ducos (2010). 41  Liv. 34.5.7ff. According to Keith (2005) 337–8, whereas Cato stresses that the repeal of the Oppian law will release women from male authority, Livy’s Valerius implies that Roman men should, on the contrary, recover patria potestas over their women, since they – and not the law – would henceforth determine their wives’ dress-code. For an analysis of the general presentation of women through the vocabulary used in the episode of the Oppian law, see also Steenblock (2013) 195–9, who concludes that Livy agrees with the severe analysis of Cato. See also Desideri (1984) who concludes that Cato’s warnings about the change in women’s role in Roman society have been confirmed by history: the emancipation of women becomes more and more a reality after the abrogation of the Oppian law. See also Ducos (2010) 267–72 for a discussion on the juridical aspects of the place of women in the state, as they emerge from the two speeches. 42  Liv. 34.5.8. 43  Liv. 34.5.9.

118

Vassiliades

intervene in a case peculiarly their own, such as the discussion on the Oppian law?44 Strikingly, all these exempla are found not only in the Origines of Cato, as Valerius notes, but also in the earlier narrative of Livy, who does not disguise the part played by women in these episodes either.45 That does not imply, of course, that Livy would approve the turmoil caused by women, who, as he notes, “could not be kept at home by advice (auctoritate) or modesty (verecundia) or their husbands’ orders (imperio virorum)”.46 Valerius himself admits that the current turmoil caused by women was not similar to those other cases.47 However, in the light of the historical exempla, which Valerius employs in his speech according to Livy’s narrative, it may be supposed that the historian would agree with him that Cato is adopting an extreme point of view by conceding women no role in public affairs. Valerius then tries to reverse Cato’s arguments in the second part of his speech by demonstrating that the Oppian law could not have been a sumptuary law. In Valerius’ view, the aim of the lex Oppia was not to restrain women’s luxury, but to cope with the exceptional financial circumstances of the war. The law can thus be subject to change, since the war has already ended. What necessitated its enactment, according to Valerius, were the lack of money and national distress after the victories of Hannibal. More precisely, Valerius stresses that Cato should not call this gathering of women a sedition because the matrons are requesting to repeal, in times of peace and prosperity, a law that was passed against them during the difficult circumstances of the war.48 It is natural, in his opinion, that laws passed in times of war should no longer be relevant in times of peace.49 44  Liv. 34.5.10. 45  Liv. 1.13, 2.40, 24.18.13–14, 29.14.10–14. 46  Liv. 34.1.5. 47  Liv. 34.5.11: dissimiles, inquis, causae sunt. nec mihi causas aequare propositum est; nihil novi factum purgare satis est “these cases, you say, are different. It is not my purpose to prove them similar; it suffices if I prove that this is nothing new”. 48  Liv. 34.5.5: matronae vos rogassent ut legem in se latam per bellum temporibus duris in pace et florenti ac beata re publica abrogaretis “the matrons, in the streets, had requested you to repeal, in a time of peace and in a rich and prosperous commonwealth, a law that was passed against them in the trying days of a war”. 49  Liv. 34.6.5–6. Ducos (2010) 275–7 shows that the debate on the Oppian law promotes a critical reflection about the relationship between law and time, by promoting two radically opposite conceptions: according to Cato, the passage of time reveals the value of laws by putting their efficiency to the test. On the contrary, according to Valerius, there are two categories of laws: those that are of perpetual utility and the measures imposed by the circumstances.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

119

He then attempts to strengthen this association between the enactment of the Oppian law and the circumstances of war. For, in a way summarizing Livy’s account in Books 22–24, he mentions a series of measures taken by the Roman authorities in that period and examples illustrating the generosity of the Roman people. All these examples are completely consistent with Livy’s narrative: in order to address the lack of troops and money in the treasury, slaves were indeed being purchased for employment as soldiers and the owners agreed to be paid after the war;50 the contractors also agreed to furnish grain and other goods needed on the very day of settlement. Valerius is most probably alluding to the shipment of supplies to Spain in 215 BC.51 Then, Valerius sums up Livy’s narrative of 214 BC, when he mentions that Romans furnished slaves to be rowers in proportion to their census, bearing the costs themselves.52 Likewise, according to Livy’s narrative, the Roman people did indeed follow the example set by the Senators and give their gold and silver to the state. This happened not only in 214, but also in 210 BC, when the senators were forbidden to have more than a certain quantity of gold, silver or bronze at home.53 Thus, since all the examples given by Valerius derive from Livy’s narrative, it may be concluded that Livy shares Valerius’ praise of Romans’ selflessness during that period. In the same way, Valerius’ rhetorical question could be Livy’s, too: tali tempore in luxuria et ornatu matronae occupatae errant ut ad eam coercendam lex desiderata sit, cum, quia Cereris sacrificium lugentibus omnibus matronis intermissum erat, senatus finiri luctum triginta diebus iussit? Liv. 34.6.15

At such a time were the matrons so absorbed in luxury and adornment that the Oppian law was needed to restrain them, when, since the rites of Ceres had to be omitted because all the women were in mourning, the senate limited the period of mourning to thirty days?

50  Liv. 34.6.12 = 22.57.11, 24.18.12 (cf. Liv. 22.61.2). 51  Liv. 34.6.13 = 23.49.1–3. 52  Liv. 34.6.13 = 24.11.7–9. 53  Liv. 34.6.14 = 24.18.13–15, 26.36.

120

Vassiliades

Livy also reports the limitation of the period of mourning of the matrons in 216 BC.54 It is clear that the arguments, which the historian attributes to the tribune, conform to his own scheme of decline. According to this, Valerius rightly stresses that there was no luxury to restrain in Rome in 215 BC when the Oppian law was enacted. Hence, the lex Oppia was an austerity measure and not a sumptuary law. There is, however, a point in Valerius’ argumentation, which Livy would probably not accept: the fact that Valerius underestimates the moral dangers inherent in the abrogation of the law. The tribune wonders: Sine qua cum per tot annos matronae optimis moribus vixerint, quod tandem ne abrogata ea effundantur ad luxuriam periculum est? Liv. 34.6.9

Since for many years our matrons lived virtuous lives without it (i.e. the law), what danger is there that when it is repealed they will rush into riotous luxury? This question would seem completely naïve and ironic to the reader of Livy who has an overall view of Rome’s moral evolution, as it is already exposed in the preface and detailed in Livy’s narrative. The reader already knows that Marcellus had set a bad precedent by bringing the spoils of Syracuse to Rome, and that luxuria would “officially” move to Rome a few years later, within the same decade as the writing of the AUC. 4

Failed Persuasion and Decline

To recapitulate, the persuasiveness of the arguments and rhetorical techniques which Livy chooses to put in the mouth of his speakers can be examined in comparison with the rest of Livy’s narrative. Neither Cato’s nor Valerius’ arguments seem completely persuasive for Livy’s readers. Cato is convincing in the way he conceives the present historical circumstances of Rome. In keeping with Livy’s general scheme of decline, he realises that Rome is in a transitional period in terms of morality. However, due to the extreme sternness of his character, underlined in Valerius’ speech and confirmed in Livy’s portrait of Cato, he cannot correctly understand the original character of the law as being an austerity measure rather than a sumptuary law. The reason for this 54  Liv. 22.56.4.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

121

misinterpretation is the fact that he wrongly considers that luxury had already spread in Rome before the enactment of the Oppian law. This probably explains why his warnings, although correct and thus convincing to Livy’s readers, have not convinced his audience in 195 BC. By contrast, Valerius manages to persuade the Romans, as well as appear more persuasive to Livy’s readers, by insisting on the exaggerations of Cato’s arguments. His evaluation of the original scope of the Oppian law conforms to Livy’s perception of decline more closely than Cato’s does. Nevertheless, Valerius, unlike Cato, does not seem to realize that Rome has already entered a new phase in her history and that Roman mores should be defended against the invasion of foreign luxury. Therefore, the repeal of a law which could restrain luxury, despite its initial financial scope, is a mistake in the current historical circumstances. Valerius Maximus later brings this reproach against men of this period: Non enim providerunt saeculi illius viri ad quem cultum tenderet insoliti coetus pertinax studium aut quo se usque effusura esset legum victrix audacia. Quod si animi muliebris apparatus intueri potuissent, quibus cotidie aliquid novitatis sumptuosius adiectum est, in ipso introitu ruenti luxuriae obstitissent. Val. Max. 9.1.3

For the men of that epoch did not foresee to what a pitch the insistent urge for unaccustomed finery was leading or how far audacity victorious over the laws would spread. If their minds could have envisaged those feminine displays to which some more expensive novelty has been added every day, they would have blocked the career of extravagance at the very outset.55 Contrary to the common tendency of scholarship to decide which of the two speakers Livy believes to be right, it has been shown that Livy juxtaposes two rhetorical attempts, which should be only partially convincing to the readers and which equally failed to prevent Rome’s decline. The informed reader of Livy is primed to check the means of persuasion used by the two speakers by comparing their speeches to Livy’s narrative, in order to judge the extent to which the arguments of each speaker are convincing or not according to the historian. Thus the reader may conclude that even if Valerius has managed to 55  Tr. Shackleton-Bailey (2000).

122

Vassiliades

persuade his contemporary audience, neither he nor Cato are wholly convincing to one who is familiar with the whole of Livy’s narrative. The juxtaposition of these two equally failed attempts at persuasion allows the reader to explain and better understand the propagation of luxuria recounted in the next few books. The failure of the two orators facilitated the spread of luxury, since every restraint on it had by then been removed. The closing scene of the episode leaves no doubt about the failure to resolve the crisis with any lasting effect: 1. Haec cum contra legem proque lege dicta essent, aliquanto maior frequentia mulierum postero die sese in publicum effudit, 2. unoque agmine omnes Brutorum ianuas obsederunt, qui collegarum rogationi intercedebant, nec ante abstiterunt quam remissa intercessio ab tribunis est. 3. Nulla deinde dubitatio fuit quin omnes tribus legem abrogarent. Viginti annis post abrogata est quam lata. Liv. 34.8.1–3

1. When these speeches against and for the bill had been delivered, the next day an even greater crowd of women appeared in public, 2. and all of them in a body beset the doors of the Bruti, who were vetoing their colleagues’ proposal, and they did not desist until the threat of veto was withdrawn by the tribunes. 3. After that there was no question that all the tribes would vote to repeal the law. The law was repealed twenty years after it was passed. In the first and third decades, many episodes of crisis conclude with a scene of reconciliation between the orders, where Livy often exposes the sentiments of joy that prevail among the Romans due to the restoration of concord.56 Instead of having a resting scene, however, Livy closes the debate on the Oppian law with a scene of violence. In the passage, the final and unanimous decision to repeal the law was the result not of the restoration of concord and the moderation of all parties, but of women’s obstinacy. This end was an ill omen for the future of Rome, which can be attributed to the fact that the audience of the two men did not manage to do what the informed reader of Livy is now able to 56  A detailed study of these scenes would carry us far from our topic. See for example Liv. 2.40.9, 2.61.9, 3.53–54, 4.60.1–3, 5.55.3–5, 6.42.9–14, 7.40–41, 9.46.14–15, 22.30, 22.61.14. This leitmotiv of resolved crises in the first decades of the AUC is widely explored in the first part of my PhD dissertation (Vassiliades [2016] 127–80 and 853–79) forthcoming in Ausonius editions 2020.

The lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7

123

do: to distinguish between persuasive and unpersuasive arguments in the two speeches and evaluate their validity. The way now seems open for the propagation of luxury in the next books, or for a further “gradual relaxation of discipline”, to use the words of the preface.57 The “official” beginning of decline, which coincides with the introduction of luxury by Manlius in Book 39, is already foreshadowed in Books 34–37. There, Livy often insists on the abundance of luxury products transported to Rome during the triumphs of victorious generals, mainly in Greece and Asia.58 Failed persuasion has thus led to the acceleration of moral decline. 5 Conclusions The debate on the lex Oppia offers a prominent example of how persuasion in historiographical discourse can raise questions of historical and philosophical importance. In our case, the question raised concerns the interaction between rhetorical persuasion and the evolution of mores in a state. In this respect, Livy seems to adopt the position of Cicero in the preface of his treaty On Invention: an orator must combine wisdom and eloquence in order to be useful to his country.59 Cato’s severity harmed both his wisdom and his eloquence. Even if Cato’s proposition was wiser than that of Valerius, the latter has been more eloquent in convincing his audience. In the end, neither has helped Rome to stop the race towards decline. 57  Liv. praef. 9: labente deinde paulatim disciplina. 58  Liv. 34.52 (triumph of T. Quinctius Flamininus after his victories in Greece); 36.40.10ff. (triumph of Scipio Nasica over the Boii); 37.46.3–4 (M. Acilius over the Aetolians); 37.59.2–3 (triumph of L. Scipio Asiaticus after his victories over Antiochus in Asia Minor). 59  See Cic. De inv. 1.1: Ac me quidem diu cogitantem ratio ipsa in hanc potissimum sententiam ducit, ut existimem sapientiam sine eloquentia parum prodesse civitatibus, eloquentiam vero sine sapientia nimium obesse plerumque, prodesse nunquam. “For my own part, after long thought, I have been led by reason itself to hold this opinion first and foremost, that wisdom without eloquence does too little for the good of states, but that eloquence without wisdom is generally highly disadvantageous and is never helpful”. Tr. Hubbell (1949).

chapter 8

The Art of Ruling an Empire: Persuasion at Point Zero Michael Paschalis By comparison with Homer, in Vergil’s Aeneid both the dialogues and the number of participants are greatly reduced. The most common type of speech is that which receives no reply at all (127 speeches and eight soliloquies, out of 333/2901). In dialogues speakers are commonly only two. With regard to these points, Gilbert Highet observes the following: In the Homeric poems it is unusual for one character to address another without receiving a spoken reply, and conversations in which three or four people join are common. In Vergil, the reverse. Commands are issued, narratives are recounted, encouragements and challenges are uttered, often without a word of acknowledgment or reply.2 It should furthermore be noted that often Vergilian dialogues may actually be parallel monologues, the function of which is not to persuade but to shed light on the emotions and the psychology of the parties involved and to vividly portray individual morals and attitudes. Furthermore, what may appear as persuasion of an interlocutor is frequently imposed by factors outside the sphere of rhetoric. Finally yet importantly, the reader of the Aeneid may come across very persuasive speeches which have no practical effect, in the sense that they do not promote epic action. It is indeed surprising that most studies of speeches and rhetoric in the Aeneid, including George Kennedy (1972, 392–7), Joseph Farrell (1997) and Emanuele Narducci (2007) have missed these substantially different and very significant aspects of Vergilian epic rhetoric. A distinct exception is Richard Heinze who observes the following in this respect: 1  If each of Aeneas’ narratives are treated as one long continuous speech, and the many smaller speeches within it are not counted, then the total number of speeches in the Aeneid is 290; if these smaller individual speeches are counted, then there are 333 speeches in the epic; cf. Highet (1972) 301–2. 2  Highet (1972) 23; on statistics see appendix 3.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_009

The Art of Ruling an Empire

125

Conversation, whether it runs on without any real result, or is directed to some sort of end with a greater or lesser degree of purposefulness, seldom actually furthers the action of an epic: anything required for that could be presented more concisely in other ways. The purpose of conversation is to bring the characters nearer to the reader by depicting relationships, and by developing, establishing and altering these relationships before the reader’s eyes. […]. His [= Virgil’s] understanding of psychology is enough for him to present clearly what does concern him: individual morals and emotions. Moreover, it is remarkable how “atomistic”, so to speak, is the world of men, which Virgil depicts in his epic. Homer shows us countless relationships between his characters; Virgil’s characters almost all stand alone.3 The most extensive rhetorical debate takes place in the council of King Latinus after the defeat of the Latin army (Aen. 11.252–444). The main issue is war or peace with the Trojans and involves four speakers (Venulus, Latinus, Drances and Turnus; indirectly also Diomedes and Aeneas), but no decision is reached. When a messenger announces that Aeneas’ army is advancing against the city, the debate is interrupted leaving a divided council (11.445: illi haec inter se dubiis de rebus agebant / certantes). The debate serves to give a vivid picture of individual passions and ambitions clashing within the Latin camp. The resumption of hostilities becomes the de facto course of action and in the confusion that follows Turnus assumes the leadership of the Latin army (compare and contrast the outcome of Trojan assemblies in Il. 7.345–79 and 18.245–313). More enlightening is the debate concerning the fate of the Wooden Horse in Aeneid 2. Initially (31–9) Thymoetes and Capys offer contrasting advice as to whether the Horse should be dragged into the city or destroyed or searched for enemy soldiers; but the Trojans are divided and the issue is left undecided (39: scinditur incertum studia in contraria vulgus). By contrast, in Homer those who propose that the Horse be dragged to the acropolis win the debate (Od. 8.504–10). Next Laocoon intervenes and delivers a powerful appeal to the people not to let the Horse inside because it conceals enemy forces and represents a mortal threat to the city. Then he hurls his spear against the Horse’s belly:

3  Heinze (1993) 319 (= 1915, 410–1).

126

Paschalis

Primus ibi ante omnis magna comitante caterva Laocoon ardens summa decurrit ab arce, et procul “o miseri, quae tanta insania, cives? creditis avectos hostis? aut ulla putatis dona carere dolis Danaum? sic notus Ulixes? aut hoc inclusi ligno occultantur Achivi, aut haec in nostros fabricata est machina muros, inspectura domos venturaque desuper urbi, aut aliquis latet error; equo ne credite, Teucri. quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentis”. sic fatus validis ingentem viribus hastam in latus inque feri curvam compagibus alvum contorsit. stetit illa tremens, uteroque recusso insonuere cavae gemitumque dedere cavernae. et, si fata deum, si mens non laeva fuisset, impulerat ferro Argolicas foedare latebras, Troiaque nunc staret, Priamique arx alta maneres.

40

45

50

55

Aen. 2.40–564

Enter Laocoön first – and a large crowd of followers with him –/ Running, ahead of the rest, from the citadel, blazing with passion,/ Shouting while still far off: “Poor citizens, what utter madness/ Seizes you? Do you believe the foe’s gone, or that gifts from Danaän/ Donors don’t involve ruses? Is that what we know of Ulysses?/ Either this structure of wood is concealing Achaeans inside it,/ Or it is an engine of war they’ve designed to destroy our defences,/ Spy on our homes, make aerial assault on our city, or some less/ Evident trap. Sons of Teucer, whatever this horse is, be careful./ I am afraid of Danaäns, not least when they offer donations”./ This said, he launched at its flank, with enormous force, a huge javelin/ Into the wild beast’s paunch, at a curve in the joints of its structure,/ And hit his mark. For it stuck there and quivered. The cavernous hollows/ Rang with the sound of the wounded womb and emitted a deep moan./ Had not god-given fates, divine minds (and our own) been against us,/ That would have driven our swords to turn Argive lair into bloodbath,/ Troy would endure to this today; you’d still stand, fortress of Priam.

4  The text of the Aeneid is by Mynors (1969) and the translation by Ahl (2007).

The Art of Ruling an Empire

127

Yet the Trojans remain completely unaffected by Laocoon’s passionate and potentially persuasive speech that is supported by the distinct ēthos of the speaker (authority, powerful and determined attitude). They do not even become suspicious upon hearing the resounding belly of the Horse, which offers the strongest possible confirmation of Laocoon’s argument that the Horse is hollow; and consequently they do not search to see if there are enemy soldiers inside it. The issue is left undecided a second time. The narrator attributes the Trojans’ lack of reaction to factors lying outside the sphere of rhetoric: “god-given fates” (fata deum) and “ill-omened minds” (mens laeva). Then some shepherds appear dragging the Achaean Sinon to King Priam, his hands tied behind his back. The deceitful Sinon tells a false story about himself being a victim of Odysseus and the Horse being an offering to Minerva. He warns the Trojans that its violation would bring ruin to the city while its preservation in the citadel would bring conquests to them (2.57–194). Sinon’s speech has been considered a masterwork of persuasion.5 The narrator’s own words confirm this conclusion: Talibus insidiis periurique arte Sinonis credita res, captique dolis lacrimisque coactis quos neque Tydides nec Larisaeus Achilles, non anni domuere decem, non mille carinae. Aen. 2.195–8

So spoke Sinon, an artist in perjury, setting his ambush./ And we believed him. He fooled us with well-staged weeping and ruses,/ Conquering men neither Tydeus’ son nor Larissa’s Achilles,/ Not even war’s ten years and its thousand vessels could vanquish. Yet there is paradox here. Despite what the narrator says, Sinon’s most persuasive speech does not cause the Trojans to drag the Horse into the city. The only things the reader notices are the effects of Sinon’s speech on the audience and the emotions it generates, Trojan credulity and mental blindness:

5  See especially Heinze (1993) 6–9 (=1915, 8–12). Heinze explains how skillfully Sinon manages to turn the initial Trojan hostility first into burning curiosity and then into deep sympathy, thus managing to make his false story credible. He adds that in the course of his speech Sinon reveals himself gradually as characterized by a whole range of the very noblest qualities, which the German scholar enumerates.

128

Paschalis

His lacrimis vitam damus et miserescimus ultro. ipse viro primus manicas atque arta levari vincla iubet Priamus dictisque ita fatur amicis: “quisquis es, amissos hinc iam obliviscere Graios (noster eris) […]”. Aen. 2. 145–9

Tears won him life, which we granted. We freely gave him our pity./ Priam himself took the lead, giving orders to strike off his shackles/ And the connecting chains, then addressed him in tones full of friendship:/ “Henceforth, whoever you are, forget you have lost Greece for ever./ You will be ours […]”. What actually stirs the Trojans into action is not rhetoric but a frightful supernatural event: Hic aliud maius miseris multoque tremendum obicitur magis atque improvida pectora turbat. Aen. 2.199–200

Then, something greater was cast in our hapless way, something far more/ Frightful. It startled and muddled our minds. We could not have foreseen it. The two serpents from Tenedos that kill Laocoon and his sons while he is engaged in offering sacrifice to Neptune terrify the Trojans. They interpret the event as Laocoon’s punishment for having violated a divine offering when he hurled his spear against it and demand that the Horse be taken to the temple of Minerva on the citadel: Tum vero tremefacta novus per pectora cunctis insinuat pavor, et scelus expendisse merentem Laocoonta ferunt, sacrum qui cuspide robur laeserit et tergo sceleratam intorserit hastam. ducendum ad sedes simulacrum orandaque divae numina conclamant. dividimus muros et moenia pandimus urbis.

30

Aen. 2.228–34

New terror sneaks into every heart, each already pulsing/ Wild in its fear; and Laocoön, men begin saying, has simply/ Paid for his crime, as he surely deserved, since he had, with his blade-point,/ Pierced holy wood,

The Art of Ruling an Empire

129

stabbed the horse in the back with a murderous spear-cast./ Soon there’s a general demand that this symbol be brought to the temple/ And that the goddess’ grace be implored./ We start to breach our own walls, we open our city’s defences. In the unfolding of the Wooden Horse narrative we have seen rhetoric fail at three separate points. Of the three means of persuasion, ēthos, pathos and logos, the third one, which was earlier highlighted in Laocoon’s speech,6 acquires prominence independently of rhetoric but has no effect on the Trojans. I mean that the supreme appeal to their reason comes while the Horse is being dragged through the city gates: it stops four times at the threshold and four times the weapons clash in its belly (242–3 quater ipso in limine portae / substitit atque utero sonitum quater arma dedere). Yet, the Trojans fail to recognize the palpable truth, that the Horse is carrying armed soldiers inside and, in the words of Aeneas who includes himself in this course towards self-destruction, they “press on oblivious and blind with frenzy” (244: instamus tamen immemores caecique furore). When reason fails as a means of persuasion, the other two means assume complete control. The issue becomes a battle of emotions in the hearts of the Trojans; and quite naturally the divine portent gains the upper hand over human appeals. Analogous situations can be seen elsewhere in the Aeneid: in the driving forces behind the action of the Trojan women to burn the ships in 5.604–79, behind the start of the war in Latium in 7.286–600, and behind the action of the Rutulians to break the truce with the Trojans in 12.216–65. Relevant to any discussion of the nature and function of rhetoric in the Aeneid are Anchises’ words to Aeneas, when the hero meets him in the underworld: […] excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), vivos ducent de marmore vultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos. Aen. 6.847–53

6  Aen. 2.43–4: “Do you believe the foe’s gone, or that gifts from Danaän/ Donors don’t involve ruses? Is that what we know of Ulysses?/ Either this structure of wood is concealing Achaeans inside it,/ Or it’s an engine of war they’ve designed to destroy our defences […]”.

130

Paschalis

[…] Others will hammer out bronzes that breathe in more lifelike and gentler/ Ways, I suspect, create truer expressions of life out of marble,/ Make better speeches, or plot, with the sweep of their compass, the heaven’s/ Movements, predict the ascent of the sky’s constellations. Well, let them!/ You, who are Roman, recall how to govern mankind with your power/ These will be your special “Arts”: the enforcement of peace as a habit,/ Mercy for those cast down and relentless war upon proud men. In Anchises’ vision of Rome the art of persuasion is set apart from the task of governing the Empire. Indeed Aeneas, the archetypal Roman leader, stands practically alone among the characters of the Vergilian epic and carries alone the burden of founding the Empire. Persuasion is inherently irrelevant to his fated mission and to the course of history as anticipated or reflected in the mythical world of the epic. The exercise of persuasion between divinities with regard to Aeneas’ Roman mission lies beyond the sphere of human action7 and in the final analysis it serves temporary needs of the plot, because the foundation of the Empire is predetermined by the fata and guaranteed by Jupiter. Aeneas feels the effect of Juno’s wrath but a direct rhetorical exchange between him and the goddess is out of the question. Rhetoric is, however, allowed some space in this context. It serves to give vent to the emotions of Juno and Aeneas in parallel programmatic monologues. At the beginning of the epic narrative, a frustrated and angry Juno complains of her powerlessness to prevent Aeneas from reaching Italy (1.36–49). A little later the Trojan hero, caught in a sea storm of cosmic dimensions that was raised by the god Aeolus on Juno’s command and facing imminent inglorious death at sea, wishes that he had died fighting at Troy: “Oh, three, four times fortunate/ were those who chanced to die in front of their father’s eyes/ under Troy’s high walls!” (94–6). What Juno fears above all is the creation of the Roman Empire because it is fated to destroy her beloved Carthage (1.19–22). Therefore, she proposes to Venus a permanent wedding bond between Aeneas and Dido, her intent being to thwart fate and divine plans regarding Aeneas’ settlement in Italy (4.90–128). The emotional relationship with the Queen of Carthage is the most serious obstacle to the accomplishment of his mission that the hero encounters in his wanderings. The Carthage episode contains the longest speech in the Aeneid. It is Aeneas’ account of the fall of Troy and his wanderings, which covers Books 2 and 3 of the epic. As seen especially in the opening of Book 4 (4.1–30), his narrative has a profound emotional effect on Dido, whom Cupid has already 7  On the speeches of Venus, Juno and Jupiter, see Highet (1972) 124–32.

The Art of Ruling an Empire

131

caused to fall in love with Aeneas (1.695–722). The speech is not formally intended to persuade/win over the audience, but nonetheless it increases the Queen’s attachment to the hero, in conjunction with the effect of his appearance and overall personality.8 Rhetoric figures prominently in the narrative after Aeneas has been commanded by Mercury, Jupiter’s divine messenger, to leave Carthage and resume his Roman mission (4.219–78). Dido gets wind, however, of his preparations for departure and accuses him of deception and betrayal (4.296–330). But the confrontation actually consists in parallel monologues, with Aeneas standing his ground (4.331–61) and Dido replying with curses. She eventually breaks off her speech and flees leaving Aeneas “fearful and hesitant and ready to say more” (4.362–92). Persuasion was futile and actually meaningless under these circumstances: Aeneas could not have been persuaded to stay because his mission was predetermined and he was in addition obliged to obey a command coming from Jupiter himself. Dido could not have been persuaded to change her mind about Aeneas’ departure because she felt utterly betrayed by someone for whose love she had sacrificed her own mission as leader of the people of Carthage. It is important, arguably, that Vergil portrayed the future clash between Rome and Carthage as having originated not just in mythical times and not just in the rupture between lovers, but also in the total absence of persuasion, in the impossible communication between the mythical founders of Carthage and Rome. The plot of the Aeneid may be mythical but the Roman future is fated and predicted by the gods who possess knowledge of it (Jupiter in Book 1.254–96 and Vulcan in Book 8.626–731) and by mortals who acquire such knowledge after death (Anchises in Book 6.752–892). Further historical perspectives can also be gained, depending on the reader’s approach, by screening mythical episodes and characters. In constructing the mythical plot of the epic Vergil took into account Rome’s foreign as well as civil wars. The wars with Carthage lurk in the background of the first half of the Aeneid. The war in Italy, which covers the second half, is about conquest, but the further notion of civil war underlies the struggle between Trojans and Latins, since the two peoples are destined to eventually become one (12.791–842). The interpretation of the end of the Aeneid, Aeneas’ killing of the suppliant Turnus, has been a hotly debated issue. It concerns me only from the viewpoint of the role of rhetoric in the epic as it may represent the most conspicuous case 8  See in particular Aen. 4.3–5: “Images course through her mind: of his courage, his family distinction./ Each word he’s spoken is fixed in her heart, each facial expression. […]”. Cf. also Aen. 1.748–56.

132

Paschalis

of failed persuasion. Wounded Turnus has fallen to his knees and stretching out his right hand he concedes victory to Aeneas and the hand of Lavinia. His only request is that the Trojan hero may show pity for his aged father and return him alive or dead to his own kin. He concludes by pleading with Aeneas not to extend his hatred any further: ille humilis supplex oculos dextramque precantem protendens “equidem merui nec deprecor” inquit; “utere sorte tua. miseri te si qua parentis tangere cura potest, oro (fuit et tibi talis Anchises genitor) Dauni miserere senectae et me, seu corpus spoliatum lumine mavis, redde meis. vicisti et victum tendere palmas Ausonii videre; tua est Lavinia coniunx, ulterius ne tende odiis”.

930

935

Aen. 12.930–8

Low on the ground and on bended knee, he appeals with extended/ Hand, with an earnest look in his eyes, and declares: ‘I’ve deserved this,/ Nor am I begging for life. Opportunity’s yours; and so use it./ But, if the love of a parent can touch you at all (for you once had/ Just such a father, Anchises), I beg you to pity the aged/ Daunus, and give me, or if you prefer, my sightless cadaver,/ Back to my kin. You’ve won; the Ausonians have witnessed the vanquished/ Reaching his hands out to make his appeal. Now Lavinia’s your wife./ Don’t press your hate any further. Aeneas is moved by Turnus’ words and momentarily considers sparing him, but then he notices Pallas’ baldric slung across his shoulder. The painful memory of the death of his young protegé comes back to him and is next transformed into terrible anger that drives him to exact retribution. Before piercing the opponent’s chest with his sword Aeneas vents his emotions into a brief reply: stetit acer in armis Aeneas volvens oculos dextramque repressit; et iam iamque magis cunctantem flectere sermo coeperat, infelix umero cum apparuit alto balteus et notis fulserunt cingula bullis Pallantis pueri, victum quem vulnere Turnus straverat atque umeris inimicum insigne gerebat.

The Art of Ruling an Empire

133

ille, oculis postquam saevi monimenta doloris exuviasque hausit, furiis accensus et ira terribilis: “tune hinc spoliis indute meorum eripiare mihi? Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit”. hoc dicens ferrum adverso sub pectore condit fervidus; ast illi solvuntur frigore membra vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras Aen. 12.938–52

Aeneas, relentless in combat,/ Stops; and though rolling his eyes, he holds back his hand from the death-stroke./ Slowly but surely, the words take effect. He’s begun hesitating,/ But when a harness catches his gaze, high on Turnus’ shoulder,/ Gleaming with amulet studs, those pleas have no chance of fulfilment:/ Pallas’ oh so familiar belt, which Turnus had shouldered/ After defeating and killing the boy. It’s the mark of a hated/ Personal foe. As his eyes drink in these mementoes of savage/ Pain, these so bitter spoils, Aeneas grows fearsome in anger,/ Burning with fire of the Furies. ‘You, dressed in the spoils of my dearest,/ Think that you could escape me? Pallas gives you this death-stroke,/ yes Pallas/ Makes you the sacrifice, spills your criminal blood in atonement!’/ And, as he speaks, he buries the steel in the heart that confronts him,/ Boiling with rage. Cold shivers send Turnus’ limbs into spasm./ Life flutters off on a groan, under protest, down among shadows. The ēthos (humble posture, admission of guilt and defeat, concession of Lavinia) and pathos of the suppliant Turnus (appeal in the name of Anchises and his own aged father to send his body back to his kin) are perfectly adapted to the situation and so is his concluding appeal to logos (“Now Lavinia’s your wife./ Do not press your hate any further”). Aeneas, so the narrator tells us, would have been persuaded by Turnus to spare him, had not a factor extraneous to rhetoric, the sight on Turnus’ shoulder of arms seized from dead Pallas, completely changed his attitude. The present scene drastically reconfigures the one between Achilles and dying Hector in Iliad 22. In the Iliad there is an exchange of two speeches on each side. Achilles does not change his mind abruptly but remains determined and inflexible from beginning to end. Also the last speech is assigned not to Achilles but to Hector who confesses his failure to persuade Achilles: “By just looking at you I knew that I could not persuade you, because your heart is made of iron” (356–7: ἦ σ’ εὖ γιγνώσκων προτιόσσομαι, οὐδ’ ἄρ’ ἔμελλον/ πείσειν· ἦ γὰρ σοί γε σιδήρεος ἐν φρεσὶ θυμός).

134

Paschalis

In the Aeneid we are (once again) faced with a potentially highly persuasive speech that fails to persuade because a factor outside the sphere of rhetoric suddenly rouses an overpowering emotion in the Trojan hero. Vergil did not portray Aeneas as a second Achilles, who is from the start impervious to persuasion. For Turnus he constructed one powerful speech out of Hector’s two, adding features which enhanced its persuasiveness to the highest point. Aeneas became a hero capable of being persuaded and about to be persuaded to spare the life of his arch-enemy but who is eventually driven to silence him with his sword. Formally the killing of Turnus concludes the conquest of Italy (more precisely of Latium) and lays the foundation of the Roman Empire (Aen. 1.33: Romanam condere gentem). Regardless of how one may interpret Aeneas’ action, the end of the epic reinforces in a most conspicuous manner Anchises’ words to Aeneas, the archetypal Roman leader: the art of persuasion is not just irrelevant to but even incompatible with the art of ruling an Empire. The end of the Aeneid can be also be viewed retrospectively as the conclusion of Roman civil wars and the assumption of power by a single ruler. In this respect it could serve as a mythical paradigm for developments within the Empire. Throughout the first century AD, from the age of Tiberius to the age of Trajan, the Romans debated the issue of the decline of oratory.9 In the Dialogus de oratoribus, the last document in this almost 90-year-long debate, Tacitus offered a historically determined view, that oratory was suppressed by the sole government of the Princeps: […] mediis divi Augusti temporibus habitae, postquam longa temporum quies et continuum populi otium et assidua senatus tranquillitas et maxime principis disciplina ipsam quoque eloquentiam sicut omnia alia pacaverat Tac. Dialogus 38.2

[…] in the middle of the reign of Augustus, when in consequence of the long period of peace, and the unbroken spell of inactivity on the part of the commons and of peaceableness on the part of the senate, by reason also of the working of the great imperial system, a hush had fallen upon eloquence, as indeed it had upon the world at large. Tr. Peterson and Winterbottom 1970

9  Heldmann (1982) 213–99.

part 3 Emotions

∵

chapter 9

Feel between the Lines: Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory Andreas Serafim 1 Introduction Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O’Donnell provide a model for persuasion in their book Propaganda and Persuasion. They define persuasion as “a complex, continuing, interactive process in which a sender and a receiver are linked by symbols, verbal and nonverbal, through which the persuader attempts to influence the persuadee to adopt a change in a given attitude or behaviour because the persuadee has had perceptions enlarged or changed”.1 Since Aristotle, appealing to emotions has been recognized as one of the most effective symbols that link the speaker with the audience. The messages sent by speakers to the audience, in ancient or contemporary contexts of public speaking, are more successful when framed with emotional overtones that have the potential to affect – i.e. shape, reinforce or alter – the emotional state, reasoning and actions of the receivers. Speakers who had gained mastery both in the evocation of emotion and in the emotional framing of argumentation were believed in the ancient sources to be among the most successful practitioners of persuasion in public speaking. This chapter explores the ways in which linguistic and pragmatic features of speeches of Attic forensic oratory are used to stir up emotions, and how these emotions create a link, or better a community, between the speaker and the audience, enabling the first to affect the emotional, cognitive and behavioural attitudes of the second. In selecting passages for analysis all instances of attempted emotional arousal in forensic orations were initially reviewed, with those examples where their use within the context of the speech appeared to complement other rhetorical and pragmatic features (such as medical terminology and religious argumentation) being identified for further detailed analysis. We should always bear in mind of course that, given that there are no visual recordings of what happened in the ancient Athenian lawcourts as 1  Jowett and O’Donnell (1986) 31. For a detailed discussion of the meaning and the defining features of persuasion, see the Introduction to this volume.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_010

138

Serafim

the result of emotion-driven speeches, the precise reaction of the lawcourt audience will perpetually elude us. The most achievable aim of any inquiry in regards to the use of emotions in the ancient lawcourt is, therefore, inevitably limited to shedding light on what emotional appeals might have done, or aimed to do, in the minds and emotions of the audience. The synergy between emotional arousal and persuasion is well established in ancient rhetorical theory. Demosthenes himself notes that judicial verdicts are affected by feelings such as pity, envy and anger (19.228; cf. Antiph. 5.72 where a reference can be found to anger that affects the people’s judgements).2 In Rh. 1356a1–4, Aristotle offers a thorough examination of three means of persuasion: argument, the character of the speaker and the disposition created in the hearer (τὸν ἀκροατὴν διαθεῖναί πως). For Aristotle to refer to the persuaded hearer as “being disposed in some way” is to refer to his emotional condition, the manipulation of which is central to judicial oratory. “[Persuasion occurs] through the hearers when they are led to feel emotions by the speech; for we do not give the same judgment when grieved and rejoicing or when being friendly and hostile” (1356a14–6). In the same vein: “the emotions are all those affections which cause men to change their opinion in regard to their judgments” (1378a19–20). Aristotle identifies and discusses three significant features of emotions: the disposition of the agent, the target at which the emotions are directed, and what causes them (1378a22–4). This threefold set of features explains how emotions can be used for persuasive purposes in the lawcourt: Speaker A, the bearer of emotions, displays his negative emotions towards Speaker B, the target, and then, by explaining their cause, he seeks to communicate these emotions to the audience, to affect its verdict and to invite it to vote against his opponent. This invitation can be seen as an attempt to forge a rapport between the speaker and the audience, known as “emotional community”. This term, coined by Barbara Rosenwein, refers to “a group of people animated by common or similar interests, emotional styles and valuations”.3 In Rosenwein’s own words, references to emotional communities include “what the communities (and the individuals within them) define and assess as valuable or harmful to them”.4 If, for example, an emotional community attaches a strong value to the quality of being honest, then the members of that emotional community will react 2  Antiph. 5.72: οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ὅ τι ἂν ὀργιζόμενος ἄνθρωπος εὖ γνοίη. αὐτὸ γὰρ ᾧ βουλεύεται, τὴν γνώμην, διαφθείρει τοῦ ἀνθρώπου “it is impossible for an angry man to make a right decision, as anger destroys his one instrument of decision, his judgment”. 3  Plamper, Reddy, Rosenwein and Stearns (2010) 253. Also: Rosenwein (2002) 821–45, (2006). 4  Rosenwein (2006) 842.

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

139

negatively when they judge that this quality has been threatened or devalued. The speaker in the lawcourt, by referring to the offences of his political rival, aims to activate both an “in-group” solidarity (i.e. showing that the speaker and the audience belong to the same community, the values of which are in danger) and “out-group” hostility (i.e. that the rival and violator of common values is excluded from that community). The activation of this binary set of reactions, as interdisciplinary scholarship indicates, has a significant impact upon behaviours and attitudes in target audiences: emotional expressions produce interpersonal effects by triggering affective reactions and/or inferential processes in recipients.5 Stephen Leighton has systematized the discussion of how judgment is affected by emotional arousal, arguing that changes of judgement may be the consequence of emotion or the constituent of emotion. The consequence of emotion has three dimensions: firstly, it allows reasoning to be overruled as, for example, when children are brought into court to arouse the compassion of the judges so that they will let the perpetrators off for a crime they committed. Secondly, it favours or disfavours an individual, in the sense that one would be better or worse disposed towards him. Thirdly, through strong emotion it causes the speaker to pay attention to specific issues and ignore some others. The effect upon judgement as a constituent of emotion is more complex: as Leighton puts it, “emotions are complexes involving judgments, each complex excluding certain other emotion complexes, their judgments and certain other judgments as well”.6 Emotional arousal as the consequence or the constituent of emotion can be achieved in two ways. In her influential paper “Stirring up Dicastic Anger”, Lene Rubinstein argues that there are two ways of stirring up emotions: the direct/explicit way and the indirect/inexplicit way. With the direct/explicit way, she refers to language that is explicitly associated with certain emotions, such as hatred (as, for example, μῖσος in Dem. 19.9, 87, 223, 238) and rage (as, for example, ὀργή in Dem. 19.7, 302). Rubinstein provides, in an appendix, a complete catalogue of such words that are explicitly laden with the hostile emotions of hatred and anger.7 A similar effect, however, can also be aroused by language that does not explicitly refer to specific emotions. An example of language carrying indirect, but no less forcible, emotive energy is the sentence “the boy fell asleep and never woke up again”. The unpleasant emotion is not 5  Selected readings include, Miller et al. (1981) 494–511; Conover (1984) 760–85; Lau (1989) 220–3; Carey (1990) 49; Huddy (2003) 511–58; Hall (2006) 388; Arena (2007) 151. 6  Leighton (1996) 210. 7  Rubinstein (2004) 187–203.

140

Serafim

explicitly stated, but the sentence triggers negative, depressive, feelings; the emotion is implied. Rubinstein’s discussion sheds welcome light on thorny issues of interpretation such as the different ways in which emotions are employed in public and private cases and the limitations in their use, with the speaker not always being able to appeal openly to hatred or anger. More can be said, however, about the indirect/inexplicit ways of stirring up emotions in Attic forensic oratory. What are the associated linguistic and pragmatic features? What do these features tell us about the speaker’s purpose, and how does he exploit them to the best rhetorical effect? In this chapter, I aim to examine two categories of linguistic and pragmatic features of the oratorical script: the first has to do with medical metaphors and the use of imperatives; and the second is about religious argumentation, i.e. references to the gods as inspecting the judges in the lawcourt and to the speakers’ opponents as being impious. 2

Indirect/Inexplicit Appeals to Emotions

2.1 Medical Metaphors and the Use of the Imperative8 The careful deployment of medical metaphors, reinforced by the use of the imperative, is productive of emotions that can affect the audience’s attitude towards the speaker’s adversary. It has rightly been argued, for example, that, in Dem. 19.262, medical terminology, strengthened by two imperatives, aims to intimidate the Athenians in the lawcourt about the dangers Aeschines, the disease bearer and spreader, presents for the polis.9 ταῦτα νὴ τὴν Δήμητρα, εἰ δεῖ μὴ ληρεῖν, εὐλαβείας οὐ μικρᾶς δεῖται, ὡς βαδίζον γε κύκλῳ καὶ δεῦρ’ ἐλήλυθεν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, τὸ νόσημα τοῦτο. ἕως οὖν ἔτ’ ἐν ἀσφαλεῖ, φυλάξασθε καὶ τοὺς πρώτους εἰσαγαγόντας ἀτιμώσατε. Not to mince matters, this really does need serious attention, men of Athens, as that disease, spreading around, has reached here too. While you are safe, guard against it, and disenfranchize those who are the first to have brought it in.

8  This part of my chapter has been published in Serafim (forthcoming b). 9  Serafim (2017a) 70. On fear as a means of controlling the lawcourt audience: Rubinstein (2004) 188–9; Konstan (2006) 129–55.

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

141

The medical metaphors, in context, exploit the anxiety, panic and fear associated with infectious diseases, and create a negative disposition among the judges and the onlookers towards Aeschines, who is presented as a pernicious, infectious and dangerous agent.10 The emphasis placed on the serious­ness of the disease and on the urgency of the actions that should be undertaken against Aeschines aims further to intimidate the Athenians. For, as Aristotle puts it, fear is defined “as a painful or troubled feeling caused by the impression of an imminent evil that causes destruction or pain. For men do not fear all evils, for instance, becoming unjust or slow-witted, but only such as involve great pain or destruction, and only if they appear to be not far off but near at hand and threatening; for men do not fear things that are very remote” (Rh. 1382a21–6). It is notable that fear in the context of Dem. 19.262 is not meant to lead to inaction: the Athenians are invited to assume the role of a doctor and take action against the enemy to protect the body politic (φυλάξασθε) by cutting off the afflicted individual (ἀτιμώσατε). By urging the judges to disenfranchize (ἀτιμώσατε) Aeschines, Demosthenes strengthens this shift from the metaphorical to the literal: disenfrachizement (ἀτιμία) was a severe legal penalty imposed on male Athenian citizens, principally if they were debtors to the state or had neglected their civic duties.11 In 19.259, Demosthenes also refers to traitors and sell-outs as a “terrible disease” that has fallen upon Greece and that requires the Athenians’ treatment (Νόσημα γάρ, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, δεινὸν ἐμπέπτωκεν εἰς τὴν Ἑλλάδα, καὶ χαλεπὸν καὶ πολλῆς τινὸς εὐτυχίας καὶ παρ’ ὑμῶν ἐπιμελείας δεόμενον “for a terrible disease, men of Athens, has fallen upon Greece, a serious one needing some very good luck and care on your part”). In his book, Plague and the Athenian Imagination, Robin Mitchell-Boyask explores the frequency with which the word νόσος, which is etymologically and semantically close to the word νόσημα that is used in Dem. 19.259, is used in the extant Greek tragedies. He argues that νόσος was a major concern of people, especially at particular historical moments (post 430, 420, 411 BC), and that the references to that term in Greek tragedy were a means of evoking powerful emotions. Medical imagery is, therefore, based on popular Athenian perceptions and real anxieties.12

10  On medical anxieties in antiquity: Dodds (1957) 223; Brock (2000) 30. On fear as a means of controlling the lawcourt audience: Rubinstein (2004) 188–9; Konstan (2006) 129–55. 11  On the legal penalty of atimia: MacDowell (1978) 73–5. 12   Mitchell-Boyask (2008); also: Dodds (1957) 223; Brock (2000) 30.

142

Serafim

Medical terminology, despite being used frequently elsewhere in Demosthenes’ corpus of speeches, is rarely accompanied and strengthened by imperatives.13 The only parallel to Dem. 19.262 can be found in 18.324, the last paragraph of the peroration of the On the Crown speech: Μὴ δῆτ’, ὦ πάντες θεοί, μηδεὶς ταῦθ’ ὑμῶν ἐπινεύσειεν, ἀλλὰ μάλιστα μὲν καὶ τούτοις βελτίω τινὰ νοῦν καὶ φρένας ἐνθείητε εἰ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔχουσιν ἀνιάτως, τούτους μὲν αὐτοὺς καθ᾽ ἑαυτοὺς ἐξώλεις καὶ προώλεις ἐν γῇ καὶ θαλάττῃ ποιήσατε, ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς λοιποῖς τὴν ταχίστην ἀπαλλαγὴν τῶν ἐπηρτημένων φόβων δότε καὶ σωτηρίαν ἀσφαλῆ. No, all you gods, may none of you grant their wish. Best would be to inspire better thoughts and intentions even in them, but if they are indeed incurable, destroy every last one of them utterly and thoroughly on earth and sea. And grant the rest of us as soon as possible release from the fears that threaten and salvation that endures. Demosthenes requests that Aeschines and his fellow scoundrels be eradicated from the earth because they are “incurable” (ἀνιάτως). This is a medical term that describes illnesses that cannot be cured by drugs, surgery or cautery (Hp. Aph. 7.87). Demosthenes’ request evokes, arguably, the scapegoat ritual: in times of crisis, such as plague or drought, an individual was selected to be driven out of the city in the hope that their removal would alleviate the sufferings of the afflicted city.14 As Robert Parker argues, the scapegoat ritual was a form of “cathartic medicine”, aiming to restore the safety of the city by removing the sickened part.15 Demosthenes makes Aeschines a scapegoat for the city, and 13  Medical language and imagery is used elsewhere in the corpus of Demosthenes’ speeches in: Second Olynthiac (speech 2), Third Olynthiac (speech 3), Third Philippic (speech 9), Fourth Philippic (speech 10) and Against Aristogeiton I (speech 25), but without the enforcing power of imperatives. In 25.80, for example, Demosthenes uses two medical terms to refer to his opponent, Aristogeiton: ὁ φαρμακός, ὁ λοιμός “this poisoner, this public pest”, using the optative to say that people would ban him rather than accost him. I prefer the Loeb translation of Dem. 25.80 over the translation of Mitchell-Boyask (2008) 24 “the scapegoat, the plague”; in my view, the first translation makes better sense of the text and the context of Demosthenes’ speech. Demosthenes’ phrasing in 25.80 also reminds us of Lys. 6.53: καὶ ἀποδιοπομπεῖσθαι καὶ φαρμακὸν ἀποπέμπειν καὶ ἀλιτηρίου ἀπαλλάττεθαι, ὡς ἓν τούτων οὗτός ἐστι “you are dispatching a foul scapegoat, you are getting rid of a reprobate,” where imperatives are also not in use. On Demosthenes’ use of medical language: Mader (2018) 183–93. 14  Bremmer (1983) 299–320. 15  Parker (1983) 225–30.

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

143

by using two aorist imperatives, he urges the two addressees – the gods whom he invokes, and the Athenian judges who listen to his invocation – to take immediate and urgent action against his adversary. Aorist imperatives present a sharper, more authoritative and peremptory command than the present imperative, and their use in this context is indicative of the strong volition of the communicator to elicit a specific response from the party to whom the imperative sentence is directed. As Sicking argues, aorist stem imperatives are used in cases where “a verb informs the person addressed as to what is expected of him or her”.16 It is worth noting that the imperative is also employed to stir up the emotions of the audience in texts and contexts other than those in which medical language and imagery are used. This is the case in Aeschin. 3.156, a notable feature of which is the use of durative, present-stem, imperatives: [1] μὴ πρὸς Διὸς καὶ θεῶν, ἱκετεύω ὑμᾶς, ὦ ἄνδρες Αθηναῖοι, [2] μὴ τρόπαιον ἵστατε ἀφ᾽ ὑμῶν αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ τοῦ Διονύσου ὀρχήστρᾳ, [3] μηδ᾽ αἱρεῖτε παρανοίας ἐναντίον τῶν Ἑλλήνων τὸν δῆμον τὸν Ἀθηναίων, [4] μηδ᾽ ὑπομιμνῄσκετε τῶν ἀνιάτων καὶ ἀνηκέστων κακῶν τοὺς ταλαιπώρους Θηβαίους, οὓς φεύγοντας διὰ τοῦτον ὑποδέδεχθε τῇ πόλει, ὧν ἱερὰ καὶ τέκνα καὶ τάφους ἀπώλεσεν ἡ Δημοσθένους δωροδοκία καὶ τὸ βασιλικὸν χρυσίον. No, by Zeus and the gods, [1] do not, my fellow citizens, [2] do not, I beseech you, set up in the orchestra of Dionysus a memorial of your own defeat, [3] do not in the presence of the Greeks convict the Athenian people of having lost their reason, [4] do not remind the poor Thebans of their incurable and irreparable disasters, men who, exiled through Demosthenes’ acts, found refuge with you, when their shrines and children and tombs had been destroyed by Demosthenes’ taking of bribes and by the Persian gold. The persistent demand for negative action from the audience – μή … μὴ ἵστατε, μηδ᾽ αἱρεῖτε, μηδ᾽ ὑπομιμνῄσκετε – indicates “that the speaker thinks it necessary that the state of affairs be carried out by someone else other than himself”.17 These imperatives, accompanied by the repetition of the prohibi­ tive particle μή at the beginning of the first clause, and the use of the verb ἱκετεύω (“I beg”), add to the dramatic tension that Aeschines seeks to create 16  Sicking (1991) 156. On the use of aorist stem imperatives: Bakker (1966) 44; Fanning (1990); Rijksbaron (2006) 45; Lamers and Rademaker (2007) 462; Campbell (2008) 81. 17  Rijksbaron (2006) 43.

144

Serafim

when asking the audience to stop honouring the man who brought disaster upon the polis and other Hellenes (the Thebans are mentioned in this passage). Asyndeton, which underlines the urgency of the actions the Athenians should undertake (cf. [Longinus], Subl. 19; Apsines, Rhet. 3.6), is also connected with the arousal of emotions, with ancient rhetorical treatises highlighting its potential to “produce extended pathos” (Apsines, Rhet. 10.55, where the use of asyndeton in Dem. 21.65 is discussed). The combination of asyndeton with repetition makes the speech more forcible (Arist. Rh. 1413b30–1414a6; Demetr. Eloc. 61), strengthening the expression of emotions that would have been presented as authentic – regardless of whether the emotion is real or fabricated – with a view partly to enhancing the speaker’s credibility (Arist. Rh. 1408a9–32), but also to modelling emotions for the listeners and thereby stirring hostility towards Aeschines.18 In the context of Aeschin. 3.156, by referring to the role of Demosthenes in destroying Athens and other Hellenes, Aeschines aims to infuse the audience of the trial with feelings of hatred, rage and hostility so as to activate “out-group” hostility. The logical end-point of this “out-group” hostility is that Demosthenes, now constructed as an enemy of the Athenian community and called “the curse of Hellas” in the next section, 3.157, should not be praised for his historical misdeeds, but excluded from that community by means of the dicastic punishment – this is essentially what Aeschines looks for in his speech 3. Fuelling hostility against the “out-group” is balanced by a symmetrical appeal to “in-group” cohesion through emotive references to children and ancestral shrines and tombs. 2.2 Religious Argumentation, Cognition and Emotion Religious argumentation, in this chapter, refers to passages where the gods are presented as inspecting the judges in the lawcourt and to passages where the speakers’ adversaries are presented as being impious. The terms cognition and emotion refer both to the mental disposition that religious argumentation inculcates in the audience and to the emotions it triggers. Religious concepts and norms, and the emotions attached to them, seem designed to excite the human mind, linger in the memory, and trigger multiple mind-making-or-changing inferences. In this section, I explore some fleshy passages that enable us to 18  The combined use of asyndeton and repetition, which points unambiguously to a forcible emotional outburst, is also attested in the speeches of Demosthenes, as in 28.20: βοηθήσατ᾽ οὖν ἡμῖν, βοηθήσατε, καὶ τοῦ δικαίου καὶ ὑμῶν αὐτῶν ἕνεκα καὶ ἡμῶν καὶ τοῦ πατρὸς τοῦ τετελευτηκότος. σῴσατε, ἐλεήσατε “succor us, then, succor us, for the sake of justice, for your own sakes, for ours, and for my dead father’s sake. Save us; have compassion on us”.

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

145

reconstruct some of the ways in which the speaker uses religious argumentation and how the ancient audience (might have) experienced them and reacted cognitively and emotionally. Before examining specific passages, the first thing we need to consider in relation to the cognitive and emotional function of religious argumentation, is how to explain the potential of religion to dictate the mood of (ancient) audiences and thereby draw reactions from them. The human psyche is built to long for the reassurance and comfort that supernatural ideas can provide. Religion has a unique potential to allay existential angst by providing explanations for physical and complex mental phenomena and by assuring individuals and groups of people that they would succeed because the gods are by their side. As Pascal Boyer points out, “religious concepts gain their great salience and emotional load in the human psyche because they are connected to thoughts about various life-threatening [and life-favourable, I may add] circumstances”.19 This function of modern religion seems largely to coincide with the function of religion in the context of the ancient polis. There is a profound divergence between major modern religions and religion in ancient Athens, in that the former mostly offer consolation to individuals, whereas the latter was operating in a sphere that was not, for the most part, personal. However, the focus here is on the shared capacity of these religions to allay existential angst. This role of religion is exploited by Attic orators, especially Aeschines and Demosthenes, who present the gods, or broadly the divine, as being protectors both of individuals (cf. Demosthenes refers to Philip’s good fortune in 4.42; 12.15) and of groups of people (cf. the Athenians are portrayed in some of Demosthenes’ deliberative speeches as having the benevolence and protection of the gods – 1.10), the constitution and the city itself (cf. Aeschin. 3.196; Dem. 1.8, 12, 45; 2.1, 12, 22; 4.45; 19.256, 280). In fact, ancient religion is used by the orators either to incite anxieties, as in the case of referring to the good fortune of Philip and thus his evident support among the gods, or to allay them, reassuring people about their own future and that of the community, and creating a sense of security so as to incite them to accept or endorse a policy. Religion is, in other words, a means of affecting the cognitive and emotional dispositions of the audience.

19  Boyer (2001) 22.

146

Serafim

These changes in cognitive and emotional state influence the individual’s (social) behaviour and attitude towards the rest of the society. No society could work without moral prescriptions that bind people together and thwart injustices, crimes, impiety and sacrileges – i.e. social, legal and moral wrongdoings. Social, legal and moral rules cannot be enforced merely by fear of immediate punishment, which may sometimes be uncertain. The fear of the gods is a more effective incentive to good behaviour, since it assumes that the monitoring is constant and the sanctions eternal. That is why the Attic orators place much emphasis on eliciting this fear of the audience by means of referring to the gods, or broadly to the divine, as inspecting humans and as punishing or avenging impiety, sacrilege, crime or improper and immoral behaviour. The aim of the speaker, when referring to the audience as being inspected by the gods, is to induce it to reach a righteous, pious and polis-protecting decision so that they keep the eunoia, the “goodwill”, of the gods at personal level. To appreciate the subtlety of this technique we should bear in mind that the judges in decision-making forums were not subject to the state process of examination of accounts (εὔθυνα).20 Although the ballot was secret and, in practice, nobody could ever know how each of the judges voted, nevertheless orators aim to create anxiety, instil fear and foster insecurity in the individual judges that if as a collective they fail to deliver the desired outcome, they will all be tainted by association and subject to rumour and gossip (cf. Din. 2.19; Lys. 12.35, 91), while also being accountable to the omnipresent and omniscient gods.21 In Demosthenes’ words (19.239–40), “though the vote is secret, it will not escape the notice of the gods. The man who made the law perceived most excellently that, whereas none of these men will know which of you had done him a favour, the divine power of the gods will know who did not vote for a just verdict”.22 References to divine watchers and evaluators, in other words, offer a tacit surrogate for the audit process, and appeal to and manipulate the thoughts and emotions of the audience, thus attempting to affect the outcome of crucial decision-making processes in the lawcourt and in the other delibera­ tive bodies of the Athenian democracy. 20  On this process of the examination of magistrates: Harrison (1971) 208–11; Todd (1993) 112–3, 302. 21  As Hunter (1994) 101 points out, “private matters were bared to the public at large, both judges and bystanders, who then passed on all that was exciting, controversial, or important to their families and no doubt to their friends and acquaintances as well. Thus the court became a route to the whole city”. This idea is confirmed by Aeschin. 1.186–7 and Dem. 59.110–1. 22  The idea that the judges were personally accountable to the gods for their decisions is parodied in Ar. Vesp. 1001–2, 158–60 where Philocleon says that Apollo told him not to acquit anyone because he will dry up and blow away.

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

147

Lycurg. 1 and Dem. 18 are remarkable in the corpus of Attic oratory for being the only two orations that start their exordium with a prayer.23 It is also remarkable that Dem. 18 not only starts, but also ends with a reference to the gods. In the last section of the peroration, §324, there is a vocative invocation to “all the gods”. Lycurg. 1.1: εὔχομαι γὰρ τῇ Ἀθηνᾷ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις θεοῖς καὶ τοῖς ἥρωσι τοῖς κατὰ τὴν πόλιν καὶ τὴν χώραν ἱδρυμένοις, εἰ μὲν εἰσήγγελκα Λεωκράτη δικαίως καὶ κρίνω τὸν προδόντ᾽ αὐτῶν καὶ τοὺς νεὼς καὶ τὰ ἕδη καὶ τὰ τεμένη καὶ τὰς ἐν τοῖς νόμοις τιμὰς καὶ θυσίας τὰς ὑπὸ τῶν ὑμετέρων προγόνων παραδεδομένας. So I pray Athena and those other gods and heroes whose statues are erected in our city and the country round to receive this prayer. If I have done justly to prosecute Leocrates, if he whom I now bring to trial has been a traitor to their temples, shrines and precincts, a traitor to the honours which your laws ordain and the sacrificial rituals which your ancestors have handed down. Dem. 18.1: Πρῶτον μέν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, τοῖς θεοῖς εὔχομαι πᾶσι καὶ πάσαις, ὅσην εὔνοιαν ἔχων ἐγὼ διατελῶ τῇ τε πόλει καὶ πᾶσιν ὑμῖν, τοσαύτην ὑπάρξαι μοι παρ’ ὑμῶν εἰς τουτονὶ τὸν ἀγῶνα. Let me begin, men of Athens, by beseeching all the Powers of Heaven that on this trial I may find in Athenian hearts such benevolence towards me as I have ever cherished for the city and the people of Athens. Dem. 18.324: Μὴ δῆτ’, ὦ πάντες θεοί, μηδεὶς ταῦθ’ ὑμῶν ἐπινεύσειεν, ἀλλὰ μάλιστα μὲν καὶ τούτοις βελτίω τινὰ νοῦν καὶ φρένας ἐνθείητε εἰ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔχουσιν ἀνιάτως, τούτους μὲν αὐτοὺς καθ᾽ ἑαυτοὺς ἐξώλεις καὶ προώλεις ἐν γῇ καὶ θαλάττῃ ποιήσατε, ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς λοιποῖς τὴν ταχίστην ἀπαλλαγὴν τῶν ἐπηρτημένων φόβων δότε καὶ σωτηρίαν ἀσφαλῆ.

23  Din. 3 is another speech that starts with a reference to the gods. In contrast to Lycurg. 1.1 and Dem. 18.1, however, that speech does not start with a prayer, but with an invocation to the gods: τί χρὴ λέγειν πρὸς τῶν θεῶν περὶ τοιούτων ἀνθρώπων “what in Heaven’s name are we to say about such men as this?” Demosthenes 25.2 also makes a reference to the god, implying its presence in the lawcourt. This reference is in the second section of the exordium, not at the very beginning: εἰ δ᾽ οἷοι μισεῖν, δίκην, ἐὰν θεὸς θέλῃ, τοῦτον δώσειν “if you are disposed to hate them, then this man, please God! Shall pay the penalty”. Wankel (1976) 106 also refers to some legal fragments from trials on religious matters.

148

Serafim

No, all you gods, may none of you grant their wish. Best would be to inspire better thoughts and intentions even in them, but if they are indeed incurable, destroy every last one of them utterly and thoroughly on earth and sea. And grant the rest of us as soon as possible release from the fears that threaten and salvation that endures. Despite the differences in purpose – i.e. Lycurgus uses the prayer to mark the trial as religious in content and to accuse Leocrates of betraying the gods and their sacred shrines and temples, while Demosthenes uses the prayer to persuade the audience to hear his case without bias by indicating that he is concerned about the future of his beloved city – prayers in both passages have some considerable similarities. The prayers cited in both, denoted by the use of the verb εὔχομαι, locate the moment in the here and now of the public speaking context, which is both secular and sacred, and serve the speaker’s purpose of inviting the judges to envisage themselves as being constantly watched and evaluated by a divine audience. The unspoken purpose is to instil fear in the judges that they would be personally accountable to the omnipresent and omniscient gods, if they were to vote in favour of the speakers’ opponents. Prayers also create a mood of solemnity and stress the importance of the task in front of the judges, while also presenting the speaker as a pious man. The attempt to make the human audience attentive to the divine is also forcible in Antiph. 1.25: ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι τὸν τεθνεῶτα: καὶ γὰρ δικαιότερον καὶ ὁσιώτερον καὶ πρὸς θεῶν καὶ πρὸς ἀνθρώπων γίγνοιτο ὑμῖν. To my mind, the murdered man: because in pitying him you would be acting more justly and more righteously in the eyes of gods and men. The speaker says that the gods will scrutinize the decision that the judges will make about the stepmother. This is a clear attempt on the part of the speaker to instil a sense of responsibility, but also apprehension, in the judges by inviting them to think that the gods will punish them if they fail to make the fair decision that the speaker suggests. The Athenians had to expiate the impiety committed by their fellows, in order to prevent the god’s revenge, appease them and elicit their favour. Otherwise, as Lysias points out in 6.33, the gods will be enraged. All the decisions made about matters that have intermingled legal, political and religious dimensions should, therefore, (seem to) be god-honouring (cf. Antiph. 4.4.11: “you will best serve justice and the will of heaven”). The link that the speaker strives to make between the cognitive and

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

149

emotional states of the judges and their upcoming decision is important, since their verdict is affected by their thoughts and emotions. Religiously-oriented references are used as a means of adding emphasis to the solemn momentum in court, inviting the audience to realize the importance of the (legal or political) matters that are discussed and for which they would cast their vote. References to rivals as being impious or inimical towards the gods are also used to stir up the emotions of the audience. Here are two passages from Demosthenes’ speeches: 18.119: Οὐκοῦν ἃ μὲν ἐπέδωκα, ταῦτ’ ἐστὶν ὧν οὐδὲν σὺ γέγραψαι· ἃ δέ φησιν ἡ βουλὴ δεῖν ἀντὶ τούτων γενέσθαι μοι, ταῦτ’ ἔσθ’ ἃ διώκεις. τὸ λαβεῖν οὖν τὰ διδόμεν’ ὁμολογῶν ἔννομον εἶναι, τὸ χάριν τούτων ἀποδοῦναι παρανόμων γράφει. ὁ δὲ παμπόνηρος ἄνθρωπος καὶ θεοῖς ἐχθρὸς καὶ βάσκανος ὄντως ποῖός τις ἂν εἴη πρὸς θεῶν; οὐχ ὁ τοιοῦτος; My private donations are precisely what you did not indict, Aeschines, while that which the Council decrees I am to get in return is precisely what you are prosecuting. So you concede that it is legal to accept the gifts, but you indict as illegal the expression of gratitude for them. What kind of person perfectly exemplifies an unscrupulous, loathsome, and truly malicious human being, by the gods? Is it not his kind? 25.63: εἶτ᾽ οὐκ αἰσχύνεσθ᾽, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, εἰ οἱ μὲν ἐπὶ πονηρίᾳ καὶ τοῖς ἐσχάτοις ἐμπεπτωκότες εἰς τὸ οἴκημα τοσούτῳ τοῦτον ἡγήσανθ᾽ ἑαυτῶν εἶναι πονηρότερον ὥστ᾽ ἄμεικτον ἑαυτοῖς καταστῆσαι, ὑμεῖς δ᾽ ἐξεληλακότων τῶν νόμων αὐτὸν ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας εἰς ὑμᾶς αὐτοὺς καταμείξετε; τί τῶν πεπραγμένων ἢ βεβιωμένων ἐπαινέσαντες; ἢ τί τῶν πάντων οὐχὶ δυσχεράναντες; οὐκ ἀσεβής; οὐκ ὠμός; οὐκ ἀκάθαρτος; οὐ συκοφάντης; Are you not ashamed then, men of Athens, if the men who had been thrown into prison for villainy and vice thought him so much more villainous than themselves that they forbade all intercourse with him, while you are ready to admit him to intercourse with yourselves, though the laws have placed him outside the pale of the constitution? What did you find to commend in his life or conduct? Which of all his actions has failed to move your indignation? Is he not impious, blood-thirsty, unclean, and a black mailer? These references to impiety are designed to provoke a negative reaction within the audience in respect of the perpetrator. This is where the dynamics of “group

150

Serafim

hostility” may have greatly affected the cognitive and emotional perspective of the audience. The speaker seeks to activate an emotional community and to bind its members together against the violators of their core common value: religion. The Athenians attached strong value to religion and to the quality of being pious. In Lycurgus’ words, the Athenians should realize that “[they] would be held to have neglected the virtues which chiefly distinguish [them] from the rest of mankind, piety towards the gods, reverence for [their] ancestors and ambition for [their] country, if this man were to escape punishment at [their] hands” (1.15). This argument creates a link between the impiety of the individual and the relationship of the polis as a whole with the gods. The Athenians were inimical towards anyone committing impiety, on account of the fear that the whole community would be devastated by the curse that falls on whomever disturbs the divinely-established rule and order through sacrilege or wrongdoing (cf. Antiph. 5.82; Lys. 6.5, 16–7; Dem. 21.51; 24.7; Isoc. 16.6; Isae. 6.50). A similar reference to the opponents being inimical towards the gods can be found in 19.268, where Demosthenes addresses the audience to say that it is right to vote against those who were bribed to betray their fellows, κατ’ ἀνδρῶν προδοτῶν καὶ θεοῖς ἐχθρῶν “against traitors and enemies of the gods”. What makes this reference more notable than others made in the speeches of the Attic orators is the suggested interconnection between the lack of patriotism and impiety (cf. Lycurgus 1.76). Martin is right to note that “piety and patriotism supplement each other, but – as Demosthenes presents it – not in the sense that the gods, if worshipped, are pleased, but that the political community coincides with the religious one”.24 Bribery is not just a legal and political offence, but also an offence against the gods; thus, Aeschines and his accomplices are guilty both of treason and of impiety. By merging divinity with matters of legal and political importance, Demosthenes seeks to create an in-group concord: if the members of the physical lawcourt audience respect the gods and trust the law – as they should do – then they should punish the enemy of Athens, who is also the enemy of the gods. In Demosthenes’ words: “it really amazes me if you are going to let off unpunished the man who prevented even the traditional honouring of the gods” (19.86). Demosthenes subtly correlates his position with that of both the interests of the city and of divine justice. References to rivals as being inimical towards the gods can also be found in places where the language of emotion is intense. In Dem. 19.223, for example: 24  Martin (2009) 82. Further on the interconnection between patriotism and piety: Dover (1974) 250–3; Serafim (forthcoming d).

Emotion, Language and Persuasion in Attic Forensic Oratory

151

μισῶ δὲ τούτους ὅτι μοχθηροὺς καὶ θεοῖς ἐχθροὺς εἶδον ἐν τῇ πρεσβείᾳ, καὶ ἀπεστέρημαι καὶ τῶν ἰδίων φιλοτιμιῶν διὰ τὴν τούτων δωροδοκίαν πρὸς ὅλην δυσχερῶς ὑμῶν τὴν πρεσβείαν ἐσχηκότων. I hate these men [Aeschines and his accomplices] because throughout the embassy I saw they were hateful and irreligious, and their corruption has deprived me of my own honours too because of your dissatisfaction with the whole embassy. The first person verb at the beginning of the clause strengthens the expression of emotions and, in context, serves to manoeuvre the audience into a position in which they come to share the speaker’s feelings of personal injury because of the actions of Aeschines and his fellow scoundrels, including the hatred and hostility they showed towards the gods (θεοῖς ἐχθρούς). This reference to the gods’ enemies in such an emotionally heightened context is designed to create an inimical disposition in the audience and trigger anger towards Demosthenes’ main political rival. 3 Conclusions This chapter has explored the indirect/inexplicit clues that several linguistic and pragmatic features of Attic forensic speeches offer in regard to emotional arousal and expression, and the ways in which these emotions affect the thought processes of the judges and onlookers in the Athenian lawcourts. It has been argued specifically that persuasion was constructed around, and strengthened by, manipulation of emotions (i.e. fear) or emotional conditions (i.e. empathy or antipathy), allowing orators to (attempt to) sway the audience in the lawcourt. Two categories of techniques have been recognized and discussed: medical metaphors reinforced by the use of the imperative; and two features of religious argumentation, i.e. references to the gods as scrutinizing the judges in the lawcourt and to the speakers’ opponents as being impious. It has been argued that these techniques in these two areas aim to promote the identification of the speakers’ emotions with those of the audience, or perhaps better, the diffusion of their emotions into the audience. The exploitation of the emotion of fear, either as a result of the references to medical metaphors, or the references to divine scrutiny of the judges, also aims to put the audience into a frame of mind in which they are amenable to take action, following the instructions given in the form of imperatives by the speakers themselves.

152

Serafim

By examining the features and the function of emotionally laden language, this chapter has sought to establish a framework within which similar features in the speeches of the Ten Attic orators, and in different oratorical genres, might be explored. What are, for example, the indirect/inexplicit ways of stirring emotions up in deliberative and epideictic speeches? What is the purpose of the divergences, if there are any, in the deployment of emotional appeals in these oratorical contexts? These open questions indicate that, despite the advances in the study of the Attic oratorical language and deployment of emotions, more work is still needed.

chapter 10

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero’s Letters to Atticus Gabriel Evangelou Cicero’s voluminous correspondence with Atticus is unique in terms of the insight it provides into Cicero’s life. The reader can observe not only their friendship over the years, but also different aspects of Cicero’s personality. Despite the fact that none of Atticus’ letters to Cicero have survived, thus making their correspondence unidirectional, Cicero’s letters clearly show that Atticus was the only person he could confide in or rely on in a time of need. The letters from Cicero’s exile indicate that Atticus did not abandon his friend;1 on the contrary, he aided the efforts for his restoration to Rome, listened to his lamentations over his misfortune, and offered him comfort despite his constant negativity.2 Nevertheless, problems arose between them when Atticus did not agree to provide the kind of help that Cicero was requesting. As the correspondence reveals, Cicero could not accept Atticus’ hesitation or unwillingness to assist him in every way he could. The discussion that follows investigates Cicero’s reaction to Atticus’ stance towards him and his efforts to coerce Atticus by appealing to his emotions.3 The value that Cicero saw in the elicitation of certain emotions as a strategy to persuade his audience is apparent throughout his works regardless of their genre. The most extensive discussion of emotions can be found in the fourth book of his philosophical treatise, Tusculanae disputationes, as well as in De oratore, a treatise on rhetoric in which he explains in detail how the ideal orator can use emotions to his advantage (De or. 2.178–216), especially 1  While Narducci (1997) 56 n. 4 notes that the term “exile” is not ideal in reference to Cicero’s absence from Rome in 58–57 because it is “inexact from a legal and technical point of view”, Cohen (2006) 111–9 argues convincingly that, despite Cicero’s insistence, from a legal point of view Cicero was technically exiled. 2  On the mutually beneficial nature of Cicero’s friendship with Atticus: Rauh (1986) 7–12. 3  As noted in the introduction (p. 3), in the extant ancient sources the line between coercion and persuasion is rather unclear. Nevertheless, in Cicero’s letters to Atticus the excessive repetition of the same request suggests that Cicero was using every means possible to force Atticus to act in a way that Atticus himself considered unwise either for his personal safety or for his finances.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_011

154

Evangelou

when he is certain that his client is innocent (De or. 2.53.214).4 Considering his constant need to persuade different audiences, ranging from fellow senators to juries,5 it follows that the orator would not be content with the first two modes of persuasion that Aristotle discusses in his Rhetoric, i.e. logos (“logical argument”) and ēthos (“speaker’s credibility”).6 He relied heavily on affecting his audience’s emotions (audientium animos movere)7 by appealing to their pathos (“emotions”) not only in his orations, his treatises and his philosophical works, but also in his correspondence mainly with his closest friends and members of his family. The two most common methods that he used to persuade persons with whom he had developed such an intimate bond were appeals to their pity (commiseratio) and guilt (paenitentia).8 He achieved the first by describing how devastated he was during his exile and by stressing that he was crying because of his emotional condition.9 Being well aware of his family’s and Atticus’ affection for him, he had every reason to believe that through his vivid and detailed descriptions of his emotional pain, they would experience it themselves and thus they would achieve a better understanding of his fervent desire to return to Rome. In his correspondence with Atticus, it appears that he also attempted to arouse the emotion of guilt over Atticus’ treatment before and during his exile. However, as the second part of this volume clearly demonstrates, not all attempts at persuasion were successful. Hence, while his strategy proved effective in the case of Quintus and Terentia, both of whom offered to meet him in exile and did everything in their power to aid his restoration,10 Atticus was evidently not equally moved by his strategy of eliciting emotion in order to persuade, despite his affection for him. 4  On Cicero’s rhetorical use of emotions: Hall (2010) 218–34. 5  As shown in the discussion of Steel (2001) 139, 169, in addition to the cases of his defences of men like Murena, appeal to his audience’s emotions can be found in his invectives, as evident in his closing remarks in his fourth Catilinarian speech. 6  Nonetheless, as Sander (2014) 58 observes, while in general Aristotle does consider the elicitation of emotions as a legitimate method that an orator can use to persuade the jury, he also argues against the incitement of pity, anger and envy (Rhet. 1354a24–26). 7  The relation between Arist. Rh. and Cic. De or. in terms of the control that the orator can have of audience’s emotions is explored in Solmsen (1938) esp. in 399–402. 8  Sanders (2016) 19 stresses that personal letters are also valuable source in the study of persuasion. 9  Hagen (2016) 200–3 provides a brief, but excellent discussion of Cicero’s use of tears as a method of persuasion in De oratore. 10  Terentia’s offer to meet Cicero during his banishment is attested in Fam. 14.3.5 and Fam. 14.4.3. Quintus also attempted to meet Cicero in person, but Cicero ultimately opted against it claiming that he did not want Quintus to see him in such a wretched condition (QFr. 1.3.1).

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

155

Cicero’s banishment between March 58 BC and August 57 BC represents one of the most challenging periods of his life.11 His letters display such an outpouring of emotions that he was heavily criticized for giving the impression of a weak man who was unable to withstand such a crisis.12 His critics point out that his attested behaviour was at variance with the principles of the philosophical school with which he was affiliated.13 During his absence from Rome, he relied heavily on his family’s help for emotional support, but Atticus appears to have been the person who provided him the greatest assistance. In addition to the aid that he offered not only to Cicero14 but also to Terentia15 and Quintus,16 he frequently sent him letters with reports about the political scene in Rome,17 and through his positive outlook at Cicero’s prospects of being recalled to Rome – if we believe Cicero’s claims – he managed to dissuade him from committing suicide (Att. 3.3, 3.7.2, 3.9.1). Cicero constantly reminded Atticus of his dire condition in exile while asking for his help. By doing so, he was stressing the urgency of his restoration to Rome. There was, however, one request with which Atticus was not willing to comply: joining Cicero in his journey to Greece. After Clodius’ second bill, which targeted Cicero by name,18 Cicero had even more reason to fear for his life. Since it was illegal for anyone within 400 miles from Italy (Att. 3.4)19 to offer Cicero shelter, his pleas for Atticus to join him and offer him some protection from people who may have wanted to cause him harm intensified.20 11  Slaughter (1921) 120; Shackleton Bailey (1971) 207. Hutchinson (1998) 26 argues that it was equally difficult with the period after the death of his daughter, Tullia, in February 45 (Att. 12.13.1). 12  Plutarch (Cic. 32.5–7); Cassius Dio (38.18–29). As Narducci (1997) 59 rightly observes, even Atticus was one of Cicero’s critics. Stockton (1971) 190 argues that in the letters written during his banishment Cicero gives the impression of a “petulant and emotionally self-indulgent child”. 13  Cicero’s adherence to the Academy is clear in De Natura Deorum (1.11–12). Modern scholars, such as Atkins (2000) 506 and Evenepoel (2007) 178, are in agreement that Cicero was an Academic sceptic. On Cicero’s affiliation with the Old and the New Academy: Glucker (1988). On Cicero agreeing with certain Stoic doctrines: see Sacharoff (1972) 117; Sharples and Sorabji (2007) 2. 14  Rawson (1975) 119. 15  Att. 3.5, 3.6, 3.8.4, 3.9.3, 3.19.3, 3.27. 16  Att. 3.11.2, 3.17.3, 3.19.3. 17  Att. 3.7.2, 3.8.2, 3.10.3, 3.11.1–2, 3.12.3, 3.13.1–2, 3.14.1, 3.15.1, 3.15.3, 3.17.1, 3.18.1–2, 3.20.3, 3.23.1. 18  The content of Clodius’ bills against Cicero is discussed in Att. 3.4 and Att. 3.12.1. See also Tyrrell and Purser (1904) 358. 19  Though, as Tyrrell and Purser (1904) 358 point out, according to Plutarch (Cic. 32.1) and Dio Cassius (38.17.7), the distance was 500 miles from Rome. 20  Att. 3.2, 3.7.1, 3.8.1, 3.8.2.

156

Evangelou

Atticus’ stance towards Cicero in one of his greatest times of need is indicative of the lengths that he was willing to go for such an intimate friend.21 The fact that none of Atticus’ letters to Cicero have survived prevents the reader from observing Atticus’ reaction to Cicero’s plea for protection. Nevertheless, Cicero’s letters to Atticus reveal that Atticus was not enthusiastic about the possibility of joining Cicero in Greece even for a short period of time. Atticus’ approach to Cicero’s request is not as straightforward as one would expect considering the frankness that they display in their correspondence over the years.22 Though it is unclear whether he initially completely avoided addressing Cicero’s request or if he simply used vague language in reference to it, Cicero’s letters show beyond doubt that he neither outright rejected the idea nor made any promises to meet him until almost a year after he fled from Rome.23 Cicero expresses the need of Atticus joining him in his journey to Greece in the very first extant letter after his flight from Rome.24 Interestingly, despite the brevity of his first six letters to Atticus, the hope and desire for Atticus to accompany him is not only present in all of them, but also the main topic of his discussion. In his second letter (Att. 3.3), written two days later, he begins by claiming that he contemplated suicide but decided against it by listening to Atticus’ advice. It is worth stressing, though, that he emphatically notes that he does not thank Atticus yet, but intends to when he feels that

21  Griffin (1997) 91 suggests that Cicero’s friendship with Atticus was not as unique as his letters to Atticus seems to indicate, considering the similarities between Cicero’s relationship with Atticus and with some of his other apolitical friends, as attested in his letters Ad Familiares. 22  Cicero’s letters to Atticus differ considerably from his letters to the rest of his correspondents in terms of the topics that he discusses with him, including sensitive matters such as his seemingly unfiltered opinion of Pompey (Att. 2.19.2, 8.11.2; Att. 9.10.2–6), Caesar (Att. 10.4.2, 10.4.4, 10.8.8, 11.13.1), and even Quintus (Att. 2.19.1, 11.9.3, 11.13.2). The frankness that Cicero displays in his letters to Atticus has led scholars to believe that he was completely sincere with Atticus. Hence remarks such as Fuhrmann’s [(1992) 151] that in his letters to Atticus he “was always himself” and Glucker’s [(1988) 51] that Cicero considered Atticus the only person whom he could trust completely. Cicero’s trust in Atticus with regard to sensitive information is also pointed out by MacGillvray (2012) 158. 23  A letter from early February 57-after which their correspondence breaks off-gives the reader the impression that they did in fact meet shortly after it was written (ego te, ut scribis, cito videbo “as you write, I will see you soon”, Att. 3.27). Nevertheless, as Shackleton Bailey (1999) 283 n. 2 points out, such a view should be rejected since in his first letter to Atticus after his return to Rome he expresses a strong desire to see him (Att. 4.1.2: conspectum aut potius complexum mihi tuum defuisse “I have missed your sight or rather your embrace”), thus suggesting that they had not met since his banishment from Rome.  u me quam primum consequare (Att. 3.1: “you need to follow me as soon as possible”). 24  T

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

157

refraining from taking his own life was the correct decision.25 With such a statement, he informs Atticus that he is still in a fragile state and could at any point reconsider his decision. This is reinforced in his following statement, by claiming that ad huc quidem valde me paenitet (Att. 3.3: “until now, indeed, I regret it immensely”) with which he implies that his current condition is a fate worse than death. After making such a confession to Atticus, he begs him to go to Vibo where he was headed. He thus puts considerable pressure on Atticus, since it would be insensitive to refuse to comply with the request of a friend who is contemplating suicide. In order to ensure that Atticus would decide to join him, he ends his letter by trying to persuade him by reminding him of the kind of friendship that existed between them.26 He claims that he is confident that Atticus will come to Vibo, but, more importantly, that if for some reason he does not, Cicero will be surprised.27 He appears to be implying that their relationship up to that point had caused him to believe that he knew Atticus well enough to be able to express certainty that he would not abandon him in such a time of need. If he were to do so, it would damage their friendship, as Cicero would be disappointed in him and would even question his unwavering faith in him. A similar attitude can be observed in his following letters to Atticus. On 27 March 58, he informs him that he does not feel safe to travel to Greece without him and that he requires his assistance when they meet in Brundisium to form a plan. Conceivably sensing hesitation from Atticus to join him, he adds that he is aware that Atticus may find the journey with him to Greece molestum (Att. 3.2: “troublesome”). Apart from showing consideration for Atticus’ inconvenience, he reminds him of how severe his misfortune has been and its impact on his spirits (Att. 3.2). He once again appears to use emotion as a method of persuasion by trying to engender pity.28 His efforts to induce Atticus to accompany him during this evidently stressful period continued, with his approach remaining the same. On the 3rd of April, he sent Atticus another letter in which, before displaying a strong desire for Atticus to go to Thurii and travel with him to Greece, he laments his misfortune, showing how profoundly his 25  U  tinam illum diem videam cum tibi agam gratias quod me vivere coegisti! (Att. 3.3: “I wish to live that day when I will thank you because you forced me to live”). 26  Vangelisti et al. (1991) 9, 12 note in their modern study of 133 adults that the most commonly used guilt-eliciting technique was “stating relationship obligations”. 27  Si id non feceris, mirabor (“if you do not do this, I will be surprised, Att. 3.3). Vangelisti et al. (1991) 12 refer to this type of guilt-eliciting technique as “consistency demand”. 28  Induction of pity is, unsurprisingly, common in Cicero’s defences. As Solmsen (1938) 400 points out, “Cicero’s anxiety to move the audience to pity for the accused” is apparent in Pro Sulla, Pro Flacco and Pro Sestio.

158

Evangelou

exile has been affecting him. Atticus does not seem to have given him a clear answer on whether or not he was planning to join him, hence his expressed uncertainty and hope that Atticus was already on his way to Thurii. It seems that because of his fears that Atticus was not willing to put his life at risk for him, he believed that the only way to convince him would be to suggest that a decision to disregard his pleas for support would not only be perceived as uncharacteristic, but would also reflect badly on their friendship.29 His attempts to make it abundantly clear to Atticus how Atticus’ actions, or lack thereof, were contributing to his misery intensify in the following letter. Seemingly in an effort to elicit guilt over his attitude towards him, he explicitly states, regarding the fact that he did not see Atticus in Tarentum or Brundisium as he was hoping he would, erit hoc quoque in magno numero nostrorum malorum (Att. 3.6: “this, too, will be added to the great number of my misfortunes”). Unlike his previous letters, in which he suggests that he needed his friend’s physical presence with him for the protection that he could provide him (Att. 3.1, 3.2), in this letter he claims that it was his counsel that he is seeking.30 He ends the letter by reminding him that his emotional state has not improved, since me vix misereque sustento (Att. 3.6: “I endure this barely and miserably”). Considering his previous remarks about contemplating suicide (Att. 3.3) and since his condition apparently had not changed, Atticus is implicitly portrayed as acting like a bystander in Cicero’s demise.31 After the initial disappointment that he experienced in Atticus’ refusal to join him, he chose a different approach in the rest of his correspondence from exile by sending him considerably longer letters, most of which did not solely address the prospects of Atticus travelling with him to Greece. On the 29th of April, he returned to the topic of suicide. The entire letter gives the impression of an attempt to clarify to Atticus that he was still seriously considering ending his life and that the only one who could prevent that from happening was Atticus himself. While Cicero was in Brundisium, all Atticus was willing to do – apart from informing him about the current events in Rome (Att. 3.7.3) – was to offer his estate in Epirus as a place for Cicero to stay temporarily. After thanking him for his offer (Att. 3.7.1), he explains why such a 29  T  antum te oro ut, quoniam me ipsum semper amasti, ut eodem amore sis (Att. 3.5: “I only ask you, since you have always loved me for myself, to love me the same way”). 30  According to Byrne (1920) 101, the significance of Atticus’ advice to Cicero “lay in its constant moral stimulus”. 31  Smith (1896) 73 points out that although in his first letter from exile Cicero simply asks Atticus to join him, in the following letters a “feverish urgency” can be observed in the language that he uses to stress to Atticus the necessity of his physical presence with him during his journey to Greece.

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

159

nice gesture was, nonetheless, not enough. He reminds him that he has yet to join him (Att. 3.7.1) and reveals that Atticus has neither refused to meet him in Brundisium, nor given him a clear answer as to when he is coming to see him (Att. 3.7.1). Nonetheless, he does not seem to have completely lost hope as he informs him, tu nihilominus, si properaris, nos consequere (Att. 3.7.3: “nevertheless, if you hurry, you can catch me up”). Although attempts to ensure that Atticus was acutely aware of Cicero’s emotional condition are a common theme in his letters from exile, in this particular letter they are distinctive in the way that he expresses his emotional pain. Apart from noting the distress that his banishment is causing him (Att. 3.7.3), he makes a very bold claim about his suffering by stating, neminem umquam tanta calamitate esse adfectum, nemini mortem magis optandam fuisse (Att. 3.7.2 “no one has ever been so affected by a disaster, no one has ever wished for death more than I have”).32 His statement is a strong reminder to Atticus that he does not consider the fact that he had to flee from Rome simply an unfortunate event, but a disaster so grievous that he no longer felt that his life was worth living. Suicidal thoughts are also expressed a few lines earlier, when he claims that even though Atticus was successful at preventing him from committing suicide,33 he already regrets listening to his advice (Att. 3.7.2). Knowing how through his action over the years Atticus had demonstrated that he deeply cared about him, he seems to have wanted to pressure him into doing something that he clearly was not comfortable doing and to have believed that the most effective way to persuade him was to make him pity him so much that he would go against his better judgement.34 The correspondence, however, indicates that Atticus was not moved the way that Cicero expected him to and instead opted to help him through different means from the safety of his house. Atticus’ reply to Cicero’s request to join him after letter 3.7 seems to have given Cicero the wrong impression about Atticus’ intentions to see him. The letter that he sent him on the 29th of May is the first in which he does not ask him to meet him during his exile. In the following letter, written on the 13th of June, it is revealed that Atticus was not simply thinking about going to Thessalonica 32  A similar claim can be found in a letter from 17 July 58 in which he stresses his suffering: ita sim adflictus ut nemo umquam (Att. 3.12.1: “I have been so affected as no one ever has”). 33  Hutchinson (1998) 35 argues against the possibility of Atticus having prevented Cicero from committing suicide by noting that Cicero’s professed thoughts about suicide should not be taken literally. 34  Similarly, Baraz (2012) 55 n. 26 points out that in the cases from Cicero’s correspondence with Atticus where he believed that it was unlikely that Atticus would grant his request, he used a more rhetorical approach in order to induce him to provide him the help that he needed at that moment.

160

Evangelou

to find Cicero but was already on his way there, and it would be a matter of days before they met. As a result, the topics discussed in these two letters differ considerably from their previous correspondence. Though Cicero’s statements of self-pity are equally frequent35 and thoughts of suicide are still present (Att. 3.9.2), he also addresses Atticus’ remarks about his hope for his return to Rome. He expresses his gratitude to Atticus for the support that he is providing him through his words of encouragement and for his efforts to induce Pompey to help with his restoration,36 but stresses that he does not, at that moment, share Atticus’ optimism over the possibility of being recalled to Rome (Att. 3.9.2). In fact, he claims that the discrepancy between Atticus’ enthusiastic reports and the actual content of the reports has led him to believe that Atticus only professes to see hope in the political scene in Rome (Att. 3.8.3). Cicero is thus implicitly suggesting that, if Atticus truly wants him to entertain some hope for his future, he needs to work even more intensely on his restoration in order to be able to provide him with some indisputably positive news. Such news would also be the most effective means of dissuading him from ending his life. It is worth stressing, though, that he does not simply dismiss Atticus’ reports as unimportant, since he was well aware that such an action would most likely discourage him from continuing his efforts for Cicero’s return. Instead, he was simply bringing to his attention the complexity of a restoration and that more and far greater steps needed to be taken for it to be achieved. By mid-June 58, it appears that Cicero’s constant complaints about the crisis that he was going through had annoyed Atticus to such an extent that he chastised him for displaying a weak spirit (Att. 3.10.2).37 Cicero’s response is in line with his methods of persuasion from his previous letters. He seems to have tried to evoke feelings of pity for him by explaining the impact of his exile on him. He reminds Atticus that he was not only deprived of his family, but also of his honour, his glory and his possessions. More importantly, by asking the rhetorical question ecquis umquam tam ex amplo statu, tam in bona causa, tantis facultatibus ingeni, consili, gratiae, tantis praesidiis bonorum omnium concidit? (Att. 3.10.2: “is there anyone who has ever fallen from such an esteemed 35  E quidem adhuc miser in maximis meis aerumnis et luctibus (Att. 3.8.2: “thus far I have been truly wretched in my extreme sorrow and distress”), etsi incredibili et singulari calamitate adflictus sum (Att. 3.8.4: “although I am affected by an unbelievable and unparalleled misfortune”), cum me adflictum et confectum luctu audies (Att. 3.8.4: “when you hear that I am struck and worn out by my sorrow”), nostris malis (Att. 3.9.1: “my torments”), magnitudinem mearum miseriarum perspicere possis (Att. 3.9.1: “you can ascertain the magnitude of my misery”). 36  Att. 3.8.3, 3.9.2, 3.13.1, 3.14.1, 3.15.1, 3.18.1. 37  Leslie (1950) 18 points out that Cicero “must have tried Atticus’ patience sorely”.

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

161

position, in such a noble cause, so endowed with intellect, wisdom, regard, with such support of all the honest men?”), he elucidates how his fall from grace was truly unique and, as a result, how his emotional pain was incomparable. In addition to his efforts to make Atticus pity him, he tried to make Atticus feel guilty about criticizing him by suggesting that, considering the betrayal that he faced by the people who urged him to flee and his condition during his exile, Atticus, as a friend, should alleviate his pain, not contribute to his distress (Att. 3.10.2–3). His claim that he does not wish to discuss further Atticus’ remarks about his spirits, quod et maerore impedior (Att. 3.10.3: “because my sorrow prevents me”) seems to suggest an effort to use Atticus’ pity for him to prevent Atticus from making similar remarks about his professed despair. In order to ensure that Atticus would listen to his request, in his next letter he returns to the topic of Atticus scolding him and asks him, once again, to avoid it (Att. 3.11.2: obiurgare vero noli “but do not chastise me”). A letter from the 5th of August, however, reveals that his method of persuading Atticus was ineffective, as the latter’s criticism continued.38 The correspondence between the 13th and 27th of June attests that Atticus had agreed to move closer to Cicero so that they could meet.39 Nevertheless, in the following extant letter from the 17th of July Cicero seems to abandon all hope of seeing Atticus during his exile and even states that he no longer desires Atticus to join him since he was more useful to him in Rome (Att. 3.12.3).40 Having realized that pressing this matter any further would be futile, Cicero focused on how Atticus could help him while remaining in Rome. Despite constantly expressing his gratitude to him for all his work on his restoration,41 it appears that he believed that there was more that Atticus could do for him and his family (Att. 3.19.3), especially through his influential friends.42 Apart from Atticus’ consilium (“advice”), to which he attached great value over the years, he requests his gratia (“services”) and opera (Att. 3.11.2: “efforts”) with his restoration (Att. 3.20.1). He also stresses that simply being recalled to Rome would not be enough, as he claims that he would not feel fully restored unless his house was restored as well (Att. 3.20.2).43 Hence his request to Atticus in

38  Att. 3.12.1, 3.13.2, 3.15.1, 3.15.7. 39  Att. 3.9.3, 3.10.1, 3.11.1. 40  The topic of Cicero seeing Atticus during his exile is briefly reintroduced on the 15th of September (Att. 3.19.3) by Cicero and in early February 57 – in the last extant letter from his exile – by Atticus who informed him that he was on his way to see him (Att. 3.27). 41  Att. 3.5, 3.7.1, 3.20.2–3. 42  Att. 3.15.1, 3.15.5, 3.18.1, 2.20, 2.21, 2.23, 3.22.2, 3.23.1, 3.23.5. 43  On the demolition of Cicero’s Palatine house by Clodius: Rawson (1978) 116 n. 88.

162

Evangelou

October 58 to ensure that Sestius’ bill was drafted more carefully so as to include his property (Att. 3.20.3) and offer him more security. Two distinctive methods that Cicero uses to persuade Atticus can be observed in the rest of his letters to him until February 57 when their correspondence breaks off. The first is the plea for help from an intimate friend who shares his pain. In his letters to Atticus, he assures him that he is aware of how much emotional pain his own misery is causing Atticus. In June he states, quem ita adfectum mea aerumna esse arbitror ut te ipsum consolari nemo possit (Att. 3.11.2: “I think you are so affected by my calamity that no one can console you, yourself”). What is striking, though, is that he does not report Atticus’ own claims about how Cicero’s condition is affecting him but instead states that he believes (arbitror) that Atticus is sharing his pain. It would follow that had Atticus mentioned his distress over Cicero’s exile, Cicero would have had no reason not to mention that instead.44 In fact, in a letter from August 58 he claims that he blames himself, quod me a te tantum amari quantum ego vellem putavi (Att. 3.15.7: “because I reckoned that I was loved by you as much as I desired”). Nevertheless, he keeps reminding Atticus of how strong the bond between them was,45 and even notes that he desires to return to Rome to be not only with his family but also with Atticus (Att. 3.22.3). He is seemingly trying both to use Atticus’ affection for him to his advantage and to suggest a more intimate friendship than the actual relationship that existed between them.46 The closer their friendship was perceived by Atticus, the more likely it was that he would do everything in his power to aid the efforts for Cicero’s restoration.47 The second method, as mentioned above, was the inducement of guilt over the bad counsel that he gave him before fleeing from Rome. He seems to have wanted to avoid reproaching Atticus for fear of Atticus’ reaction and possible decision to refrain from helping him with his recall (Att. 3.25). As a result, he initially chose a less direct approach by complaining about the persons who advised him to flee from Rome after Clodius’ bill, but without mentioning Atticus. Cicero’s complaints about being betrayed by his close friends are a 44  Several expressions of certainty that Atticus was sharing his pain can be found in a letter from 17 August 58. He considers the possibility of his calamity affecting Atticus to a certain extent (Att. 3.15.2) and of Atticus missing him (Att. 3.15.2); he also assures him that neque haec eo scribo quo te non meo casu maximo dolore esse adfectum sciam (“I am not writing these things in this manner because I am unaware of your severe emotional pain caused by my misfortune”, Att. 3.15.4). 45  Att. 3.15.4; 3.20.2. 46  Welch (1996) 464 argues that despite the common perception of Atticus being Cicero’s most intimate friend, Atticus considered Brutus a closer friend than Cicero. 47  Vangelisti et al. (1991) 17–21, 24 stress the significant role that intimacy plays in the successful elicitation of guilt.

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

163

common theme in his letters to Atticus during his exile, with nine references to them as being responsible for his banishment.48 The use of the plural in his remarks about his treacherous friends appears, at first sight, peculiar, since the only person that he does mention by name is Hortensius (Att. 3.9.2). Cicero’s vague language alerted Atticus who attempted to discover to which persons Cicero was referring. On the 17th of August Cicero replied to him and stresses that he does not consider Cato in any way guilty of offering him bad advice. He reveals, however, that he found Atticus’ stance towards him disappointing.49 He argues that Atticus was in a unique position to induce him to remain in Rome (Att. 3.15.4), since he trusted no other person’s opinion more than Atticus’.50 He also points out that, while Atticus willingly offered him emotional support, he did not take any action to prevent his exile (Att. 3.15.7).51 He concludes that since Atticus is partly responsible for his banishment and suffering, he needs to try and rectify this unfortunate situation through his actions.52 By laying the blame on Atticus for the uncharacteristic behaviour that he displayed towards him, Cicero appears to have attempted to use Atticus’ affection for 48  Att. 3.7.2, 3.8.4, 3.9.2, 3.10.2, 3.13.2, 3.15.2–3, 3.15.4, 3.19.3, 3.20.1. 49  Cicero’s accusation of Atticus that he gave him bad advice about Clodius’ first bill has received little attention in scholarship. Tyrrell and Purser (1904) 352 stress that Cicero considered Pompey’s and Hortensius’ stance towards him as a betrayal and that he blamed Atticus only for his “supineness”. Seager (1979) 108, while discussing Cicero’s constant references to the friends who betrayed him, uses the same vague language that Cicero does and mentions them as “Hortensius and the rest”. Similarly, Rawson (1978) 112 n. 71 notes that Cicero blamed his suffering in exile and the very reason that he left Rome “on bad advice from his friends”, but she does not name Atticus as one of the implied persons. Fuhrmann (1992) 94 also discusses Cicero’s assignment of blame to some of his friends without examining whether or not he was also referring to Atticus. In contrast, Smith (1966) 159 argues that Cicero “was bitterly critical … of Atticus” for the advice that he provided him. Hutchinson (1998) 34–5 observes that Cicero decided to leave Rome after listening to his friends’ advice, including Atticus’. Lastly, Welch (1996) 458–60 notes that he did blame Atticus for persuading him to leave Rome. The possibility of Cicero considering Atticus’ counsel as deliberately bad and a form of betrayal is reinforced in a statement to Quintus that intimus, proximus, familiarissimus quisque aut sibi pertimuit aut mihi invidit (QFr. 1.4.1: “each one of my closest, most intimate, best friends either feared greatly for himself or envied me”). Considering that his closest friend was indubitably Atticus, it must be surmised that his remark was a reference to Atticus rather than Hortensius or anyone else. Nevertheless, despite the rarity of attested disagreements between Cicero and Atticus in their extant letters and the severity of Cicero’s accusation of Atticus, his reproach has not received an extensive discussion. 50  On Cicero’s trust in Atticus’ counsel, see also Byrne (1920) 101. 51  Nevertheless, as Rawson (1975) 119 observes, the correspondence suggests that despite Cicero’s reproaches against Atticus, their friendship remained unaffected. 52  S i potes, erige adflictos et in eo nos iuva (“if you can, raise me, a wretched man, and help me in this”, Att. 3.15.7).

164

Evangelou

him and his feeling of guilt over his part in Cicero’s wretchedness to ensure a faster return to Rome through Atticus’ concerted efforts.53 Although his correspondence from exile provides some of the most distinct examples of the arousal of emotions in an effort to secure Atticus’ help, there are several cases from the rest of his letters to Atticus in which he displays a similar approach in matters that affected him less directly. One such example is his need of Atticus’ financial aid with Tullia’s dowry payments to her third husband, Dolabella.54 Atticus seems to have had no desire to lend money to Cicero because of his strong disapproval of Dolabella as a person and as a husband of Tullia.55 In fact, he made his dislike of him so clear to Cicero throughout the years that Cicero felt the need to praise Dolabella,56 while being well aware of his corrupt character.57 Cicero tried to persuade Atticus to lend him the money for the second instalment of Tullia’s dowry by, once again, evoking feelings of pity both for Tullia and himself. In March 48, after claiming that he is certain that Atticus would be willing to provide him his own sources to help him (Att. 11.2.1), he refers to Tullia as illam miseram (Att. 11.2.2: “that miserable girl”) and asks him to protect her by using both Atticus’ and his own funds. He then laments his misfortunes, but notes that he rather not talk about them any further by using the rhetorical ruse of tears as an excuse.58 He clarifies that 53  Hagen (2016) 206–7 points out that, despite tears being an effective means of persuasion, there are examples of crying ( flere) that lead to unsuccessful attempts to persuade one’s audience, like Cleopatra’s request to be buried next to Mark Antony as reported by Dio Cassius (51.12.1–13.2). 54  Clark (1991) 30, 38 argues against the conventional view of Crassipes as Tullia’s second husband. She notes that even though she was betrothed to him, there is not enough evidence to state with absolutely certainty that they eventually married. She follows Plutarch (Cic. 41.7–8) and Asconius (Dis. 5.9–11) who mention only Piso and Dolabella as men to whom she was married. As a result, she suggests that Dolabella was her second husband. Nevertheless, Cicero’s reference to Crassipes as mei generi (“my son-in-law”, Fam. 1.9.20) indicates that they did in fact marry before December 54. 55  Atticus’ negative opinion of Dolabella is clear in Att. 6.6.1, 7.3.12, 11.23.3, 14.19.1. Collins (1951) 168 asserts that based on Att. 7.3.12 it seems that he had even sent Cicero a letter with “a catalogue of his vices”. 56  Att. 14.15.1, 14.17A; Fam. 9.14.5. 57  Att. 6.6.1, 11.23.3; Fam. 3.10.5. 58  D  olore et lacrimis scribere prohibeor (Att. 11.3.1: “anguish and tears prevent me from writing”). The method of bursting into tears (conlacrimatio) or simply mentioning having cried is common in Cicero’s letters. Some examples indicative of his attempt to excite pity using this method come from his letters to Terentia (Fam. 14.1.5, 14.2.1, 14.4.1) and to Quintus (QFr. 1.3.3, 1.3.10). It can also be observed in statements about his decision to refrain from seeing Quintus in exile. After explaining how he was in such an emotional state that he was unable to see his brother, he attempts to dissuade Atticus from expressing

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

165

he is not seeking comfort from Atticus but an actual solution to his problem (Att. 11.2.3). In the following letter, he uses the same language in reference to Tullia (Att. 11.3.1: cui miserae). More importantly, by claiming, tuae amicitiae benevolentiaeque permitto (Att. 11.3.1: “I leave it to your friendship and kindness”), he is suggesting that Atticus’ help in such a great time of need would be a testament to their friendship. He ends the letter by stressing how much Tullia’s predicament is affecting him (Att. 11.3.3). He seems to imply that by securing the resources necessary for Tullia’s second instalment, he would be helping both of them. By mid-June 48 the correspondence suggests that Atticus had agreed to offer financial support, but in an effort to ensure that Atticus would keep his promise to him, Cicero attempts to make him pity him by claiming that the financial problem that his daughter was facing had such a tremendous impact on him that me conficit sollicitudo, ex qua etiam summa infirmitas corporis (Att. 11.4a: “I am consumed by anxiety, which has even made me extremely weak”). The financial troubles that Tullia was facing were, nonetheless, not resolved in 48, as they resurface in Cicero’s letters to Atticus in 47. In July, he uses the same arguments that he used before to persuade Atticus to assist him. He returns to his common reference to Tullia as “miserable” (Att. 11.25.3: miserrimae, Att. 11.23.3: misera) and reminds him of how much his daughter’s suffering is affecting him (Att. 11.25.3). He stresses that his request about Tullia is the most significant one (Att. 11.25.3) and asks him to raise money by selling any of Cicero’s fabrics or furniture (Att. 11.25.3).59 However, in a letter from August he admits that what he had suggested was impossible, since nothing could be sold at the time (Att. 11.24.2). As a result, Atticus had to suggest using Terentia’s and his own resources to help Tullia (Att. 11.24.3). It appears that Cicero’s genuine concern for his daughter led him to believe that by evoking Atticus’ pity for her, Atticus would not only protect her from Dolabella’s creditors through his own funds,60 but would also agree to manage Terentia’s will and ensure that Tullia would be included in it (Att. 1.25.3; 1.23.3).

disapproval of his actions simply by the words etenim fletu impedior (Att. 3.10.2: “because tears prevent me”). According to Hagen (2016) 203, “the tears can be seen as a symbol for the orator’s highest possible emotional turmoil” and even “the most powerful means of persuasion”. 59  He suggests the exact same solution when in need of funds for a piece of land for Tullia’s shrine in March 45 (Att. 12.23.3). 60  Rauh (1986) 10 observes that Atticus was successful at helping Tullia with the second instalment of her dowry.

166

Evangelou

After Tullia’s death in February 45 (Att. 12.13.1), Cicero decided to buy a suburban property where he could build a shrine in his daughter’s memory.61 Unsurprisingly, the only friend whom he could trust with such an important task was Atticus (Att. 12.27.1). The idea of acquiring a plot of land was first introduced in March 45 (Att. 12.13.2).62 The extant letters reveal that this topic was constantly discussed until July when Cicero finally dropped it (Att. 13.33a.1).63 His request was incredibly difficult for Atticus to fulfil because even though Cicero insisted that the shrine had to be built in a prominent place,64 he did not have the necessary funds for such a purchase.65 Atticus, who does not seem to have considered Cicero’s desire reasonable,66 attempted to provide his assistance but not to Cicero’s satisfaction (Att. 12.26.1) by seemingly prioritizing his own affairs (Att. 12.44.3). Being under the impression that Atticus was not trying hard enough to secure one of the estates that he had in mind, he chose to use emotion to convince him of the significance of granting his request. Apart from stressing his complete trust in Atticus (Att. 12.36.1) and how his friendship with Atticus was unique in terms of Atticus’ love for him,67 he constantly reminds him of his grief over Tullia. He claims repeatedly that if Atticus was successful in buying one of the estates that he had in mind, he would be able to assuage his grief.68 It follows that not only did he rely on Atticus’ affection and concern for him, but also attempted to inspire pity in him and thus persuade him to attend to this matter with care and before the rest of his affairs. As the discussion has demonstrated, Cicero found in Atticus a person who deeply cared about him and who was willing to accommodate most of his needs. That did not include, however, doing exactly what Cicero asked him to 61  In a letter to Atticus from May 45 he reveals that he desired Tullia’s ἀποθέωσιν (“deification”, Att. 12.36.1; 12.37a). On Tullia’s shrine and Atticus’ involvement: Rauh (1986) 10 n. 34 and Baltussen (2009) 361–4. 62  At first, his request of Atticus was not for a shrine but for aliquod … latibulum et perfugium doloris mei (Att. 12.13.2: “some place to flee and hide my grief”). 63  According to Rauh (1986) 10, Cicero’s letters give the impression that he was “demanding his assistance”. 64  Att. 12.19.1, 12.23.3, 12.27.1, 13.37.2. In two letters from May 45 it is revealed that Atticus had suggested purchasing an estate in Tusculum for Tullia’s shrine, though Cicero does not appear to have been enthusiastic about such a prospect (Att. 12.37.2, 12.41.3, 12.44.2, 13.26.1). 65  Att. 12.21.2, 12.22.3, 12.43.3. 66  Att. 12.37.2, 12.41.3, 12.43.2. It is worth noting that Cicero stresses in a letter to Atticus nec quid res mea familiaris postulet … sed quid velim et cur velim existima (Att. 12.22.3: “do not think about what my private resources call for, but what I want and why I want it”). 67  A  tt. 12.18.1, 12.37.2. 68  A  tt. 12.23.3, 12.37a, 12.38a, 12.41.2–3, 12.44.2.

The Use of Emotion as Persuasion in Cicero ’ s Letters to Atticus

167

do, if he did not deem it necessary. As a result, he offered Cicero financial and moral support during his exile, but decided against joining him in his journey to Greece and thus risking his life for him. Similarly, he worked on finding a piece of land for Tullia’s shrine, dedicating considerable time negotiating the price of certain estates in which Cicero was interested, though without prioritizing it as much as Cicero had wished. Cicero, evidently dissatisfied with Atticus’ commitment to both of his requests, decided to abuse Atticus’ affection for him by making him feel guilty about the bad counsel that he had given him before he left Rome, and pity him or even Tullia. Nonetheless, his methods of persuasion were not as successful as he must have expected, since Atticus did not offer his own funds for the second instalment of Tullia’s dowry, he, most likely, never saw him in Greece during his banishment, and failed to secure a property for Tullia’s shrine. His actions and decisions suggest that he was comfortable with being frank with Cicero and even with criticizing him when he disagreed with him. They show that he knew Cicero well enough to distinguish between the times where assisting him was imperative and the instances where Cicero was exaggerating in an effort to pressure him into granting an unreasonable request. Thus, the bond that they developed during their lifelong friendship was both a blessing and a curse for Cicero. While it guaranteed provision of assistance on an everyday basis and in times of need, it enabled Atticus to see through Cicero’s methods of persuasion better than any other person in Cicero’s life. Atticus’ perceptiveness and his propensity to put his personal safety over any friendship prevented him from offering the form of support that Cicero desired from him. Ultimately, Cicero’s greatest mistakes were overestimating the strength of his amicitia with Atticus and failing to see that appeal to the emotions of a person who knew him better than anyone else was not an effective strategy of persuasion.

chapter 11

Si rerum pondera minutissimis sententiis non fregisset: Protrepsis in Seneca’s De ira Jennifer Devereaux Velles eum suo ingenio dixisse, alieno iudicio: nam si aliqua contempsisset, si parum recta non concupisset, si non omnia sua amasset, si rerum pondera minutissimis sententiis non fregisset, consensu potius eruditorum quam puerorum amore comprobaretur. Quintilian De institutione oratoria 10.1.130

∵ 1 Introduction This chapter explores the style of Seneca’s composition and explains how language structures indelibly marked with emotion serve his protreptic aims. It also offers a novel hypothesis about how such linguistic structures influenced Quintilian’s well-known criticism of Seneca’s style, which he identified as both dangerous and appealing – especially to Rome’s youth. Through the identification of embedded allusions, I will suggest that Seneca creatively exploits the ambiguities of language to persuade his readers to join him in a shared quest for truth that calls into question the nature and meaning of authority. Truth-seeking is the work of philosophical inquiry and argumentation, through which audiences and interlocutors are either persuaded to a certain position or not. In addition to what one argued, how one argued was of great importance. Consequently, the style in which arguments were expressed was key to the effectiveness of the speaker’s protreptic appeal. For Seneca, style was of particular importance when practising philosophy, perhaps nowhere more so than when crafting exempla. As rhetorical treatises from Aristotle to Quintilian tell us, good examples are those that are vivid and therefore solicit predictable emotion from the audience.1 Perhaps the figure who understood 1  With heartfelt gratitude to Thomas Habinek and Douglas Cairns for their support and guidance. Special thanks to Margaret Graver for her expert comments. Thanks also to Rex Stem

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_012

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

169

this best was Gorgias, who used Helen’s physical beauty to explain language’s ability to spontaneously form emotional and evaluative communities: ἑνὶ δὲ σώματι πολλὰ σώματα συνήγαγεν ἀνδρῶν ἐπὶ μεγάλοις μέγα φρονούντων (Gorg. Hel. 4: “with a single body she brought together many bodies of men thinking great thoughts on great things”). Like Greeks and Trojans united by shared admiration of Helen, audiences are brought together by the shared emotions and desires which language arouses. Of similar rhetorical expertise to Gorgias in the Roman world was Quintilian, who criticized Seneca for having “a corrupt and dangerous style”. The critique is certainly curious given that Seneca, whom Quintilian nevertheless admired for his denunciations of vice (10.1.128), advocated the view that one’s style reflects one’s moral character.2 To be sure, Quintilian’s criticism signals his concern with philosophy’s contemporary challenge to rhetoric’s supremacy. Seneca’s evolved style was, after all, threatening the popularity of Quintilian’s neo-Ciceronian school.3 People were growing impatient with the elaborate long-windedness favoured by earlier generations, so Seneca adopted an evolved style known for its brevity.4 An element of this style was a subtle admixture of poetry and prose, which was a valuable aspect of post-classical style.5 The practice of prose authors utilizing poetic language and cross-genre allusion gave them the ability to make subtle arguments. It also enabled them to arouse familiar/kindred feeling among readers (ad motum animorum)6 in imaginative and self-reflective ways, often embedding single words or small phrases once limited to certain contexts, thereby creating evocative complexes of thought and meaning that grow throughout the text. This creative shift in the use of language reflects the changing attitudes and circumstances of the early principate, and the evolution of emotional and evaluative communities along with them. Given that Quintilian’s main complaint seems to have been that Seneca was outstripping him when it came to attracting followers (quod voluit effecit), his criticism of Seneca for having “a corrupt and dangerous for his timely remarks, and to the editors, Sophia Papaioannou and Andreas Serafim, for their helpful feedback. This chapter was written with the support of the University of Southern California’s 2016 Gold Family Fellowship. See Webb (1997) 112. 2  See esp. Sen. Ep. 114. For discussion: Dominik (1997) and Taoka (2011). See also Graver (1998). 3  Dominik (1997) 52. 4  Cf. Currie (1966) 79 who cites Aper’s scornful reference in Dialogus 19.2, to impeditissimarum orationum spatia. 5  The original derogatory implications of the term “post-classical” are fortunately no longer in fashion. See Harrison (2016) 39. 6  Quint. Inst. 9.1.21.

170

Devereaux

style” likely pertains, at least in part, to his subtle use of allusion in the art of example-making. With this idea of what “dangerous” means in mind, let us now investigate the unlikely relationship between sound moral teachings, a corrupt style and successful exhortations to Seneca’s school of philosophy. It seems reasonable to conduct such an investigation on the De ira, both because it has been described as “fervid with rhetoric”,7 and because the opening lines of the treatise exemplify an allusive style that may have been what Quintilian had in mind when he was levelling his criticism. In the pages to come there will be a case study of sorts, through which we can begin to explore what it might have meant to have a “dangerous style”, and how such a style might have functioned as an element of successful and morally sound argumentation. In the process, I hope to bring into sharper focus Seneca’s use of culturally and conceptually embedded affective material as an element of protrepsis, and offer an explanation as to why Quintilian might have characterized Seneca’s writings as both morally sound yet corrupted by a style that “splinters the consequence of things with fragments of thought” (Quint. Inst. 10.1.130: rerum pondera minutissimis sententiis [ fregit]). 2

Minutissimis sententiis

In his criticisms, Quintilian is concerned with Seneca’s alleged inattention to factual and historical details, as well as with his tendency towards brevity, but his general tone regarding Seneca’s lack of adherence to tradition and previous material, as well as his reference to Seneca as parum diligens, suggests an additional ethical claim. It will be my suggestion that this claim rests on a protreptic literary procedure involving individual words or phrases that are anchored in emotional concepts that activate networks of thought and grow throughout the text.8 The opening of De ira, a work in which ira has a rather more “rhetorical” and imagistic feel than in some of Seneca’s other works, offers evidence for this interpretation.

7  Basore (1928) xiii. 8  Cf. Struck (2010) 57–8, who discusses Stoic ideas that myth might be a repository of profound truth and reflect what we see in Stoic etymology, namely that language is naturally linked to its meanings and single words might serve as discrete sites of interpretation that yield sometimes profound insights.

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

171

Exegisti a me, Novate, ut scriberem quemadmodum posset ira leniri, nec immerito mihi videris hunc praecipue affectum pertimuisse maxime ex omnibus taetrum ac rabidum. Ceteris enim aliquid quieti placidique inest, hic totus concitatus et in impetu doloris est, armorum sanguinis suppliciorum minime humana furens cupiditate, dum alteri noceat sui neglegens, in ipsa irruens tela et ultionis secum ultorem tracturae avidus. Quidam itaque e sapientibus viris iram dixerunt brevem insaniam; aeque enim impotens sui est, decoris oblita, necessitudinum immemor, in quod coepit pertinax et intenta, rationi consiliisque praeclusa, vanis agitata causis, ad dispectum aequi verique inhabilis, ruinis simillima, quae super id quod oppressere franguntur. You have asked me, Novatus, to write on the subject of how anger can be calmed, and it seems to me that you had good reason to especially fear this, the most repulsive and savage of all emotions. For the other emotions have some element of peace and calm in them, while this one is a thorough wave of anguish raging with an especially inhuman desire for weapons, blood and punishment, giving no consideration to itself so long as it can harm another, hurling itself on the very same weapons, eager for revenge, though it may drag the avenger down with it. Certain wise men have thus claimed that anger is temporary insanity. For it is equally devoid of self-control, forgetful of decency, unmindful of ties, persistent and diligent in whatever it begins, closed to reason and counsel, excited by trifling causes, unfit to discern the right and the true – it is most similar to waters that are broken above that which they oppress.9 One notes that the metaphor anchoring the discussion of anger in De ira is animalistic, which is first signalled in the opening sentence with taetrum ac rabidum, attributions that resonate with cupiditate and avidus in the second.10 Taeter is classed amongst those words signalling disgust, like foedus and putidus. It is used by Seneca elsewhere to refer to food that is “disgusting and forbidding” (taeter et horridus)11 and to certain awful things that are not unlike the monsters invented by poets.12 It is also a favourite word of Cicero in his 9  Translation adapted from Basore (1928). I here translate ruinis as “waters” because, as will be explained below, the idea of fluidity is directly present, and “waters” is an association present in the subtext. 10  For earlier association of taeter with cupidus see: Cic. Vat. 40.7. 11  Ep. 5.4. 12  De ira 2.35.5: Quales sunt hostium vel ferarum caede madentium aut ad caedem euntium aspectus, qualia poetae inferna monstra finxerunt succincta serpentibus et igneo flatu, quales

172

Devereaux

courtroom speeches. It is especially abundant in his Philippics, wherein he repeatedly uses it to modify belua to further his characterization of Marc Antony as a Charybdis:13 Phil. 2.67: Quae Charybdis tam vorax? What Charybdis was ever so voracious? Phil. 3.28: Hanc vero taeterrimam beluam quis ferre potest aut quo modo? Quid est in Antonio praeter libidinem, crudelitatem, petulantiam, audaciam? But as for this most disgusting monster, who could endure him, or how? What is there in Antonius except lust, and cruelty, debauchery, and boldness? Phil. 4.12: Non est vobis res, Quirites, cum scelerato homine ac nefario, sed cum immani taetraque belua. You have not, O Romans, to deal with a wicked and reckless man, but with a vicious and disgusting beast. Phil. 7.27: Vita et fortunae optimi cuiusque, quo cupiditatem infinitam cum immani crudelitate iam pridem intendit Antonius … taetram et pestiferam beluam ne inclusam et constrictam dimittatis cavete. The life and fortune of every virtuous man is at stake, against which Antonius has long been directing his insatiable avariciousness, united to his savage cruelty…. Beware how you let that disgusting and noxious beast escape now that you have him confined and chained.

ad bella excitanda discordiamque in populos dividendam pacemque lacerandam teterrimae inferum exeunt. “Such is the aspect of an enemy, or wild beasts wet with the blood of slaughter or bent upon slaughter; such are the infernal monsters of the poet’s mind, all girt about with snakes and breating fire; such are those most foul shapes that issue forth from hell to stir up wars and scatter discord among the peoples and tear peace all to shreds”. 13  While fastidium does not appear in the passages herein discussed, for interest: Kaster (2001); (2005).

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

173

Phil. 10.22: Quid illa taetrius belua, quid immanius? What can be more disgusting than that beast? What more vicious? Phil. 12.11: Cuius acerbitas morum immanitasque naturae ne vino quidem permixta temperari solet, hic ira dementiaque inflammatus adhibito fratre Lucio, taeterrima belua, numquam profecto a me sacrilegas manus atque impias abstinebit. The tastelessness of his manners and the ruthlessness of his nature is not even prone to being softened by wine. Now, with his brother Lucius at his side, incensed by anger and madness, that most disgusting of beasts, he will never keep his sacrilegious and impious hands from me. In the last of these examples, taeterrima belua seems to refer to ira as much as to Antony, who is treated in the above examples as an aggressive and offensive creature who invites opposition in much the same way as ira does in Seneca’s treatise.14 An earlier characterization of Antony as a vomiting drunk (Phil. 2.25) also feeds into this depiction – the blending of metaphors is signalled by a series of words denoting consumption or pouring out (effuderit, absorbere, potabatur, consumpta, devorare) in Phil 2.67, which introduces the comparison with Charybdis. Wealth is poured out or discharged like bodily fluid; furniture, clothing and all manner of things are swallowed; wine is drunk for days on end; richly embroidered couches are consumed; cities, kingdoms, houses and gardens are devoured. Since we are told in De or. 3.163 that Charybdis is explicitly a non-visual metaphor, the audience is guided by a purely visceral experience engendered by the iteration of verbs pertaining to consumption as Cicero knits Antony into the experience of overindulgence and vomiting. By embodying Antony as a physical state associated with vomiting, which is the characteristic behaviour of Charybdis,15 Cicero evokes the bodily feeling of disgust, the moral emotion attendant to taeter in the subsequent references to Antony-as-Charybdis.16 Through this method of rhetorical delivery, Cicero constructs an emotional experience for his audience by using a schema

14  See De ira 3.3.6, 3.41.3. 15  See e.g. Ov. Rem. 740: Hic vomit epotas dira Charybdis aquas, “Here dreadful Charybdis vomits the waters she swallowed”. 16  On disgust as a bodily and moral emotion: Rozin, Haidt and McCauley (1999).

174

Devereaux

grounded in accepted truths and values,17 one of which is simply that vomit is disgusting.18 By observing the way a classical rhetorician like Cicero builds the Charybdis schema through a sprinkling of verbs throughout the passage, we will be able to better grasp how Seneca does something similar in the opening of De ira. Taeter and its associations with food, vomit, mythical creatures and political power will anchor the rest of our discussion. Enmeshed with taeter and the evocation of the socio-moral content entailed by the Ciceronian metaphor is rabidus, a term associated with dogs by Seneca not much further into the text (1.6). It is also used to characterize the dogs that would become metonymic of Scylla in Ov. Am. 3.12 and the anonymous panegyric to Messalla in the Tibullan corpus (3.7), wherein waves take on the ferocity of dogs.19 The association of dogs with the sea (or some state thereof) is as old as Homer, wherein we first encounter Scylla and Charybdis. The latter is characterized as divine (δῖα Χάρυβδις), while the former is associated with canines (λελακυῖα … φωνὴ μὲν ὅση σκύλακος νεογιλῆς). Equally old is the view of the sea bristling like an animal (e.g. Il. 21.126).20 In Latin literature, we find this imagery in Pacuvius (inhorrescit mare), while a conceptualization of the sea as an animal is deconstructed in Plautus’ Trinummus (4.1), wherein the personified sea is described as savagely eager for destruction (saevosque severusque atque avidis moribus), while storms, rain and waves (imbres fluctusque) are described as canine companions (satellites quasi canes) with a propensity for tearing things apart (distrahere … frangere).21 The ability of dogs, as a pack, to attack sequentially and from different directions underwrites the Plautine metaphor of waves as wild animals by drawing equally on long-standing associations of fluctus with socio-political turbulence and the association of

17  Webb (1997) 124 citing Pedrick and Rabinowitz (1986) 107. 18  I am only aware of one occurrence wherein vomit is “positively” characterized by a rhetorician, which is in the much later Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus, wherein flatterers of Dionysius, the tyrant at Syracuse, ingest his vomit, which they describe as tasting “sweeter than honey”. But, as Donald Lateiner and Dimos Spatharas point out, the “flatterers’ (impossible) suspension of disgust makes them the target of the readers’ moral disgust”. Athenaeus was not worried that his audience would react with anything other than revulsion to his sweet description. Lateiner and Spatharas (2017) 32. 19  N  . B. Juster and Maltby (2102) suggest on metrical and stylistic grounds that the panegyric is probably a school exercise from the Flavian period. See also Stat. Silv. 3.2.85. 20  For interest in the embodied and emotive qualities of φρίκη in Greek culture: Cairns (2015). 21  The Plautus passage is conceptually and linguistically linked to Pacuvius (trag. 355–60 ROL) identified by Cicero (Div. 1.24) as pertaining to a storm that destroyed much of the Greek fleet after the sack of Troy (Od. 1.326–7, 3.130–85). Quoted at De or. 3.157.

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

175

dogs with loyalty and betrayal,22 and, in either case, strong, socially embedded emotion. With this appeal to socially embedded emotion in mind one notes that by Seneca’s time, Scylla, a creature associated with water, socio-political turbulence and canines (and hence loyalty and betrayal), had become a terror even to herself (Ov. Met. 14.51–2), much as Seneca predicts for the one who gives in to anger: in ipsa irruens tela et ultionis secum ultorem tracturae avidus. Bearing on this line is the elder Seneca (Cont. 9.6.2):23 Concitatissuma est in morte rabies, et desperatione ultima in furorem animus impellitur. Quaedam ferae tela ipsa commordent et ad mortis auctorem per vulnera sua ruunt. Ferocity is most aroused at the point of death, when with ultimate despair the mind is driven into madness. Certain beasts snap at the very weapons that strike them and rush on amidst their own wounds at the author of their death. Vibius Gallus here speaks to the natural desire to avenge one’s own death at the moment of dying,24 which resonates with both Aristotle and the younger Seneca, who identify anger as a desire for revenge.25 In the younger Seneca, the author and victim of destruction are the same,26 which reflexivity speaks to the social aspect of ira and emotion more broadly, as when fear recoils on those who inspire it (semper in auctores redundat 22  Cf. Hom. Od. 17.290–327 and Hom. Il. 22.66–76. 23  This becomes clear in De ira 3.4.3: Ferarum, me hercules, sive illas fames agitat sive infixum visceribus ferrum, minus taetra facies est, etiam cum venatorem suum semianimes morsu ultimo petunt, quam hominis ira flagrantis, “wild beasts, I swear, whether tormented by hunger or by the steel that has pierced their vitals, when half-dead they rush upon their hunter for one last bite, even they are less horrible in appearance than a man burning with anger”). It is perhaps worth noting that a related idea exists in the fragments: Nam canis, quando est percussa lapide, non tam illum adpetit qui sese icit, quam illum eumpse lapidem, qui ipsa icta est, petit, “for when a dog is struck by a stone, it attacks not so much him who strikes it as that same stone by which it was struck” (attributed to Pacuvius by Warmington 1936). 24  Winterbottom (1974) 328 n. 1 links Gallus’ speech to Sen. Agam. 202: mors misera non est commori cum quo velis. 25  Preserved in Lactantius is Posidonius’ definition of anger: ira est cupiditas ulciscendae iniuriae. Cf. Arist. Rh. 1378a, 2.2. See Basore (192) 114a: Seneca also refers to De anima 403a30: ait enim iram esse cupiditatem doloris reponendi (“for he says that anger is the desire to repay injury”). 26  Similarities occur in (e.g.) AUC 1.12; Plb. 12.11 and Sen. Ep. 94.67.

176

Devereaux

timor).27 This very idea of self-destructive reflexivity is also present in the simile that concludes the opening of the treatise: [ira est] ruinis simillima quae super id quod oppressere franguntur. The simile has been attributed to Cont. 4.4 – ruinis incendia opprimit28 – however, there is nothing of fire in the opening of the treatise. As has been shown, it is rather quite the opposite – water – that is central of Seneca’s introduction. I would thus suggest that the simile ties into a network of conceptualizations that associate ira with the sea and individuals with breaking waves, translating it as “[anger is] most similar to waters that are broken above that which they oppress”.29 It is a visual metaphor for self-destruction highly visible in the Nurse’s words in Seneca’s Medea (391 … 394): ubi se iste fluctus franget? Exundat furor … se vincet30 and made vivid in De ira by the verbal architecture, which seems to imitate the nature of a wave (concitatus, irruens, tracturae, oppressere, franguntur). The sum of these features creates vividness through an immersive experience that connects water, breakage, sea animals and disgust via a deeply embedded concept founded in myth, a repository of profound truth.31 Scylla and Charybdis are enacted by Seneca to ground his treatise with schemas representing a complex of culturally specific notions and, more importantly, emotions that can be re-enacted to persuasive effect. In summary: in the opening lines of De ira, Seneca evokes a disgust-related metaphorical schema associated with Scylla and Charybdis, the former animalistic and the latter divine in the earliest extant tradition. He does this through a constellation of allusions, from habitual consumption by dogs, to the consumer habits of Antony, to the self-destructive nature of emotion, all of which are tied to the sea, a body of water that is enacted through the verbal architecture of the passage. The cupidity associated with this animated concept was detailed by Plautus in his Trinummus, which here informs the concept of ira as a water-like animal characterized by cupidity and vengeance. As we move forward, one might think of this schema as a form of stylistic and protreptic scaffolding.

27  De ira 2.11.3–4; See also Ep. 14.10. 28  Preisendanz (1908) 110–1. Boyle (2014) translates ruinis simillima “just as a falling building” (p.lv). Ruina referring to water is found in Verg. Aen. 1.129: fluctibus oppressos Troas caelique ruina “the Trojans overwhelmed by the waves and by the falling down of the sky”, which parallels Trin. 4.16: imbres fluctusque (“pouring rain and waves”). 29  See n. 9 for ruinis as “waters”. 30  See also the death of Ceyx in Met. 11.568 and Tr. 1.2.106–8. I here also note that there is debate as to which Seneca wrote Medea. For discussion: see Graver (2017); Habinek (2000); Kohn (2003). 31  See n. 8.

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

3

177

Rerum pondera

Having proposed a new and at least partial interpretation of Seneca’s alleged use of minutissimae sententiae, let us now consider the rerum pondera Quintilian references in his criticism. I would propose that one can do this by examining the transformation of the concept manifested in the opening lines of the treatise into the exemplum found at De ira 3.40.2–5.32 Castigare vero irascentem et ultro obirasci incitare est; varie adgredieris blandeque, nisi forte tanta persona eris, ut possis iram comminuere, quemadmodum fecit divus Augustus, cum cenaret apud Vedium Pollionem. Fregerat unus ex servis eius crustallinum; rapi eum Vedius iussit ne vulgari quidem more periturum; murenis obici iubebatur, quas ingentis in piscina continebat. Quis non hoc illum putaret luxuriae causa facere? Saevitia erat. Evasit e manibus puer et confugit ad Caesaris pedes nihil aliud petiturus, quam ut aliter periret, ne esca fieret. Motus est novitate crudelitatis Caesar et illum quidem mitti, crustallina autem omnia coram se frangi iussit, complerique piscinam. Fuit Caesari sic castigandus amicus; bene usus est viribus suis: “E convivio rapi homines imperas et novi generis poenis lancinari? Si calix tuus fractus est, viscera hominis distrahentur? Tantum tibi placebis, ut ibi aliquem duci iubeas, ubi Caesar est?” Sic cui tantum potentiae est, ut iram ex superiore loco adgredi possit, male tractet, at talem dumtaxat, qualem modo rettuli, feram, immanem, sanguinariam, quae iam insanabilis est, nisi maius aliquid extimuit. You will approach a man with various entreaties when he becomes angry, but to castigate him by becoming angry at him serves only to increase his anger, unless you happen to be an important enough person to be able to disintegrate his anger as the deified Augustus did when dining with Vedius Pollio. One of his slaves had broken a crystal cup. Vedius ordered him seized and put to death – but not in the common manner. He ordered him thrown to huge eels, which he kept in a fishpond. Who would think this done for the sake of display? It was cruel. The boy evaded their grip and fled to the feet of Caesar, begging that he might suffer any other fate than becoming food. Caesar, moved by the novelty of Pollio’s cruelty, pardoned the slave and ordered that all the crystal cups be broken in his sight and the fishpond filled. Thus, castigating a friend fell to Caesar 32  The relationship of this passage to the opening of the treatise was located with TACIT, USC’s text analysis, crawling and interpretive tool developed by the Computational Social Sciences Laboratory. Detailed information in: Dehghani et al. (2016).

178

Devereaux

and he used his strength well: “Do you order men to be snatched from the banquet and masticated through this new species of punishment? If your cup is broken, are the bowels of a man to be strewn about? Is this so pleasing to you that you would order someone to be led there, where Caesar is?” Thus, if any man’s power is so great that he can assail anger from an eminent position, let him deal with it harshly, but only such anger as I have illustrated – fierce, inhuman, and bloodthirsty, and now incurable unless it is made to fear something more powerful.33 In the passage detailing the interaction between Augustus and Vedius Pollio, a figure whose identity is not certain but seems to have been known for his extravagance and animal accoutrements,34 we see an exemplum of moral justice underpinned by a conceptual metaphor that equates human bodies to fragile containers.35 The metaphor of the body as a container was used in the Roman world to construe emotional experience,36 temporality,37 social isolation,38 illness and death,39 and, in this case, social and moral worth. This valuation is signalled by the treatment in Book 3 of the simile in the opening of Book 1: ruinis simillima, quae super id quod oppressere franguntur … fregerat unus ex servis eius crustallinum … divus Augustus crustallina autem omnia coram se frangi iussit “[anger is] most similar to waters that are broken above that which they oppress … one of his slaves had broken a crystal cup … divine Augustus ordered that all the crystal cups be broken”. The link between the passages requires some clarification. Of first note is the materiality of the cups. Syme identifies the crustallina with myrrhena (1961).40 Pliny describes the material as having the colour not of foamy but rather of clear water (NH. 37.10: nec spumei coloris, sed limpidae aquae), and, when recounting the folklore surrounding the invention of 33  Translation adapted from Basore (1928). 34  For historical figure: Syme (1961). This episode is alluded to by Ovid (Fasti 6.639ff.) and referenced directly by Dio Cassius (54.23) and Tertullian (De Pallio 5.6 cf. n. 45). 35  The body conceived of as a container is cognitively ubiquitous. See Lakoff and Johnson (1980) for seminal discussion. 36  For discussion in terms of Roman emotion: Riggsby (2015); for general discussion see especially Kövecses (2000). 37  Petr. Sat. 42 38  Sen. Ep. 9.13 39  Humoral medical systems like those of Hippocrates and Galen treat the body as a container within which fluids are produced and moved around. 40  Sir Edward Tyas Cook in 1903 (Handbook of Greek and Roman Antiquities of the British Museum) wrote of a crustallinum: “a costly table vessel highly prized by the ancient Romans”, that “it is a cup of very fine description” made of colourless glass and found at an ancient Roman cemetery in Barnwell Cambridge (Slade Collection).

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

179

glasswork, refers to glass in liquid form as transparent streams (NH. 36.66: tralucentes novi liquoris fluxisse rivos).41 He also makes explicit a connection between broken glasses and broken bodies, remarking that he once saw the broken fragments of a single cup preserved and exhibited in an urn “so as to excite the sorrows of the world and expose the cruelty of fortune; just as though it had been no less than the body of Alexander the Great himself!” With the association between water, cup and body in mind, we then notice that the simile that opens the treatise places quae in such a way that it is pronominal to both ruinis and [ira] simillima. Quae is grammatically compatible with both elements of the simile, which unites them conceptually. [Ira] simillima construes anger as a singular entity (quae), while ruinae construes anger as a composite or multiplex of constitutive elements (quae), much as water can be simultaneously construed as both a sea as well as a multitude of waves or drops, and cups – whether one or many – can be found completely or in fragments. The dual reading of quae is our first clue that Seneca’s “epigrammatic brevity”42 has purpose that comes to bear on the Pollio passage, which rests upon an equation of human bodies and fragile fluid-containers. The next clue is that the final verb of the opening passage, frangere, dominates the exemplum (fregerat, frangi, fractus), and is conceptually reinforced by verbs denoting forceful disintegration: comminuere (to break into small parts), lancinari (to be torn into pieces), distrahentur (they will be torn apart). Comminuere takes anger as its object, but has long had associations with both body and mind.43 During the post-Augustan period, it was also associated with crustallina.44 Lancinare, a term found only in prose in the post-Augustan period, appears in the description of a sea creature (belua) known to attack with a toothy bite in Pliny’s Naturalis Historia (9.12–13), but was previously associated with the consumption of wealth by Catullus (c. 29). Distrahere had broad application but notably speaks to the fragmentation of bodies and

41  See also in this passage liquor vitri. Awareness of glass as an amorphous solid body perhaps informed his description of a crustallinum in bodily terms (37.10), referring to defects in the stone as vomica (boils or ulcers). For more on Roman glassmaking see Fleming (1999). 42  I here cite the translation of minutissimis sententiis by Butler (1953). See also Dominik (1997) 55. 43  Of limbs and bones in Plautus‘ Menaechmi 103; of the body generally in Sen. Ep. 71.18; of mental faculties disrupted by emotion see Ov. Pont. 3.3.33–4: arcus et ignes ingenii vires comminuere mei, “your arched (wave) and your fires crumbled the strength of my talent” and Valerius Maximus’ Facta et Dicta Memorabilia 2.10.6: devictaeque gentis suae interitus animum comminuit, “the destruction of his conquered people broke apart his mind”. 44  Cf. Petr. Sat. 64. It is perhaps worth noting that crustallina here appear in the context of dogs, slaves, vomiting, dining and drinking.

180

Devereaux

minds at both the individual and communal level,45 as well as to separation from one’s wealth (Cic. Sull. 20). Of note also is that in addition to the associations encouraged by the verbs of disintegration, blood (sanguinariam; viscera) is introduced to the context of food and dining (cenaret, esca, convivio), thereby triggering disgust that is tied to anger, which is described in the opening lines of De ira as cupiditate sanguinis minime humana, which corresponds to Pollio’s fish being fattened on human blood – a transgression of natural law.46 So, the eels, which are least human of all, are disgusting (and potentially on the menu that evening).47 With water and sea-monsters in mind, and with the seed of disgust planted in the opening of the treatise now flowering, we then find Augustus, who is filled with disgust (and maybe the eels), transferring his feeling of satiety to the outside world by having the container that held the eels filled up, thereby externalizing the moral “feel” of the disgust that the eels invite by way of human blood being introduced to the context of eating. The moral-emotional content embedded in the opening passage is thus integrated into the exemplum. The sea creatures alluded to in Book 1 are embodied in Book 3, with just enough ambiguity in terms of the menu to leave open the question as to whether or not those creatures entered into the body of Augustus, who metaphorically performs a Charybdis-like moral response by transmogrifying the fullness of his stomach into the filled-up fishpond. This conceptualization of events tacitly links Pollio to the self-destructive animal described in the opening of the treatise, but it also engages with the evocation of the regurgitating sea monster in the opening lines of the treatise, inviting readers to question the claim that Augustus acted rightly (bene usus est viribus suis).48 45  Of the body of Hippolytus in Aen. 7.767; of divided mind and minds in De off. 1.9. 46  Sen. Clem. 18.2: […]est aliquid quod in hominem licere commune ius animantium vetet; Quis non Vedium Pollionem peius oderat quam servi sui, quod muraenas sanguine humano saginabat? “[…] yet in dealing with a human being there is an extereme which the law common to all living creatures refuses to allow. Who did not hate Vedius Pollio even more than his own slaves did, because he would fatten his lampreys on human blood?” as translated by Basore (1928). 47  Tertullian plays up this angle by adding that Pollio had his eels “cooked straight away, so that in their entrails he himself might have a taste of his slaves’ bodies too” (De pallio 5.6). We know eels were common to the Roman table. G. Hurrius, who is credited with the invention of ponds solely for raising eels, supplied 6000 murenae for the triumphal banquets of Julius Caesar in 46 and 45 BC (Pliny Nat. 9.171). Varro puts the number at 2000 (Rust. 3.17.3). On Roman fishponds see Higginbotham (1997). 48  That we could read this ontological ambiguity as an exhortation to further philosophical inquiry is also suggested by Seneca’s many statements about collaborative pedagogy (e.g.) Ot. 3.1: nunc veritatem cum eis ipsis qui docent quaerimus, “As it is, we are in search of the truth in company with the very men who teach it”; Ep. 7.8: mutuo ista fiunt, et homines, dum docent, discunt, “The process is mutual, for men learn while they teach”.

181

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

The suggestion that Seneca is deliberate in the destabilization of his moral argument through allusion-making is supported by a particular similarity of Seneca’s prose to Plautine theatre, to which we will now turn. As the following simple chart demonstrates, Seneca’s depth of conceptual content (moral loading) is more in-line with the fabula palliata than it is with rhetoric.49 In fact, it takes all the above Ciceronian references together to reach a depth comparable to the Senecan passages (De ira 1.1–2, 3.40):50 Conceptual Context 25 20 15 10 5 0

figure 1

De ira 1.1‒2 De ira 3.40

Philippics Trinummus 4.1 Philippics 2.66‒67 Composite

Representation of schema-related data across texts. This simple representation of the data was generated through straightforward analysis. I counted the words that fall into the same category of conceptual metaphor within the given blocks of text. Words that engage with the water metaphor are counted. Engagement with the schema is represented in terms of approximate percentages, with the first and last schematic lexeme marking the text on either side of the text being counted, from which pronouns, determiners and conjunctions are excluded (De ira 1.1–2: 12/62; De ira 3.40:18/106; Philippics 2.66–67: 9/103; Trinummus 4.1: 4/21; Philippics Composite 12/58). This can of course be done by the expert reader. For this chapter, however, I had the help of TACIT, a text analysis, crawling and interpretive tool developed by the University of Southern California’s Computational Social Sciences Laboratory, which was quickly able to locate the conceptual overlaps that occur in the texts. The composite, which is for illustrative purposes only, is calculated using the segments of text provided above.

49  “Moral loading”, a term for certain content phenomena that cluster around moral concepts, is used in computational text analysis within psychology and the social sciences. See Sagi and Dehghani (2014). 50  See pp. 172–3 of this volume for text used.

182

Devereaux

Why might this be the case in a text that is both markedly rhetorical and focuses on the management of emotion? Given the embedded cues Seneca deploys, I might suggest that this represents a genuine philosophical innovation. Margaret Graver has commented on Seneca’s propensity for innovation, which she describes as a product of the literary and rhetorical instincts that come into play when he embarks upon new ways of representing the philosophical life.51 Perhaps what we are seeing here, then, is that Seneca is concerned with summoning the sort of “fellow-feeling” evoked by the fabula palliata in an effort to demonstrate the nature of philosophical discovery. This perspective is useful to our understanding of Seneca’s “dangerous style” because the sort of feelings provoked by the fabula palliata were not expected to be uniform across audience members. Plautus, for example, despite including moralizing sententiae in his plays, was sceptical about the association between comic theatre and moral didacticism, treating theatrical moralizing as an expected element of drama, ornamental rather than educational, as likely to mislead as to edify.52 Perhaps consensus was not Seneca’s objective either. Rather, he seems to aim at arousing what he referred to as principia proludentia adfectibus (“emotional pregames”), which he identifies as often being socially primed and evoked by, among other things, theatre and literature.53 Principia proludentia adfectibus are akin to propatheia, the sub-rational emotional movements that may occur equally with impressions about to be rejected or endorsed by the wise and unwise alike.54 The reasoning faculty is prompted into action by these naturally occurring sensations, but the direction that reasoning takes, of course, varies.55 It is of no small importance to our discussion that disgust, otherwise known as the “body and soul emotion”, holds serious sway over reasoning processes.56 51  Graver (2017). 52  Moore (1998) 67. 53  De ira 2.2. 54  See Graver (2002) and Sihvola and Engberg-Pedersen (1998) for attribution of the concept to either Posidonius or Zeno and Chrysippus before him. 55  Sen. Ep. 116.3. As modern readers, we can understand this in terms of the autonomic nervous system, which is deeply implicated in emotional response (for overview see Kreibig 2010). It was perhaps due to their autonomic nature and role in core decision making processes, like fight and flight, that Zeno had long ago diverged from the dualism of Platonists and Peripatetics in his attention to the natural law to which basic emotions appeal, as we see when Cicero’s Zeno explains that sense perception (quod erat sensu comprensum) is a source of knowledge that is credible (ei credendum) because nature has bestowed a ‘normative measure’ (quasi normam scientiae) and a first principle of itself (principium sui), from which subsequent notions of things can be impressed upon the mind, and out of which not only first principles (principia) but also certain broader roads to the discovery of reasoned truth (ratio) are opened up (Acad. 1.42). 56  Rozin, Haidt and McCauley (1999) 430.

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

183

The interest of both Plautus and Seneca in exploiting a schema associated with it, I would suggest, is related to the group-signifying role played by disgust (a moral emotion)57 in humour (a related phenomenon). According to Plato, we laugh at vice, particularly self-ignorance, in people who are relatively powerless, and this feeling of amusement expresses a kind of malice towards them (Rep. 388e). Plato goes on to say that laughing with abandon provokes a violent reaction, so one should not be overcome by it (Rep. 388e). Much like anger and fear, according to Seneca, Plato believed that amusement could lead to self-destruction.58 Aristotle, who was less troubled by the dangers of laughter, suggested that to laugh at someone was to find them not altogether bad, but of a shameful sort (οὐ μέντοι κατὰ πᾶσαν κακίαν, ἀλλὰ τοῦ αἰσχροῦ). That which is risible is restricted to the imperfect but not harmful (Poet. 1449a, 5.31–35).59 To find something truly offensive precludes laughter. Modern studies are in general agreement with Aristotle, finding that benign moral violations tend to elicit laughter and amusement, meaning that laughter occurs in addition to disgust.60 Something that is seen as a serious violation prohibits disgust from transmuting into laughter. Disgust transmuting into laughter is one way that group members identify with one another. Laughter, as a signifier of group identity, generates proximity amongst group members and functions to sustain the low ranking of things, people and actions deemed deviant or imperfect, but not dangerous. As an illustration, take Charmides’ paean to Poseidon in the Trinummus. The sea monster (“disgust”) schema is engaged while Charmides is giving thanks for being saved from a storm that never happened – which underwrites excessiveness in speech and overacting as a cause of laughter.61 Those who laugh at his behaviour deem it imperfect but not harmful. When one laughs at something “disgusting”, one thus identifies as a part of a moral community that does not deem that “disgusting” thing harmful. Laughter thus distinguishes one moral community from another. The ability of laughter to conspicuously draw the

57  Rozin, Haidt and McCauley (1999). 58  Disgust is described by Rozin, Haidt and McCauley in their chapter entitled Disgust: The body and soul emotion (1999) 430 as follows: “There is a sense of “offense” associated with disgust, related to a sense of deviance or imperfection: something is not as it should be”. 59  Arist. Po. 1449a, 5.31–35: “Comedy, as we have said, is a representation of inferior people, not indeed in the full sense of the word bad, but the laughable is a species of the base or ugly. It consists in some blunder or ugliness that does not cause pain or disaster …”. 60  McGraw and Warren (2010). 61  Papaioannou (2016) 171.

184

Devereaux

boundaries of moral (and by extension political and intellectual) communities demonstrates humour’s persuasive potential.62 Cicero generally follows Aristotle in his views on laughter, but draws a distinction between humour in what is being talked about, and humour arising from the language used, noting that the two working together is most delightful (De or. 2.235–57). The best, he says, is when something ambiguous is thrown in too (admixtum ambiguum), because the effect of the joke is heightened (fit salsius). Humour is at its best when language complements the subject matter, which includes something uncertain. The Pollio vignette, which is structured by the schema found in the opening of the treatise, leaves it uncertain as to whether or not the eels fattened on human blood found their way onto Augustus’ plate. This creates a space for laughter – even if only amongst the schoolboys (pueri) scorned by Quintilian.63 Such schoolboys, who were perhaps more apt to find humour in that for which their betters felt pure disgust, were a concern for Quintilian, not only because they identified as a moral community distinct from his own, but also because they favoured the allusive style of Seneca over his neo-Ciceronian school. Therefore, Seneca’s use of ambiguity to exhort his readers to question even his own authority on the true nature of ira seems to have been considered dangerous by Quintilian, who found Seneca’s discursive reasoning and moral teachings sound. We can even take things a bit further by considering that male tractare is the way actions like those of Augustus are described by Seneca. The phrase is found in Cicero,64 who uses it to describe being treated badly by those whom such conduct least becomes, namely those in receipt of kindly treatment (propinqui, amici) or the unworthy (servi, liberti, clienti, supplici). Tibullus equates such treatment with boys expecting gifts in exchange for their affections (venerem vendere), while Quintilian invokes the term in graver tones when citing it as a class of behaviour distinct from but grouped with lunacy65 and harming the state (laedere rem publicam). In the legal realm, tractare was to “handle” criminals as well as property, whether one’s own or that of another, and we know from Gaius that Pollio was acting within his rights by putting his slave to death for whatever reason.66 The phrase has a history of use that could be seen to call Augustus’ actions into question, and therefore Seneca’s own 62  Beard (2014) 106. 63  Quint. Inst. 10.130. For Quintilian’s many thoughts on ambiguity, see Inst. 7.9. On ambiguous antecedents in particular: 7.9.9ff. 64  Inv. Rhet. 1.109. 65  Quint. Inst. 7.3.2 dementem suppl. Regius. 66  A master had the right to kill his slave without cause, at a whim, and was not answerable at law for his action (vitae necisque potestas). Gaius also informs us that this was

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

185

endorsement of them.67 Thus, by creating a narrative environment wherein there is sufficient ambiguity to allow for multiple perspectives on a single event, Seneca reveals the inner inconsistencies of his readers and in this way creates an identification between them in a shared quest for truth. This effective protreptic approach, in addition to putting Quintilian off his tea for the reasons outlined above, no doubt also vexed him, one imagines, because he felt strongly that ambiguities should not be turned to anyone’s advantage,68 least of all Seneca’s, whose style threatened the survival of his school. 4 Fregit As has thus far been demonstrated, the attentive reader has the benefit of the protreptic scaffolding supplied in the opening of the treatise with which to understand the significance of the Pollio episode, as well as Quintilian’s remarks on Seneca’s style. By employing emotionally tinged “fragments of thought” with language that is better understood against the backdrop of similar metaphorical usages in other authors, Seneca evokes well-known schemas in contexts that could be seen as dangerous because of their ambiguity. To further illustrate why this practice might be what Quintilian points to with his criticism, let us consider another reason why his choice of words might have been a thoughtful response to a particular literary procedure visible in the opening of De ira: Exegisti a me. Novate, ut scriberem quemadmodum posset ira leniri, nec immerito mihi videris hunc praecipue affectum pertimuisse maxime ex omnibus taetrum ac rabidum. Ceteris enim aliquid quieti placidique inest, hic totus concitatus et in impetu doloris est, armorum sanguinis suppliciorum minime humana furens cupiditate, dum alteri noceat sui neglegens, in ipsa irruens tela et ultionis secum ultorem tracturae avidus valid law until the second century AD, when it was moderated by express legislation. See Westbrook (1999) for discussion. 67  Cf. Sen. Ep. 14, wherein he likens the anger of those in power (potentium ira) to the seas made choppy by Charybdis (Charybdis maria convolvit; verticibus). N. B. Nat. 37.10: Nero amissarum rerum nuntio accepto duos calices crustallinos in suprema ira fregit inlisos. haec fuit ultio saeculum suum punientis, ne quis alius iis biberet. fragmenta sarciri nullo modo queunt, “Nero, on receiving word that all was lost, in the excess of his anger, broke two cups of crystal into pieces; this being his last act of vengeance upon his fellow creatures, preventing anyone from ever drinking again from these vessels. Crystal, when broken, cannot possibly be mended”. 68  Quint. Inst. 7.9.15.

186

Devereaux

Quidam itaque e sapientibus viris iram dixerunt brevem insaniam; aeque enim impotens sui est, decoris oblita, necessitudinum immemor, in quod coepit pertinax et intenta, rationi consiliisque praeclusa, vanis agitata causis, ad dispectum aequi verique inhabilis, ruinis simillima, quae super id quod oppressere franguntur. You have asked me, Novatus, to write on the subject of how anger can be calmed, and it seems to me that you had good reason to especially fear this, the most repulsive and savage of all emotions. For the other emotions have some element of peace and calm in them, while this one is a thorough wave of anguish raging with an especially inhuman desire for weapons, blood and punishment, giving no consideration to itself so long as it can harm another, hurling itself on the very same weapon, eager for revenge, though it may drag the avenger down with it. Certain wise men have thus claimed that anger is temporary insanity. For it is equally devoid of self-control, forgetful of decency, unmindful of ties, persistent and diligent in whatever it begins, closed to reason and counsel, excited by trifling causes, unfit to discern the right and the true – it is most similar to waters that are broken above that which they oppress.69 While we cannot know how the text actually appeared on the page, it certainly would have required multiple lines, so it is charming to consider the above patterning of emboldened text as a reasonable representation of Quintilian’s play on words. Framed by ira and iram, the concept of anger as a wavelike animal is crafted through a combination of minutissimae sententiae with conceptual vividness created through the embedded representation of movement.70 The representation of a wave formed of numerous small but significantly networked elements is in a broken state above the epigrammatic simile (id quod). One could thus argue that the composition of the passage is playfully clever, and that this sort of playfulness, which underwrites the ambiguity of the later exemplum, contributes to Quintilian’s complaint that Seneca was parum diligens, an ethical claim related to his lamentations about the persuasive allure of Seneca’s style and its ability to draw in young followers.

69  Translation adapted from Basore (1928). 70  This sort of framing is also found in historiography. See Devereaux (2016). Schiesaro (2015) 245 n. 33 associates the phrase with the excessive use of sententiae.

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

187

5 Conclusions Quintilian described Seneca’s moral teachings as sound, his protreptic appeal as successful, and his style as dangerous. This chapter has offered some explanation as to how these seemingly incoherent assessments can be understood to hang together. Using style to destabilize his own teachings and thereby appeal to wide-ranging natures of ordinary agents,71 Seneca underlines his often-stated commitment to fostering intellectual independence rather than adhering to dogmatic models of erudition:72 Qui numquam tutelae suae fiunt, primum in ea re secuntur priores, in qua nemo non a priore descivit; diende in ea re secuntur, quae adhuc quaeritur. Numquam autem invenietur si contenti fuerimus inventis. Praeterea qui alium sequitur, nihil invenit, immo nec quaerit…. Patet omnibus veritas, nondum est occupata. Multum ex illa etiam futuris relictum est. Ep. 33

Those who have never attained their mental independence begin, in the first place, by following the leader in cases where everyone has deserted the leader; then, in the second place, they follow him in matters where the truth is still being investigated. However, the truth will never be discovered if we rest contented with discoveries already made. Besides, he who follows another not only discovers nothing, but is not even investigating…. Truth lies open for all; it has not yet been monopolized. And there is plenty of it left for even posterity to discover.73 Leaving room for readers to discover their own perspectives on unsettled questions, Seneca cultivates an inclusive intellectual environment in which moral truths can be explored by both teacher and student, even while making his own claims about moral rectitude. Through schematic language that is connected to a variety of poetic and otherwise meaningful contexts, he generates an identification between himself and his readers. This compositional strategy allows bits of language to accumulate, forming structures of thought, the 71  There are perfectly rational and ordinary agents. Seneca, even at the end of his life, did not count himself as the former. See Graver (2017). 72  See n. 48 above. 73  Gummere (1917).

188

Devereaux

elements of which are not intrinsically emotional, disgusting, humorous, or otherwise significant on their own, but become so in combination. In this way, Seneca’s style fits Wittgenstein’s description of philosophy, which he describes as “like trying to open a safe with a combination lock: each little adjustment of the dials seems to achieve nothing, only when everything is in place does the door open”.74 By persuading readers to identify their moral position through the particular sort of intellectual exercise his style demands, Seneca extends an invitation to ratio that is grounded in a unique approach to moral education. This approach is made visible through the evocation of the mythological figures, Scylla and Charybdis, which inhabited the minds of ancient authors and audiences – young and old – from time immemorial. Using “fragments of thought” to subtly ground his teachings in such concepts, he makes his text accessible to a broad audience and demonstrates a technique that accords with the method of instruction he reflects upon in his 38th epistle, wherein he explains that the goal of teaching is not to merely provoke a desire to learn, but to inspire learning itself. [Submissiora verba] seminis modo spargenda sunt, quod quamvis sit exiguum, cum occupavit idoneum locum, vires suas explicat et ex minimo in maximos auctus diffunditur. Idem facit ratio; non late patet, si aspicias: in opere crescit. Pauca sunt, quae dicuntur, sed si illa animus bene excepit, convalescunt et exurgunt. Eadem est, inquam, praeceptorum condicio quae seminum; multum efficiunt. et angusta sunt. Tantum, ut dixi, idonea mens capiat illa et in se trahat. Multa invicem et ipsa generabit et plus reddet quam acceperit. [Foundational/cherished/moderate/humble words]75 should be scattered like seed; no matter how small the seed may be, if it has once found favourable ground, it unfolds its strength and from an insignificant thing it spreads to its greatest growth. Reason grows the same way; it is not large to the outward view, but increases as it does its work. Few words are spoken, but if the mind has truly caught them, they come into their strength and spring up. Yes, precepts and seeds have the same quality; they produce much, and yet they are slight things.

74  Millikan (2017) 10 quoting Wittgenstein. 75  I offer multiple simultaneous senses of submissiora for the sake of conceptual clarity. Remainder of translation from Gummere (1917).

Protrepsis in Seneca ’ s De ira

189

It is perhaps with submissiora verba that Senecan protrepsis steps fully into the light. Significant words containing networks of thought that are placed beneath the discursive reasoning which takes place on the surface of the text, like seeds beneath the surface of the ground, sprout forth, like ratio.76 If we read Seneca in this way, then we can see the popular exemplum of Augustus and Vedius Pollio not as a form of epideixis, but rather a form of protrepsis that is deeply enmeshed with the opening of the treatise.77 Anger’s watery form exposes the human condition and reveals the inner inconsistency of Seneca’s readers by introducing disgust into an ambiguous environment. This ambiguity, by allowing for – if not encouraging – multiple perspectives, motivates readers to participate in their own moral education rather than being simply indoctrinated. It is through this innovative protreptic approach that Seneca presumably achieved his persuasive aims, as Quintilian says he did.

76  I suggest this interpretation in part based on De Beneficiis 7.25.2, in which the phrase submissis et familiaribus verbis seems to refer to citations of poetry that allow for the collaborative response of the auditor. 77  Such an approach reflects the observation of the slightly later Stoic philosopher Epictetus, who identified the work of the moral philosopher being to persuade through a process of revelation that exposes the human condition rather than through making oratorical displays. See Malherbe (1986) 122–4.

part 4 Gender

∵

chapter 12

Women in the Dock: Body and Feminine Attire in Women’s Trials Konstantinos Kapparis 1 Introduction The traditional view that women were completely excluded from the Athenian courts has steadily remained the dominant orthodoxy for many years, despite some dissenting voices. A large-scale study on the subject by Elizabeth Tetlow1 took a very bleak view, arguing that the women of Athens were deprived of basic legal rights, were isolated indoors, and were even deprived of the right of speech and expression. A similar view was expressed by Simon Goldhill, who has argued that the Athenians were “remarkably unwilling” to allow women into the space of the lawcourt.2 Michael Gagarin, who quotes Goldhill, essentially accepts his view; however, at the same time he offers substantial evidence which calls into question this central tenet and suggests a much stronger presence of women in the court system of classical Athens.3 For Stephen Todd this kind of ambiguity is deliberate: while he accepts the traditional view, he also admits that women get the best speeches in the corpus of Lysias.4 It is difficult to disagree with this statement. The wife of Euphiletus in Lys. 1, the formidable widow-protector of her household in the speech Against Diogeiton, and the former slave prostitute in Lys. 4 are some of the most memorable characters in the Corpus Lysianicum. The same can be said about the presence of women in the corpora of the other orators. The remarkable wife of Pyrrhus in Isaeus 3, the allegedly murderous stepmother of Antiphon 1, the manipulative Plangon in the two Boiotus speeches (Dem. 39–40), the formidable wife of Polyeuctus (D. 41), and the former hetaira5-turned-respectable-concubine in Against 1  Tetlow (2004) 59–160. 2  Goldhill (1994) 347–69. 3  Gagarin (1998) 39–51; (2001) 161–76. 4  Todd (1993) 201. 5  The term “hetaira” is difficult to translate. In the past, I have used the common rendering “courtesan”. The term literally means “companion”, and one might be tempted to use the English word “escort”. However, since each of these terms carries its own cultural baggage, I find it safer to use the Greek word to render a subgroup of prostitutes who typically

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_013

194

Kapparis

Neaira (Dem. 59) are some of the liveliest characters in the pages of the Attic orators. And while one might argue that these women are mere actresses in the competitions (ἀγῶνες) staged and run exclusively by men, a rather substantial list of women appearing as one of the opposing litigants in a fair number of attested trials further undermines the traditional orthodoxy and offers support for the view of Lin Foxhall, who has argued that the whole issue of women’s representation in the Athenian legal system is more complicated and nuanced than previously suggested.6 There are fifteen titles preserved from speeches delivered in trials where one of the litigants was a woman,7 and several more where respectable women had one of their relatives act on their behalf as a litigant.8 Proponents of the traditional theory of women’s total exclusion would argue that these cases were presented by men on their behalf, and the women would not even need to be present unless they were defendants in criminal cases. However, to take this view would be tantamount to confusing representation in court (synēgoria), a practice common in most legal systems, in one form or another, with exclusion from the legal system. It would be equivalent to arguing that in a modern trial a plaintiff is excluded from the legal system because his/her lawyer will be doing the talking during a trial. A more nuanced and precise discussion is necessary, one that would take into account the finer points and distinctions, because between the two extremes there are numerous other possibilities and patterns of legal representation in court. Of course, a full and thorough discussion of this entire issue could not possibly be contained in the limited space of this study; this I have reserved for my forthcoming monograph Women in Athenian Law Courts, where I argue that the justice system of the

formed longer-term connections with their clients for much higher fees than ordinary prostitutes did. 6  Foxhall (1996) 133–52. For a more thorough discussion of the conflicting views on the legal status of the Greek woman in the family and the institutions of the polis see: Just (1989) and Cox (1992) 177–86 [on Just (1990)]; Jameson (1997) 95–107; Osborne (1997) 3–33; Patterson (2007) 153–78, and (1991) 48–72; Schaps (1975) 53–7 and (1998) 161–88; Sealey (1990); Walters (1993) 194–214. 7  These are Antiphon Φαρμακείας κατὰ τῆς μητρυιᾶς, Lysias῾Υπὲρ Νικομάχης, Πρὸς Λαΐδα, Menekles Κατὰ Νίνου τῆς ἱερείας ἀσεβείας, Euboulides Κατὰ τῆς Λακεδαιμονίου ἀδελφῆς ἀσεβείας, Apollodorus Κατὰ Νεαίρας, Dinarchus Διαδικασία τῆς ἱερείας τῆς Δήμητρος πρὸς τὸν ἱεροφάντην, Κατὰ῾Ηδύλης ἀποστασίου, Hypereides Κατὰ ᾽Αρισταγόρας ᾽Απροστασίου λόγοι β’, Κατὰ Δημητρίας ᾽Αποστασίου, Ὑπὲρ Μίκας, Πρὸς Τιμάνδραν, ῾Υπὲρ Φρύνης, Lycurgus Περὶ τῆς ἱερείας. 8  Examples (but not an exhaustive list) include: Lysias Κατὰ Διογείτονος, Πρὸς ῾Ιπποθέρσην ὑπὲρ θεραπαίνης, Περὶ τῆς᾽Αντιφῶντος θυγατρός, Περὶ τῆς ᾽Ονομακλέους θυγατρός, Περὶ τῆς Φρυνίχου θυγατρός, Isaeus Περὶ τοῦ Πύρρου Κλήρου, Dinarchus᾽Επικληρικός, ῾Υπὲρ τῆς᾽Ιοφῶντος θυγατρός, ῾Ως οὐκ εἰσὶν ἐπίδικοι αἱ Ἀριστοφῶντος θυγατέρες, and elsewhere.

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

195

First Democracy, far from ignoring women, was routinely accessed by them and their male representatives.9 The focus of this study is upon the intersection between oratory and gender in trials where one of the litigants happened to be a woman. The objective is to explore whether and how the gender of the litigant affected the construction of the case, and how sociocultural stereotypes on body, dress, and the material construction of femininity entered into the picture to serve the purposes of persuasion. The available evidence has substantial limitations: only two of the fifteen known speeches are whole (Ant. 1 and Dem. 59), both prosecution speeches. They certainly offer valuable glimpses into how gender factors and stereotypes could be used to build a case against a woman, but it is unfortunate that we do not have an entire speech in defence of a woman to make comparisons. From the rest of the speeches we have only fragments, most quite meagre, ranging from single words to citations of a few lines in the ancient grammarians and lexicographers. Yet, by a process of comparison with the two extant speeches and other instances in the corpus of the Attic Orators where similar topics may be explored, we should be able to make some sense of these fragments and try to use their testimony to add details to the emerging picture. As is to be expected, not all cases are of equal significance for us. The notorious case against Phryne may have much to teach us, but almost all citations from the speech of Lycurgus, On the Priestess, come from the sphere of religion and myth, and have little to tell us about the intersection between rhetoric and gender. The Attic orators understood perfectly that persuasion takes more than words and logical arguments. They were well aware that a speech was not just read out; it was performed with a certain delivery, intonation and vividness, and was intended to establish emotional, sociocultural and even subconscious bonds with an audience in order to generate identification between the speaker and his listeners, leading to empathy and ultimately support. As Andreas Serafim has amply demonstrated in his recent monograph, a broad array of techniques and skilful associations were employed to this end, which included ekphrasis, enargeia, citations from revered literary works, and sometimes unorthodox tricks like the ones which Hypereides allegedly used in the defence of Phryne (see below).10 In this context associations based on gender 9  The study Women in Athenian Law Courts is under contract with Edinburgh University Press and is scheduled to be published in 2019. 10  For the employment and impact of performance elements in the Attic orators see the excellent monograph of Serafim (2017a) and his forthcoming article, “Language and persuasion in Attic oratory: imperatives and questions”, in Argos: Revista de la Asociación Argentina de Estudios Clásicos. On ekphrasis/enargeia: Webb (2009); Serafim (2015) 96–108.

196

Kapparis

perceptions and expectations were bound to play an important role, especially when a litigant could be presented as a violator of the social restrictions placed upon her gender, or as a vulnerable victim incapable of defending herself and her interests because of her gender. In the following sections, I discuss how images of body, attire, lifestyles and conformity with social norms (or the lack of it) have been employed skilfully by the Attic Orators in order to prejudice the judges for or against a litigant, make persuasive character arguments and build the portraits and identities of women litigants in a manner which the judges could understand and empathize with. 2

Images of the Body as the Means of Persuasion

Images of the body concerning male litigants can be occasionally found in the speeches of the Attic orators. Alleged seducers like Eratosthenes or Lycophron are presented as handsome and well-coiffed, while Aeschines goes to great lengths to explain to the judges that the physical decline of Timarchos is not related to his age but to his lifestyle of debauchery and the ill-use of his body.11 Ultimately looking good for one’s age could be just as open to rhetorical manipulation as looking bad. Body images in speeches concerning female litigants are more numerous and imaginative, as male speakers for the prosecution or the defence put into good use social stereotypes and commonly held views about women’s bodies and sexuality in order to build arguments and score points with the male judges. It seems to be a rather standard topic in cases involving hetairai to mention famous beauties of the past. Hypereides in the second speech Against Aristagora mentioned several Corinthian hetairai who flourished at the turn of the century, all exceptionally beautiful, especially Lais, who seemingly was the most attractive woman of her time (Λαῒς μὲν ἡ δοκοῦσα τῶν πώποτε διενηνοχέναι τὴν ὄψιν).12 We may be able to shed some light upon the reasons why he mentioned those famously attractive women by comparing with the narrative of Apollodorus in Against Neaira.13 Apollodorus begins his narrative 11  See Fisher (2005) 67–89. On the language of the body see Osborne (2011); Bradley (2015) 133–45; Fehr (2009) 128–58; Dean-Jones (1991) 111–37. 12  Hyp. Fr. 13 Jensen: Lais who seemingly surpassed her contemporaries in beauty. The other two women mentioned by Hypereides were also famously attractive. Okimon was praised as a shining beauty (πάνυ λαμπρόν Anaxandrides PCG Fr. 9) in several comedies (Nikostratus PCG Fr. 20; Eubulus PCG Fr. 53), while the legendary Metaneira was the lover of Lysias, the orator (Dem. 59.19–23). 13  Dem. 59.18–20; see also Kapparis (1999) com. ad loc.

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

197

of the career of Neaira by mentioning a few other famous hetairai, who were owned by the same procuress. While it is impossible to confirm or refute the veracity of the story which he tells the judges we can extrapolate the reasons why he is telling it. In order to add credibility to his account not only he must appear knowledgeable, but he must also invite his audience to relate to his story from their own experiences in a manner not dissimilar to the way comic poets often invite their audiences to relate by telling nostalgic stories which would be familiar to the audience. A good example from the comic stage would be the dialogue between two speakers, probably two old men reminiscing about famous hetairai of their youth from Anaxandrides’ Gerontomania (old-age madness). They are discussing the beauty of these women in affectionate language: “our” Lais, “our toy” Anteia, the “flourishing” Lagiska, the “beautiful” Theolyte with the very attractive face and the “shiny” Okimon.14 The men in the audience are expected to remember who these women were, the older ones perhaps from personal encounters, and the younger ones from tales and stories from their fathers and grandfathers. In this respect these past beauties become a conduit between the stage and the audience, generate a shared experience and establish emotional bonds. The function of the references to notorious hetairai of the past in the speeches Against Neaira and Against Aristagora is in many ways very similar. They are intended to evoke affectionate memories among men who knew these women personally, to create a bond between the judges and the orator, and to enhance the credibility of his account in two different ways, one conscious and the other subconscious. At a conscious level the orator appears well informed and truthful when he tells them believable stories about real people whom they knew either personally or because they have heard about them, even though these people were famous a very long time ago. At a subconscious level this shared memory establishes a link between the orator and his audience, a pleasant memory and a common experience of affection and joy. Other references to the bodies of women in the Attic orators are far less benign and less decorous than romanticized notions of past beauties. In fact, one of these references in the speech Against Neaira was so offensive that it has been omitted from the medieval manuscripts and we know about it only from the testimony of Hermogenes and an indirect reference in Procopius.15 14  Anaxandrides PCG Fr. 9: Λαΐδ’ … ἡμετέρειον…. Ἄντεια … τοῦθ’ ἡμέτερον … παίγνιον … ἤνθει τότε Λαγίσκιον … καὶ Θεολύτη μάλ’ εὐπρόσωπος καὶ καλή … Ὤκιμον λαμπρὸν πάνυ, “Our dear Lais, Anteia this toy of ours; Lagiska was also flourishing then, and Theolyte the beautiful, with a very attractive face, and the shiny Okimon”. 15  Hermog. 325 Rabe; Procop. Arc. 9.18. See the discussion in Kapparis (1999) 402–4.

198

Kapparis

Hermogenes is quoting the omitted sentence ἀπὸ τριῶν τρυπημάτων τὴν ἐργασίαν πεποιῆσθαι (“she was plying her trade from three holes”) which, as I have argued, is the climactic end of a sustained assault on Neaira’s body as a vessel for every act of depravity known to man.16 Apparently Apollodorus was not the only one: it seems that Lysias had said about the hetaira Antiope that she was working from two holes, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus had an entire collection of such rude and offensive phrases found in the Attic Orators.17 A fragment of Lysias provides an idea of the kind of references which Dionysius and other rhetoricians may have found offensive. We are told that during the prosecution of the hetaira Timandra, her accuser, in an effort to sully her character, was claiming that she was nothing more than a common whore (even though she probably had been a prominent hetaira connected with Alcibiades in his latter days).18 As part of the rhetorical strategy he made references to items that carried associations with cheap sex such as mattresses, chamber-pots and dildos, which Demetrius of Phaleron considered very distasteful.19 Shockingly distasteful but memorable enough to be remembered and imitated 1200 years later is a scene from the narrative of Apollodorus in the speech Against Neaira.20 The orator, while describing a spirited party thrown by Chabrias, the prominent general and one of the richest men in Athens, in order to celebrate a Pythian victory, tells the judges how Neaira was publicly humiliated by Phrynion, her lover at the time. This affluent Athenian, well-known for his excesses, got drunk and had intercourse with her while his friends were watching. Such scenes of open sex in the sympotic space are well-attested in Attic vase iconography and may be reflecting a not-uncommon practice between drunken guests and low-end prostitutes or prostitute entertainers (flute-players, dancers etc.) in parties that had got out of control.21 Apollodorus interpreted this as an abusive act of power, where Phrynion wanted to show off to his friends by making Neaira’s body a public spectacle. The narrative of the orator was paraphrased perhaps a few centuries later by the forger who was trying to re-create the missing testimony which witnesses 16  Dem. 59.107–8 and Kapparis (1999) 402–4. 17  Tzetzes H. 6.35ff. = D.H. fr. 23 Radermacher, and Dem. 57 18  Plu. Alc. 39; Athen. 12.48, Sch. Ar. Plu. 179. 19  Lys. Fr. 165 Carey: καθάπερ ὁ τῆς Τιμάνδρας κατηγορῶν ὡς πεπορνευκυίας τὴν λεκανίδα καὶ τοὺς ὀλίσβους καὶ τὴν ψίαθον καὶ πολλήν τινα τοιαύτην δυσφημίαν ἑταιρῶν κατήρασε τοῦ δικαστηρίου, “Like the prosecutor of Timandra, since she had been a prostitute, he distastefully mentioned before the court the pots and the dildos and the rush-mats and other such filthy tales about prostitutes”. 20  Dem. 59.33–35. 21  The evidence is discussed in considerable detail in the monograph of Kilmer (1993).

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

199

had given in court about this incident. The authentic document had never been included in the first edition of speech and when someone, probably in the era of the Second Sophistic, tried to reconstruct the initial document he took the narrative of the orator but added details which amounted to a much different interpretation, one where Neaira was not the victim of an abusive lover but an active participant, shamelessly pursuing lewd acts with an impossibly large number of people, including the servants of the house. In the forger’s version of events, we do not simply have an abusive lover turning her body into public spectacle, but also a drunken and complicit Neaira voluntarily offering her body the whole night long to anyone who cared to have intercourse with her. The fact that Neaira left Phrynion and ran away not long afterwards confirms the version of Apollodorus that she was an unwilling victim, and that far from voluntarily accepting this public humiliation she felt sufficiently insulted to abandon the safety of a steady, rich lover for the uncertainties of life as a freelance sex-worker. When centuries later Procopius used this narrative as an inspiration in the Anecdota, he unsurprisingly chose as his model not the more reserved narrative of Apollodorus, but the extreme version of the forger, making his Theodora behave even worse than the latter’s Neaira.22 His Theodora voluntarily offers herself to ten robust young men and thirty slaves at a time, and she does not even need to be drunk or have any other excuse in order to do so. Her insatiable lust (μισητία) was the only motive and the only factor in this case. When Sophronius of Jerusalem included this memorable theme in his life of St. Mary of Egypt a century later, he created an even more extreme version, one which might seem realistic to a celibate bishop, but it is physically impossible for sexually active human beings. His Mary was so lustful that she had sex with entire boatloads of robust young sailors day after day, and all the way during the sea journey from Egypt to Jerusalem, where she was prevented from entering the Church by an invisible force-field.23

22  Procopius Anecd. 9.16: ἐπεὶ καὶ ἐς ξυναγώγιμον δεῖπνον πολλάκις ἐλθοῦσα ξὺν νεανίαις δέκα, ἢ τούτων πλείοσιν, ἰσχύϊ τε σώματος ἀκμάζουσι λίαν καὶ τὸ λαγνεύειν πεποιημένοις ἔργον, ξυνεκοιτάζετο μὲν τοῖς συνδείπνοις ἅπασι τὴν νύκτα ὅλην, ἐπειδὰν δὲ πρὸς τὸ ἔργον τοῦτο πάντες ἀπείποιεν, ἥδε παρὰ τοὺς ἐκείνων οἰκέτας ἰοῦσα τριάκοντα ὄντας, ἂν οὕτω τύχοι, ξυνεδυάζετο μὲν αὐτῶν ἑκάστῳ, κόρον δὲ οὐδ’ ὣς ταύτης δὴ τῆς μισητίας ἐλάμβανε, “And she often came to a dinner party accompanied by ten young men, or more, physically very robust and expert in sexual matters; she would have intercourse with all of them all night, and when they were all exhausted, she would go to their servants, thirty of them, if it so happened, and she would have intercourse with each one of them, and still, her lust was not satisfied”. 23  Sophronius Vita S. Mariae Aegyptiae 18–21.

200

Kapparis

Following this literary theme for over a millennium in Greek authors we need to come to the conclusion that images of the body and sexual acts performed on it where employed in the Attic orators exactly because they could be so memorable. When the orator had finished his speech and the judges came to vote those images of seductive bodies engaging in hedonistic acts would be burned into their minds much more vividly and permanently than logically sound and carefully crafted rhetorical arguments. The enargeia of these images had the capacity to establish strong bonds between the orator and his audience, which would outlast the duration of his speech. The orator in a sense invited his audience to a show; he induced them to see what he saw. In this voyeuristic scenario, they would join him in reliving the memory of sexual acts of depravity, creating a shared experience; by the end of this process they would be bound to agree with him that the facts were just as he had been describing them, and to be thus persuaded that he was telling the truth. The most famous instance of turning a woman’s body into a centrepiece of the strategy which the defence used to secure an acquittal is the alleged disrobing of Phryne in full view of the court, and the entire mythology surrounding it in the literature of late antiquity. The story often told is that Phryne was on trial for impiety and in danger of being sentenced to death. Hypereides who was speaking in her defence, secured her acquittal with bold strategy. He pulled off her clothes revealing her magnificent body to the judges. They were deeply moved and empathized with the beautiful woman before them, and this changed the course of the trial. Because of this action, Phryne was acquitted. Several different versions of the story are told in authors of later antiquity. The nearest chronologically is the version of Poseidippos, where Phryne during the trial approaches each one of the judges, shakes his hand and pleads for her life.24 However, while many a time we hear about pleas of pity in the Athenian courts, there is not a single instance attested where the litigant went round and shook hands with members of the jury. This is why the story is not very believable. In a version preserved by the anonymous scholiast of Hermogenes

24  Athen. 13.60: Ποσείδιππος δ’ ὁ κωμικὸς ἐνἘφεσίᾳ τάδε φησὶν περὶ αὐτῆς Φρύνη ποθ’ ἡμῶν γέγονεν ἐπιφανεστάτη πολὺ τῶν ἑταιρῶν. καὶ γὰρ εἰ νεωτέρα τῶν τότε χρόνων εἶ, τόν γ’ ἀγῶν’ ἀκήκοας. βλάπτειν δοκοῦσα τοὺς βίους μείζους βλάβας τὴν ἡλιαίαν εἷλε περὶ τοῦ σώματος καὶ τῶν δικαστῶν καθ’ ἕνα δεξιουμένη μετὰ δακρύων διέσωσε τὴν ψυχὴν μόλις, “And she often came to a dinner party accompanied by ten young men, or more, physically very robust and expert in sexual matters; she would have intercourse with all of them all night, and when they were all exhausted, she would go to their servants, thirty of them, if it so happened, and she would have intercourse with each one of them, and still, her lust was not satisfied”.

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

201

Phryne herself tore her garment, striking her chest in a gesture which we can recognize as a traditional part of a mourning ritual.25 The version most commonly preserved in Greek authors is the one where Hypereides removes Phryne’s garment to reveal her breasts.26 Finally, in the version of Quintilian Hypereides pulls her garment and leaves Phryne standing completely nude before the judges. The famous painting by the French academic painter of the nineteenth century Jean Léon Gérôme follows the version of Quintilian.27 The reason why Phryne was prosecuted for impiety, we are told, was because during the festival of the Eleusinean Mysteries and the Poseidonia [sic], the latter a celebration favoured by hetairai and their clients, she completely undressed in public and dove into the sea.28 A famous painting by Henryk Siemiradzki depicts this version of the story. On the other hand 25  The Anonymous Commentator of Hermogenes, 7.335 Walz: τὸν γοῦν Ὑπερείδην φασὶν οὕτω τὸν ὑπὲρ Φρύνης νικῆσαι λόγον, ὡς γὰρ ἡττᾶτο, φησὶν, εἰσήγαγε τὴν ἑταίραν ἐπί τινος ἐλεεινοῦ σχήματος, παιομένην τὰ στήθη γυμνὰ, καὶ τὸν χιτῶνα περιῤῥήξασαν, καὶ οἱ δικασταὶ πρὸς οἶκτον ἰδόντες ἀπεψηφίσαντο, “They say that Hypereides prevailed in the case In Defense of Phryne in this manner. When he appeared to be losing, he brought in the hetaira for a plea of pity, with her breasts bare, and her gown torn. The judges were moved by pity and acquitted her”. 26  Hyp. Fr. 178 Jensen: ὁδὲ Ὑπερείδης συναγορεύων τῇ Φρύνῃ, ὡς οὐδὲν ἤνυε λέγων ἐπίδοξοί τε ἦσαν οἱ δικασταὶ καταψηφιούμενοι, παραγαγὼν αὐτὴν εἰς τοὐμφανὲς καὶ περιρρήξας τοὺς χιτωνίσκους γυμνά τε τὰ στέρνα ποιήσας τοὺς ἐπιλογικοὺς οἴκτους ἐκ τῆς ὄψεως αὐτῆς ἐπερρητόρευσεν δεισιδαιμονῆσαί τε ἐποίησεν τοὺς δικαστὰς τὴν ὑποφῆτιν καὶ ζάκορον Ἀφροδίτης ἐλέῳ χαρισαμένους μὴ ἀποκτεῖναι, “Hypereides, when he was advocating for Phryne, when words were not helping and the judges were about to convict her, her presented her before their eyes and tearing her garment he bared her breasts, and with this appearance he made his closing arguments, and put the fear of the gods in the jugdges not to kill the servant and attendant of Aphrodite”. 27  Quint. Inst. 2.15.9: Et Phrynen non Hyperidis actione quamquam admirabili, sed conspectu corporis, quod illa speciosissimum alioqui diducta nudauerat tunica, putant periculo liberatam, “And do they not thnink that Hyperides rescured Phryne from danger not with some admirable action, but with a show of her body, because he was very beautiful when she had been stripped off her tunic”. 28  Athen. 13.59: ῇ δὲ τῶν Ἐλευσινίων πανηγύρει καὶ τῇ τῶν Ποσειδωνίων ἐν ὄψει τῶν Πανελλήνων πάντων ἀποθεμένη θοἰμάτιον καὶ λύσασα τὰς κόμας ἐνέβαινε τῇ θαλάττῃ· καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτῆς Ἀπελλῆς τὴν Ἀναδυομένην Ἀφροδίτην ἀπεγράψατο. καὶ Πραξιτέλης δὲ ὁ ἀγαλματοποιὸς ἐρῶν αὐτῆς τὴν Κνιδίαν Ἀφροδίτην ἀπ’ αὐτῆς ἐπλάσατο, “During the festival of the Eleusinean Mysteries and the Poseidonia, she took off her garment in full view of the entire Hellas, and untying her hair, she went into the sea. Apelles painted Aphrodite Rising, and Praxiteles the sculptor, who was in love with her, he sculpted the Knidian Aprhodite from her”. The Eleusinean Mysteries were celebrated in Attica, while the famous festival of Poseidon which attracted hetairai and their lovers was celebrated in Aegina. Phryne could not have undressed for both festivals simultaneously. If we were to take this information seriously, we ought to conclude that Phryne had repeatedly provoked the believers in Panhellenic festivals with shows of public nudity.

202

Kapparis

Athenaeus, opposing all these stories of public nudity, assures us that Phryne was never seen nude in public, and that in fact even in the baths she would wear a thin garment.29 One might be tempted to believe Athenaeus, considering that Phryne herself, as a high-end hetaira, and in fact very image-aware and savvy with her own marketing, would have had good reason not to make her body available to the public gaze. If anything, unavailability was going to enhance the aura of mystique which she was trying to cultivate. So, one wonders whether all these tales about the public nudity of Phryne inside and outside the court are inverted versions of the theme of the unavailable Phryne which may have been present in contemporary sources, on which Athenaeus was drawing. Craig Cooper, in a substantial article discussing the evidence about the trial of Phryne, reaches the conclusion that most of the stories are fabrications of late antiquity.30 In reality, the prosecution and trial of Phryne had nothing to do with public nudity. An important fragment from the prosecution speech of Euthias, preserved in a rhetorical text, summarizes the actual prosecution. We are told that she was accused of carousing at the Lyceum, introducing a new god, and assembling improperly religious groups of men and women (θίασοι).31 If anything, the similarity with the prosecution of Socrates is unmistakable, and may have been deliberate, considering that the latter had succeeded in court despite its inherent weakness. The possibility that Euthias was taking a leaf out of Anytos’ book is distinct, given that both were inspired by fake piety. The charge of indecent parties at the Lyceum, a place frequented by young men, reminds us of the accusation against Socrates, that he was corrupting the young. Like Socrates, Phryne was accused of having a detrimental effect upon the morals of the young men of Athens. Like Socrates, she was also accused of introducing a new god, a minor deity called Isodaites (“equal portions”), probably related to the sympotic space, an area of special interest to a hetaira.32 As for the third 29  Athen. 13.59. 30  Cooper (1995) 303–18. 31  Anonymus Seg. Ars Rhet. 215 Hammer: ἀσεβείας κρινομένη ἡ Φρύνη· καὶ γὰρ ἐκώμασεν ἐνΛυκείῳ καὶ καινὸν εἰσήγαγε θεὸν καὶ θιάσους ἀνδρῶν καὶ γυναικῶν συνήγαγεν· ‘ἐπέδειξα τοίνυν ὑμῖν ἀσεβῆ Φρύνην, κωμάσασαν ἀναιδῶς, καινοῦ θεοῦ εἰσηγήτριαν, θιάσους ἀνδρῶν ἐκθέσμους καὶ γυναικῶν συναγαγοῦσαν’. ψιλὰ γὰρ νῦν τὰ πράγματα διηγεῖται., “Phryne is on trial for impiety, because she was carousing in the Lycaeum and introduced a new god, and put together groups (θίασοι) of men and women. ‘I have demonstrated to you that Phryne is impious, and that she was shamelessly carousing, and introduced a new deity, and gathered together illicit groups of men and women’. At this point he is only providing the mere facts of the case”. 32  Hyp. Fr. 177: Ἰσοδαίτης· Ὑπερείδης ἐν τῷ ὑπὲρ Φρύνης. ξενικός τις δαίμων, ᾧ τὰ δημώδη γύναια καὶ μὴ πάνυ σπουδαῖα ἐτέλει, “Isodaites. Hypereides in the speech For Phryne. A foreign deity worshipped by unimportant public women”.

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

203

accusation, Esther Eidinow tries to figure out exactly which religious associations and groups would be considered illicit, but the evidence for this is not sufficiently clear to reach firm conclusions.33 Moreover, Eidinow, correctly in my opinion, resists the view that it was illegal in Athens to introduce new gods, citing the weakness of the evidence.34 One might add that several new deities, like for example Asclepios in the fifth century, had been successfully introduced into the Athenian pantheon without fear of the law.35 Without the actual prosecution speech it is difficult to tell exactly why these actions of Phryne constituted sufficiently strong violations to deserve a prosecution for impiety. Esther Eidinow has suggested that there may have been some form of witch-hunt in the fourth century, which culminated in the prosecution of several women with charges of impiety, and in her recent monograph she engages in a thorough discussion of the possible circumstances which may have led to these prosecutions.36 However, we can only reach tentative conclusions, since we have a number of hints in our sources but no definite answers. On the whole, I am inclined to accept the position of Jakub Filonik that impiety was used as an excuse for a number of personal attacks in the fourth century motivated by political or ideological reasons.37 This much larger discussion is outside the purposes of this study. Here it is sufficient to say that the prosecution of Phryne for impiety in all probability was not motivated by religious scruple. It looks like an attempt to attack a woman who had drawn too much attention upon herself, as she was trying to market herself and cultivate a public image through notoriously prominent dedications to temples in Delphi and her native Thespiae, and associations with prominent men such as Praxiteles or Hypereides. In the words of Eleonora Cavallini, Phryne was the creator of her own myth, and like many others who made the mistake of attracting too much attention upon themselves in classical Athens, she nearly paid with her life.38 It may be reasonable to suggest that what made the difference in her case and spared Phryne the fate of Socrates, or of the priestesses Ninos and Τheoris of Lemnos, all of whom were executed with charges probably not graver than those of Phryne, was the masterful speech that Hypereides delivered on her behalf. The speech was greatly admired in later antiquity as a splendid representation of Attic elegance and had

33  Eidinow (2015) 17–8; 23–30. 34  Eidinow (2015) 62–4. 35  Wickkiser (2008). 36  Eidinow (2010) 10–35. 37  Filonik (2013) 11–96. 38  http://www.24grammata.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Cavallini-Phryne-24 grammata.com_.pdf (online publication).

204

Kapparis

been translated into Latin by Messala.39 Her skilled defender certainly had the ability to persuade an audience, but does this mean that we should dismiss off hand the possibility that, in addition to verbal arguments, he used some unorthodox tactics on this occasion, given the gravity of the situation? Clearly the body featured quite prominently as a rhetorical argument in women’s trials, and one wonders whether taking it one step further and actually showing the body, or a significant part of it, in court would be too far-fetched, too preposterous. We will not know the answer to this on the basis of the existing evidence, but we can still be tempted to put some faith in the stories of later antiquity. The exhibition of the female body in court served an important purpose for the process of persuasion. Sexuality can be captivating, attracting attention and redirecting it to a specific point or argument which serves the purposes of the speaker. Images of female physique and sexuality had the power to captivate a male audience and make it pliable in the hands of a skilled orator. First, sexuality could distract an audience from more substantial and contentious points, which could be much harder to argue, such as the rights and wrongs of assembling religious associations or introducing new cults in the case of Phryne. If the eye of the beholder is firmly fixed upon images of a spectacularly attractive female physique, it is less likely to focus on these more dangerous issues. Or, it can be put to work for the opposite effect. When, for example, Apollodorus repeatedly refers to the physique and sexuality of Neaira, by then a sixty-year-old woman and the respectable concubine of an Athenian citizen, he does so in order to focus the attention of the judges upon her alleged misdeeds as an attractive hetaira in her youth. Here sexuality is used to distract from the actual weakness of the case and the complete lack of arguments in support of the Apollodorus’ contention that Neaira and Stephanus had acted as a married couple, and to refocus the audience upon her identity as a seductive hetaira. Persuasion is thus effected by shifting the balance of the argument in a manner convenient for the speaker. Second, beauty creates empathy or envy, and images of physical beauty can be manipulated to generate positive or negative emotions, which often have a more lasting hold upon the judges than memories of logical arguments. Sexuality is a raw, central part of the human psyche, and its powerful potential for persuasion never escaped the attention of the Greek Orators.

39  Messala fr. 22: Oratio Hyperidis Pro Phryne in Latinum Versa.

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

3

205

Clothing, Jewellery and Other Feminine Attire

Women’s clothing, jewellery and other feminine attire are frequently mentioned in the Attic orators to portray a character, to build a financial claim, or to make an argument of probability based on lifestyle.40 The commonplace assumption was that women are fond of jewellery and fine clothes, and it is the responsibility of men to pay for these as a favour to a lover or a family member, sometimes by including them as assets in the dowry, while both men and women could feel pride and gain prestige from such public displays of the family’s wealth. Many a time when financial disputes arose around an inheritance or a disputed sum, women’s clothing and jewellery were included in the calculations. The husband of one of the daughters of Polyeuctus claimed that the other daughter received golden jewellery worth ten minae as part of her dowry. Considering that one could buy a house in Athens for less, the spoiled daughter of Polyeuctus must have loved the finer things in life to a very great extent given that they amounted to 25% of her sizeable dowry.41 On numerous other occasions, jewellery and clothing are calculated as part of the family’s wealth and used to build financial claims.42 In the dramatic narrative of the speech Against Eratosthenes, at the point where Lysias enumerates how much the Thirty had stolen from his family, women’s clothes are singled out as items of luxury worth a great deal. In the speech Against Olympiodorus, the golden jewels and fancy dresses of the hetaira concubine of Olympiodorus are treated as offensive signs of extravagance and ostentatious luxury by a resentful family, who felt that Olympiodorus was wasting on her wealth which should have been theirs.43 On the other hand, the arbitrators who were trying to settle the differences between Stephanus and Phrynion ruled that jewellery and clothes are inalienable personal items, and as such they did not need to be returned along with the rest of the household stuff which Neaira had taken with her when she abandoned Phrynion. In this context we can form a clearer picture about several references to luxurious fabrics and items of clothing in fragmentary speeches where one of 40  For detailed discussions on women’s dress in the ancient world: Blundel – Llewellyn-Jones (2002); Cleland and Llewellyn-Jones (2005); Lee (2015). 41  Dem. 41.27. 42  See for example, 27.10, where Demosthenes calculates his mother’s jewellery and clothes in the family assets; 45.28, where Archippe’s jewellery and clothing are assets included in the will of Pasion; Isoc. 2.9, and 8.8, work jewellery and clothing are calculated in the dowry. 43  Dem. 48.55.

206

Kapparis

the litigants was a woman. According to Pollux, Hypereides mentioned in the speech in defence of Mica that weavers of fancy cushions with patterns had been hired;44 we do not know by whom or on what occasion, but we can extrapolate that a luxury item like this might have been mentioned in order to evoke the lifestyle of the golden hetaira,45 to build a character argument or to evoke for the benefit of the judges images and connotations with which they could identify. Similar in function but very different in content and context appears to be a reference in the speech of Dinarchus on the dispute between the priestess of Demeter and the hierophant.46 Here some form of crimson, woollen felt is mentioned, which apparently was used to decorate temples, one would imagine in a similar manner that crimson felt can be used for such purposes in Christian churches. The reference to the fabric evokes images of cultic spaces and is intended to create awe and reverence, and to remind the judges that the gods have a stake in this dispute and they are watching them. In a sense, this argument works by means of emotional blackmail, a stern warning that bad things could come upon judges who voted in a manner not pleasing to the gods, and might therefore influence a verdict without the need for persuasion. Judges do not need to be convinced by the arguments of a litigant in order to cast their vote in his favour, if they fear that doing otherwise could incur the wrath of some vengeful deity. This strategy might not work with the majority of the judges, but even if it worked with a fraction of them, it could swing an ambivalent vote one way or another, and one would imagine that it could carry particular significance in cases of impiety, like those against Phryne, Theoris or Ninos. References to religious items and rituals are commonplace in the Attic orators and unsurpisingly are plentiful in trials where women are either charged with religious offences or have an important part to play in religious disputes.47

44  Poll. 7.191 = Hyp. Fr. 125 Jensen Ὑπερείδης δὲ ἐν τῷ ὑπὲρ Μίκας ἔφη ἐμισθώσατο τυλυφάντας, ”Hypereides said in the speech For Mica that she hired pillow weavers”. 45  Poll. 4.151 διάχρυσος ἑταίρα, “a gold-decked hetaira”. 46  Fr. 35.3= Pollux 7.69 δὲ μέμνηται Δείναρχος ἐν τῇ τῆς ἱερείας δοκιμασίᾳ ἔστι δ’ ἐξ ἐρίου πίλημα φοινικοῦν, ᾧ φαιδρύνουσι τὰ ἕδη τῶν θεῶν, “Orthaptes: It is mentioned by Dinarchus in the scrutiny of the priestess, and it is crimson felt from wool, used to decorate the temples of the gods”. 47  See for example the references to cultic items, ceremonial customs and mythology in the fragments from the speeches of Dinarchus on the dispute between the priestess of Demeter and the Hierophant (Διαδικασία τῆς ἱερείας τῆς Δήμητρος πρὸς τὸν ἱεροφάντην), or the speech of Lycurgus On the Priestess (Περὶ τῆς ἱερείας).

Body and Feminine Attire in Women ’ s Trials

207

4 Conclusions The Attic orators understood well that cases involving women were different. The usual topics which we frequently encounter in speeches involving male litigants, such as civic virtue, democratic discourse, the rule of law and the equality of citizens before it (ἰσονομία), the right of the ordinary citizen to enjoy the protection of the laws on an equal footing with the rich and the powerful in the city, all these would be irrelevant and pointless in cases involving women litigants. Fundamentally different arguments had to be provided which would allow the male judges to identify to some extent with the litigants and their plight, to be angry with the women who did not know their place and had broken laws and social conventions, or to comprehend the specifics of the case through the lens of stereotypical social perceptions about women: how their bodies and physical needs were different, how they dressed differently, how they valued material objects differently, and how they assessed civic duty and virtue differently. In this complex landscape, savvy orators like Hypereides and Apollodorus were prepared to go the extra mile and stun their audiences with specific, sometimes explicit and occasionally even shocking references to stereotypically female behaviours, looks, bodies, dress, attire, possessions and favourite items. Their objective was, in some ways, to reach farther than the eye can see. Such references almost invariably operated in two different levels. Beyond the façade, the obvious logical argument that the orator was trying to make at any given moment, there was a secondary level, where persuasion operated with very different tools, with emotions, connotations, allusions, sociocultural stereotypes, male perceptions of female roles, and male fears about the parts of female psyche and activities to which they were not privy. The Attic orators understood well this secondary level and in their speeches they had developed techniques which could harness its immense power and turn it to their advantage. When they spoke to the judges about feminine beauty they expected an instinctive reaction; when they chastised ugly bodies or offered shocking details of lewd acts they were forming male bonds at a subconscious level; when they spoke about female virtue they encouraged the audience to identify with them by reference to their own precious womenfolk who needed to be protected from all kinds of dangers, material and moral; when they were evoking images of luxury and the soft lifestyle in the company of women skilfully trained to offer a man escape from the vicissitudes of life and moments of pleasure, however fleeting, they were enticing the judges to feel affection, empathy and pity towards the woman before them, or the opposite, to shield them against

208

Kapparis

the deleterious effects of such charms. All things considered, a case involving a woman needed to be built very differently, using a separate set of tools, an arsenal of rhetorical topoi and social stereotypes that would be more applicable to the female sex, and at the secondary level strategies and techniques which would operate on the emotions and subconscious of the judges in a very different way, and persuade them less through reason and more through feeling and instinct. It may be fair to say that when men were judging men they were thinking of fellow citizens, but when men were judging women they were thinking of mothers, wives, daughters or lovers, and the rhetorical tools to appeal to them would need to be more appropriate for such relations.

chapter 13

Rhetorical Masculinity in stasis: Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides’ Histories and Plato’s Gorgias Jessica Evans Since the 2016 US presidential election, the role that masculinity – white masculinity in particular – played in Donald Trump’s rise has been the subject of much debate.1 The 2016 republican primary often seemed more an indictment of candidates’ masculinity than a vetting of platforms and policies. Yet if masculinity were natural, there would be no need to prove it. Impugning an adversary’s character by undermining his claims to manhood is hardly new. The persuasive trope of manhood in the speeches of the Attic orators has received much attention;2 masculinity’s place in the speeches of Thucydides, less so.3 In what follows, I suggest that Thucydides offers a theory of masculinity in his examination of stasis – factional conflict between parties in a polis, in this case between democrats and oligarchs – in Corcyra. Here Thucydides shows how civil conflict upped the ante of masculinity’s zero-sum calculus: masculinity’s destabilization produced a licentiousness both in character and speech, the results of which can be seen in the Sicilian Debate. I am not suggesting that Thucydides understood the distinction between sex and gender that forms the foundation of feminist theory.4 Thucydides, however, does suggest that manliness or masculinity, andreia, was pivotal in persuasion, especially in the context of stasis. As I argue, Thucydides establishes a theory of masculinity: shifting norms affect andreia, producing competing discourses of what constitutes manly behaviour. These masculinities function as the discourse shaping a speaker’s 1  Salmon (2016); Hamblin (2016); Sexton (2016). 2  Roisman (2005). 3  Both Wohl, who examines the sexual framing of politics and empire in fifth-century Athens, and Balot, who assesses the role of courage in fifth-century Athens, suggest that the factors that allowed for Athenian greatness also led to Athens’ downfall. My argument, which owes much to both studies, makes a case for a Thucydidean theory of masculinity. This theory informs Thucydides’ understanding of what motivates political actors. Wohl (2002); Balot (2014). 4  For a discussion of sex and gender theory: Fausto-Sterling (2000) 1–29.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_014

210

Evans

construction of self and audience in the Sicilian Debate. Such constructions of imagined self and communities of citizens are key to understanding how speakers seek to influence audiences. An essential part of being an ideal citizen in Athens was being a man. Masculinity’s crisis led to a citizen body vulnerable to accusations of unmanliness. Masculinity was, therefore, an effective mode of persuasion, as voting became an expression of identity and a means of allying individual men’s concerns about being perceived as unmanly. In the Sicilian Debate, Nicias’ speech is informed by a tamer, more traditional masculinity, while Alcibiades’ andreia is bold and reckless. Resonances between Nicias’ and Pericles’ speeches suggest that each professed a more disciplined and moderate masculinity which may have prevailed during Pericles’ time, but by the time of the Sicilian Debate escalating tensions and an emerging stasis had facilitated the emergence of a bolder, more transgressive and violently patriotic masculinity. Reports of Alcibiades’ sexual licentiousness and effeminate lifestyle might perhaps undermine his masculine construction of self. Alcibiades, however, is powerful precisely because he lacks restraint. Callicles’ discussion of andreia in Plato’s Gorgias offers a framework for reconciling Alcibiades’ hypermasculine rhetoric and effeminate lifestyle.5 By reading the texts together, Thucydides’ theory of masculinity emerges as part of a larger discourse, establishing grounds for a gendered analysis of persuasion in his speeches. In his post-mortem of the civil war in Corcyra, Thucydides states that the effects of stasis were not limited to individuals and cities, but could be witnessed in words and speech.6 He states, “they changed the customary opinion of names (or words, labels) in accordance with their judgment of actions” (Thuc. 3.82.4: καὶ τὴν εἰωθυῖαν ἀξίωσιν τῶν ὀνομάτων ἐς τὰ ἔργα ἀντήλλαξαν τῇ δικαιώσει).7 Thucydides provides the following list of examples: Thoughtless daring was considered manliness for a partisan cause (τόλμα μὲν γὰρ ἀλόγιστος ἀνδρεία φιλέταιρος ἐνομίσθη),8 a delay shaped by forethought was an appealing disguise for cowardice (μέλλησις δὲ προμηθὴς δειλία εὐπρεπής), self-control was a pretext for unmanliness (τὸ δὲ σῶφρον τοῦ ἀνάνδρου πρόσχημα), intelligence with regard to the whole was laziness in everything (καὶ τὸ πρὸς ἅπαν ξυνετὸν ἐπὶ πᾶν ἀργόν), rash haste was attributed to the part of man (τὸ δ’ ἐμπλήκτως ὀξὺ ἀνδρὸς μοίρᾳ προσετέθη), while aiming at safety was a 5  Aristophanes, Eupolis, Pherecrates and Archippus attest to narratives of Alcibiades’ lack of manliness and effeminacy, a tradition preserved in the writings of Plutarch. See pages 219–21. 6  Bassi (2003) 29; Price (2001) 39–43. 7  All translations are my own. 8  For a discussion of the parallels between the language of 3.82.4 and Thucydides’ narrative of the tyrannicides (6.59.1): Allison (1997) 182–7.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

211

sensible pretext for hindering (ἀσφαλείᾳ δὲ τὸ ἐπιβουλεύσασθαι ἀποτροπῆς πρόφασις εὔλογος). Three out of six of these equivalencies include words with the andr- stem: thoughtless daring was considered partisan andreia, “manliness”; self-control or moderation was a pretext for to anandron, “unmanliness”, and rash haste was attributed to “the part of man”, moira andros.9 Thus Thucydides “points to a concept of manliness” which “is essential but unstable in fifth-century political discourse”.10 Thucydides’ theory of semantic change has been debated widely.11 According to Thucydides, men’s judgment of actions precipitated a shift in the sort of actions and behaviour warranting such labels. The value accorded action, therefore, is conventional. The concepts or names that undergo a shift at 3.82.4 are not thoughtless daring, rash haste, moderation, delay shaped by forethought or intelligence with regard to the whole – a delay is a delay, haste is haste; in order for meaning to prevail, these concepts remain stable.12 What does shift, however, is whether a delay or hasty action constitutes manliness or unmanliness. Allison, in her analysis of 3.82.4, suggests that men’s judgment and not the meanings of words change: concerning “partisan manliness” she states, “[t]hat same act in saner times, when stasis was not ravaging the cities, would have fallen under the concept of irrational daring and been so called”.13 Thucydides’ list of examples following his programmatic statement regarding language and stasis suggests that conflict shifted the spectrum of behaviours constituting andreia. Thucydides draws attention to masculinity’s instability: if perceptions of what constitutes manhood change, then perceived norms of gender are not natural. While men were, anatomically speaking, male, not all men were equal: only men who were citizens and could exercise power in the service of the polis were fully men. Such men possessed discipline, restraint and control over both self and others. All others – slaves, foreigners and children – while male, were defined in ways that likened them to the un-masculine, i.e. the 9  Or more succinctly, “was considered unmanly”. 10  Bassi (2003) 32. 11  Worthington (1982) 124; Wilson (1982) 18–20; Hogan (1980) 139–50; Bassi (2003) 28; Loraux (2009) 261–92. While Worthington suggests that semantic change was produced through use, Wilson argues that words used to describe situations reflected the speaker’s judgment of what is being described. Price takes a more moderate approach. The praise of actions formerly deemed nefarious represents the transformation of values within society. As a consequence, words are used in different ways precisely because actions are judged differently. Price (2001) 39–43. 12  Allison (1997) 163–86. 13  Allison (1997) 169. Emphasis original.

212

Evans

feminine.14 Furthermore, masculinity was a zero-sum game: not all citizen men were equally masculine.15 As one of the cardinal qualities associated with masculinity was control, both of the self – especially control of one’s sexual appetites – and others, civic freedom, a prerequisite for exercising control, was an essential component of masculinity and must be protected.16 A loss of sovereignty threatened not only a city’s autonomy, but also the individual man’s personal freedom, a requisite feature of masculinity. As Thucydides notes at 3.82.4, under the conditions of stasis, thoughtless daring, which would have been previously deemed lacking in discipline, and thus unmanly, was considered manly precisely because partisan strife facilitated the emergence of diverse agendas to sanction actions. Unconstrained by the norms of civil society, the most daring and bold actions won in masculinity’s zero-sum contest as stasis shifted what constituted acceptable behaviour. Those who embraced a more traditional andreia, both moderate and keen on forethought and intelligence, competed with those whose masculinity was shaped by thoughtless daring and rash haste. Although neither Nicias nor Alcibiades uses the language of andreia explicitly, Bassi notes, “[w]hether or not words meaning ‘manliness’ and its opposite were actually part of a revolutionary rhetoric, Thucydides attests to their currency in the political and ethical lexicon of the fifth century”.17 Wohl, drawing upon Foucault, notes that “silence is an essential part of discourse”.18 Tapping into an audience’s sense of self as men is rhetorically effective precisely because masculinity’s operations are invisible. This can be seen in the 1836 US presidential election, where the Whigs touted William Henry Harrison as the “Cincinnatus of the West”, a self-made man, a symbol of the “Heroic Artisan” model of manhood, while depicting his opponent, Martin Van Buren, as a European aristocratic dandy. Van Buren’s political enemies painted him as the “Genteel Patriarch”, a model of manhood that vied with the “Heroic Artisan” as the standard of American masculinity.19 Van Buren lost, and from 1840 masculinity has been essential to invective in American politics.20 Since the publication of Hegel’s The Phenomenology of Spirit, social theorists have 14  Halperin (1989) 260–1, 67–8; Winkler (1990a) 182; Winkler (1990b) 94–5; Dover (1978) 60–81. 15  Winkler (1990a) 176–86. 16  A mid-fifth-century oenochoe depicts a Persian surrendering his buttocks to a Greek, who rushes at him with his penis, the Persian waving his hands in what Cartledge has called “a feminine gesture of distress”; Cartledge (1998) 56–7. 17  Bassi (2003) 29. 18  Wohl (2002) 23. 19  Kimmel (2006) 11–29. 20  Kimmel (2006) 27.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

213

recognized the “inter-subjectivity” of identity.21 The self, according to Hall, never exists in isolation, but “in relationship to an ‘other’ or ‘others’ who serve to validate its existence”.22 In the case of American electoral politics, masculine identities and perceptions of self are constructed and challenged through speech. Masculinity functions as a mechanism of persuasion when a speaker challenges the audience’s sense of “self” and belonging to a particular social group. In Thucydides’ history politicians likewise capitalized on masculinity’s crisis to persuade audiences. In the Sicilian Debate the perceived masculinity of both the speaker and the content of his speech can be traced in the language and concepts from Thucydides’ list of equivalencies at 3.82.4. I begin by briefly examining the language of 3.82.4 in Pericles’ speeches to measure the extent to which the norms of masculinity had changed by the time of the Sicilian Expedition.23 While Pericles and Nicias embody a more cautious and moderate masculinity, Alcibiades’ masculinity breeds a hyperpatriotism. Thucydides signals the hypermanliness of Alcibiades’ rhetoric by foregrounding the speech in the language of rash haste and thoughtlessness, qualities associated with hypermasculinity at 3.82.4. Pericles, as Thucydides represents him, frames the conflict with Sparta in terms that resonate with the Athenians as citizen men. Persuading the Athenians not to yield to Spartan demands, Pericles stirs up anger by suggesting that concessions would be tantamount to slavery (Thuc. 1.121.1).24 In doing so, Pericles taps into an already existing binary – the free, citizen man and the unmanly slave – and evokes anger by personalizing what is at stake: not only is Athens itself threatened, but also the manhood of all its citizens. As Balot has observed,25 Pericles’ strategy for preserving Athenian freedom – to treat Athens as an island, retreating to the city walls – ran counter to traditional notions of courage in hoplite warfare (Thuc. 1.143.5). Thus Pericles must persuade the Athenians that his policy is not cowardly: while winning provides an opportunity to demonstrate courage or manliness, sometimes success requires inaction, a counterintuitive strategy. Pericles must also soften the Athenians’ anger to ensure that they will be amenable to his plan. He does so by redefining the terms of andreia though 21  Benwall (2006) 24. 22  Hall (2004) 51. 23  Whether the Athenians experienced a shift in masculinity as Thucydides describes it would require reviewing evidence external to Thucydides’ text. Thucydides’ narrative of the war was based on a rigorous assessment of evidence (1.22–23). Thus Thucydides’ treatment of masculinity, while his own, was shaped by his interpretation of events. 24  Balot (2014) 115–8. 25  Balot (2014) 116.

214

Evans

language that mirrors Thucydides’ pre-stasis terms of manhood. Unlike 3.82.4 where thoughtless daring (τόλμα ἀλόγιστος) constitutes andreia for the cause, Pericles reminds the Athenians that they dare (τολμᾶν) but “most of all reflect on (ἐκλογίζεσθαι) what they plan to undertake” (Thuc. 2.40.3). For Athens’ enemies, Pericles continues, reasoning only produces hesitation (Thuc. 2.40.3: λογισμὸς δὲ ὄκνον φέρει). By aligning reason with hesitation from the perspective of Athens’ enemies, Pericles privileges logismos, rendering it inseparable from the Athenian identity. To be an Athenian is to embody the qualities that would come to warrant accusations of unmanliness in stasis. In addition to emphasizing the need for logismos, Pericles constructs ignorance (ἀμαθία) as a quality of cowards, attributing it to the enemy. Later at 2.62, he states that “pride springs up in a cowardly man merely from ignorance based on luck”. The Athenians’ pride, however, comes from a reliance on the knowledge that they can overcome the enemy. Thus Athenian intelligence (ξύνεσις) stems from a sense of superiority producing more secure daring when fortunes are equal (Thuc. 2.62.4–5): “this intelligence (ξύνεσις) relies on knowledge from existing circumstances which results in more certain foresight (πρόνοια)”. While amathia contributes to the confidence of cowards, the Athenians’ own confidence, and thus courage or manliness, stems from the intelligence that knowledge produces, resulting in foresight. Essential to Athenian andreia, therefore, is to promēthes, the quality constituting cowardice at 3.82.4 under the conditions of stasis. Whereas Pericles argues that intelligence (ξύνεσις) creates more certain foresight (Thuc. 2.62.5), under the conditions of stasis, intelligence (ξυνετόν) was regarded as laziness. Pronoia is impossible to attain under stasis. Thucydides notes that Pericles’ moderate leadership ensured Athens’ preservation in safety (Thuc. 2.65.5: μετρίως ἐξηγεῖτο καὶ ἀσφαλῶς διεφύλαξεν αὐτήν). The language of asphal- recalls 3.82.4 where “to aim at safety was a sensible pretext for hindering” (ἀσφαλείᾳ δὲ τὸ ἐπιβουλεύσασθαι ἀποτροπῆς πρόφασις εὔλογος). Periclean andreia, under the conditions of stasis, was most unmanly, and would have, at any other time, rendered those who followed Pericles’ advice anandroi. But by defining what it meant to be Athenian so directly, Pericles renders calculation, forethought and deliberation inseparable from both Athenian manhood and success in the war. To be a man was to take the necessary steps – even inaction – to ensure the preservation of Athenian freedom and manhood. Pericles constructs what might be perceived as a delay or inaction as careful calculation, a key component of Athenian manhood and good citizenship, thereby rendering his strategy an expression of Athenian civic manhood.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

215

Nicias’ first Sicilian Debate speech, like Pericles’ own, is shaped by pre-stasis qualities of masculinity, but Nicias focuses on strategy rather than identity. In doing so, Nicias fails to connect with voters as citizen men, even as he privileges many of the same qualities Pericles highlighted earlier. As Nicias notes, “it is thoughtless (ἀνόητον) to attack those over whom, if we prevail, we will not control, but, if we fail, we will not be in the same situation as we were before we set out” (Thuc. 6.11.1). By deeming the expedition thoughtless, Nicias exercises to promēthes, urging the Athenians to reconsider the invasion based on existing circumstances, an intelligence producing a more secure pronoia according to Pericles (Thuc. 2.62.4–5). Such advice was tantamount to a delay shaped by forethought, which, under the conditions of stasis, would be deemed an “appealing disguise for cowardice” (Thuc. 3.82.4). Nicias reminds the elders that success comes not from passion but from foresight (Thuc. 6.13.1). He argues that being courageous means supporting knowledge (Thuc. 6.11.6), a position reminiscent of Pericles’ own at 2.62.4–5, where knowledge forms the foundation of a more secure foresight. Nicias frames his own advice in the language of sōphrosynē, the quality that warranted accusations of unmanliness under the conditions of stasis (Thuc. 6.11.7): the Athenians would focus on the war at home rather than sending an expedition abroad, if, as he states, “we exercise self-control (σωφρονοῦμεν)”. Nicias addresses the elders, urging them not be ashamed that they will seem malakoi – soft or unmanly – if they do not vote for the expedition (Thuc. 6.13.1).26 However sensible Nicias’ plan may have been, he knew that it would be perceived as less manly than his opponent’s.27 Nicias seeks to mitigate the potential effeminacy of his “caution based on forethought” by making a patriotic appeal, equating a vote against the expedition with a vote for the fatherland (Thuc. 6.13.1.). Nicias urges the prytanis to let the Athenians vote again if he thinks that the welfare of the city is his responsibility and if he considers himself a good citizen (Thuc. 6.14). Ruling well, Nicias advises, means benefitting Athens as much as possible or being in no way willing to harm it. Nicias recognizes the “unmanliness” of his own plan, but he aligns reason with acting in the interests of Athens to encourage men to make sensible choices. The resonances between the language of 3.82.4 and both Pericles’ and Nicias’ speeches suggest that Nicias’ construction of self and his call for restraint were shaped by a moderate masculinity. Informed by intelligence and reason, this masculinity would come to be viewed as unmanly when confronted by 26  For a survey of references to softness “as the scourge of empire”: Wohl (2002) 174–8. 27  For an analysis of the language of malakia: Roisman (2005) 113; Wohl (2002) 171–214.

216

Evans

hypermasculinity. While Pericles explicitly connects moderation, reason and intelligence with the Athenian identity, the connection in Nicias’ argument is implicit: these qualities form the foundation of Nicias’ argument for a defensive policy, but Nicias takes their persuasive power for granted, failing to construct these qualities as essentially Athenian and masculine. In Aristotelian terms, Nicias’ speech is emotively ineffective. Aristotle presents three modes of persuasion in Rh. 1356a. The first is rational argument: both Pericles and Nicias present a rational and coherent argument for their positions based on knowledge and intelligence. Both, in addition, establish themselves as men of good character, which is Aristotle’s second mode of persuasion. According to Aristotle, a speaker must establish his credibility by demonstrating his practical wisdom, goodwill and virtue (Rh. 1378a). As Fortenbaugh notes, Periclean ēthos anticipates this “triad”: Pericles possesses practical wisdom, goodwill, defined as being a friend to the city, and virtue, being “superior to money”.28 Nicias begins his speech by noting that even though he would have much to gain by endorsing the expedition, he has never spoken against what he believed to be best for the city, and he will not do so now (Thuc. 6.9). Nicias’ own ēthos mirrors Pericles’, yet Nicias does not connect with the Athenians as citizen men and thus fails to evoke pathos, Aristotle’s third mode of persuasion. As Konstan argues, for Aristotle emotions are “cognitive transactions” and “products of social exchanges”: gestures, such as physical blows, cause pain, but whether the gesture arouses shame or anger depends on the purpose or meaning of the act, which is both social and cultural (cf. Arist. Rh. 1378a20–23).29 Pericles arouses anger as a mechanism to guide the Athenians, shaming them into action by equating submission with slavery, thereby rendering the political personal: to submit to Sparta would call into question each citizen man’s identity as a free man. Nicias, however, acknowledges the potential shamefulness of his plan when he notes that many will be shamed into voting for the expedition due to their fear of being malakoi (Thuc. 6.13.1). The fear of being deemed soft, unmanly or cowardly produces shame, defined by Aristotle as a pain or disturbance perceived as leading to dishonour. Furthermore, it is caused by an awareness of vice in oneself. Among the vices Aristotle lists is cowardice (Arist. Rh. 1383b). Masculinity functions as the social framework through which emotions like shame and fear are mediated. As rational as Nicias’ plan may have been, he recognizes that it will be perceived as less masculine in a hypermasculinized climate. Nicias,

28  Fortenbaugh (1992) 214–5. 29  Konstan (2006) 27–34; Konstan (2010) 413–9.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

217

therefore, does not simply fail to evoke pathos. He, in fact, invokes pathos, but to his own detriment. Like Pericles, Alcibiades focuses on identity construction, both of self and audience, but Alcibiades’ patriotic identity is shaped by an unrestrained hypermasculinity rather than a moderate one: love of country is expressed not by voting in the interests of Athens, but by voting for the plan that most reflects the voters’ sense of self as Athenian men, even if this means forsaking deliberation for bold action. First, Alcibiades appropriates the language of “thoughtlessness”, rendering it a virtue rather than a vice. While Nicias uses the language of “thoughtlessness” (ἀνόητον) to describe the folly of the expedition, thus positioning his plan as more thoughtful, Alcibiades, after noting how his personal ambition has profited the Athenians, remarks that “this sort of thoughtlessness (ἄνοια) is not useless, if by one’s own property one benefits not only himself but also the city” (Thuc. 6.16.3). Self-interest needs not be self-serving. Alcibiades ends his summary of achievements by describing them as “thoughtlessness” (6.17.1: ἄνοια), thereby redeeming thoughtlessness, constructing it as a virtue not by proving that the invasion is, in fact, warranted based on careful consideration, but by showing how potential accusations made against his character were unsolicited. By eliding personal and polis interests, Alcibiades constructs himself as a proxy for Athens, and thus as the best spokesperson for the city: a vote for Alcibiades served as demonstration of each man’s commitment to Athens’ reputation.30 Here the language of “thoughtlessness” is an overt signifier of Alcibiades’ hypermasculine argument, just as the language of moderation and malakia signify Nicias’ restrained masculinity. Contrary to Pericles, for whom deliberation, calculation and thoughtful consideration were essential for producing pronoia and corroborating Athenian identity, Alcibiades situates anoia as a virtue, inseparable from Athenian greatness. Alcibiades’ ironic appropriation of anoia destabilizes the concept, thus rendering Nicias’ use of the term less potent and establishing the primacy of action over thought. In his construction of the Athenian civic identity, Alcibiades privileges action over deliberation, contradicting Pericles for whom not talking through policy was more harmful than failure to do so beforehand (Thuc. 2.40.2). Alcibiades reverses this formula: “a city always striving (ἀγωνιζομένην)”, he says, “will get experience and be accustomed to defending itself not with speech but rather in action” (6.18.6). This rejection of rhetoric is itself rhetorical: Alcibiades denigrates deliberation even as he participates in it, mobilizing it to construct his own political and masculine identity even as he undermines the processes that empower him. Alcibiades distances himself from Periclean 30  Ober (2001) 111.

218

Evans

deliberative-based identities while appropriating Periclean narratives of Athenian restlessness and rejection of leisure. Like Pericles, who proclaims (Thuc. 2.40.2), “we alone think the one who does not participate in politics is not a quiet man (ἀπράγμονα), but a useless one (ἀχρεῖον)”, Alcibiades speaks of quietude, but he alters the word’s context from the democratic to the imperial: the man who really loves his country is committed to strengthening Athens’ reputation abroad. Alcibiades urges the Athenians not to “let the quietism of Nicias’ speech (ἡ Νικίου τῶν λόγων ἀπραγμοσύνη) and the division (διάστασις) between young and old dissuade you” (6.18.6). By equating Nicias’ call for moderation with apragmosynē, Alcibiades constructs Nicias and his plan as weak, un-Athenian and divisive: rather than making Athens stronger, Nicias weakens Athens by creating internal divisions. Alcibiades ends his speech by further eliding the difference between democratic and imperial apragmosynē: a restless city (πόλιν μὴ ἀπράγμονα) would be destroyed by a change to quietism (ἀπραγμοσύνης μεταβολῇ); safety (ἀσφαλέστατα) means not deviating from tradition (6.18.7). Here Alcibiades shifts apragmōn, used by Pericles to describe a type of citizen, to the polis itself. Alcibiades relies on his audience’s visceral antipathy to apragmosynē to distract from the context in which he uses the word: the democratic polis is threatened not by the inactive citizen Pericles spoke of but by a foreign policy that places safety above imperial expansion. Being an Athenian man meant engaging in activities reaffirming Athenian claims to greatness. Competition – key to masculinity’s zero-sum game – offered men opportunities for demonstrating their manhood in ways that inaction or rhetoric did not.31 Transferring apragmosynē from a democratic to an imperial context incentivized war, even at the risk of Athens’ safety, as the protocols of masculinity requiring constant competition tempted men to action. By constructing an enemy whose defeat would prove both Athenian superiority and men’s andreia, Alcibiades ensures his victory. A vote against the expedition would be perceived as unmanly, but a vote for the expedition demonstrated men’s commitment to both city and citizen identity. Consequently, men’s need to prove their citizen manhood was pitted against the safety of the polis. By framing Nicias’ speech as counter to the Athenian identity, Alcibiades suggests that Nicias’ plan will fundamentally alter the Athenian character, thus positioning Nicias as not just un-Athenian but anti-Athenian. By framing caution – delays based on forethought – as quietism, Alcibiades constructs his own position as a manlier alternative to Nicias’, thereby ensuring that his speech would be more appealing to individual voters. 31  Winkler (1990a) 176.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

219

As Thucydides notes, passion for the expedition swept through ranks, while those who objected remained silent for fear that they would be perceived as hostile to the city (6.24). Thucydides explores the effects of stasis on masculinity. Partisan strife created diverse platforms justifying bold action, creating a climate where men must always engage in even bolder actions to prove their masculinity. Such conditions meant that speakers could more easily make an emotional appeal to the audience by mobilizing their fears of being shamed, a fear that Nicias identifies when he urges the Athenians not to vote for the expedition for fear of being malakoi. A destabilized masculinity thus produces a symmetry between the speaker and the audience: Alcibiades’ masculinity is as “hyper” as his audience’s masculinity would be “hypo” should they fail to take up his challenge to embrace an ideology of Athenian imperialism. Competing masculinities thus alter the landscape of patriotic identities. While Nicias’ patriotism is shaped by an “intelligence with regard to the whole”, Alcibiades’ inflames the enthusiasm of the Athenians by encouraging “thoughtless daring” and “rash haste”. Nicias’ policy of non-engagement, Wohl suggests, “draws on a traditional ethics of self-mastery”, but Nicias “does not elaborate this policy as a theory of masculinity to set against that of his opponent”.32 Calling attention so overtly to competing masculinities would call into question the naturalness of the masculinity to which one lays claim. It is far safer to accuse one’s opponent of effeminacy – or in modern terms, of softness, weakness or low energy – thereby increasing one’s own masculine capital, than to overtly draw attention to the persuasive mechanism at play. While neither Nicias nor Alcibiades engage in a meta-dialogue on how gender operates, Thucydides does. Thoughtless daring, moderation and forethought would always be considered thoughtless daring, moderation and forethought, but Alcibiades’ unconstrained rhetoric shifted the spectrum of what constituted reasonable action. Under these conditions, competing patriotic identities emerged, shaped by vying masculinities. Alcibiades’ hyperpatriotism offered men even bolder opportunities to prove both their manhood and their love of Athens. A tension, however, exists between Alcibiades’ rhetoric – his public, masculine, patriotic persona – and his personal life. While Nicias worries that those who support his plan would be malakoi, if any one person was susceptible to charges of being malakos, it was Alcibiades. Alcibiades, by tradition, was the effeminate man whose lifestyle was indulgent and excessive, and whose 32  Wohl (2002) 180.

220

Evans

malleable identity made him prone to deception (cf. Lys. 14).33 Plutarch – although a much later source – provides the most succinct characterization of Alcibiades’ life, noting that the Athenians worried that he was aiming at tyranny when they saw “the luxury of his lifestyle, the wantonness of his drinking and his love affairs, the effeminacy (θηλύτητας) of his purple clothing being dragged through the marketplace and his prodigious extravagance” (Plut. Alc. 16.).34 As Wohl notes, “Alcibiades was the wayward son of Athens’ sexual and political nomoi”, a man who exhibited the “passivity and depravity of a kinaidos”.35 The normative sexual ideology of democratic Athenians necessitated that citizen men play the proper, penetrating role.36 While Winkler, following Dover, suggests that the kinaidos “desires to lose” by being sexually penetrated like a woman,37 Davidson suggests a lack of discipline rather than the manner of sex defined the kinaidos:38 men who submitted to pleasure lacked restraint, and were therefore assimilated to the feminine. Accusing a man of being a kinaidos was rhetorically effective: a man who lacked sexual discipline could not possibly be trusted to exercise moderation when it came to matters of the polis. According to Gribble, “this thinking is founded on an implicit comparison between the political order of the laws and constitution on the one hand and the individual’s moral ordering of his own person, his sōphrosynē, on the other”.39 Infamous for his effeminacy and seduction, the kinaidos was, according to the Suda, malakos; his opposite, the sōphrōn man.40 Rumours concerning Alcibiades’ personal life were shaped by a pervasive lack of restraint and sexual deviance. He was a notorious womaniser, accused of incest and of having a child with a woman taken captive at Melos (Ath. 5.22c, 12.534f–535a; Andoc. 22–23).41 Separating fact from fiction in the biographical tradition of Alcibiades is notoriously difficult given how much of the evidence for Alcibiades’ life comes from later sources. Fifth-century evidence, however, suggests that his effeminacy dates to an earlier, contemporary tradition.

33  For a more complete review of primary source evidence: Gribble (1999) 69–82. 34  See the following paragraph for a discussion of fifth-century evidence corroborating Plutarch’s account. 35  Wohl (2002) 127. 36  Dover (1978) 31–4; Winkler (1990b) 29–45; Winkler (1990b) 186–97. 37  Winkler (1990a) 186; Dover (1978) 142–3. 38  Davidson (1997) 174. 39  Gribble (1999) 73. 40  Davidson (2007) 60. 41  Gribble (1999) 76.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

221

Aristophanes mocks Alcibiades, calling him a “woman”, euryprōktos and katapygōn (Ar. Acharn. 716; Eup. fr. 171 K.-A.; Ar. fr. 244 K.-A.), sexual metaphors that, like kinaidos, impugned a man’s character by suggesting he lacked discipline like a woman lacking sexual restraint.42 Pherecrates notes that “although he is not a man [ἀνήρ], Alcibiades, it seems, is now the husband [ἀνήρ] of all women” (Pherecrates fr. 164 K.-A.). Archippus mocks Alcibiades’ son by comparing him to his father: “Unmanned, he drags his cloak so that he might seem to resemble his father very much. He bends his neck and talks with a lisp” (Archippus fr. 48 K.-A.), qualities Aristotle identifies as essential to the kinaidos (Ps.-Arist. Phgn. 808a, 810a, 813a), while trailing cloaks on the ground was costly and considered a display of wealth and extravagance.43 The image of Alcibiades as patriotic defender of Athens, a man whose rhetoric made Nicias’ own claims to manhood dubious, seem contradictory given contemporary and later evidence. Callicles, however, in Plato’s Gorgias, offers a discourse of masculinity that reconciles this contradiction, suggesting that Alcibiades’ personae – seemingly at odds – are, in fact, part of this new hypermasculinity identified by Thucydides. In his discussion with Socrates regarding the sort of life one should lead, Callicles, a young politician, suggests that by nature the stronger have more power than the weaker. The stronger, therefore, should not have to abide by the norms that protect the weaker. The more powerful, who have a greater understanding of the city and its management, should rule. These men are “manly (ἀνδρεῖοι)” and are “able to complete that which they set out to do, nor would they fail from weakness (μαλακίαν) of spirit” (Plat. Grg. 491a–b). Socrates asks whether the one ruling should also rule himself, controlling pleasures and passions (491d: ἡδονῶν καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν). Callicles responds by exclaiming that by moderate (τοὺς σώφρονας) he must mean foolish: “the man who is going to live correctly should allow his passions (ἐπιθυμίας) to be as great as possible and he should not check them”. The andreios man should use his andreia to give free reign to his passions (ἐπιθυμίας), whatever they may be (Grg. 491e–492a). From Callicles’ perspective (492b), people only “praise moderation (σωφροσύνην) and justice (δικαιοσύνην) because of their own unmanliness (ἀνανδρίαν)”. Moderation is precisely what Nicias advises, noting that where “passion” fails, “foresight” succeeds (Thuc. 6.13.1). From Callicles’ perspective, Nicias would be most unmanly.

42  Davidson (1997) 167–73; Davidson (2007) 57–9. 43  Gribble (1999) 72–3.

222

Evans

Socrates then offers the life of kinaidoi (ὁ τῶν κιναίδων βίος) as an example of those who use their andreia to pursue pleasure without restraint (Grg. 494d–e):44 “will you say that these people are happy if they have an abundance of what they need?” By proving that using andreia to pursue pleasure can result in anandria, Socrates reveals the necessity for self-control and moderation. Socrates’ example of the kinaidos suggests that gender was not a simple binary. The hypermasculine, unconstrained man occupied a space not farther from femininity, but bordering it. The logical extreme of the hypermasculine man was the kinaidos, who, while anatomically male, experienced such insatiable lust that he desired to be penetrated like a woman and whose lack of discipline shaped all other aspects of his life. While Pericles could claim that deliberation and calculation were indispensable to Athenian character, masculinity’s zero-sum calculus meant that Nicias, making the very same arguments, was simultaneously rendered both anti-Athenian and effeminate by unrestrained epithumia generated by Alcibiades’ hyper-andreia. While Alcibiades’ rhetoric is shaped by a hypermanliness that gives rise to a new patriotism, narratives of his personal character focus on his effeminacy. These identities may seem contradictory, but Plato offers a framework for understanding how this new masculinity operates: a lack of sexual restraint, when translated into the public sphere leads to a self-serving, hyperpatriotic leadership. Masculinity’s zero-sum dynamics meant that the manliest rhetoric and plan rendered all others effeminate. The irony is that even though Alcibiades’ effeminacy should have rendered him less trustworthy, his speech was ultimately more persuasive precisely because he spoke to men’s vulnerabilities, their fears of being less manly and so less committed to the project of defending Athenian “freedom” and “manhood”. In the Sicilian Debate, the shifting norms of masculinity serve as the underlying discourse through which feelings of shame and passion are aroused, judgments formed and decisions made regarding the fate of the expedition. The precariousness of both Athens and the Athenian hegemony created an audience receptive to Alcibiades’ promises to such an extent that dissent was silenced by the patriotic fervour Alcibiades aroused. Those who may, under different circumstances, have supported Nicias were silenced “due to the excessive passion (ἐπιθυμίαν) of the majority”, as they feared that they would seem ill-disposed (κακόνους) towards the city if they voted against the expedition (Thuc. 6.24.4). For Thucydides masculinity was the normative framework through which the contradictory yet complementary pathē of shame (of being perceived as malakos) and epithumia (passion for an expedition that would 44  For alternative readings of this passage: Winkler (1990a) 185; Fox (1998) 7–9; Skinner (2014) 156–7.

Hyper-andreia and Patriotism in Thucydides and Plato

223

concretize both Athens’ and citizen hegemony) were generated. Alcibiades’ manipulation of what constituted goodwill toward the city, an act of recklessness fostered by a climate of hypermasculinity, generated a pathos of epithumia, a uniquely appetitive emotion45 that matched Alcibiades’ own lack of restraint, and which could not be countered by any reasonable plan, as doing so would ultimately render one susceptible to charges of unmanliness and a lack of patriotism. Alcibiades’ success, therefore, signals that perceptions of andreia have changed: forethought, intelligence and foresight, rendered inseparable from Athenian manhood under Pericles, were emasculated by Alcibiades, whose unrestrained rhetoric was as masculine as his personal proclivities were feminine. While both Pericles and Nicias urge moderation in the interest of Athens, an expression of their goodwill toward the city, Alcibiades’ brazen chauvinism results in men voting for the expedition out of misplaced goodwill toward the city and fears of seeming ill-disposed towards Athens. The compatibility of Alcibiades’ public and personal personae also complicates – or perhaps reveals – how inextricable discourse is from any kind of objective reality or lived experience: discourse provides the narrative through which we make sense of and order the world around us. Alcibiades may have engaged in behaviours warranting accusations of effeminacy, but how the Greeks made sense of such behaviours – as effeminate – is purely discursive. There is nothing inherently effeminate about being a womaniser, but because the Greeks conceptualized the lack of discipline that characterized womanizing behaviour as effeminate, it was. So inseparable are feminine excess and indulgence from tyranny that the two seem naturally bound: the effeminate man could aim at nothing less than the form of government that offered the most powerful the most pleasure.46 Thucydides attributes suspicion of Alcibiades to the “undemocratic lawlessness of his lifestyle” (Thuc. 6.28.2: ἐς τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα οὐ δημοτικὴν παρανομίαν), noting that “the general public became wary of him on account of the magnitude of his lawlessness in relation to his body with regard to his lifestyle (6.15.4: τὸ μέγεθος τῆς τε κατὰ τὸ ἑαυτοῦ σῶμα παρανομίας ἐς τὴν δίαιταν)”.47 Suspicions of his personal life and ambition led the Athenians to believe that he had tyrannical aspirations.

45  Koziak (2000) 83. 46  Seager (1967) 6–18; Wohl (1999) 267–8; Davidson (1997) 294–301. 47  Thucydides draws attention to Alicibiades’ sexual transgressions. Drawing upon both Butler and Foucault, Wohl examines how Alcibiades’ “oddness is at once sexy and undemocratic”. Wohl (1999) 366 n. 52. Ober (2001) 204–6. Gribble notes that “as with Plato’s tyrannical man, appetite for pleasure leads directly to craving for power” (77). See Plat. Rep. 579b3–c2; Grg. 491b.

224

Evans

Eventually the Athenians turned against Alcibiades, but not because his advice was reckless or lacking in the kind of thoughtfulness that would result in pronoia. They turned against him because his deviance and ambition signalled an unfitness to rule that was framed as effeminacy. Gender matters precisely because it is the conceptual framework through which pathē are constructed by speakers, and because it shapes judgments and decisions that have very real consequences. Thucydides explores how masculinity operates, but he never questions the naturalness of gender’s place in shaping political discourse. We, however, are faced with a much greater challenge: how to extricate ourselves from a gender binary that naturally privileges one over the other. Each time Barack Obama’s masculinity is questioned or Donald Trump accuses his political adversaries of being “low energy” or weak, so too is the ability of a woman to perform politically. Perhaps more critically, gender – and in the case of US electoral politics, the fragility of white masculinity – is key to understanding why individuals are so keen to vote against their interests: in a crisis of white masculinity identity matters, the facts less so. Narratives such as Nicias’ rhetorical and Alcibiades’ sexual effeminacy have the effect of strengthening discourses of femininity as weakness by framing men’s powerlessness and deviancy as effeminate. Gender is a social fact, discursively constructed and reified through the enactment of that discourse. If we are to achieve gender equality, we must be cognisant of the seemingly invisible frameworks informing not only our actions, but also our speech.

chapter 14

When Women Speak: The Persuasive Purpose of Direct Speech in Livy’s Ab urbe condita T. Davina McClain When Titus Livius (Livy) undertook the massive task of writing a history of the Roman people,1 he had not only a mix of sources and traditions to juggle, but he had something of a “mandate” from the works of Cicero to create a narrative that would reach his audience and entice people to read his work.2 The literary nature of ancient historiography allowed Livy to use a variety of techniques to craft a narrative3 and carefully shape each episode and the connecting material to keep the reader engaged, to be consistent with his vision and to satisfy the didactic purpose inherent in the lessons of the past.4 A key option among Livy’s narrative tools was his opportunity to compose speeches to bring the people and events of the past to life. Scholars have documented the number of times Livy uses direct speech and indirect speech, analysed some of the longer speeches and paid particular attention to the rhetorical devices that Livy used in those speeches,5 yet these studies have focused either on Livy’s practice in general or on the speeches Livy had men deliver in his history.6 Direct speeches by women in Livy’s narrative, however, have 1  Both in the Preface (Praefatio 1–4) and at the beginning of Book 31 (31.1.1–5), Livy draws attention to the magnitude of his task. 2  Cicero had an interest in the way Roman history was written. Cicero has Atticus criticize the style of Roman historian in De legibus 1.2.5–7, complaining that most versions are so boring that no one wants to read them. In Ad Fam. 5.12, Cicero’s letter to Lucceius, Cicero details why his handling of the Catilinarian conspiracy makes for a great subject for the historian’s talent. De Oratore 2.63 offers a discussion of the responsibilities of the historian. 3  A number of scholars have explored the intersections between historiography and tragedy. For Greek writers, see Ullmann (1942); Walbank (1960); Walker (1993). For Roman historians see Walsh (1996) and Wiseman (1998); MacPhail (2001) extends the discussion to Renaissance historians. 4  Praefatio 10: “This is that thing that is healthful and fruitful especially in the knowledge of the past, that you behold records of every model in a shining monument; from this for yourself and your state, you may take what you should emulate, from this what you should avoid as corrupt in its inception, corrupt in its outcome”. 5  For studies of speeches in Livy see Kohl (1872); Canter (1917, 1918); Lambert (1946); Gries (1949). 6  Vallette (2012) notes the lack of attention paid to the power of women’s speech.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_015

226

McClain

received little to no attention. Individual episodes in which women serve as central figures have been examined,7 but there has been no study focused on the direct speech by women. Analysing every use of direct speech by women in the extant narrative can offer insight into what Livy wanted to accomplish through direct speech and explore why Livy chose to give direct speech to women in certain circumstances. My analysis is not, however, based on the premise that women actually spoke these words or that the speeches reflect women’s speech. Just as Gagarin argued that Attic logographers give women speeches that suit the purposes of the case and that express authority through the diction of forensic speech, so also the historian controls and shapes the deliberative speeches that he places them in his narrative with an eye to the most effective way to convey the tone and the information necessary for a specific outcome within the context of the narrative.8 For comparison, in his study of direct speech and gender in the narrative strategies of Icelandic family sagas, Dendle argues that “direct and indirect discourse are used to privilege certain characters over others in terms of social or moral standing, such that the audience sympathies are carefully guided”.9 In these sagas, however, women are never given direct speech, a practice that “defuses the power of women”.10 In contrast, rather than defusing women’s power, Livy harnesses it at key moments within his narrative of Rome’s history. In Livy’s extant work, there are thirty-two episodes that focus on women and fifty-one brief mentions of groups of women and their actions. Of the thirtytwo episodes involving women, nine include direct speech: four in Book I, and one each in Books 2, 1o, 30, 39 and 40.11 Within these nine episodes, there is a total of ten direct speeches by women, of varying lengths: five of the ten are less than five lines long; only two are ten lines long or longer, with none more than fifteen lines. Although the speeches by women represent a small part of the 407 direct speeches in Livy’s extant narrative,12 almost one third of 7  McClain (1994) and Kowalewski (2012). 8  Gagarin (2001). Although oratory and history are different genres, they share the purpose of persuasion. History has as one of its aims to persuade its audience that what is recorded is accurate and appropriate and that the lessons it offers are worthy of studying and emulating. In both genres, therefore, the appropriateness of the language is dictated by the context and by the author’s determination about what words will be most effective. 9  Dendle (1997) 403. 10  Dendle (1997) 403. 11  Book I covers the period of the monarchy, roughly 1200 BC–509 BC Book 2 the first years of the republic 509–468 BC Book 10 302–293 BC; Book 30 203–201 BC, Book 39 187–182 BC, Book 40 182–180 BC. 12  Canter (1918) 126 n. 3.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

227

episodes involving women contain direct discourse. All the speeches are deliberative or symbouleutic: their purpose is to persuade their audience to follow a specific plan of action.13 Book I contains more episodes that focus on women than any other book in Livy’s extant work.14 The first six episodes involving women – Livy’s discussion of the rule of Lavinia, Rhea Silvia’s rape, Larentia’s role as mother for Romulus and Remus, the kidnapping of the Sabines, Hersilia’s appeal to Romulus to allow the women’s families to move to Rome after the kidnapping of the Sabines and Tarpeia’s interaction with the Sabine’s king Titus Tatius – include only one brief instance of indirect speech (Hersilia).15 The first women to whom Livy gives direct speech are the Sabines: these women, about whom men have negotiated, plotted, argued and fought, are finally given the opportunity to speak for themselves. Livy sets the scene by describing how the women encounter the battle lines, which he describes in military terms (1.13.1: infestas acies “hostile battle lines”) and in emotional terms (1.13.2: iras “angers”). After the Sabine women position themselves between the armies, the identification of the combatants changes as the Sabines address the men in indirect speech (1.13.2): Hinc patres, hinc viros orantes, ne sanguine se nefando soceri generique respergerent, ne parricidio macularent partus suos, nepotum illi, hi liberum progeniem. Begging their fathers on this side, their husbands on that side that they not spatter themselves with the unspeakable blood of sons-in-law and fathers-in-law, that they not stain their own offspring with the murder of a family member – those the progeny of their grandfathers; these the progeny of their children. The women’s indirect speech addresses the actions of the men with respect to each other and to their children, emphasizing their concern for others and setting the context for their direct address.16 After redefining the military battle in familial terms (patres … viros), Livy has the women speak directly (1.13.3): 13  Oakley (1997) 118 notes that the majority of Livy’s speeches are symbouleutic. 14  Of the thirty-two episodes involving women, eleven are in Book 1. 15  Lavinia 1.1; .9–1.3.4; Rhea Silvia 1.3.11–1.4.3; Larentia 1.4.6–8; Sabines 1.9.1–14; Hersilia 1.11.2; Tarpeia 1.11.5–9. 16  On Livy’s use of indirect speech, see Lambert (1946); Gries (1949); Scafuro (1989). On the structure of Livy’s speeches: Luce (1993).

228

McClain

Si adfinitatis inter vos, si conubii piget, in nos vertite iras; nos causa belli, nos volnerum ac caedium viris ac parentibus sumus; melius peribimus quam sine alteris vestrum viduae aut orbae vivemus. If the relationship between you, if the marriage disgusts you, turn your anger against us; we are the reason for the war, we are the reason for the wounds and slaughter of our husbands and parents; we will prefer to die rather than live without one of you as widows and orphans. Livy identifies no individual speaker of these words. The Sabines speak with one voice, symbolizing the unity that they want to achieve. Similarly, their first words call attention to the fact that these enemies are themselves part of one group, a family. Yet, is it not the relationship per se that has inspired the war but the way in which the Romans acquired their wives – by kidnapping the women at a festival, an action that became necessary because the neighbouring peoples did, in fact, find conubium with the Romans objectionable.17 The women make clear, however, that the marriage has happened and families have been created and now those families are killing each other. These women who have been the object of failed male discourse now declare what they want: peace and family or death. The direct speech that Livy gives them succeeds because the women are the only ones in a position to define the war as parricide. Moreover, the physical presence of the women in the middle of the battle lines reinforces the power of their words. The shift in pronouns – vos … nos … nos … nos – broadens the focus from the men exclusively to the women and the men (we), bringing all the elements into one group. Just as the women are the link between two families, two states, their speech joins speaker and audience into one group. Thus the men can no longer see themselves in opposition; now they must recognize that they are part of a continuum, part of one family. The Sabines’ direct speech takes place in a public setting because it must be heard by both parties to succeed and to persuade the men to join two peoples to form a stronger Rome.18 The next instances of direct speech take place in a private setting. Tanaquil, the wife of Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, the fifth king of Rome, is alerted to an omen: a young boy, the son of a captive, is sleeping in the palace and suddenly his head appears to be on fire. The servants panic and start to douse the boy with water, but Tanaquil stops them and forbids the boy 17  Livy describes the Romans attempt to establish conubium with the neighboring towns and their rejection by these towns at 1.9.1–5. For the Sabines as an example of bride theft, see Miles (1995) 182–3. 18  Kapust (2011) 81–5 argues that Livy’s historical purpose focuses on concordia.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

229

to be disturbed until he wakes up on his own and the flame disappears. Then Livy has Tanaquil speak in private to her husband (1.39.3): ‘Videsne tu puerum hunc’ inquit, ‘quem tam humili cultu educamus? Scire licet hunc lumen quondam rebus nostris dubiis futurum praesidiumque regiae adflictae; proinde materiam ingentis publice privatimque decoris omni indulgentia nostra nutriamus’. Do you see this boy whom we are raising with such humble care? It is fitting to know that this one will be a light someday for us in uncertain times and a protection for our palace when it is in trouble; from now on let us provide evidence of great public and private honour with all our favour. Her advice to her husband results in the boy being raised in the palace and becoming their son-in-law. Priscus is immediately persuaded since Tanaquil has already proven her ability to read signs and to guide Priscus towards success:19 when they were living in Tarquinii, because Etruscan society did not allow for one of mixed lineage to obtain power and prestige, Tanaquil had urged, in indirect discourse, that they move to Rome (1.34.5–6). Furthermore, just before Priscus and Tanaquil crossed the Tiber and entered Rome, an omen occurred which Tanaquil interpreted (1.34.8–9): an eagle swooped down and removed Priscus’ cap, flew in a circle and then replaced his cap back on his head. Tanaquil told her husband, in indirect discourse, that the actions of Jupiter’s symbol, the eagle – removing what had first been put on his head by a human hand and replacing it as if by a divine force – promised great success. These two indirect speeches establish Tanaquil’s credibility and thus her persuasive ēthos, since everything she says happens. Tanaquil first specifically addresses Priscus (Videsne tu) but quickly shifts to the first person plural (educamus … nostri … nutriamus). Her words succeed in bringing the boy into the family. Livy’s use of direct discourse in the omen involving the child draws greater attention to an event that foreshadows both danger and protection for not only Tanaquil and Priscus, but also Rome.20 After Priscus is assassinated, Tanaquil summons the young man, Servius Tullius. When he arrives, Tanaquil takes his right hand and, beginning in indirect speech, begs him not to allow the death of his father-in-law to go 19  Livy notes at 1.34.9 that Etruscans were well versed in reading omens and signs. 20  Livy describes here the same omen as that Vergil attributes to Lavinia in the Aeneid (73– 7). For the role of omens in Greek literature, a possible influence on Livy: Dillon (2017).

230

McClain

unavenged and not to allow his mother-in-law to be an object of derision for their enemies (1.41.2: dextram tenens orat ne inultam mortem soceri, ne socrum inimicis ludibrio esse sinat).21 Once she has established that she has summoned Servius as a family member and because of her fear, she turns to direct speech using stronger words that focus on the state (1.41.3): ‘Tuum est’ inquit, ‘Servi, si vir es, regnum, non eorum qui alienis manibus pessimum facinus fecere. Erige te deosque duces sequere qui clarum hoc fore caput divino quondam circumfuso igni portenderunt. Nunc te illa caelestis excitet flamma; nunc expergiscere vere. Et nos peregrini regnavimus; qui sis, non unde natus sis reputa. Si tua re subita consilia torpent, at tu mea consilia sequere’. The kingdom is yours, Servius, if you are a man, not theirs who committed this most evil act by the hands of another. Rise up and follow as your leaders the gods who foretold once by a divine encircling fire that this head would be famous. Now let that heavenly flame arouse you; now awaken truly! Even as immigrants we ruled; think about who you are, not from where you were born. If your ability to think is stunned by this sudden event, then you follow my advice. Livy has Tanaquil’s words focus on the difference between Servius, who will be taking the throne because of a sign from the gods, and those who have tried to take power through violence and crime. Because Livy has previously established Tanaquil as a forceful and intelligent figure through her advice to Priscus, the historian has imbued her with a certain auctoritas, that aura of authority that gives her words power and alleviates concerns about her motivations. The fear that she conveys in indirect speech before she begins to instruct Servius about what he should do adds to her authority and creates a disposition in Servius and in Livy’s audience to trust her: Tanaquil’s focus is on safety, not on power. She then addresses him with repeated imperatives: erige … sequere … excitet … expergiscere … reputa … sequere. The forcefulness of her language is aimed at giving Servius no choice but to present himself as king. Moreover, her advice to Servius draws on the omen (the previous circumstance in which Livy gives her direct speech), a justification that demonstrates that she is following the gods, not her own will. The word quondam (1.39.3; 1.41.3) links the 21  Grasping the right hand signifies a range of meanings, especially supplication and a pledge of faithfulness or trust. For studies of the gesture in Greek and Roman literature and art, see Flory (1978); Davies (1985); Wirth (2010).

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

231

two events: the “someday” she spoke about when Servius was a child has now arrived. The direct speeches that Livy gives the Sabines and Tanaquil demonstrate some parallels in the way the women couch their arguments. Both employ conditions to make the addressees consider the situation from a specific point of view.22 By challenging Servius’ identity and character through the apodosis of the condition (“if you are a man”), Tanaquil creates a situation in which Servius has no choice but to take control or prove himself not a man. In the case of the Sabines, the challenge comes in the command of the protasis: “turn your rage against us, if the marriage is hateful”. Each condition sets up a situation that couches the men’s actions as defining: Servius must take control and the men must find a way to accept the marriage. In addition, the Sabines establish an “emotional community” that now pits the men, not against each other, but against the women – something neither side can accept. Both speeches also use definitions to direct the men to think about the situation from a different perspective: the Sabines define themselves as wives, mothers, daughters and the reason for the war. They similarly demand that the men see themselves as they are now – members of the same family – and not as military foes. Tanaquil tells Servius to redefine himself: “think about who you are, not from where you were born” (qui sis, non unde natus sis reputa). Just as Tanaquil advised her husband to remove himself from Tarquinii – a place where he could not succeed because of his birth (as the child of a Greek father and an Etruscan mother) – and go to Rome where his actions would create his identity, so her speech to Servius urges him to forget his birth (as the child of a captive/slave) and live up to being raised in the palace and being the son-in-law of the king.23 The Sabines and Tanaquil also make clear what they want the men they are addressing to do: make peace; take control. And just as the Sabine women are best suited to address the men around them because they are the physical link between the combatants, so only Tanaquil can address Servius with reference to the omen she read when he was a child and that now must guide his actions. In neither instance does the speaker assert her desire to rule; rather, the men must do what is right. Livy softens Tanaquil’s stance at the end of the speech: she will offer advice, but only if Servius cannot determine what to do on his

22   Speech-act theory has examined aspects of the force that different types of conditions convey. The illocutionary aspect of conditions – conditions that expect a response on the part of the addressee – is especially at play here. For conditions in speech-act theory, see Edginton (1995); Parsons (2013); Block (2008). 23  1.34.5–7. I am grateful to Sophia Papaioannou for making this connection.

232

McClain

own. Thus, in the end, it is up to the men to act, preferably in the way that the women have advised. The next use of direct speech also takes place within the royal family and in private: Tullia Minor, the younger daughter of Servius Tullius, becomes the wife of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, after his wife and her own husband die mysteriously. After nagging Superbus about the pointless murders they have committed, she says (1.47.3–5): Si tu is es cui nuptam esse me arbitror, et virum et regem appello; sin minus, eo nunc peius mutata res est quod istic cum ignavia est scelus. Quin accingeris? Non tibi ab Corintho nec ab Tarquiniis, ut patri tuo, peregrina regna moliri necesse est: di te penates patriique et patris imago et domus regia et in domo regale solium et nomen Tarquinium creat vocatque regem. Aut si ad haec parum est animi, quid frustraris civitatem? Quid te ut regium iuvenem conspici sinis? Facesse hinc Tarquinios aut Corinthum; devolvere retro ad stirpem, fratri similior quam patri. If you are he whom I think I married, I call you both husband and king; if not, then the situation has become all the worse now because in it there is crime along with cowardice. What is holding you back? You are not from Corinth or from Tarquinii, as your father was, you do not have to build a foreign kingdom for yourself: the household gods and the image of your grandfather and your father and the royal home and the royal throne in the house and the Tarquin name make and call you king. Or if there is too little courage in you for these things, why do you deceive the state? Why do you allow yourself to be seen as a royal youth? Leave here for Tarquinii or Corinth. Go back to where you came from, since you are more similar to your brother than to your father. Like the other women, Tullia is the only one who can confront Superbus in this way because she was a partner in the murder of his wife and her husband. Moreover, Livy has established Tullia as ambitious for power and jealous of Tanaquil, whom she views as a “king-maker” (1.47.6), and he marks her as the instigator of the crimes (1.46.7): initium turbandi omnia a femina ortum est (“the beginning of disturbing everything arose from the woman”). Tullia’s language reflects Livy’s assessment that Tullia is the driving force behind the crimes. Tullia uses conditions to pose insults rather than challenges, as did the Sabines and Tanaquil. Her direct speech to Superbus disparages his identity and his character. She attacks him with a series of questions (quin …

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

233

quid … quid) to which she supplies answers that demean Superbus in order to drive him to take power or leave Rome. Whereas Tanaquil urges Servius to consider his character as grounds for taking control after the rightful king has been assassinated, Tullia tells Superbus that he was born and raised in the palace by the king, his father, and ought to be more ambitious for immediate power – words that result in the assassination of the rightful king. Tullia accuses him of playing the part of a royal while not genuinely acting like a royal. She also rebukes his hesitation as characteristic of an immigrant, an outsider, declaring that his lack of action implies that he is not legitimately royal. This challenge to Superbus’ status stands in stark contrast to Tanaquil’s words to Servius. The harshness of Tullia’s words is effective: Tarquin immediately moves forward with his plans to overthrow and murder Servius and become the next (and last) king of Rome. Just as the direct speech of a woman leads to the beginning of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus’ reign, so the direct speech of a woman brings its end. Livy introduces Lucretia as the winner, when the men attempt to prove whose wife is most virtuous, thereby establishing her ēthos. Among the men is Sextus Tarquinius, son of Superbus. After he secretly returns to the home of his cousin Collatinus and Lucretia, he rapes her and departs. She immediately summons her husband and father. When they arrive (1.58.7–8): Quaerentique viro ‘Satin salue?’ ‘Minime’ inquit; ‘quid enim salui est mulieri amissa pudicitia? Vestigia viri alieni, Collatine, in lecto sunt tuo; ceterum corpus est tantum violatum, animus insons; mors testis erit. Sed date dexteras fidemque haud impune adultero fore. Sex. est Tarquinius qui hostis pro hospite priore nocte vi armatus mihi sibique, si vos viri estis, pestiferum hinc abstulit gaudium’. And to her husband when he asks “Are you well?” “Hardly”, she says “for what ‘well’ is there for a woman once her chastity has been lost? There are traces of a strange man, Collatinus, in your bed; but my body only has been violated, my mind is innocent; death will be my witness. But give your right hands and your oath that this adulterer will not go unpunished. Sextus is the Tarquin who, as an enemy in the guise of a guest, last night, armed with force, stole from here that pleasure that will be destructive, if you are men, to me and to himself”. Using indirect speech, the men swear to avenge her and try to persuade her not to commit suicide, but Lucretia replies (1.58.10):

234

McClain

‘Vos’ inquit ‘videritis quid illi debeatur: ego me etsi peccato absoluo, supplicio non libero; nec ulla deinde impudica Lucretiae exemplo vivet’. She said: “You will see what is owed to that man; although I absolve myself from blame, I am not free from punishment; nor from this point will any immoral woman live with Lucretia as her excuse”. As a result of her words and suicide, these men lead the Roman people to rise up and throw the Tarquin family out of Rome. Lucretia’s words to the men are also a direct challenge to Sextus, who used direct speech to address her: “silence” is his command to her, before he states “‘I am Sextus Tarquinius’” (1.58.2: “‘Tace, Lucretia’ inquit; ‘Sex. Tarquinius sum’ ”). Livy shifts the power from Sextus to Lucretia by having her use direct speech to identify Sextus, tell her story and give her own command to the men. Livy has the men respond only in indirect speech to separate them from Sextus and to keep the focus on Lucretia’s words. Lucretia’s rejection of Sextus’ attempt to silence her seals not only his destruction but that of the monarchy. She defines Sextus as her rapist, a man who came to her home as “an enemy in the guise of a guest” (hostis pro hospite). By deciding to die and having the last word, Lucretia places the seal on her ēthos in an attempt to prevent other women from redefining her in the future for their own purposes.24 Lucretia’s first speech contains more statements than questions, conditions, or imperatives. The rhetorical question at the beginning (‘quid enim salvi …?’) is followed by succinct declarations about what has happened. The imperative commands the men to swear to punish her rapist. After naming Sextus, she repeats her expectation that they will punish him, with the challenge “if you are men”. The pile-up of pronouns in this sentence (mihi sibique, si vos …) links all who are involved. The pronouns in Lucretia’s second speech (vos … ego me), however, separate the men from her: you, men, have your responsibility and I have mine. Each of these women forcefully and successfully persuades men in their families by challenging them to change their behaviour: stop making war, change how we are raising this child, take control, take power and do not let a Tarquin get away with rape. The Sabines appeal to emotion and family. Tanaquil invokes the divine (omen) and justice (after the assassination). Tullia shames her husband’s inaction. And Lucretia challenges those who have stood by while Superbus has robbed, humiliated and killed Romans for his personal gain to finally be men, now that Superbus’ son has raped her with assumed 24  Donaldson (1982) for a study of the subsequent tradition of the story of Lucretia.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

235

impunity. And the one man who has least appeared to be a man – Brutus – is the man who finally reveals his true character and leads the abolition of the monarchy and establishment of the republic. The next direct speech comes in the context of a military threat to this new republic. In Book 2, Livy recounts the story of Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus who has gone into exile with one of Rome’s enemies, the Volsci, whom he then leads against Rome in war. When Coriolanus refuses to speak to either the political or religious embassies of men sent to him, the women of Rome appeal to his mother, Veturia, or his wife, Volumnia, and persuade them to lead the women to Coriolanus’ camp.25 Livy states that the record is unclear as to whether the women made this move as an official plan or because of their fear (2.40.1). All that was known is that, “since the men were unable to protect the city with weapons, the women would protect it with prayers and tears” (2.40.2: precibus lacrimisque defenderent). Coriolanus at first refuses even to acknowledge the women, until someone points out (in direct speech) that his mother and his wife and children are in the crowd. As soon as he approaches his mother, Veturia speaks (2.40.5–9): Mulier in iram ex precibus versa, ‘Sine, priusquam complexum accipio, sciam’ inquit, ‘ad hostem an ad filium venerim, captiva materne in castris tuis sim. In hoc me longa vita et infelix senecta traxit ut exsulem te deinde hostem viderem? Potuisti populari hanc terram quae te genuit atque aluit? Non tibi, quamvis infesto animo et minaci perveneras, ingredienti fines ira cecidit? Non, cum in conspectu Roma fuit, succurrit: intra illa moenia domus ac penates mei sunt, mater coniunx liberique? Ergo ego nisi peperissem, Roma non oppugnaretur; nisi filium haberem, libera in libera patria mortua essem. Sed ego mihi miserius nihil iam pati nec tibi turpius usquam possum, nec ut sum miserrima, diu futura sum: de his videris, quos, si pergis, aut immatura mors aut longa servitus manet’. The woman turned to anger from prayers and said, “Before I receive your embrace, let me know whether I have come to an enemy or to a son, whether I am a captive or a mother in your camp. Have a long life and an unlucky old age have drawn me to this point, that I have seen you as an exile and then as an enemy? Could you ravage this land which gave birth to you and nourished you? Although you had come with a hostile and threatening mind, did your anger not recede as you approached the borders? Did it not occur to you when Rome was in sight: within those 25  For a comparison with Plutarch’s version: Buszard (2010) 104–11.

236

McClain

walls are my home and household gods, my mother, wife and children? Therefore, if I had not given birth, Rome would not be under siege; if I did not have a son, I would have died a free woman in a free state. But I can endure nothing more miserable for myself nor more disgraceful for you, nor, since I am the most wretched woman, will I last for a long time: you will see about these people, for whom, if you continue, either an early death or a long slavery awaits”. Despite initially characterizing women’s weapons as begging and tears (which have no effect on Coriolanus) when Veturia confronts her son, Livy explicitly says that she uses words fuelled by anger. Veturia’s demands that Coriolanus identify who he is to her (“an enemy or a son”) and who she is to him (“a captive or a mother”) challenge Coriolanus to decide who he is. Coriolanus’ actions have called into question his identity. To Veturia, he is now an exile and an enemy, instead of a citizen and her son. She then defines Rome as his mother – the city gave birth and nourished him – and then she reclaims the role: “if I had not given birth … if I did not have a son.” Attacking the city, therefore, is the same as attacking his mother. Veturia’s words make Coriolanus see what he has refused to see: home and family. Without commanding him to stop – in fact she explicitly says that what he chooses will decide the fate of the people – her words succeed in ending Coriolanus and the Volsci’s attack on Rome. Despite the attempts of the ambassadors sent by the senate to negotiate peace and the priests who approached Coriolanus, he refused to stop his intended assault on Rome. These figures represent official Roman power, and, as an exile, Coriolanus has rejected the right of Roman authority to dictate his actions. Veturia, however, has a non-political relationship with Coriolanus and uses this relationship to persuade Coriolanus to reconsider. Veturia, as Coriolanus’ mother, still possesses an authority over him, regardless of Coriolanus’ relationship with the state. Thus, although he initially ignores the crowd of women just as he had refused to listen to or speak with the men who came as emissaries, learning that his mother and wife and children – his family – are present changes his response to the group. The personal relationship, that “emotional community”,26 overrules his military and political opposition to the state. Therefore, in contrast to the Sabines, who face a 26  Barbara Rosenwein coins the notion of “emotional community”, which refers to “a group of people animated by common or similar interests, emotional styles and valuations”. See Plamper, Reddy, Rosenwein and Stearns (2010) 253. Also: Rosenwein (2002) 821–45, (2006); Serafim’s chapter in this volume, pp. 138–9.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

237

similar situation and speak as a group, here there is only one person who is attacking his own family and only one person who can speak effectively to stop the attack. The structure of Veturia’s speech, especially the beginning barrage of questions,27 establishes her authority before Coriolanus can say a word. She begins with the personal (who is she to him, who is he to her) before moving to the place, the city that holds his home and gods. After pounding Coriolanus with questions that challenge his identity, Veturia then employs pathos to reach Coriolanus. This return to the personal keeps her speech from sounding like an official mission. She then makes the remarkable turn to blame herself for having a son. The contrary-to-fact conditions evoke emotions, while she is accusing him of attacking Rome. Only after she predicts her own imminent death does Veturia direct Coriolanus’ attention to all the others who will live as slaves or die at his hand, depending what he does. By forcing Coriolanus to look at the people, including his own mother, wife and children, rather than just at the city walls, Veturia demands that he sees the human side of the consequences of his actions. Thus far, Livy has had women use direct speech to their male relatives to resolve crisis situations. The story of the patrician Verginia and the founding of Pudicitia Plebeia represents a different context for direct speech: the social and political tensions between patricians and plebeians within Rome. Livy sets the scene by describing the year as being one that began with a multitude of omens (10.23.1) and with Rome facing military action against four different peoples. The senate declares two days of offerings and prayers to avert any possible bad luck from the omens. When Verginia, a patrician, is not allowed to worship at the shrine of Patricia Pudicitia because of her marriage to a plebeian (who has been consul and is currently serving as a proconsul), she (in indirect discourse) “boasts both that she had entered the shrine of Patricia Pudicitia as a patrician and a moral woman, as a woman married once to the husband to whom she had been led as a virgin, and that she was indeed not ashamed of her husband or his offices or his deeds” (10.23.5). Livy comments that “then she added to her grand words with an exemplary deed” (10.23.6: Facto deinde egregio magnifica verba adauxit): she sections off part of her house and sets up a shrine to Plebeia Pudicitia in her home. After she summons plebeian women to a meeting, she declares (10.23.7–8):

27  A detailed analysis of the use of questions in Attic oratory: Serafim (forthcoming b).

238

McClain

‘Hanc ego aram’ inquit ‘Pudicitiae Plebeiae dedico; vosque hortor ut, quod certamen virtutis viros in hac civitate tenet, hoc pudicitiae inter matronas sit detisque operam ut haec ara quam illa, si quid potest, sanctius et a castioribus coli dicatur’. I dedicate this altar to Pudicitia Plebeia; and I urge you, whatever contest of excellence exists for men in this state, to let there be this same competition for morality among married women and to make sure that this altar, if anything is possible, is said to be more holy than that one and to be honoured by more chaste women. Livy states that the shrine was actively worshipped for a while and then the altar and the ritual both became sullied by women who were neither married nor chaste and eventually were forgotten (10.23.9–10). Verginia’s direct speech continues the pattern of offering a command to others – in this instance, women – about what they should do. But this situation results from a personal insult and eventually the cult is forgotten, according to Livy.28 Her words and actions reflect the surrounding context, which is focused on the tensions between patricians and plebeians – specifically the patrician consul Fabius and plebeian consul Decius – in vying for power and honour in the political and military realm.29 Her direct speech fosters division within the Roman state, this time between women, but her attempt to build group identity eventually fails because there is too little real difference between the cults of the patrician and plebeian women. Here, therefore, Livy uses a woman’s direct speech and actions as a microcosm of the surrounding political or military tensions. And just as the tensions between Fabius and Decius cool and patrician and plebeian men learn to work together, so also the rivalry among women fades from memory. The final three examples involve women who are not Romans, raising the question of whether Livy treats Romans and non-Romans in similar ways. During the Second Punic War, to draw the Numidian King Syphax away from 28  For the possible sometimes revival of Pudicitia Plebeia, see Oakley (2005) 250. See Palmer (1974) 137–59, who states that the Church of Saint Vitalis was founded on the site of Pudicitia Plebeia. Richardson (1992) 322 provides information about both cults. 29  Fabius (patrician) and Decius (plebeian) are elected consuls and have served together in the past, but now Decius complains that Fabius wants all the glory for himself (10.24.1– 17). Then they engage in battle, but many of Decius’ troops are lost because of his rashness. Decius then makes the decision to devote himself and the enemy army to the gods (10.24.1–10.28.18). This selflessness results in a Roman victory. Oakley (2005) 250 does not, however, see a connection between the founding of Pudicitia Plebeia and the political events of the time.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

239

the side of the Romans, the Carthaginian Hasdrubal offers Syphax his daughter, Sophoniba, in marriage (29.23.1–10). When Syphax and Sophoniba are captured by Masinissa, another Numidian king who is allied with the Romans, Sophoniba seeks out Masinissa and appeals to him to save her from the Romans (30.12.12–16): ‘Omnia quidem ut possis’ inquit ‘in nobis di dederunt virtusque et felicitas tua; sed si captivae apud dominum vitae necisque suae vocem supplicem mittere licet, si genua, si victricem attingere dextram, precor quaesoque per maiestatem regiam, in qua paulo ante nos quoque fuimus, per gentis Numidarum nomen, quod tibi cum Syphace commune fuit, per huiusce regiae deos, qui te melioribus ominibus accipiant quam Syphacem hinc miserunt, hanc veniam supplici des ut ipse quodcumque fert animus de captiva tua statuas neque me in cuiusquam Romani superbum et crudele arbitrium venire sinas. Si nihil aliud quam Syphacis uxor fuissem, tamen Numidae atque in eadem mecum Africa geniti quam alienigenae et externi fidem experiri mallem: quid Carthaginiensi ab Romano, quid filiae Hasdrubalis timendum sit vides. Si nulla re alia potes, morte me ut vindices ab Romanorum arbitrio oro obtestorque’. The gods and your own excellence and good luck have granted that you have power over everything with regard to me; but if it is permitted to a captive woman to beg before the master of her own life and death, if it is permitted to grasp your knees, your conquering right hand, I beg and beseech you by your royal majesty, in which just a little before I also was, by the name of the race of the Numidians, which you have in common with Syphax, by the gods of this palace, who may receive you with better omens than those with which they sent Syphax from here, grant this favour to a suppliant that, whatever your mind determines, you yourself decide about your captive woman and that you not allow me to come under the arrogant and cruel judgement of any Roman. If I had been nothing other than the wife of Syphax, still I would prefer the oath of a Numidian and of someone born in the same Africa with me to that of someone foreign-born and from another place: you understand what a Carthaginian has to fear from a Roman, what the daughter of Hasdrubal has to fear. If you can by no other way, I beg and beseech you that you protect me from the judgement of the Romans by death. Sophoniba begins her speech by emphasizing that Masinissa is in control and that she is a captive and a suppliant. Then she moves to what she and Masinissa share: both are Africans. In this way, when she expresses her fear

240

McClain

of the Romans, the foreigners, she has predisposed Masinissa to an “us versus them” mindset, placing the two of them in a “group identity” that excludes the Romans. The result is effective: Masinissa, under the influence of Sophoniba’s beauty, complies with her request to protect her by marrying her, so that, as his wife, she is part of his family and not merely the wife and daughter of a Roman enemy.30 When Scipio arrives, however, he makes it clear to Masinissa that Sophoniba belongs to the Romans. Masinissa then honours Sophoniba’s request for death, if all else fails, by sending Sophoniba a message and poison. Livy has her speak aloud after receiving the message (30.15.7): ‘Accipio’ inquit ‘nuptiale munus, neque ingratum, si nihil maius vir uxori praestare potuit. hoc tamen nuntia, melius me morituram fuisse si non in funere meo nupsissem’. I receive this wedding gift, and not a displeasing one, if a husband could offer nothing greater to his wife. Tell him this, nevertheless, that I would have died better if I had not married at my funeral. Livy adds at this point that “she did not speak more fiercely than she drank the cup fearlessly with no sign given of hesitation” (30.15.8: non locuta est ferocius quam acceptum poculum nullo trepidationis signo dato impavide hausit). With this closing statement, Livy makes it clear to the reader that Sophoniba embodies strength and constancy, in contrast to the African men around her, who waver in their commitment as Roman allies. As in previous speeches in a crisis, Livy has Sophoniba use definition to convey the danger she faces at the hands of the Romans: she is a captive, a suppliant, an African, a Carthaginian, the daughter of Hasdrubal and the wife of Syphax. She addresses her master, a conqueror, a royal, a Numidian, a captor and a fellow African. Her urgent requests suit the situation in which she finds herself. Once they are married and the message and poison convey Masinissa’s failure to protect her by a means other than death, Livy emphasizes the strength that her words convey. Livy has Sophoniba begin by highlighting her subordinate position (“I beg and beseech you”). She then uses conditionals to emphasize this status and to allow her to gain physical proximity to Masinissa. She then shifts to an indirect command that seeks a favour, since she is in no position to give an order. She continues the use of conditionals to express the danger she faces from 30  On “group identity” theories: Introduction, pp. 4–5.

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

241

the Romans and the connection that she and Masinissa share. She then closes with “begging and beseeching” him to protect her from the Romans. When it is clear that Masinissa cannot protect her, however, her conditionals subtly attack Masinissa for his failure, and she sends a message to him, via an imperative. There is no begging or beseeching here – just reproach and a determined acceptance of death. The next instance involves a slave woman and the Bacchic Conspiracy. When Aebutius’ mother tells him he needs to stay pure because she and his step-father want him to be initiated in the Bacchic rites, he tells his “girlfriend”, the prostitute Hispala Faecenia, that she should not be surprised if he does not sleep with her until after he has been initiated (39.10.2–4). Id ubi mulier audivit, perturbata ‘Di meliora!’ inquit; mori et sibi et illi satius esse quam id faceret; et in caput eorum detestari minas periculaque, qui id suasissent. Admiratus cum uerba tum perturbationem tantam adulescens parcere exsecrationibus iubet: matrem id sibi adsentiente vitrico imperasse. ‘Vitricus ergo’ inquit ‘tuus (matrem enim insimulare forsitan fas non sit) pudicitiam famam spem vitamque tuam perditum ire hoc facto properat’. When the woman heard this, because she was very upset, she said “Gods forbid”: that it would be better for her and for him to die than to do this thing; and she called down threats and dangers on the head of those who had persuaded him to do this. Amazed at both her words and her great agitation, the young man urged her to stop the curses: his mother had ordered him to do this, with his stepfather’s approval. “Your stepfather therefore’, she said, ‘(for it would perhaps be inappropriate to accuse your mother) is rushing your virtue, reputation, hope and your life to destruction by this deed”. Hispala Faecenia’s reaction and her words, along with her subsequent description of the cult in indirect statement, persuade Aebutius to change his mind. After he informs his mother and stepfather of the change, Aebutius is thrown out of the house, and after he talks with his aunt Aebutia and goes to the consul, the consul Postumius has his own mother-in-law summon Hispala Faecenia. Livy spends a fair amount of time describing the emotions of the women who care for Aebutius. When his aunt Aebutia speaks with Sulpicia, the consul’s mother-in-law, Aebutia bursts out in tears (39.11.7: lacrimae mulieri obortae) at the mistreatment Aebutius has suffered because “he was unwilling to be

242

McClain

initiated into the obscene, rumour has it, rites” (39.11.6: obscenis ut fama esset sacris initiari nollet). When Hispala receives a message from Sulpicia, she is upset (39.12.2: perturbata) and when she arrives to see the lictors and the consul himself, “she almost faints” (39.12.2: prope exanimata est). Once she is in a private area with the consul and his mother-in-law and the consul asks her about the Bacchic rites, “so great a fear and trembling throughout her body seized the woman that for a long time she was not able to utter a sound” (39.12.5: tantus pavor tremorque omnium membrorum mulierem cepit ut diu hiscere non posset). Hispala finally admits to having been initiated when she was a slave, but says she does not know anything else. When she hears that the consul has learned some details from Aebutius, she falls at Sulpicia’s feet. After Sulpicia calms both Hispala and the angry consul, Hispala expresses great fear (39.13.5) and begs that they send her out of Italy so that she can be safe. After the consul’s assurance that she will be safe, Hispala explains what she knows in indirect speech.31 Armed with her information, the consul summons the senate. Their reaction? The same as Hispala’s when the consul begins to question her: “Great fear seized the senators” (39.14.4: patres pavor ingens cepit).32 On the senate’s decree, the cult is disbanded and Hispala and Aebutius are rewarded. 31  Scafuro (1989); Walsh (1996); Pagán (2004) analyses the elements that this episode has in common and in contrast with comic portrayals of prostitutes. The problems with assuming that such comedies were Livy’s model comes in that the young man of comedy is usually guided by a tricky male slave and not by the woman he loves – though notable exceptions, both of wily courtesans (such as Phronesium in Plautus’ Trinummus, or the twin sisters Bacchides, who antagonize the wily slave Chrysalus for the control of the plot in Plautus’ Bacchides; in both plays the young lovers of the courtesans are repeatedly manipulated by their mistresses) and kind-hearted ones (such as Bacchis in Terence’s Hecyra), do stand out – and that comedic prostitutes often turn out to be free-born women, though admittedly the most memorable courtesan characters of the palliata are not free-born (Philocomasium in the Miles Gloriosus; Phronesium in the Trinummus, the Bacchides sisters in the Bacchides); that in comedies religious revelries serve as one of the locations in which men and women mix and where rapes occur; and that the parents of the young men are often as clueless as the young men themselves. Livy does not represent Hispala as a conniving or naïve prostitute of comedy. Rather, Hispala is a freedwoman who, because of her previous status as a slave, has had first-hand experience with the hidden areas of Roman society, including the Bacchic rites. She is, then, as Pagán, 60, points out, the “‘perfect witness.’” See also Scafuro (1989) 129. A better understanding of Hispala, comes in Pagán’s pointing out the similiarity between the uncovering of the Catilinarian conspiracy through a woman (Fulvia, the “girlfriend” of one of the conspirators) and the revealing of the Bacchic conspiracy through Hispala Faecenia (49–50). For a more detailed analysis of the involvement of prostitutes, freedwomen and freedmen, and the lower classes in Roman counterculture and conspiracy, see Rauh, Dillon and McClain (2008). 32  Compare Livy’s description of Hispala’s reaction at 39.12.5: tantus pavor tremorque … mulierem cepit (“so great a fear and shaking … seized the woman”).

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

243

There is no command in Hispala’s direct speech. Hispala instead names those who seem to be posing the threat to Aebutius, deflecting the blame from his mother to his stepfather. All her urgings occur in indirect speech. Her status as a prostitute with whom Aebutius has a pledge of love and not as a family member puts her in a different relationship to the man she is addressing than the other women examined thus far. In addition, part of Livy’s purpose in crafting this episode is to establish the contrast between Duronia, a Roman matron, and Hispala, a former slave and prostitute. The role reversal – the destructive mother and the caring prostitute – emphasizes the destructiveness of the Bacchic cult and the danger it poses to Roman society. Moreover, as Pagán has argued, “Livy embellishes the words and actions of a woman, in order to explain how a private matter came into the public arena and thereby to achieve narrative continuity”.33 As a freedwoman and prostitute, Hispala has access to areas of the Roman world that the upper classes do not.34 By focusing on her hesitation and her fear, Livy constructs Hispala as a timid woman whose words should be heeded. The last example of women’s direct speech displays similarities with the situation of Sophoniba. In this instance, the Macedonian Theoxena becomes the target of King Philip V of Macedon. When the word goes out that Philip has ordered her death and the death of her family, Theoxena declares – in indirect discourse – that she would rather kill the children herself than let them fall into the hands of and be abused by Philip or his men (40.4.6–7). Her husband Poris argues instead that they should flee to friends, and although they try to escape, their attempt to sail away is thwarted. When she sees the king’s men pursuing their ship, Theoxena “distraught, turns back to the deed that she had considered long before, she mixes the poison and produces a sword, and after the cup and the drawn swords have been placed in plain sight, she summons her children and tells them” (40.4.13–4): ‘Mors’ inquit ‘una vindicta est. viae ad mortem hae sunt: qua quemque animus fert, effugite superbiam regiam. Agite, iuvenes mei, primum, qui maiores estis, capite ferrum aut haurite poculum, si segnior mors iuvat’. Death is the only protection.35 These are the paths to death: by which means your preference leads you, escape the arrogant rule. Go on, my 33  Pagán (2004) 53. 34  For a study of Roman subcultures and the place of prostitutes within them: Rauh, Dillon and McClain (2008). 35  Theoxena’s words offer an echo both of Lucretia’s “Death will be a witness” (1.59.7) and of Sophoniba’s request to be saved from the Romans by death, if there is no other way. Similar also is Hispala’s preference to die, rather than have Aebutius be inducted in the

244

McClain

children, first, you who are older, take the iron or drink the cup, if a slower death is pleasing. The children comply and before they have breathed their last breath, Theoxena throws them into the sea, and she and Poris follow. Theoxena’s brief speech begins and ends with death. The four imperatives giving orders to her children – effugite … agite … capite … haurite – come from and lead to death. Livy introduces Theoxena by recounting her decision to marry the husband of her deceased sister to care for her sister’s children, and thus subsequent actions occur in a context which has established her as dedicated to the children’s welfare. By first constructing Theoxena’s preference for death through indirect speech before the suicides, Livy makes clear that hers is not a rash act but one Theoxena has determined as the only way left to save the children from greater harm since escape has failed. In this desperate situation, then, the command she issues to the children to kill themselves rather than suffer at the hands of their enemy reflects her decision to do what is best for them. That she and Poris follow the children in death seals her reputation and condemns her enemies. Like Sophoniba, Theoxena will not allow herself or her children to come into the hands of her enemy. Both state their preference for death, if escape or other means fail.36 Hispala, too, fears what she might suffer from the Bacchic worshippers, but she asks to be sent far from Italy to keep her safe. These three women lack control over their own fates and turn to death or exile because they fear their enemies. Although death is the answer for Sophoniba and Theoxena, Hispala is protected by the state and receives rewards instead of harm. Theoxena’s speech succeeds in arousing the pathos of the reader and provides a memorable episode that demonstrates Philip’s evil. Conclusions Throughout his extant narrative, Livy chooses to give women direct speech to persuade their audience to follow a certain course of action. In all but one instance, that audience is male and a family member or a loved one. In no case does Livy suggest that the women’s speech is inappropriate or that the audience rejects the right of the women to speak. In every instance, in fact, Bacchic rites or give information about the Bacchic rites. I would like to thank Andreas Serafim for noting this repeated theme. 36  For Cleopatra as a literary topos influencing Livy’s depiction of Sophoniba: Haley (1989).

Women ’ s Speeches in Livy ’ s Ab Urbe Condita

245

the audience is persuaded and acts in concert with the women’s words. The first important observation, therefore, is that Livy treated women as qualified speakers who knew how to address an audience persuasively. Certainly Livy is working with traditions that gave women credit for solving the situation, but the choice to give them direct speech rather than indirect speech, or any speech at all, belongs to the historian.37 The construction of these speeches, crafted to fit logically within the narrative, represents Livy’s view of the appropriate means to persuade in each occasion. Some patterns have emerged that suggest Livy considered certain techniques most effective: Conditionals: there are eighteen conditions in the ten speeches. Conditions are most often used to challenge men: the Sabines, Tanaquil, Tullia and Lucretia employ conditions to question men’s character or question their actions. Sophoniba uses them to approach her captor and then to rebuke her “husband” for his failure to protect her. Veturia uses them to evoke emotion and lay the blame for Rome’s dire circumstances on herself. Questions: the use of repeated questions by Veturia allows her to challenge her son to see the familial relationship instead of, or at least in addition to, the adversarial. Tullia sets up questions to allow her to insult her husband to spur him on to follow through with their plots. Lucretia’s one question is aimed at conveying the dire nature of the situation. Imperatives: the use of imperatives places the speaker in a position of authority over her audience. Tanaquil, more than any other, uses imperatives to instruct her son-in-law. The other speeches have a more limited, but equally authoritarian force: Lucretia requiring an oath of the men; Tullia insulting her husband; Theoxena urging her children to choose a means of suicide; Sophoniba commanding the messenger to deliver a message to Masinissa. Identity/definition: by posing challenges to men’s identity, either by questioning who they are or by questioning their status as men, women force men to reassess their actions from a different perspective, requiring men to recognize their place in a “group identity” or “emotional community”, which they have failed to acknowledge. In the case of the Sabines and Veturia, the questions bring out the family relationship rather than the military conflict. Tullia challenges Superbus’ identity as a royal, whereas Tanaquil urges Servius to own his right to rule. Lucretia’s indictment of Sextus as “an enemy in the guise of a guest” shows the power of definition to encapsulate his treachery. 37  Briscoe (1981) 39–41.

246

McClain

Pathos: the attempt to evoke emotion in their audience is key for the Sabines, Veturia and to some extent Tanaquil. For Sophoniba, trying to build a bond with Masinissa or perhaps arouse his interest is her best means for saving herself. The actions of Lucretia and Theoxena, their suicides, succeed in evoking emotion, in part because they maintain their determination to the end. Ēthos: Livy takes the time to craft the character, the persuasive ēthos,38 of these women to provide a greater context for their words. The Sabines had Hersilia approach Romulus about reconciliation. Tanaquil was willing to give up her home for the sake of her husband. Tullia is the beginning of the trouble. Lucretia is the most virtuous of wives. Veturia and the women are the only ones left to save Rome after the men have failed. Verginia’s religious dispute mirrors the political strife of the time. Sophoniba is committed to the Carthaginian cause, no matter what. Hispala’s timidity establishes her character in opposition both to Duronia and the nature of Bacchic worshippers. Theoxena’s selflessness marks her as dedicated to her family regardless of her own life or safety. Livy’s use ēthos, perhaps above all else, establishes the power of women’s speech, both within the context and logic of the narrative, and to his audiences, ancient and modern. Successful persuasion requires the right words, the right tone and the right person. Livy controlled the words and the tone. He shaped the structure and established the character of the speakers before the speeches. And in these instances, he, as a historian, chose to have women speak directly to his audience as the most effective way to convince his reader that, even if it did not happen this way, it should have. 38  On persuasive ēthos: Serafim (2017a) 25–6.

part 5 Language, Style and Performance

∵

chapter 15

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech: An Interpersonal Analysis Tzu-I Liao 1 Introduction The prevalent theoretical framework for the division of the speech genre is largely based on Aristotle’s formulation (Rh. 1.3–8, 3.14),1 where three speech types are distinguished mainly according to the time when the event under discussion takes place and the audience’s role in the context: when the audience is expected to actively make decisions, the speech is either dicanic (about the past) or symbouleutic (about the future), otherwise epideictic (mainly about the present). The awareness of a similar bipartite or tripartite distinction is observed in a contemporary treatise [Rh. Al.] 1421b7ff,2 where the division, particularly that between the dicanic and the symbouleutic, is generally established on the basis of the occasion or topic, each with their different conventions and tropes.3 A speech such as Dem. 18, which has a judicial setting – Demosthenes speaks to defend Ctesiphon and prosecute Aeschines in court – and content that is arguably deliberative – Macedonian affairs and the careers of the two politicians are intertwined with the defence and prosecution – seems difficult to locate in a tripartite or binary theoretical system, if one adheres to the prevalent criteria of division. The ancient practitioners were apparently aware of the frequent cross-over between these genres, and often voiced criticism of it (e.g. Dem. Ex. 11).4

1  Kennedy (2007) 46–7; Pepe (2013) 1–6. 2  The division is more complex and potentially problematic in this treatise; see Mirhady (1994). 3  Aristotle himself points out that they each has a different lexis (Rh. 3.12), without explicit explanation of how they differ. Modern scholars generally see the symbouleutic as similar to or even derived from the dicanic, inter alios Jebb (1876) 369–72; Kennedy (1963) 204. 4  Similar observations are also seen in Thuc. 3.42–44, which Harris (2013) 104–8, reads as Diodotus’ critique of the inadequate or even dangerous practice of using tactics of the law court when deliberating in the Assembly, while recognizing that such practice was not uncommon.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_016

250

Liao

In the eyes of modern scholars, Demosthenes himself employs dicanic styles and tropes regularly in his symbouleutic speeches5 and sometimes even models his symbouleutic speeches on a dicanic stylistic framework.6 Indeed, Demosthenes the practitioner seemed to be aware of the differences in the conventions of the two genres. The division between speech types was not rigidly established for him and the boundaries were frequently blurred, crossed or manipulated. This chapter examines how Dem. 18 transcends the theoretical generic borders and serves as an example of the fluid practice of persuasion in the ancient political context. The speech sits on the boundary not only in its references to previous speech-making and discussion of statesmanship (which is considered typical of the symbouleutic genre) in a dicanic context,7 but also in its interactional strategies and stance-taking tactics, which are finely tweaked for specific moments when the speaker adopts perhaps a more symbouleutic approach to his attacks against Aeschines. The use of markers of stance-taking in Dem. 18 is traced and compared with selected Demosthenic dicanic and symbouleutic speeches.8 Comparative examples from Demosthenes’ symbouleutic speeches will highlight the underlying agenda of appealing to a collective perspective. 2

Personal References and Statistics as a Starting Point

Linguists have considered personal references a useful resource for investigating interpersonal dynamics in discourse.9 The use of references is instrumental in the definition and emphasis of participants in a discourse and their relationship with each other. Recent studies of personal references in classical Greek demonstrate a scholarly interest in how they mark strategies of communication or social deixis.10 While the extralinguistic context of the 5  Yunis (1996) 183–4; Usher (1999) 192ff; (2007) 230ff. 6  Pearson (1976) 96. 7  Usher (1999) 270. 8  All data in this chapter result from my own annotation of the speeches: Dem. 18, Dem. 1–17 (for symbouleutic speeches; see Liao (2017) ch. 3.1), Dem. 20, Dem. 21, Dem. 24, Dem. 54, Dem. 59 (for dicanic speeches). N.B. as only a selection of speeches from a single author was studied, the data may not be fully representative of the whole corpus or genre, and I do not intend to make such a claim. 9  Ariel (1991); Huang (2000); Gundel, Hedberg and Zacharski (2001) 273–95; Agha (2007). 10  Dickey (1996 and 1997) on forms of address, Bonifazi (1999) on third-person pronouns for discourse cohesion in Homer, Bentein (2015) on third-person pronouns reflecting social status in later Greek.

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

251

discourse is essential to the interpretation of the references, the definition of the persons is tightly linked to their interactional relationship with each other.11 The selection of personal references is often a process that assigns interactional roles in discourse. A shift of person, like a shift of camera angle, indicates a choice of stance or perspective in discourse.12 In this way the speaker directs the audience to process information from the perspective of a particular person and to empathize with a particular stance. Thus, saying “Aeschines lied to you” and “You heard yourselves how Aeschines lied to you” is to employ distinct perspectives to represent the same piece of information, characterizing the content differently, assuming different stances and inviting different responses: the former embeds judgment in a fact-like statement, while the latter underlines the agency of the addressee in the evaluation process. Furthermore, while uses of personal references generally point to the participants physically present in the context, they should not always be read as faithful identifications or characterizations of the referents. The speaker may choose to construct the positions of the referents differently or emphatically in some way, such as by using reported speech or direct address. Statistics of the personal references in Dem. 18 seem to reflect a preference for different persons. Its comparison with the symbouleutic speeches and dicanic speeches sheds further light on the types of “camera angles” the speaker tends to choose in different corpora (Figure 1):

Figure 1

Personal reference: Genre comparison

11  Siewierska (2004) 7. Cf. Halliday and Hasan (1976) 43–5. 12  Kuno (1987).

252

Liao

Statistically speaking, the difference between Dem. 18 and the dicanic corpus in terms of the occurrence of different persons is significant.13 In terms of distribution of persons, the speaker’s and the audience’s “camera angles” appear to be suppressed and largely replaced by third-person accounts in Dem. 18. Interestingly, the frequency of employing these “camera angles” is closer to that of the symbouleutic speeches. The speaker’s representation of his own stance is less overt, and stances seemingly external to the two main participants (the speaker and the audience) are repeatedly employed. The general impression is thus that, compared to an average dicanic speech, explicit presentation of the speaker’s own perspective occurs less frequently and less obviously, and a “narrator-like” voice appears more frequently. On the other hand, the increased proportion of second-person singular references highlights the speaker’s foregrounded interaction with an individual addressee in Dem. 18 – in most cases, Aeschines.14 Personal references can be further categorized into three types: pronominal, verbal and lexical.15 Dem. 18 demonstrates distribution patterns significantly dissimilar to the examined dicanic speeches, except in first-person singular forms (Figure 2). While the (dis-)similarity of statistical distribution could indicate (dis-)similarity between the Dem. 18 and the dicanic corpus, actual realizations of these references and their contexts could vary significantly, and thus statistics serve only as the starting point of analysis. Further investigation, taking into consideration other factors, is essential in grasping how references reflect the constructions of and relationships between the referents. In the following sections, “realization” patterns of each referent are examined with regard to interactional strategies in Dem. 18 and how the use of referents in Dem. 18 differs from the general picture of referencing in the dicanic corpus.

13  P value < 0.03 for first-person plural; < 0.01 in all other cases. 14  336 times in Dem. 18 (1.5% of 22148 words), compared to e.g. 61 times in Dem. 21 (0.4% of 15106 words), which is the highest total in the dicanic corpus. 15  Halliday and Hasan (1976) 37–43.

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

253

FIGURE 2A Personal reference: On the Crown

FIGURE 2B Personal reference: Dicanic speeches

3

First-Person Singular (“I”)

Verbal references to the speaker himself in Dem. 18 exhibit similarity to the dicanic speeches, particularly in the most frequently chosen verbs. While the most common verbs used in both cases are related to speaking and thinking, the three most frequent verbs in Dem. 18 are linked to speaking and quality-attribution (λέγω, ἦν, φημί), while in the dicanic speeches they are linked to speaking and thinking (λέγω, οἶμαι, οἶδα). This already suggests a slightly different inclination for what type of actions the speaker uses to introduce his own “camera angle”. Meanwhile, first-person singular pronominal

254

Liao

references in Dem. 18 make up a higher percentage compared to the average in dicanic speeches. Among these occurrences, nominative forms are found more frequently than other cases, which is similar to symbouleutic speeches. For a pro-drop language like classical Greek,16 the use of nominative forms generally indicates pragmatic uses other than the need for cohesion.17 The nominative forms are found in pre-verbal positions (immediate or within three words) at a frequency closer to the symbouleutic corpus,18 particularly before verbs of saying and thinking, which indicates a strong emphasis on the speaker’s agency as an adviser. In dicanic speeches such a tendency is not obvious: the speaker’s identity is not as closely knitted together with an image of an active thinker and speaker, but is rather associated with a variety of actions, where the agency is less often highlighted. This distinction can be observed in the following examples (pronominal references in bold, verbal in italics): Dem.18.191: σοῦ δ’ ἀφώνου κατ’ ἐκείνους τοὺς χρόνους ἐν ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις καθημένου, ἐγὼ παριὼν ἔλεγον. In those days you sat speechless at every assembly; I came forward and spoke. Dem. 10.20: ἀφ’ οὗ δὲ ταῦτα γίγνεται ἐγὼ διδάξω, καὶ ὅπως παύσεται λέξω. I will explain how this comes about and will tell you how to stop it. Dem. 20.99: ἐγὼ δ’, ὅτι μὲν τῇ ὑμετέρᾳ ψήφῳ τοῦ τούτου νόμου λυθέντος τὸν παρεισενεχθέντα κύριον εἶναι σαφῶς ὁ παλαιὸς κελεύει νόμος, καθ’ ὃν οἱ θεσμοθέται τοῦτον ὑμῖν παρέγραψαν, ἐάσω, ἵνα μὴ περὶ τούτου τις ἀντιλέγῃ μοι, ἀλλ’ ἐπ’ ἐκεῖν’ εἶμι. Now, to avoid dispute, I will not press the point that the old law of Solon, in accordance with which the junior archons have notified these amendments to you, clearly enjoins that if the law of Leptines is repealed by your vote, the alternative law shall be valid

16   Pro-drop languages can omit pronouns when they are grammatically otherwise inferable. 17  Horn (1984); although Dik (2003) discusses cases of unemphatic pronouns in classical Greek. 18  On Greek word order and its meaning, I subscribe to Allan (2014), who develops the theory in Dik (1995) and (2007).

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

255

Dem. 21.16: … καὶ οὐδ’ ἂν ἐπεχείρησ’ ἔγωγε κατηγορεῖν αὐτοῦ νῦν, εἰ μὴ καὶ τότ’ ἐν τῷ δήμῳ παραχρῆμ’ ἐξήλεγξα. … and indeed I should never have ventured to arraign him today, had I not previously secured his immediate conviction in the Assembly. The common fomulation in Dem. 18 (as in §191) bears clear resemblance to constructions frequently found in the symbouleutic speeches, such as in Dem. 10.20. The placement is similar, and there is a similar association with the act of speaking. In contrast, the uses of emphatic nominative forms in dicanic speeches are commonly found at the beginning of a clause (often to mark a contrasting topic, as in Dem. 20.99) or post-verbally (as in Dem. 21.16), relatively separated from the verb and linked to other actions and states. A general inclination emerges from the analysis: when the speaker employs an overt self-reference with nominative pronouns in Dem. 18, that is, when he emphatically refers to himself as an individual in the discourse, he presents an image of an active participant in the deliberation of a civil problem, as in a symbouleutic speech. Compared to the other persons, the relatively high proportion of lexical forms (4.93%; in this speech the searched lexical item is Δημοσθένης) for referencing the speaker also draws one’s attention. This is not uncommon in both the dicanic and symbouleutic speeches that I have investigated. The majority of such occurrences appear in the witness or decree sections, where presumably a clerk reads out documented evidence literally “in another’s voice”,19 and the use of proper names for such referencing seems adequate. Sometimes, however, the speaker employs his name for self-reference outside the witness sections, which is unusual in dicanic speeches. In Dem. 18.303–5, the speaker avoids the use of first-person singular verbal references (self-reference in third-person, in bold): Dem. 18.303–5: ταῦτα τοίνυν ἅπαντα πέπρακται τοῖς ἐμοῖς ψηφίσμασι καὶ τοῖς ἐμοῖς πολιτεύμασιν, ἃ καὶ βεβουλευμέν’, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ἐὰν ἄνευ φθόνου τις βούληται σκοπεῖν, ὀρθῶς εὑρήσει καὶ πεπραγμένα πάσῃ δικαιοσύνῃ, καὶ τὸν ἑκάστου καιρὸν οὐ παρεθέντ’ οὐδ’ ἀγνοηθέντ’ οὐδὲ προεθένθ’ ὑπ’ ἐμοῦ, καὶ ὅσ’ εἰς ἑνὸς ἀνδρὸς δύναμιν καὶ λογισμὸν ἧκεν, οὐδὲν ἐλλειφθέν. εἰ δ’ ἢ δαίμονός τινος ἢ τύχης ἰσχὺς ἢ στρατηγῶν φαυλότης ἢ τῶν προδιδόντων τὰς πόλεις ὑμῶν κακία ἢ πάντα ταῦτ’ ἐλυμαίνετο τοῖς ὅλοις, ἕως ἀνέτρεψεν, τί Δημοσθένης ἀδικεῖ; εἰ δ’ οἷος ἐγὼ παρ’ ὑμῖν κατὰ τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ τάξιν, εἷς ἐν ἑκάστῃ τῶν Ἑλληνίδων πόλεων ἀνὴρ ἐγένετο. 19  Generally on documents not read out by the speaker: Canevaro (2013) 1–2, 10ff.

256

Liao

All these purposes were accomplished by my decrees and my administrative acts. Whoever will study them, men of Athens, without jealousy, will find that they were rightly planned and honestly executed; that the proper opportunity for each several measure was never neglected, or ignored, or thrown away by me: and that nothing within the compass of one man’s ability or forethought was left undone. If the superior power of some deity or of fortune, or the incompetence of commanders, or the wickedness of traitors, or all these causes combined, vitiated and at last shattered the whole enterprise, – is Demosthenes guilty? If in each of the cities of Greece there had been some one man such as I was in my appointed station in your midst, … Such avoidance is not limited to the pronoun, but is also seen in the other referencing forms in the context, where the presentation of the speaker’s accomplishments is de-personalized. Third-person verbal forms dominate the whole passage, giving the impression of a narrative of another’s conduct. The speaker’s involvement in these deeds is compressed into nominalized actions with attributive possessives (in italics): instead of saying “I made decrees and engaged in politics”, he uses a passive construction indicating a perfective state, where his involvement is firmly lodged in the presented “fact” (πέπρακται τοῖς ἐμοῖς ψηφίσμασι καὶ τοῖς ἐμοῖς πολιτεύμασιν). Instead of saying “I did not forgo or ignore or throw away opportunities”, he embeds his action in the passive participial construction and illustrates his involvement as an attributive quality (τὸν ἑκάστου καιρὸν οὐ παρεθέντ’ οὐδ’ ἀγνοηθέντ’ οὐδὲ προεθένθ’ ὑπ’ ἐμοῦ). The use of lexical references to self in this case highlights the attempt to separate the speaker’s previous action from the person now speaking in front of the audience. The speaker’s contribution to the community is presented almost as an established “fact”. This de-personalized tone evokes association with sections of similar written (γραφικόν) texture,20 where the other mentions of his name occur in the witness or decree sections. This technique resonates with some constructions in the symbouleutic speeches, for example: Dem.13.12: ἤδη δέ τις εἶπεν ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοί που λέγων, οὐχ ὑμῶν τῶν πολλῶν, ἀλλὰ τῶν διαρρηγνυμένων εἰ ταῦτα γενήσεται, ‘τί δ᾽ ὑμῖν ἐκ τῶν Δημοσθένους λόγων ἀγαθὸν γέγονεν; παρελθὼν ὑμῶν, ὅταν αὐτῷ δόξῃ, ἐνέπλησε τὰ ὦτα 20  I refer to ἡ γραφικὴ λέξις, a “written” style, as distinguished from ἡ ἀγωνιστικὴ λέξις by Aristotle in Rh. 3.12. Further on this distinction: O’Sullivan (1992) and (1996); Innes (2007); Pepe (2013) 211–3.

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

257

λόγων, καὶ διέσυρε τὰ παρόντα, καὶ τοὺς προγόνους ἐπῄνεσεν, καὶ μετεωρίσας καὶ φυσήσας ὑμᾶς κατέβη’. It has been before now remarked, men of Athens, by some speaker – not one of the great body of citizens, but one of those who are likely to have a fit if these reforms are carried out – “What good have we ever got from the speeches of Demosthenes? He comes forward, whenever he thinks well, fills our ears with phrases, denounces our present state, extols our ancestors, and then descends from the platform after raising our hopes and inflating our pride.” The speaker intentionally shifts to the third-person in justifying his own position in the speech. An indefinite person is evoked (τις) to voice doubts about the speaker’s contribution to the public deliberation, referring to the speaker with non-pronominal references and his actions in third-person, which then introduces naturally the speaker’s response, explaining how he has given the best advice to the city (Dem. 13.13–14). This is clearly a calculated presentation devised by the speaker to externalize the representation of his own perspective. The speaker is detached from his own stance, which elicits a seemingly objective perspective on a topic concerning the speaker personally. If the same information were presented from the speaker’s own perspective in first or second person (e.g. “I gave the city …”; “You have benefited from my speeches”, etc.), the ēthos of the speaker would be introduced and distract the focus from the logos (in disguise). Similar to such constructions in symbouleutic speeches, the intention behind the de-personalized representation of the speaker’s own persona in Dem. 18 is to avoid a “vivid” depiction of actions, which is open to interpretation and could invite the accusation of self-glorification. Alternatively, the speaker chooses to present his actions as self-evident “facts”, appealing to a vague sense of logos. Yet these “facts” are defined by the speaker without inviting any reconsideration of the legitimacy of this definition. As if it were external to himself, the speaker intends his self-presentation to be considered what Aristotle would call atechnos evidence in the trial (Rh. 1.2.3), which embeds judgment in definition and would in itself be more effective for persuasion.21 This approach to logos, appealing to intellectual capability, I argue, also highlights the stark contrast between Demosthenes and Aeschines, who has been deliberately portrayed as a manipulative actor, focusing on his ēthos. 21  Aristotle also notes the usefulness of such quality in narrative sections, as in Rh. 3.16.1.

258 4

Liao

First-Person Plural (“We”)

Among the personal references in Dem. 18, this referent bridging the individual speaker (“I”) and the communal identity (“you”) presents the least deviation from the dicanic corpus in the statistics. The percentage of occurrences is comparable, but the meaning and realization differ. In Dem. 18, the referent of this collective identity is usually the group inclusive of the speaker and the audience, instead of the supporting party of the speaker which does not necessarily include the audience, as with most cases in dicanic speeches. Thus, its use in Dem. 18 is highly relevant in considering how stance-taking occurs, and, indeed, in how persuasion is achieved when the speaker expresses his alignment with the audience explicitly, likely with the intention of persuading them to take his side. The representation of the collective identity here is analogous to that in the symbouleutic corpus, putting a strong emphasis on the sense of sharing in actions and their consequences. Unlike the first-person singular references, agency is not particularly emphasized by the pronouns. In the symbouleutic corpus, such as in Dem. 8.11, the mutuality of the negative experience is highlighted: Dem. 8.11: ἴστε γὰρ δήπου τοῦθ᾽ ὅτι οὐδενὶ τῶν πάντων πλέον κεκράτηκε Φίλιππος, ἢ τῷ πρότερος πρὸς τοῖς πράγμασι γίγνεσθαι. ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἔχων δύναμιν συνεστηκυῖαν ἀεὶ περὶ αὑτὸν καὶ προειδὼς ἃ βούλεται πρᾶξαι, ἐξαίφνης ἐφ᾽ οὓς ἂν αὐτῷ δόξῃ πάρεστιν: ἡμεῖς δ᾽ ἐπειδὰν πυθώμεθά τι γιγνόμενον, τηνικαῦτα θορυβούμεθα καὶ παρασκευαζόμεθα. For I need not tell you that Philip owes his successes to nothing in the world more than to his being the first in the field. For the man who always keeps a standing army by him, and who knows beforehand what he wants to do, is ready in an instant for anyone that he chooses to attack, while it is only after we have heard of something happening that we begin to bustle about and make our preparations. The collective identity is first realized by a second-person plural verbal reference (ἴστε, in italics) linked to the audience. As the speaker moves into criticism of the actions of the Athenians, he attributes the agency to the inclusive identity expressed by first-person plural references (in bold). The shift is marked emphatically with a pronominal form in the nominative (ἡμεῖς). The speaker habitually directs blame or undesired responsibility towards the inclusive collective identity in the symbouleutic speeches, which suggests a clear appeal to consensus in decision-making and blame-taking. This is a pattern less seen in

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

259

dicanic speeches but commonly found in Dem. 18 when advancing advice and discussing consequences. In preparation for advancing a potentially unfavourable proposition, the speaker explicitly aligns himself with the audience and employs the inclusive collective identity in order to minimize the impact of his proposals, such as in Dem. 18.254: Dem. 18.254: τὸ μὲν τοίνυν προελέσθαι τὰ κάλλιστα καὶ τὸ τῶν οἰηθέντων Ἑλλήνων, εἰ προοῖνθ᾽ ἡμᾶς, ἐν εὐδαιμονίᾳ διάξειν αὐτῶν ἄμεινον πράττειν, τῆς ἀγαθῆς τύχης τῆς πόλεως εἶναι τίθημι: τὸ δὲ προσκροῦσαι καὶ μὴ πάνθ᾽ ὡς ἐβουλόμεθ᾽ ἡμῖν συμβῆναι, τῆς τῶν ἄλλων ἀνθρώπων τύχης τὸ ἐπιβάλλον ἐφ᾽ ἡμᾶς μέρος μετειληφέναι νομίζω τὴν πόλιν. Translation: I reckon it as part of the good fortune of Athens that she has chosen the noblest policy, and that she is better off than the Greeks who expected prosperity from their betrayal of us. If she has been unsuccessful, if everything has not fallen out as we desired, I regard that as our appointed share in the general ill-fortune of mankind. The use of the communal identity (bold font) evokes a sense of mutuality in deliberation, that the speaker stands firmly in alliance with the audience in different scenarios, contributing to the effort required and having a stake in the consequences. The symbouleutic focus is weakened, as the purpose of Dem. 18 is not to warn the audience of negative consequences. Yet the impression of a shared “camera angle” and thus a shared stance resulting from the use of first-person plural references is useful for establishing senses of unity and thus internal cohesion. It directs potential animosity towards the opponent who is not included in this stance, most obviously the individual Aeschines (referent of singular “you”). In terms of realization, the data demonstrate a clear increase of pronominal forms in Dem. 18 compared to the dicanic corpus (65.21% to 49.15%), which results mainly from non-nominative forms. Many of these are due to syntactical subordination, which reflects a “camera angle” of the collective identity not as subjects but objects in others’ actions, often being seen or talked about: Dem. 18.16: καίτοι πρὸς ἅπασιν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, τοῖς ἄλλοις οἷς ἂν εἰπεῖν τις ὑπὲρ Κτησιφῶντος ἔχοι, καὶ τοῦτ᾽ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ καὶ μάλ᾽ εἰκότως ἂν λέγειν, ὅτι τῆς ἡμετέρας ἔχθρας ἡμᾶς ἐφ᾽ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν δίκαιον ἦν τὸν ἐξετασμὸν ποιεῖσθαι, οὐ τὸ μὲν πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἀγωνίζεσθαι παραλείπειν, ἑτέρῳ δ᾽ ὅτῳ κακόν τι δώσομεν ζητεῖν: ὑπερβολὴ γὰρ ἀδικίας τοῦτό γε.

260

Liao

There are many other arguments, men of Athens, to be pleaded on Ctesiphon’s behalf, but this surely is eminently reasonable, that the honest course was to fight out our own quarrels by ourselves, not to turn aside from our antagonism and try to find someone else to injure. That is carrying iniquity too far! Dem. 9.8: εἰ μὲν οὖν ἔξεστιν εἰρήνην ἄγειν τῇ πόλει καὶ ἐφ᾽ ἡμῖν ἐστι τοῦτο, ἵν᾽ ἐντεῦθεν ἄρξωμαι, φήμ᾽ ἔγωγ᾽ ἄγειν ἡμᾶς δεῖν, καὶ τὸν ταῦτα λέγοντα γράφειν καὶ πράττειν καὶ μὴ φενακίζειν ἀξιῶ … If indeed Athens can remain at peace and if the choice rests with us – to take that point first – I personally feel that we are bound to do so; and if anyone says that we can, I call upon him to move a resolution and to do something and to play no tricks on us … In Dem. 18.16 the inclusive communal identity is framed in a twofold subordination: first a reported thought of the speaker in a modal construction (ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ καὶ μάλ᾽ εἰκότως ἂν λέγειν), and then another subordinate clause where proposed actions are nominalized ([…] δίκαιον ἦν τὸν ἐξετασμὸν ποιεῖσθαι …). The potential action of the communal identity is represented as a static piece of information mentioned for further calculation. This construction is comparable to Dem. 9.8, where the proposed action is introduced by and subordinated to the speaker’s verbal action (φήμ᾽ ἔγωγ᾽) and then weakened by the modal construction (ἄγειν ἡμᾶς δεῖν). The subordination distances the agency of the communal identity in proposed actions. The proposal is presented not as directive (as in imperative ἄγε, “Act!”) but as descriptive reported speech (“I say indeed we should …”) and impersonal modal formulation (“it is necessary that we …”). The demanding tone is thus much lessened; the audience is not told but invited to take a stance aligned with the speaker. In this process, the speaker avoids appearing to give orders to the dēmos, and encourages it to consider the policies as options that do not seem overtly personal, and to see from a more distant, perhaps more reasoned, perspective in its deliberation. 5

Second-Person Plural (Plural “You”)

Second-person plural forms refer to the audience from a stance opposed to the individual speaker. As in the symbouleutic speeches, they are less prominent in Dem. 18 than generally in the dicanic corpus in terms of frequency (13.59%;

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

261

28.17% in the latter). In terms of realization, there is also a significant growth in the use of lexical references (44.55%), comparable to the symbouleutic speeches and in fact exceeding the average percentage of the symbouleutic corpus (37.39%). These include apostrophes (ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι) and words that allude to the communal identity without clear indication of inclusion of the speaker himself, such as forms of Athēnaios, dēmos and polis. The use of apostrophe in Dem. 18 is of lower number and frequency than generally in the dicanic speeches, and of a percentage comparable to that of symbouleutic speeches (10.79% of all references, compared to 11.15% in symbouleutic speeches, 14.3% in dicanic). The only form being employed is the one underlining the civil identity and generally found in the symbouleutic corpus, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, instead of the common apostrophe for the jurymen, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, or the more general ὦ ἄνδρες.22 Every time the apostrophe is used, the audience is reminded of their civil rather than judicial identity and duty. Lower counts of apostrophe of the audience suggest that the speaker does not feel as much the need to call on the audience for attention, or that he engages the audience’s attention otherwise.23 The other lexical references to evoke the “camera angle” of the audience are not as direct in terms of attracting attention. When referring to the audience by proper nouns, which are essentially third-person, the speaker engages with it in an allusive manner: Dem. 18.72: εἰ μὲν γὰρ μὴ ἐχρῆν, ἀλλὰ τὴν Μυσῶν λείαν καλουμένην τὴν Ἑλλάδ᾽ οὖσαν ὀφθῆναι ζώντων καὶ ὄντων Ἀθηναίων, περιείργασμαι μὲν ἐγὼ περὶ τούτων εἰπών, περιείργασται δ᾽ ἡ πόλις ἡ πεισθεῖσ᾽ ἐμοί, ἔστω δ᾽ ἀδικήματα πάνθ᾽ ἃ πέπρακται καὶ ἁμαρτήματ᾽ ἐμά. If it was not right, if Greece was to present the spectacle, as the phrase goes, of the looting of Mysia, while Athenians still lived and breathed, then I am a busybody, because I spoke of those matters, and Athens, too, is a busybody because she listened to me; and let all her misdeeds and blunders be charged to my account!

22  Martin’s (2006) and Serafim’s (2017) discussions of various forms of apostrophe in Athenian court are of great interest. However, as only the civil form is used in Dem. 18 one regrettably cannot bring this discussion further here. 23  Demosthenes, in speech 18, frequently uses apostrophe addressing Aeschines (see section 5 below), which could also function similarly and draw the attention of the audience without making any references to it.

262

Liao

Dem. 13.14: οὐκοῦν οἱ παριόντες ἅπαντες τὸν δῆμον καταλελύσθαι, τοὺς νόμους οὐκέτ᾽ εἶναι, τοιαῦτ᾽ ἔλεγον. καίτοι, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, (καὶ σκοπεῖτ᾽ ἂν ἀληθῆ λέγω) οἱ μὲν ταῦτα ποιοῦντες ἄξι᾽ ἐποίουν θανάτου, ὁ δῆμος δ᾽ οὐ διὰ τούτων καταλύεται. πάλιν κώπας τις ὑφείλετο· μαστιγοῦν, στρεβλοῦν πάντες οἱ λέγοντες, τὸν δῆμον καταλύεσθαι. So the speakers in the Assembly, one and all, cried that the democracy was overthrown, that the laws were null and void, and so on. And yet, Athenians, though the culprits – mark whether my words are true – deserved death, it is not through them that the democracy is endangered. Again, a few oars were stolen. “Scourge the thieves, torture them”, cried the orators; “the democracy is in danger”. Instead of explicitly demanding its attention, criticizing its conduct, or warning it of consequences, in Dem. 18.72 the speaker evokes an entity representing a community larger than the current audience and foregrounds its own perspective. This exercise resonates with the frequent evocation of the dēmos in symbouleutic settings (as in Dem. 13.14), where a warning or criticism is not directed at the current audience but a more abstract identity. This avoids direct confrontation with the audience, tuning down the personal and perhaps sentimental approach and lifting the tone to a grander and more conceptual level. This strategy is instrumental in elevating a case that charges an individual to a concern of the whole community. It is a gesture to encourage “those in the room now” to identify with the generalized, and very frequently imagined and idealized, concept of a shared identity. The individual addressees are prompted to think of themselves as part of a community which possesses a shared history, pride, and code of behaviour. Identifying the audience with “Athenians” instead of “you” encourages it not to prioritize individuality and highlights the need to live up to “being Athenians”. As in the symbouleutic speeches, in Dem. 18 the audience is frequently encouraged to sideline personal concerns and consider the issue under discussion as a unified civil body, even though the topic in this particular case is highly personal for the speaker.24 The illustration of this collective identity also resembles that in the symbouleutic corpus more than in dicanic speeches. Second-person plural verbal references introduce the audience’s “camera angle”, which is frequently associated with perception, particularly as frames for a narrative or arguments. 24  The use of an idealized group identity in political discourse is widely discussed in modern contexts, see e.g. Miller et al. (1981) 494–511; Conover (1984) 760–85; Lau (1989) 220–3; Huddy (2003) 511–58. Also in this volume: Introduction, pp. 4–5; Serafim, Chapter 9, pp. 138–9.

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

263

For example, in Dem. 18.25 and Dem. 18.10, the presentation of the materials for the audience to consider is configured in clauses subordinated to verbs of observing (σκέψασθε, εἴσεσθε, θεάσασθ’[ε], ἴστε), with an emphasis on cognition as a consequence of visual experience, rather than achieving “thinking” immediately: Dem. 18.25: ἐπειδὴ τοίνυν ἐποιήσατο τὴν εἰρήνην ἡ πόλις, ἐνταῦθα πάλιν σκέψασθε τί ἡμῶν ἑκάτερος προείλετο πράττειν: καὶ γὰρ ἐκ τούτων εἴσεσθε τίς ἦν ὁ Φιλίππῳ πάντα συναγωνιζόμενος… Now observe what policy we severally adopted after the conclusion of peace. You will thereby ascertain who acted throughout as Philip’s agent … Dem. 18.10: περὶ μὲν δὴ τῶν ἰδίων ὅσα λοιδορούμενος βεβλασφήμηκεν περὶ ἐμοῦ, θεάσασθ᾽ ὡς ἁπλᾶ καὶ δίκαια λέγω. εἰ μὲν ἴστε με τοιοῦτον οἷον οὗτος ᾐτιᾶτο … To his abusive aspersion of my private life, I have, you will observe, an honest and straightforward reply. If then you know my character to be such as he alleges … Dem. 4.3: τίνος οὖν εἵνεκα ταῦτα λέγω; ἵν᾽ ἴδητ᾽, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ θεάσησθε, ὅτι οὐδὲν οὔτε φυλαττομένοις ὑμῖν ἐστιν φοβερόν… I remind you of this, Athenians, because I want you to know and realize that, as no danger can assail you while you are on your guard … This construction is typical practice in symbouleutic speeches, such as in Dem. 4.3, where the speaker identifies the purpose of his speaking as to make the audience observe and thus understand the “facts”, also stressing the aspect of seeing the happenings. In dicanic speeches, the introduction of information or narrative does not display such emphasis on visual aspects, and the formulation is generally in the third-person, thus carrying a more impersonal tone (e.g. καὶ γὰρ οὕτω πως ἔχει, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι … in Dem. 21.7). On the other hand, the representation of the audience’s “camera angle” in Dem. 18 generates a sense of immediacy.25 That is, by embedding the information in the audience’s perception or cognition, the speaker creates an impression that 25  On immersion and persuasion: Allan, De Jonge, De Jong (2017).

264

Liao

the audience is examining these events first-hand, like a witness, thus enhancing the credibility of the “re-enacted events”. The persuasive power of this practice is observed also by ancient scholars in their discussions of notions like πρὸ ὀμμάτων ποιεῖ/ ἐνέργεια (Arist. Rh. 3.10.6), ἐνάργεια (DH Lys. 7, Pl. Plt. 277c) and ἔκφρασις (DH Rh. 10.17, Hermog. Prog. 10), which emphasize the quality of seeing and being seen as an important factor in achieving persuasion.26 In Dem. 18, this appeal to a “self-manifest physical reality”27 resides in the presentation of the audience’s perspective, invoking a sense of logos and restating a strong desire for witnessing the truth. It stands well within the “anti-rhetorical” motif popular in ancient oratory.28 6

Second-Person Singular (Singular “You”)

The second-person singular references in Dem. 18 exhibit exciting differences from the dicanic corpus. While dicanic speeches generally aim at attacking another individual, the “camera angle” of a singular opponent is rarely observed in this corpus (only 2.21% of all references). The opponent is mostly referred to in the third-person, and second-person singular references usually occur in reported direct speech (e.g. Dem. 59.70). The difference between Dem. 18 and the dicanic speeches results mainly from the increased count of verbal references (250 verbal references out of 336, while the difference in pronominal occurrence is proportional). Contrary to the representation of the speaker’s stance, there is a clear inclination for introducing the stances of the individual opponent, here Aeschines, in an unmediated, “immersive” way, that is, by depictions of his actions instead of the reported speech commonly seen in dicanic speeches. Pronominal markers are used sparingly, and the stance of the opponent is represented πρὸ ὀμμάτων ποιεῖ (in bold): Dem. 18.261: ἐπειδὴ δ’ εἰς τοὺς δημότας ἐνεγράφης ὁπωσδήποτε, (ἐῶ γὰρ τοῦτο,) ἐπειδή γ’ ἐνεγράφης, εὐθέως τὸ κάλλιστον ἐξελέξω τῶν ἔργων, γραμματεύειν καὶ ὑπηρετεῖν τοῖς ἀρχιδίοις. ὡς δ’ ἀπηλλάγης ποτὲ καὶ τούτου, πάνθ’ ἃ τῶν ἄλλων κατηγορεῖς αὐτὸς ποιήσας, οὐ κατῄσχυνας μὰ Δί’ οὐδὲν τῶν προϋπηργμένων τῷ μετὰ ταῦτα βίῳ, ἀλλὰ μισθώσας σαυτὸν τοῖς βαρυστόνοις ἐπικαλουμένοις ἐκείνοις ὑποκριταῖς Σιμύκᾳ καὶ Σωκράτει, ἐτριταγωνίστεις, 26  Cf. Webb (2009) on the persuasive power of ekphrasis in general, and Serafim (2015) on ekphrasis in the narratives in Dem. 18, 19. 27  As Hesk (1999) 201ff terms it. 28  Hesk (1999) 201–30.

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

265

σῦκα καὶ βότρυς καὶ ἐλάας συλλέγων ὥσπερ ὀπωρώνης ἐκ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων χωρίων, πλείω λαμβάνων ἀπὸ τούτων ἢ τῶν ἀγώνων, οὓς ὑμεῖς περὶ τῆς ψυχῆς ἠγωνίζεσθε· … After getting yourself enrolled on the register of your parish – no one knows how you managed it; but let that pass – anyhow, when you were enrolled, you promptly chose a most gentlemanly occupation, that of clerk and errand-boy to minor officials. After committing all the offences with which you now reproach other people, you were relieved of that employment; and I must say that your subsequent conduct did no discredit to your earlier career. You entered the service of those famous players Simycus and Socrates, better known as the Growlers. You played small parts to their lead, picking up figs and grapes and olives, like an orchard-robbing costermonger, and making a better living out of those missiles than by all the battles that you fought for dear life. Dem. 21.133: καίτοι πότερ᾽ εἰσὶν ὄνειδος, ὦ Μειδία, τῇ πόλει οἱ διαβάντες ἐν τάξει καὶ τὴν σκευὴν ἔχοντες ἣν προσῆκε τοὺς ἐπὶ τοὺς πολεμίους ἐξιόντας καὶ συμβαλουμένους τοῖς συμμάχοις, ἢ σὺ ὁ μηδὲ λαχεῖν εὐχόμενος τῶν ἐξιόντων ὅτ᾽ ἐκληροῦ, τὸν θώρακα δ᾽ οὐδεπώποτ᾽ ἐνδύς, ἐπ᾽ ἀστράβης δ᾽ ὀχούμενος ἀργυρᾶς τῆς ἐξ Εὐβοίας, χλανίδας δὲ καὶ κυμβία καὶ κάδους ἔχων, ὧν ἐπελαμβάνονθ᾽ οἱ πεντηκοστολόγοι; ταῦτα γὰρ εἰς τοὺς ὁπλίτας ἡμᾶς ἀπηγγέλλετο: οὐ γὰρ εἰς ταὐτὸν ἡμεῖς τούτοις διέβημεν. But I should like to ask you, Meidias, which was the greater scandal to the city – the men who crossed to Chalcis in due order, and with the equipment proper to those who were to take the field against the enemy and to join forces with our allies, or you, who, when lots were drawn for the expedition, prayed that you might draw a blank, who never donned your cuirass, who rode on a saddle with silver trappings, imported from Euboea, taking with you your shawls and goblets and wine-jars, which were confiscated by the customs? We of the infantry learned this by report, for we had not crossed at the same point as the cavalry. Dem. 10.71: τί ἂν εἴποις; εἰ γὰρ ὃ βέλτιστον εἰπεῖν ἂν ἔχοις, τοῦτό σοι δοίημεν ἀληθὲς λέγειν, ὡς ὑπὲρ φιλοτιμίας καὶ δόξης ταῦτα πάντα ποιεῖς, θαυμάζω τί δήποτε σαυτῷ μὲν ὑπὲρ τούτων ἅπαντα ποιητέον εἶναι νομίζεις καὶ πονητέον καὶ κινδυνευτέον, τῇ πόλει δὲ προέσθαι ταῦτα μετὰ ῥᾳθυμίας συμβουλεύεις. οὐ γὰρ ἐκεῖνό γ᾽ ἂν εἴποις, ὡς σὲ μὲν ἐν τῇ πόλει δεῖ τινὰ φαίνεσθαι, τὴν πόλιν δ᾽ ἐν τοῖς Ἕλλησι μηδενὸς ἀξίαν εἶναι.

266

Liao

What would you reply? For if we should grant the truth of what would be your best possible answer, that you do all this for love of glory and renown, I wonder what earthly reason you have for thinking that you yourself ought for that object to make every exertion, facing toil and danger, whereas you advise the State to abandon such efforts in sheer indifference. For this you cannot say – that it is your duty to make a figure in the State, but that the State is of no importance in the Greek world. The choice of using substantial finite verbs and active participles (mostly emphasizing sequence rather than attribution) gives a strong impression of narration. This contrasts strongly with the representation in dicanic speeches, such as in Dem. 21.133, where the second-person singular verbal references to Meidias (who would have been present at the court) are avoided and replaced by third-person references, while resembling the formulations in symbouleutic speeches, such as in Dem. 10.71. Instead of third-person accounts, the speaker narrates these actions in the second person, almost like a witness himself, aiming at a re-enactment of or immersion in the past. The audience might have the impression that it is examining some first-hand accounts of the events, but these accounts are carefully selected and “staged” by the speaker to his advantage. Besides employing diction pregnant with negative connotations, the persistent active voice and reflexive pronouns underline Aeschines’ agentive role in the process: he himself carried out these actions proactively. There is a stark contrast to the representation of the speaker’s stance, as shown in Dem. 18.303–5 earlier: the speaker’s accomplishment is represented as static information or trustworthy evidence, underlining an appeal to his intellectual character. On the other hand, Aeschines’ actions are recounted as unfolding events, emphasized for accessibility to the audience and thus seemingly open to their own interpretation – which is, of course, a strategically “informed” interpretation. The realization of Aeschines’ stance in Dem. 18 is also noteworthy for its large proportion of lexical references to the individual (6.38%), which is not seen in any of the speeches examined for this study (the average of the dicanic corpus is 2.21%). The Demosthenic speaker rarely addresses his opponent directly in the second person, and there are only few occurrences of apostrophe of opponents in each examined speech (e.g. Dem. 20.28,63, Dem. 21.134, Dem. 24.173, Dem. 54.40). This indicates a clear intention in Dem. 18 to highlight the opponent as an individual external to the community and to engage with him in a straightforward, almost aggressive manner (in bold). For example:

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

267

Dem. 18.120: ἀλλὰ πρὸς θεῶν οὕτω σκαιὸς εἶ καὶ ἀναίσθητος, Αἰσχίνη, ὥστ’ οὐ δύνασαι λογίσασθαι ὅτι τῷ μὲν στεφανουμένῳ τὸν αὐτὸν ἔχει ζῆλον ὁ στέφανος, ὅπου ἂν ἀναρρηθῇ, τοῦ δὲ τῶν στεφανούντων εἵνεκα συμφέροντος ἐν τῷ θεάτρῳ γίγνεται τὸ κήρυγμα; But, really now, are you so unintelligent and blind, Aeschines, that you are incapable of reflecting that a crown is equally gratifying to the person crowned wheresoever it is proclaimed, but that the proclamation is made in the Theatre merely for the sake of those by whom it is conferred? Dem. 18.117: τούτων ἕκαστος, Αἰσχίνη, τῆς μὲν ἀρχῆς ἧς ἦρχεν ὑπεύθυνος ἦν, ἐφ’ οἷς δ’ ἐστεφανοῦτο οὐχ ὑπεύθυνος. οὐκοῦν οὐδ’ ἐγώ· ταὐτὰ γὰρ δίκαι’ ἐστί μοι περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν τοῖς ἄλλοις δήπου. ἐπέδωκα· ἐπαινοῦμαι διὰ ταῦτα, οὐκ ὢν ὧν ἔδωχ’ ὑπεύθυνος. ἦρχον· καὶ δέδωκά γ’ εὐθύνας ἐκείνων, οὐχ ὧν ἐπέδωκα. νὴ Δί’, ἀλλ’ ἀδίκως ἦρξα. εἶτα παρών, ὅτε μ’ εἰσῆγον οἱ λογισταί, οὐ κατηγόρεις; Every one of the persons mentioned, Aeschines, was liable to audit in respect of the office he held, but not of the services for which he was decorated. It follows that I am not liable; for, surely, I have the same rights under the same conditions as anybody else! I made donations. For those donations I am thanked, not being subject to audit for what I gave. I held office. Yes, and I have submitted to audit for my offices, though not for my gifts. Ah, but perhaps I was guilty of official misconduct? Well, the auditors brought me into court – and no complaint from you! These examples demonstrate two distinct functions of lexical references. Dem. 18.120 shows how the introduction of a lexical reference accentuates the interaction between the speaker and his opponent, while the other second-person references in the context (in italic) also turn the “camera angle” on Aeschines’ stance as an individual. The direct address to the opponent narrows the focus of interaction, zooming in from the whole audience to Aeschines alone, highlighting the fact that this exchange is meant to be between the two individuals, as the preceding first-person singular reference (παραλείπω) also suggests. In Dem. 18.117, however, the lexical reference to Aeschines is inserted into a context where no obvious second-person singular reference is found. The statements made in this passage are realized by the perspectives of first and third persons (in italic), but the insertion of the apostrophe creates an effect that frames the passage as if it was directed at Aeschines, which is then picked up by another second-person singular reference at the end of the

268

Liao

passage (κατηγόρεις). Compare this to a similar strategy from the symbouleutic corpus: Dem.4.4: εἰ δέ τις ὑμῶν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, δυσπολέμητον οἴεται τὸν Φίλιππον εἶναι, σκοπῶν τό τε πλῆθος τῆς ὑπαρχούσης αὐτῷ δυνάμεως καὶ τὸ τὰ χωρία πάντ’ ἀπολωλέναι τῇ πόλει, ὀρθῶς μὲν οἴεται, λογισάσθω μέντοι τοῦθ’, ὅτι εἴχομέν ποθ’ ἡμεῖς, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, Πύδναν καὶ Ποτείδαιαν καὶ Μεθώνην καὶ πάντα τὸν τόπον τοῦτον οἰκεῖον κύκλῳ, καὶ πολλὰ τῶν μετ’ ἐκείνου νῦν ὄντων ἐθνῶν αὐτονομούμενα κἀλεύθερ’ ὑπῆρχε… But if anyone here, Athenians, is inclined to think Philip too formidable, having regard to the extent of his existing resources and to our loss of all our strongholds, he is indeed right, yet he must reflect that we too, men of Athens, once held Pydna, Potidaea, and Methone, and had in our own hands all the surrounding territory, and that many of the native tribes now in his service were then free and independent … The statements in the passage are configured mostly in the third person, sometimes in the first-person plural (both in italic), generating an impression that the accounts are external to the speaker, and perhaps shared by the communal identity. While there is no other indicator as to where the focus of the discourse is, these accounts are also accentuated by the lexical reference to a singular subject (τις ὑμῶν, and other verbs in bold italic). That the subject is divided from the communal identity creates a sense of abstraction in the audience – the audience is at the same time encouraged to identify with this person and to keep some distance from him. The apostrophe serves the function of directing the attention of the audience, hinting that this message is preparing for a stance that they should align with, while the absence of other second-person references maintains the impression of objectivity or impersonality due to the largely third-person formulation. In Dem. 18.117, this technique of singling out an opposing stance in conjunction with apostrophe also contributes to the maintaining of attention and focus during the de-personalizing of Aeschines’ actions. The speaker intends to highlight his opponent’s inaction in the process and thus to contrast it with his own proactiveness. This is achieved by the substantial uses of first-person singular verbal references that “re-enact” actions. These lexical references and apostrophes trigger the convention of direct speech, directing the text to specific goals without referencing them on a normal level and thus allowing little room for actual engagement or interaction with the internal addressee. In the case of Dem. 18, the apostrophes to

Demosthenes 18 as Both Symbouleutic and Dicanic Speech

269

Aeschines function like a spotlight that brings the attention of the audience to the individual, not as an actor on the stage who performs, but more as an addressee who is being accused of problematic actions and granted no voice to speak back. 7 Conclusions This chapter investigates the interactional strategies in Dem. 18 by examining its linguistic profile, and attempts to demonstrate how the speech de facto exhibits communicational patterns that could be seen as crossing assumed theoretical generic borders. The patterns of personal references in the speech indicate that its stance-taking tactics deviate from the common patterns of dicanic speeches and move closer to the symbouleutic corpus, while still demonstrating unique designs that reflect concerns in its own complex context. The speaker’s self-representation is often found de-personalized, and when underlined by emphatic constructions, the image of a dutiful and rational adviser is highlighted in contrast to the manipulative or even destructive opponent. The “camera angles” of the inclusive communal identity (“we”) are associated with warnings and criticism, while that of the exclusive collective identity (“you”) are connected to first-hand evaluation of the pregnant “facts” about the speaker. The stances of the individual opponent are particularly distinct in this speech and amplify the opposition between Aeschines and the speaker, who is generally aligned with the communal identity. Besides frequent mentioning of the civil motifs, the general symbouleutic tone in the interactional strategies of Dem. 18 serves the speaker’s purpose of elevating personal feuds to the status of a national concern. Demosthenes the practitioner does not see the theoretical boundaries as rigid limits, but rather as resources that could be meaningful and in fact powerful, when used at the right times, to an audience which is familiar with both political conventions.

chapter 16

Public and Private Persuasion in the Historical Works of Xenophon Roger Brock In the past few decades, there has been a major re-appraisal of Xenophon as a writer and thinker, and an increasing appreciation of his subtlety and complexity.1 Until recently, however, there had not been a great deal of work specifically focused on his use of direct speech, and his artistry and originality in this aspect of his work still seems to me under-appreciated.2 A comprehensive treatment would require a monograph; in this chapter, I would like to point out what seem to me some of the most noteworthy features of his practice in his historical works. I shall at least touch on all the works with a nominally historical setting, other than the Socratic ones, but focus mainly on the “big three” – Hellenica, Cyropaedia and Anabasis. Just as Xenophon stretches the generic boundaries of historical writing, so speech and rhetoric take a variety of forms in his work. Even at his most historiographically conventional, in the Hellenica, he not only presents set-piece speeches, singly or grouped, in the manner of Thucydides, but also harks back to Herodotus’ more fluid use of direct speech in what Vivienne Gray christened as “conversationalized narrative”.3 Indeed, broadly speaking, he is less Thucydidean when he is nominally continuing the older writer’s work: there is only one rhetorical set-piece, the Arginusae trial, in “Part 1” of the Hellenica (that is, to 2.3.10), and only one of substance in each of the first three books, and it is also worthy of note that he avoids any rhetorical treatment of the debate

1  I would like to express my thanks to the audience of the original paper and to Andreas Serafim subsequently for helpful comments and suggestions which have improved this version. I am also grateful to Emily Baragwanath for an advanced text of her chapter and to Matthew Christ for early sight of part of a forthcoming book on Xenophon and Athens. 2  The recent collection edited by Pontier has taken a significant step in redressing this, as does Baragwanath’s chapter, both of them addressing the whole Xenophontic corpus; Gray (1989) was well ahead of its time in addressing both formal (79–140) and informal (14–78) speech in Hellenica. 3  Gray (1989) 11. The flexibility of Xenophon’s handling of speech is a recurrent theme of contributors to Pontier. See also Baragwanath (2017) 279–80.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_017

Public and Private Persuasion in Xenophon

271

on the fate of Athens after her final defeat summarized in 2.2.19–20.4 Only with the outbreak of the Corinthian War in Book 4 does the frequency rise to four or five per book, perhaps because at that point challenges to Spartan supremacy usher in a more unsettled geopolitical climate in which effective rhetoric in diplomatic and military contexts becomes possible and indeed needful. Hence much of the argumentation and persuasive appeal in these speeches is founded on the conventional symbouleutic considerations of morality, expediency and feasibility.5 Even in formalized direct speech, however, Xenophon often uses innovative formats which depart markedly from the set speeches typical of his predecessors. In his presentation of the proceedings after Arginusae (Hell. 1.7), for example, he opens his account with a “conversationalized narrative”, quite unlike Thucydides’ manner, oscillating between direct and indirect speech in a way that seems to mimic the chaotic character of events;6 the proposal of Callixenos which comes in the middle of this is couched in the epigraphic language of a decree, framed entirely in imperative infinitives, and so far from containing any effort to persuade, is plainly intended to coerce.7 The effect is to throw into sharper relief the one sustained attempt at reasoned argument, the speech of Euryptolemus (1.7.16–33), and to heighten the sense of injustice at its failure; as we shall see, Xenophon is interested in the limits of persuasion as well as its power.8 Equally striking is the speech of Polydamas of Pharsalus to 4  Rawlings (1981) 245–7 speculates that an “Athenian Dialogue” might have formed part of his hypothetical Thucydides Book X. The associated negotiations of Theramenes were evidently controversial too, and taken up in later rhetoric: see Krentz (1989) 185–8 on both issues. Xenophon also omits the Spartan offer of peace after the battle of Cyzicus, of which Diodorus (13.52) gives a rhetorical treatment: Rood (2004b) 385–8; however, Rood argues persuasively that despite his selectivity, Xenophon is constantly interacting subtly with his predecessor; so also Tamiolaki (2014). 5  See Usher (2007) 226–8 for a helpful brief survey. Even here, though, his use of rhetoric is always context-specific (Usher also remarks on his “greater interest in personality” (226)), and we do not find the kind of responsion between speeches delivered in different times and places which occurs in Thucydides. Tamiolaki (2014) 124 also notes his move away from the characteristic Thucydidean antilogy towards looser thematic groupings (Tuplin (2014) 93–4 makes the same point for Anabasis), and his willingness to include more than one speech in the same cause (6.3, 6.5). 6  The much more frequent and flexible use of indirect speech is noted by Tamiolaki (2014) 123–4, 135–6 for Hellenica and Tuplin (2014) 85–7 for Anabasis. 7  Or, if the two are not to be distinguished (Introduction p. 3), the persuasion relies simply on threat and the negative emotion of fear. 8  Proposal of Callixenos: 1.7.10–11 with Smyth 2013b and Goodwin MT 750 for the imperative infinitive. Baragwanath (2017) 287, 290–2 highlights the characterization of the Athenian audience and its failures in decision-making; cf. Tamiolaki (2014) 129 on echoes of themes from the Mytilene debate, notably error and regret.

272

Brock

the Spartans (Hell. 6.1), which includes inset quotations from an earlier speech of Jason of Pherae to Polydamas. We find this technique already in Herodotus, but typically used by him in communications involving oriental monarchs, where the speaker functions as a mouthpiece; here it is deployed much more powerfully, to drive home the speaker’s message about the threat which Jason poses using the subject’s own words. While this might be regarded (at least from the perspective of rhetorical theory) as an instance of prosopopoeia, the intended effect in this case is not to put words in Jason’s mouth, but rather to summon him up as a witness or supporting speaker whose authority is hard to gainsay: the Spartans hear the message “from the horse’s mouth”, as it were.9 A variation on this technique is employed to different ends in judicial contexts, where Xenophon likes to depict the conviction of a criminal out of his own mouth; indeed, there is probably as much cross-examination in his works as in the whole corpus of Attic oratory (which perhaps preferred, at least in published texts, the coherence of a single voice).10 Thus in An. 1.6, Cyrus makes plain the treachery of Orontas by taking him through his record so as to compel him both to admit his guilt and to confess that he cannot be trusted in future, whatever he may say, rendering his condemnation by Clearchus a foregone conclusion, and the way in which the accused is led by logical steps to admit his own guilt places the justice of his punishment beyond doubt. A very similar case occurs in Cyr. 3.1: the renegade Armenian king stands his trial, and the questions of the other Cyrus likewise lead him to the admission that he himself would put to death another man who had behaved in the same disloyal way. Here, however, the sequel is a happier one: his son Tigranes takes up his case, and engages in a dialogue in which he takes the lead, and persuades Cyrus that it would be counterproductive to take vengeance, since his father is truly repentant and so will be a firm friend for the future. The nature of the discussion here, in terms of human motivation and moral character, is distinctly reminiscent of Xenophon’s Socratic works, and in case anyone has missed the point, the episode ends with the anecdote of the fate of the sophistēs with whom Tigranes used to associate and whom the Armenian king put to death on the grounds that he was corrupting him – “A Socrates in Armenia”, as the marginal note in the Loeb puts it.11 The 9  “His Master’s Voice”: esp. Hdt. 8.140 with Bowie (2007) ad loc.; on this episode n.b. also Baragwanath (2017) 282. 10  So, for example, the cross-examination of Agoratus in Lys.13 is replaced in the manuscripts by the rubric ΕΡΩΤΗΣΙΣ after sections 30 and 32. 11   Cross-examination in oratory: Carawan (1983); cf. Hell. 7.1.12–14 for erōtēsis in a symbouleutic context. “Armenian Socrates”: Cyr. 3.1.14, 38–40, Miller (1914) 243; Demont (2014) 203–5 has a nice discussion of the mixture of judicial and Socratic elements here, while Nicolai (2014) 187–8, 194 notes how the exchange moves to the conclusion Cyrus has

Public and Private Persuasion in Xenophon

273

implication seems to be that both the philosophic approach and the dialogue form can be rhetorically effective in political contexts: just as Socrates can illuminate affairs of state in the Memorabilia (especially Book 3) or the dialogue form can enlighten and instruct monarchs in the Hiero, so it can be put to practical persuasive ends in a situation when the stakes are as high as they can be. In fact, Xenophon makes considerable use of dialogue in Cyropaedia, usually with an overtly didactic intent, for example when the young Cyrus discusses generalship with his father, though, as we shall see, Cyrus can make use of the form in his own defence, too.12 For the Armenian king and his son, however, the stakes are a good deal higher, and yet the philosophical and moral approach pays dividends. Indeed, Xenophon himself engages in the Anabasis in some real-life “Instruction of Princes” to win over, and later to win back, the Thracian dynast Seuthes (An. 7.2, 7.7). While it is a limitation of dialogue that it can only really be conducted between individuals or small groups, and cannot effectively engage with a mass audience, it has, as practised in Xenophon’s works, where the focus is typically on rulers and other leaders, the great advantage of leading to an explicitly agreed conclusion and hence a consensus which can form the basis for future action. The Hellenica presents us with an enormous range of speakers; by contrast, in the Cyropaedia access to direct speech is much more tightly controlled. Cyrus himself has by far “the most lines”, and where there is a plurality of speakers, the other voices are often those of picked men, typically Chrysantas or Pheraulas, who are in perfect harmony with their leader: both of them, for example, speak at the early assembly on whether rewards should be distributed equally or based on merit (2.3). Cynical readers have often inferred that Cyrus is deliberately manipulating such occasions to ensure that he achieves his persuasive ends:13 that is never, I think, made plain, but Xenophon shows in the Anabasis that he is well aware of the potential utility of the technique. One instance in which this is made clear occurs very early in the work (1.3) in wanted from the start; Gera (1993) 26–131 (“Socrates in Persia”) sees Socratic elements as pervasive in the work. 12  Cyr. 1.6, cf. Socrates on generalship in Mem. 3.1; Demont (2014) discusses the use of dialogue in the work, noting (198) how the subsequent narrative frequently endorses the conclusions reached; also Nicolai (2014) 187–94. 13  For example, Tatum (1989) 204 styles Chrysantas and Pheraulas “accomplices in his designs”; cf. his cynical reading of Cyrus’ handling of Cyaxares (129–33). It should be conceded that even the ideal Cyrus does not have an absolute commitment to literal truth (2.2.11–12 with Baragwanath (2017) 281–2), and elsewhere Xenophon will countenance deceit even of friends in a good cause: e.g. Hell. 1.6.36–8, 4.3.10–14; Ages. 11.4, and cf. Mem. 4.2.14–19, esp. 17, taking an example from generalship.

274

Brock

the assembly which Clearchus convenes when the soldiers become suspicious of Cyrus’ true intentions. While publicly he expresses solidarity with them, Clearchus has already reassured Cyrus that all will be well, and when the assembly takes place we are told that some speakers had been primed (ὑπ᾽ ἐκείνου ἐγκέλευστοι) to raise objections to leaving Cyrus, while another is marked as feigning (προσποιούμενος) eagerness to leave. That enables Clearchus to make clear that he will resign the command in that eventuality, and opens the way for another speaker to propose a delegation to Cyrus, led by Clearchus, which can purportedly be told his “real” plans. Xenophon displays here a sophisticated and strikingly modern awareness of non-rhetorical means of persuasion such as the cultivation of opinion by placing arguments in the mouths of others either as straw men,14 or to strengthen a position by implying that it is widely shared: we shall see him engaging in his own stage-management towards the end of this chapter.15 Whether or not Cyrus engages in this kind of chicanery, it is plain that in Cyropaedia critical or dissenting opinions are characteristically set up to be rebutted.16 Cyaxares is most often cast in this role, especially in 5.5, when he reproaches Cyrus for supplanting him, a charge which Cyrus rebuts through another instance of Socratic dialogue – there is a lovely moment when Cyaxares, like many an interlocutor of the Platonic Socrates, refuses to answer when it becomes plain that the argument is lost, and Cyrus completes it for him (5.5.19– 21). There are numerous briefer examples, for instance at 3.3.30–2, 46–7 and 56, where Cyaxares’ deficient tactical understanding is set up for correction

14  As opposed to straightforward rhetorical prokatalēpsis, to which Anaximenes devotes a chapter of [Rh. Al.] (ch.18, esp. 1433a32–9), and which naturally raises the suspicion that the opposing arguments are being distorted or set out in a weakened form. 15  7.3 (liaising with Seuthes) and 7.6 (below); n.b. also Plut. Mor. 813B on the efficacy of feigned objection apparently overcome by persuasion. The implication that a particular view has wide support is slightly different as a persuasive technique from the appeal to common knowledge, so effectively deployed by Aeschines against Timarchos (esp. 1.71– 93, 125–31) but already open to criticism in antiquity ([Dem.] 40.53, Arist. Rh. 1408a32–6), in that while it too is manipulative, rather than dealing with matters of fact it deals with arguments and opinions, and can operate positively, encouraging audience members to persist in what they may initially perceive as a minority view through an implication of solidarity, as well as more coercively through an implicit pressure to conform. The concept of “community” is relevant here: Introduction, pp. 4–5. 16  Baragwanath (2017) 285 flags up 5.5 and Panthea’s speech to Cyrus in 7.3.10 as “genuinely alternative perspectives” and dissenting voices. Cyrus’ response in the latter case, though chivalrous, is of little avail (see also Tatum (1989) 182–8), but opinions are more mixed on 5.5: against Tatum (n. 13) see the largely positive assessments of Gray (2011) 232–43, also 267–76 on “the ‘use’ of Cyaxares”; Sandridge (2012) 90–3; others, like Gera (1993) 98–109, are more equivocal.

Public and Private Persuasion in Xenophon

275

by Cyrus. This is part of a wider structuring whereby the direct speech in the work is configured so as to maintain the forward momentum of Cyrus’ project: whatever the issue, he always has an answer or means to progress to the next stage. Moreover, these critical voices come almost exclusively from Cyrus’ own side, or from those who are won over to it; hence virtually all the speakers in the work are “on message”, to use the terms of modern politics, and, as today, the consistency and coherence of multiple voices has a cumulative persuasive effect.17 Only on a couple of occasions are we allowed to hear the voice of the true enemy, the Assyrian king. These are carefully calculated: the first is his address to his troops before the first battle (3.3.44–5), the effect of which is undercut by the immediately following discussion among his opponents as to the effectiveness of such harangues.18 The second case is much more revealing, precisely because it is a personal exchange between Gobryas and the king (5.3.5–7). Gobryas presents his submission to Cyrus as necessitated by the king’s failure to defend his territory, and receives the reply: “Gobryas, your master says: I do not regret that I killed your son, but only that I did not kill you too”, enabling Gobryas to retort with the wish that that regret may never cease. The implications of the direct speech are immediately followed up in the narrative with the suborning of the eunuch Gadatas, another of the king’s victims (5.3.8–19). Here the communications management behind the object lessons is of course that of Xenophon as author rather than Cyrus’, though given the strongly didactic character of the work the two are always closely aligned. Xenophon’s demonstration of the effective use of persuasion is at its most varied and conspicuous in the Anabasis, as one might expect, since the constant vicissitudes of the Greek expedition call for flexibility and ingenuity in rhetorical responses to them.19 I have already alluded to some examples; as a 17  Again creating or appealing to a “community” (above n. 15). For validation of speeches in the subsequent narrative see n. 12 above. On the smooth integration of logoi and erga in Cyropaedia: Baragwanath (2017) 284; Nicolai (2014) 194: “Dans la Cyropédie, discours et narration forment un ensemble parfaitement cohérent”; cf. Tuplin (2014) 74–5 for Anabasis. Tamiolaki (2014) 126 notes how in Hellenica Xenophon sometimes represents the process of minds changing, though he is realistic, and speeches are not always effective in real historical contexts, as we have already seen with Euryptolemos: Baragwanath (2017) 283–4, 285–6; Xenophon clearly wants to reflect on the limits of persuasion, as well as the sources of its efficacy (above n. 8), a concern shared by Thucydides: see chapters 5 and 6 above. 18  This is the only true battle exhortation in the work, since elsewhere Cyrus addresses his officers (and occasionally selected other ranks: 6.2.13) rather than the army as a whole: see Nicolai (2014) 182–6 for a fuller discussion. 19  Hence perhaps the fact that this is the work which has attracted most scholarly attention to the use of speech: Rood (2004a); Grethlein (2012); the very full discussion of Tuplin (2014); also Baragwanath (2017).

276

Brock

further case study, we might look at the episode described in chapters 6–8 of Book 5. As a result of machinations among the leadership which have obliged Xenophon to abandon his controversial idea of founding a colony, rival generals have proposed an expedition to Phasis, but rather than discuss it openly in an assembly, as Xenophon proposes, they attempt to promote it by informal lobbying of the men. However, counter-lobbying by a dissenting general, which represents this as an attempt by Xenophon to deceive the men into sailing back east, provokes a near-mutiny that he has to address by calling an assembly. The original point at issue here is clearly one of policy and so would most naturally be addressed in terms of the considerations typically aired in symbouleutic rhetoric, in particular the expediency and advantageousness of the proposed action; Xenophon, however, chooses to make his alleged conduct the point at issue and so is able to adopt the tactics of forensic oratory.20 Not only does he shift attention away from the specific and controversial question, which would be liable to make his audience think in terms of their own self-interest, but the move also enables him to focus on more clear-cut factual questions of right and wrong.21 He reduces the alleged deception to absurdity by appealing to common geographical knowledge, and notes the improbability that he as a single individual could compel them,22 while dismissing the possibility that he could sustain any deception by the use of a counter-factual hypothesis. He concludes by appealing to his record of service and character, and invites any other speaker to correct him if he is mistaken. In line with the emphasis laid in rhetorical theory on the persuasive potential of characterization (ēthopoiia), Xenophon seeks to present himself as credible and trustworthy because he is personally honest, open and consistent in his dealings with the army and more concerned for their interests than his own. Having thus cleared the air and re-established his authority, he is able to move on to address the underlying policy issue of unity, discipline and leadership. Here he is able to make use of narrative to arouse outrage against those responsible for recent acts of indiscipline, and sympathy for their victims, as well as fear at the potential consequences of anarchy, and in so doing to invite the 20  Grethlein (2012) 33 notes how this and the episode discussed on pp. 277–8 “offer the reader evaluations of Xenophon”, i.e. they are simultaneously addressed to internal and external audiences (though Tuplin (2014) 104–5 argues that the main focus in direct speeches is on the original contexts); on the double perspective of Xenophon’s historical speeches, see also Baragwanath (2017) 290, and further below. 21  Compare the discussion in the preceding chapter of Demosthenes’ tactics in speech 18, where the move is analogous but in the opposite direction, from forensic to symbouleutic. 22  5.7.8–9, the stock eikos argument from weakness and strength that goes back to Corax: Arist. Rh. 1402a17–19.

Public and Private Persuasion in Xenophon

277

army to unite in condemning such behaviour.23 That in turn leads to a proposal of a formal review of the generals’ conduct: when Xenophon’s turn comes, he is accused of hubris for his use of force to maintain discipline but mounts an effective defence. Here too he makes skilful use of narrative, but this time the focus is once more on self-characterization in the manner of Lysias, projecting a portrait of himself as having acted in his imposition of physical discipline as one would expect a good commander to do.24 Once again, cross-examination also plays an important part, though here its effect is to shift the burden of blame from accused to accuser, particularly by the effective use of repartee: the accuser responds dismissively to Xenophon’s allegation that he knew that the comrade he was burying was still alive by saying that he died anyway, to which Xenophon tellingly retorts (5.8.10–11): “yes, we’re all going to die, but does that mean that we have to be buried alive?” That riposte draws a roar of approval from the soldiers, with the result that noone else accepts Xenophon’s invitation to state the circumstances under which they were beaten. Thus, he is able to shift to self-justification by simple exposition, though there is also a nice a fortiori argument from probability when he points out that since he is now bolder (θρασύτερος) and drinks more wine, he ought to be more prone to hybristic assault, but in fact hits no-one (5.8.19). He also supports his appeal to his record by successfully co-opting his audience as witnesses (5.8.25–6). The effectiveness of a flexible approach is again evident in 7.6. Xenophon is once more in the dog-house, this time because of the failure of the Thracian dynast to pay the soldiers: tempers are running high, and one Arcadian speaks of wanting to see Xenophon stoned – in the Anabasis there is plenty of genuine dissent, and Xenophon has to find appropriate ways of dealing with it. Once again, he has to mount a defence, which he does in terms of his record, an argument again founded on a substantial element of narrative, but he also appeals more directly to the audience, not only through numerous rhetorical 23  Carey (1994) discusses the shaping of narrative to arouse prejudice (30–1) in a wider discussion of the exploitation of emotion (26–34). The implications of indiscipline for the army’s future prospects are of course a deliberative concern, underlined by a series of rhetorical questions (5.7.30–33, on which technique see below, n. 25). 24  Also helpfully discussed by Carey (1994) 34–43: see especially 38–43 on the manipulation of factual exposition; also ch. 4 above on the exploitation of narrative in forensic rhetoric. In a broader sense, this technique could be considered characteristic of Xenophon’s corpus as a whole, as Tuplin observes (1993, 168): “Xenophon very probably considered that ‘story-telling’ was the most effective method of persuasion in contexts other than the purely technical”; cf. also Gray (1989) on Hellenica and Grethlein (2012) on Anabasis, and the discussion of anecdotes below.

278

Brock

questions,25 but also in a personal and emotional appeal for sympathy (7.6.33– 6) which I think is unique in the work.26 One might think that Xenophon wants the readers to register the momentary loss of his habitual control and see him stretched near to breaking at this point: there is a striking contrast between his earlier identification of himself as a father figure at 5.8.18, in terms of parental authority, and in his peroration here in 7.6.38, where he reproachfully reminds the soldiers that “you used to call me father and promise always to remember me as a benefactor”.27 I would suggest, however, that in fact this is a calculated ploy and in practice Xenophon is being more artful than he seems. The key point here, I think, is that while he is speaking to the Ten Thousand, he is also addressing other audiences, particularly Seuthes himself: we are told in the narration that the Thracian ruler stood within earshot accompanied by an interpreter, though he had a decent knowledge of Greek himself (7.6.8–9). Everything that Xenophon says about Seuthes’ betrayal of friendship and his promises, and his own repudiation of the dynast in favour of the army, is calculated to shame him publicly before the army, and before the other indirect audience, the Spartans who have come to take the army over. At the same time, the presence of the Spartans also offers leverage on the army, to which Xenophon appeals at the close of his peroration: “the men who have come now to fetch you are not insensitive, and you will not raise yourselves in their eyes by treating me in this way” (7.6.38). Indeed, it is one of the Spartans who responds immediately in his support (7.6.39), and the ensuing discussion panics Seuthes’ shifty adviser Heracleides into making a swift exit with his master, while in the longer term, the army’s back pay is forthcoming.28 Consideration of audiences leads me to my final point, which has been implicit in much of what precedes, namely that beyond the internal audience or audiences, Xenophon as author always has an external audience of readers

25  Cf. the rhetorical questions at the end of his earlier defence in 5.7.32–3. On the use of rhetorical questions in his historical works: Cuniberti (2014). On the piling up of rhetorical questions in oratory: Serafim (2017a) 70–4. 26  The passage also appeals for gratitude (note the bitter irony of ὦ πάντων μνημονικώτατοι in 7.6.38): both kinds of appeal are again characteristic of forensic oratory. 27  As in the controversy over the colonial project in book 5, Xenophon’s self-presentation (ēthos) is crucial to his capacity to persuade the army and is once again complemented by an attempt to evoke feelings of shame in the audience (pathos). 28  The tactic may have been familiar from Xenophon’s upbringing: Lanni (1997) discusses the role of spectators as a secondary audience in the Athenian lawcourts. Compare also Serafim (2017a) 56–60 on the invocation of the gods as a secondary audience in oratory.

Public and Private Persuasion in Xenophon

279

in view as well.29 This is most conspicuous in Anabasis, where as a character he is keenly concerned with self-presentation, hence the inclusion even of a soliloquy at the moment of highest drama when he makes his formal entrance (3.1.13–14), but it is equally true of Cyropaedia, as we have seen from his close control of the use of speech to promote his didactic aims, in particular the use of dialogue form. In fact, it applies most of all to his use of “conversationalized narrative”: here the language is not markedly rhetorical, and there is no overt “lesson” for the participants; rather, these are instructive and revealing vignettes staged for the external audience and made vivid by the direct speech, especially when, as often, Xenophon shifts from indirect to direct speech for a telling “sound bite” to conclude the scene. This experience of observing public figures indirectly mirrors our contemporary experience: our perception of, and so information about, politicians comes to a very great extent from observing them through news media, and usually in less formal contexts. Even when they appear in more formal contexts such as in television interviews, it is the perception of the external audience rather than the internal outcome which really matters, and politicians have become expert at adjusting the register of their self-presentation according to context. The fact that Xenophon uses the same technique in presenting his hero in the Agesilaus shows that he knows exactly what he is doing here (and anticipates by about half a millennium Plutarch’s famous words at the beginning of his Alexander about the revelatory potential of a remark or a joke).30 To conclude: across his historical works Xenophon exemplifies the whole gamut of persuasive speech, from brief but telling remarks to set-piece orations, and he makes particularly effective use of dialogue, a natural cross-over from his Socratic works. There are marked affinities between his use of persuasive techniques and contemporary rhetorical theory and practice, but here too he demonstrates the effectiveness of a flexible approach and is willing to transcend conventional divisions and approaches and to operate pragmatically when the situation requires it, especially in the unprecedented circumstances of the Anabasis. In that work, and even more in the Cyropaedia, he also displays a shrewd appreciation of the importance of controlling access to 29  Compare ch. 7 above on Livy, though the dynamics are different when the events and actors concerned are well in the past. 30  Sound bites in Ages e.g. 7.5–6, 8.3 (intended for public consumption), 5.5 (exemplifying his self-control); significance of a phrase or joke: Plut. Alex. 1; cf. Xen. on the death of Theramenes: Hell. 2.3.56, Gray (1989) 26–8 and more generally 14–78 for Xenophon’s approach to this anecdotal material; Tamiolaki (2014) 128 notes “famous last words” as one of Xenophon’s innovations in direct speech.

280

Brock

the exercise of persuasive speech. In all his historical writing, there is a keen awareness that there may be multiple audiences for any utterance, both within and outside the text: not only may the original utterance need to be directed to multiple addressees, who may exert some influence on each other, but beyond the original occasion it retains the potential to instruct through its success or failure. Xenophon knows, and teaches his readers, that persuasion depends not only on the words said (and by implication the delivery which no text can replicate), but also on the wider context: who speaks, and on what terms, and, even more important, who is, or might be, listening.

chapter 17

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers: Witness Terminology S. C. Todd 1 Background1 Historians, like orators, have a vested interest in presenting persuasive versions of past events, and to fit the persuasion-across-genres theme of the volume, this chapter advances three propositions about ways in which ancient Greek historians deploy language about “witnessing”.2 [i] Use of such terminology deserves examination not simply within individual authors but throughout the corpus of historical writers (broadly defined), with an eye to variations over time and in different types of text. [ii] As well as similarities, there are also significant differences between orators and historians, particularly involving the nouns μαρτυρία/marturía and μαρτύριον/martúrion: these are not well distinguished e.g. in LSJ, and may reflect a tendency misleadingly to import modern juridical assumptions. [iii] The absence of witness-terminology in key passages, especially in contexts where modern translators find its use hard to resist, can be as revealing as its presence. Previous studies of such terminology have tended to focus on the earliest historians,3 which was my initial intention also when proposing a paper for the

1  In addition to the editors, and to other conference participants who suggested further lines of investigation (particularly Roger Brock, Chris Carey, Michael Gagarin and Judith Mossman), my thanks for bibliographical and other advice are due to John Barclay, Tim Cornell, James Corke-Webster, John Lacy, David Langslow, Peter Liddel, Steve Mason, Peter Morton and Caroline Petit. Some of the work for this chapter was supported by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (UK) under grant AH/M010017/1. 2  For reasons of space, no attempt is made here to discuss etymology and earlier use of such vocabulary, for which see e.g. Strathmann (1967 [1939]) 475; Trites (1977) 4. 3  E.g. Thomas on Herodotus (2002) 168–212, focusing on links also with contemporary intellectual discourses like medicine (for the relationship of fifth-century medicine and rhetoric, see Jouanna 2012 [1984]). Also Hornblower on Thucydides (1987) 73–109; Butti di Lima (1996) jointly on both historians. A notable exception is Marincola (1997), whose index locorum offers as much space to Josephus or Diodorus as to Thucydides (2 cols. each), and more to Polybius (3½ cols). For the separate tradition of NT work, see pp. 286–287 below.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_018

282

Todd

conference. What I had anticipated as distinctive was a juridical approach,4 examining various words with which lawcourt orators express claims about evidence or inference, and exploring primarily their use by historians claiming evidential authority; but also their occasional non-use, prompted by an aspect of Thucydides’ programmatic statements about historical method that has long puzzled me,5 viz. the claim to have checked his informants’ accounts, with an implied contrast between his practice of contemporary history and Herodotus’ reliance on oral tradition (in that you cannot usefully interrogate people about what their grandparents told them). For the modern reader, this sounds like a proposition about the distinctiveness of eyewitness evidence, which is how it is routinely translated; but it is less often observed that the passage does not actually use the juridical terminology of witnessing,6 but speaks of having gathered information from “others”, i.e. “those present”.7 This is a point to which we shall return at the end of the chapter (§5). As the project developed, it became clear that advantages were to be gained by extending its chronological and generic scope, to cover a wider group of ancient Greek writers operating within a broadly historiographical tradition. Reasons for this are both opportunistic (to expand the horizon when comparing linguistic distribution, which is an important part of my approach), but also functional (such writers are not often considered together, and as will emerge, there are interesting differences as well as similarities). A consequence, however, has been to enlarge the original project beyond the confines of a chapter. What is offered here, therefore, is a preliminary study focusing on one set of terms, i.e. μάρτυς/martus (“witness”) and its derivatives and cognates.8 4  The methodological justification being that it was the speeches of the orators (i.e. rather than Aristotelian rhetorical theory) that created the educational experience of élite writers such as historians. 5  Thus Todd (1990) 27, noting but not developing the discrepancy with Warner’s translation (cf. n. 7 below). 6  E.g. Grethlein (2011) 154, combining “eyewitnesses” with “envisages the historian as a judge who has to evaluate contradictory accounts”. 7  Thuc. 1.22.2–3: παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων … οἱ παρόντες. (Of standard Eng. translations, Crawley’s Everyman, Smith’s Loeb, and Hammond’s revised Penguin each use “eyewitnesses” for the second phrase, while Warner’s Penguin uses it for both.) Thuc. claims to have checked each detail with maximum accuracy (akribeia), which is plausibly glossed as “naturally, Thucydides cross-questioned oral informants” (Hornblower (1987) 77); cf. Lord Hanworth MR (quoted e.g. in Todd (1990) 21), expounding the role of cross-examination in common-law systems: “a powerful and valuable weapon for the purpose of testing the veracity of a witness and the accuracy and completeness of his story”. But witnesses in Athens were not cross-examined (cf. p. 296 below). 8  Terms deserving future study include: [i] βάσανος/basanos “torture” (in oratory “challenge to torture slaves for evidence”, but notable in the historians is the use of privative forms like

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

2

283

Some Raw Number Crunching

The historical texts selected for examination are listed in table 1 (end of the chapter).9 They range in chronological order over 700 years, from Herodotus in the mid/late fifth century BC to Eusebius in the early/mid fourth century AD. As a group, they push at the boundaries of the genre (hence “historical writers” in my chapter-title). This is a deliberate move, to allow broader comparison: both Pausanias and Plutarch, for instance, recount historical events from a perspective that at least in the latter case is explicitly not that of a historian.10 Another fringe figure though for different reasons is Eusebius, who writes within a historiographical tradition that is in some ways classical but in others very different, as illustrated by his readiness directly and with named attribution to quote large chunks of earlier writers.11 Table 1 presents information derived from TLG searches, and requires comment about both horizon and numbers. Following some preliminary but unsuccessful attempts to include fragmentary texts,12 selection is restricted to the extant works of each writer, omitting for convenience not just those classified as fragments by TLG,13 but also the epitomized books of Diodorus   ἀβασανίστως/abasanistōs “uncritically”, e.g. Thuc. 1.20.1, and several times in Dion. Hal., RA); [ii] εἰκός/eikos “probable/probability” (the phrase ἐκ τῶν εἰκότων/ek tōn eikotōn “on the basis of probabilities” occurs fifteen times in the orators, but only three times in my much larger sample of historical writers); [iii] σημεῖον/sēmeion “sign” with τεκμήριον/ tekmērion “proof/evidence” (Hornblower (1987) 101 notes that Aristotle’s use of these as terms with distinct meanings does not work for Thucydides, but there do seem to be differences in how later historical writers use them to present inferences drawn from material or linguistic remains). 9  Arrian’ Anabasis is omitted because it lacks martus terminology: this may be surprising (given the prefatory discussion of sources, and the accounts of trials e.g. in 3.26.1–27.3 [Philotas/Amyntas] and 4.14.2–4 [royal pages]), but a row of zeroes makes for unexciting tabulation. 10  “Not histories, but lives”: Plut. Alex. 1.2. (Plutarch refs. are given with Teubner sub-sections, even for those vol.3.2 Lives where TLG retains the older Loeb numeration.) 11  For Eusebius’ originality in quoting named sources en masse, see Mendels (2001) 201; for his consciousness of originality, Gonnet (2001) 193. Josephus may be a partial precedent, though his quotations are fewer and significantly shorter: this divergence from classical precedents is noted by Pucci ben Zeev (2006) 1, and may be linked with Josephus’ role in what Sterling (1992) 3 describes as “apologetic historiography”. 12  It can be hard to distinguish quotations from testimonia (statements in later authors, not necessarily using words from the target author, and sometimes claiming that the latter “witnesses to” a particular datum). 13  Figures for the orators, however, cover all attributed non-fragmentary works, i.e. including non-forensic speeches and without getting involved in (often subjective) judgments about authorship.

284

Todd

Siculus,14 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Appian, and Cassius Dio.15 An exception is Polybius, where this policy seemed over-restrictive, and I have omitted only two passages that are clearly testimonia.16 Also excluded, specifically for Diodorus and Eusebius, are chapter titles, since these may represent post-authorial additions to the text.17 In the orators, however, for which comparative figures are presented at the top of table 1, a compromise has been made for the lemmata (i.e. headline notes within a speech indicating that e.g. a law or witness testimony was read out).18 Here the figures have been excluded from the main count, i.e. the first item in the relevant box, but have been added in parentheses after the letter “L”.19 Since the function of table 1 is to identify broad patterns, I have not otherwise modified the raw figures even where I disagree with the editorial decisions of TLG’s chosen text, though the issue of textual variants is one to which we shall return.20 Conveniently for TLG searches, the primary noun μάρτυς/martus (“witness”, pl. μάρτυρες/martures) has a distinctive stem and few cognate forms. There are two derivative nouns (fem. μαρτυρία/marturía and neut. μαρτύριον/martúrion, on which see §3 below), two verbs (active μαρτυρέω/martureō, “I witness/testify” and middle μαρτύρομαι/marturomai, “I call on [somebody] to witness”),21 14  The significance of Diod. Sic.’s figures is necessarily affected by the debate over how closely he followed his sources, for which see e.g. Hau (2016) 120–2, on moral judgments, and Stronk (2016) 10–13, on narrative structure: for present purposes, the key issue is the extent of dependence in linguistic choices. 15  I.e., figures are for Diod. Sic., Books 1–5 and 11–20 (but not 6–10 or 21–40); for Dion. Hal. Rom. Ant., Books 1–11 (but not 12–20); for Appian, the bulk of Books 6–13 (but excluding 8b and 9a, as well as 1–5); and for Cassius Dio, Books 36.1.1–60.28.3 (i.e. excluding 1–35 and 60.28.4–80). 16  Polyb. 16.39.1 (Josephus AJ 12.135 citing Polybius as testifying in support of J.’s account), and 34.1.8 (Geminus reporting Polybius on the equator). 17  No examples in Diodorus’ chapter-titles, but those of Eusebius would add martus x6, martúrion x2, and martureō x9. Figures for Eusebius include quotations, for which see n. 11 above and in more detail n. 71 below. 18  Manuscripts of certain orators include purportedly quoted texts of laws and witness testimonies, though the latter are generally regarded as Hellenistic invention (and a strong case has been made against many of the former: Canevaro 2013). Such documents are therefore excluded from table 1: if included alongside the lemmata, they would increase by one the Demosthenic “L” figure s.v. martus, and would add x61 in total (comprising Aeschin. x3 and Dem. x58) to the column s.v. martureō. 19  On the change from oral to written evidence, cf. at n. 84 below. 20  E.g. the purported “L: 1” figure s.v. martúrion in Andoc. 1.112, for which see p. 286 below. 21  Marturomai, plus several compounds (e.g. Polybius’ frequent use of diamarturomai, cf. n. 24 below) is used by historians normally in speeches or authorial comments about a speaker. It implicitly requires an audience internal to the narrative (i.e. those being called on to witness), but can be used without grammatical object to mean, “make a solemn

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

285

one adjective (ἀμάρτυρος/amarturos, “unattested”, plus adverb), and various normally prepositional compounds.22 For convenience, a cumulative total of compounded forms is given where appropriate in table 1 as an additional parenthesis, this time after the letter “C”. Several such forms have technical meanings in Athenian law, and hence appear disproportionately in the orators.23 In the historical writers, by contrast, we find a much wider range of compounds, but few of them recur frequently enough to merit attention here.24 3

Close Reading [i]: marturía and martúrion

Given the methodological problems of tabulating word-frequency from TLG searches,25 it is large-scale disparities that deserve primary attention: e.g. the notable differences between genre, and to some extent also between authors, in the use of the derivative nouns μαρτυρία/marturía (fem.) and μαρτύριον/ martúrion (neut.). Grasping the nuances of these words is not easy, not least protest/formal declaration” (e.g. Dion. Hal. 10.41.2, Plut. Public. 23.6), in which case the link with witnessing has virtually disappeared. When specified, the internal audience can be either human (e.g. Plut. Lysand. 6.2, Appian BC 3.6.39) or divine (Joseph. BJ 6.127, Diod. Sic. 1.83.7), or explicitly both (e.g. Dion. Hal. 7.49.4, Plut. Alcib. 12.3). But insofar as such passages are aimed at internal audiences rather than external readers, the word is not generally used to support historiographical inference, and hence is included in table 1 for completeness rather than discussion. 22  Overwhelmingly derived from one or other verb, or from μαρτυρία, the sole exception being λιπομαρτύριον (Dem. 49.19). 23  In the orators, most commonly διαμαρτυρέω/diamartureō x57 (“give formal testimony e.g. that the opponent’s case is inadmissible”) and καταμαρτυρέω/katamartureō x53 (“testify against [sc. an opponent]”), i.e. accounting together for x110 of the “C:128” subtotal recorded for μαρτυρέω/martureō; the only significant compound of μαρτύρομαι/marturomai is διαμαρτύρομαι/diamarturomai (x19 of “C:22”); the most common compounds of μαρτυρία/ marturía are ψευδομαρτυρία/pseudomarturía x51 (“false testimony”, though cf. LSJ) and διαμαρτυρία/diamarturía x29 (cf. above), i.e. accounting together for x80 of “C:91” as the subtotal for the relevant column. 24  In the selected historical writers, the most frequent usages are διαμαρτύρομαι/diamarturomai (“solemnly protest/warn”, cf. n. 21 above: overall x20, of which Polyb. x10), and καταμαρτυρέω/katamartureō (“testify against”: overall x17, of which Plut. x14, with his Cicero alone accounting for x7). 25  Alongside problems discussed in §2 above, there are significant variations in the amount of text represented by each author. For the historical writers, this varies from c. 66K words for Xen. Hell., up to c. 387K for the selected books of Diodorus, and c. 498K for Plutarch’s Lives. Figures for rhetorical theorists and orators are smaller, with the only ones to exceed 60K words being Isocrates at c. 112K and Demosthenes at c. 273K. Since my aim is to distinguish extensive use from virtual non-use, it has not seemed worth calculating e.g. rate of usage per thousand words.

286

Todd

because the relevant entries in the LSJ lexicon (which is the obvious starting point) open with similar headline definitions, viz. respectively “testimony” and “testimony, proof”. To exacerbate this problem, the nom. + acc. plural form of the neuter noun – viz. μαρτύρια/martúria – happens to be identical in spelling (albeit different in accent and prosody) from the nom. singular of the feminine. One consequence is that standard treatments of relevant texts sometimes conflate the two. For instance, the entry “L:1” s.v. martúrion in the second row of table 1 is a false positive, resulting from TLG’s use of Dalmeyda’s Budé text of Andocides. The relevant lemma (Andoc. 1.112) is an editorial supplement, albeit reported as going back to the Aldine edition, but whereas most editors print ΜΑΡΤΥΡΙΑ in capitals (for μαρτυρία), Dalmeyda prints in lower case, but mis-accented as μαρτύρια (a form never used in the orators for a lemma). A similar problem can arise in more recent works of scholarship that transliterate Greek terms to enhance accessibility, where the reader may have to rely on context to determine which word is intended:26 hence the decision in this chapter to accentuate the transliterated forms of these two words. Some attempt to differentiate these terms is made in two specialist works on the linguistics of word-formation, both of which distinguish broadly but without detail between neut. martúrion as tending to denote fact or outcome and fem. marturía as tending to denote process or action.27 The difference has attracted attention also from scholars specializing in New Testament usage, in view of striking disparities in distribution between NT books.28 Of particular interest is a long article by Strathmann (1967 [1939]), which begins by discussing the use of martus and related terminology in non-biblical Greek (1967: 475–81, albeit with limited interest in orators or historians, and focusing on Aristotle and Epictetus). This article picks up the linguistic distinction previously suggested by Chantraine, and makes various useful points, e.g. that martúrion has “no special affinity to the sphere of the courts or the law generally” (1967: 477). But the English translation has some problems with the nuances of legal terms, which have detrimentally affected subsequent work in the field, at least in Anglophone scholarship. An example is the influential 26  Compare Hornblower (1987) 104 “tekmērion and marturia (another word for ‘evidence’, from a root meaning ‘witness’)”, with Thomas (2000) 169 “tekmēria (‘proof’ or ‘decisive evidence’) … marturia (‘evidence’, ‘testimony’)”. For the former, the pairing with sing. tekmērion suggests singular and hence fem. marturía; for the latter, the pairing with pl. tekmēria suggests pl. and hence neut. martúria. 27  Chantraine (1933) 56, discussing doublet nouns in -ιον and -ία: neut. as “le témoignage en tant que fait positif”, fem. as “le fait de porter témoignage”; Schwyzer (1939) 470, discussing forms in -ιον and in -εῖον: neut. as “Ergebnis”, fem. as “Vorgang”. 28  See for details Strathmann (1967 [1939]) 489.

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

287

treatment of New Testament martus by Trites, who states, rather puzzlingly, that “marturía has first of all an abstract meaning – ‘the bearing of a witness’ and then it also comes to designate the witness itself”, basing this apparently on an awkward usage by Strathmann’s translator.29 Another problem is that Trites’ analysis of witnessing in Athenian lawcourts is based substantially on Bonner and Smith (1930–38), who themselves drew on Bonner’s own work on the Athenian law of evidence (Bonner 1905). Although this remains a fundamental study of the topic (alongside Leisi 1908), it is not unproblematic, because an implied aim of Bonner’s work was to interpret Athenian legal institutions so as to fit the expectations of modern readers trained in Anglo-American common law.30 In contrast with LSJ’s tendency (noted at the start of §3) to elide any distinction between marturía and martúrion, the row recording subtotals in table 1 shows that Athenian orators collectively use marturía c. 440 times,31 but martúrion only six times (plus one purported lemma). The latter is of course an unmodified number, given the decision reported at n. 20 above to tabulate figures without questioning the editorial decisions of TLG’s chosen text. But in fact, as seen at p. 286 above, the purported lemma in this column is demonstrably an editorial error. Moreover, of the six headline cases, one is a contested conjecture, while two others have a complex textual history.32 Leaving aside such doubts, we may note that none of these six passages refers to witness testimony in the conventional sense, i.e. the words of 29  Quotation from Trites (1977) 10, phrased as if discussing personal demeanour: contrast Strathmann (1939) 478 “das Ablegen eines Zeugnisses, und dann auch das abgelegte Zeugnis selbst”, with the first phrase translated as “the bearing of witness” (1967) 475, i.e. presumably the act or process of bearing witness (=testimony). 30  As illustrated by his citing e.g. “Mantitheus v. Boeotus” (Bonner (1905) 82; Bonner and Smith (1930–38) ii: 119), like cases in a modern law report, with conventional references confined to footnotes. For Bonner’s modernising of Athenian hearsay rules, see n. 85 below. 31  There are in addition c. 250 in lemmata; cf. at n. 18 above and n. 84 below. 32  The martúrion reading in three passages is secure (Isae. 12.12; Dem. 39.30; also Lyc. 1.109, where textual problems do not affect this word). Of the others, the TLG (=Teubner) reading μαρτύρια… σαφέστερα at Isoc. 6.32 is Blass’ conjecture (in my view probably correct, cf. n.37 below, though Norlin’s Loeb accepts the ms reading, viz. fem. μαρτυρίαν … σαφεστέραν). Most interesting are Isae. 5.41 (where neut. μαρτύρια is Stephanus’ conjecture in place of ms fem. μαρτυρία: surely correct given that ἀνέθεσαν needs an object), and Ant. 5.15 (where the Crippsianus ms has μαρτύρια μέγιστα but the Oxoniensis has an initial reading of μαρτυρία μέγιστα corrected to μεγίστη: here the pre-correction neut. pl. adj. again strongly suggests that neut. μαρτύρια is the original reading); evidently a scribe familiar with oratory expects fem. marturía rather than neut. martúrion, to the extent of writing the former even where grammatically impossible.

288

Todd

a living person (particularly when submitted as a written text,33 for which the orators seem consistently to use marturía). Instead, they all refer to a fact or object or datum presented as supporting the speaker’s argument, so most translators have rightly rendered as “evidence” or “proof”.34 Three passages concern the legal significance of someone’s behaviour;35 two relate to a material object;36 and the sixth, though rendered as “testimony” in both Loeb and Texas translations, nevertheless refers not to witness statements, but to the purported evidentiary value of propositions advanced by the speaker himself.37 The early historians display a very different pattern, where the term used is never marturía and always martúrion.38 Herodotus uses the latter sometimes to report a sign or token transmitted by actors within his narrative, as memorial or validation or to persuade their intended audience;39 but more often evidentially, to discuss the relative plausibility of alternative accounts, either as presented by competing informants,40 or else to justify his own preferred hypothesis.41 Of interest here (because hard to capture in translation) is the often emphatic word order, sometimes with self-referential dative indicating support for the speaker’s or narrator’s version of events.42 For Thucydides, by

33  For the change from oral to written testimony in Athens, see n. 84 below. 34  Apart from Isoc. 6.32 (for which see n. 37 below), the only consistent exception is Lyc. 1.109, where standard translations use “testimony” (Loeb) or “testimonies” (Texas): not in context unreasonable, but “evidence” seems equally apposite given that an inscription could be envisaged as object or as speaking text. In Dem. 39.30, Texas uses “witness testimony”, but Loeb’s “evidence” more fittingly describes the actions of a now dead man (cf. n. 35 below). 35  The opponent’s allegedly unlawful actions in Ant. 5.15, the fact of the arbitrators’ decision against the opponents in Isae. 12.12, and the name under which the opponent had been introduced to the phratry by the speaker’s now dead father in Dem. 39.30. 36  Temple dedications in Isae. 5.41, an inscription in Lyc. 1.109. 37  Isoc. 6.32, hence my willingness to accept Blass’ conjecture (in n. 32 above). 38  Nine times in Herodotus (including three attestations in one passage), and six times in Thucydides. 39  Hdt. 8.55 (Poseidon’s and Athene’s tokens when contending for Attica, audience unspecified: cf. also Pausanias in n. 47 below); 5.92η.2 (Melissa validating authenticity of message to Periander, as reported in Socles’ speech); 4.118.4 (Scythian messengers’ speech inducing Ionians to revolt against Darius). 40  Hdt. 5.45.1–2 (used three times discussing rival accounts of Dorieus’ death). 41  Hdt. 2.22.2 (reasons for believing preferred version of why Nile floods); 7.221.1 (ditto Leonidas’ intentions at Thermopylae); 8.120 (ditto Xerxes’ route to Hellespont). 42  Start or near-start of sentence: μαρτύρια δὲ τούτων (Hdt. 5.45.1); πρῶτον μὲν καὶ μέγιστον μαρτύριον (2.22.2), μέγα δὲ καὶ τόδε μαρτύριον (8.120). Ditto plus dative: μαρτύριον δέ οἱ (5.92η.2); μαρτύριον δέ μοι καὶ τόδε (7.221.1). Similar use and placing of verb μαρτυρέω/martureō: 2.18.1 and 4.29.1 (both μαρτυρέει δέ μοι τῇ γνώμῃ: on the former, see Thomas 2000:

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

289

contrast, five of the six occurrences of martúrion occur within speeches,43 presumably reflecting his refusal to discuss alternative versions of contemporary events, so that techniques of persuasion are something he permits only for actors within his narrative. Strikingly, the other example occurs within the archaeologia, which is one context where he does acknowledge the role of inference in historiography.44 Of other writers in table 1 that use martúrion more than once or twice, Polybius’ eight instances comprise four reporting the views of characters within the narrative,45 and another four where it serves to support the historian’s own hypotheses.46 Pausanias’ eleven examples, by contrast, include only two cases of martúrion internal to the narrative.47 All the rest reflect historiographical inference: on four occasions by spoken or occasionally written informants to justify a contested claim;48 the remaining five introducing evidence for Pausanias’ own view, of which four use the dative μοι/moi to present the author’s own voice, perhaps consciously imitating Herodotus.49 Plutarch’s deployment of martúrion is somewhat different, since only three of ten instances 178); similar placing but different use in 8.94.4 (where the subject is not a datum but a body of opinion: μαρτυρέει δέ σφι καὶ ἡ ἄλλη Ἑλλάς). 43  Thuc. 1.33.1 (Corcyraeans in Athens); 1.73.3 (Athenian response to Corinthian delegates in Sparta); 3.11.4 (Mytilenaeans in Sparta); 3.53.4 (Plataeans addressing Spartan judges after surrender); 6.82.2 (Athenian Euphemus responding to Syracusan Hermocrates in Camarina). 44  Thuc. 1.8.1, presenting “Carian” burial customs on Delos as proof of early inhabitants’ ethnicity, with Herodotean sentence opening (μαρτύριον δέ, cf. n. 42 above). 45  Three in actual or virtual speeches: Polyb. 21.11.4 (letter from the Scipios), 22.3.9 (speech of Philopoemen), 27.7.9 (objections of Deinon). Also in Polyb.’s analysis of Roman attitudes to consular awards for valour (6.39.10). 46  Polyb. 1.20.13 (based on early Roman naval history), 2.38.11 (on constitutional details), 3.12.2 (on character of Hamilcar), 4.8.4 (on Aratus’ recent military successes). 47  Both relating to the contest for possession of Attica (for which cf. Herodotus in n. 39 above): Pausan. 1.26.5 (trident-mark said to be martúrion for Poseidon’s claim), 1.27.2 (olive said to be Athene’s martúrion). 48  Pausan. 3.26.6 (Messenians citing cult-statue as basis for claim to Leuktra), 10.4.4 (those who identify a statue in Panopeus as an image of Prometheus, citing presence of clay from which he fashioned mankind). Literary works cited as evidence: 8.25.8 (those who mis-identify image of Demeter Lousia, citing Iliad and Thebaid); 9.29.2 (historian Callippus, himself citing now lost verses of Hegesinus). 49  I.e., “the martúrion I have for this”: Pausan. 1.39.4 (Pandion’s grave as evidence for claim to Megarid), 1.41.6 (Alcathous’ wall as evidence for timing of his arrival in Megara), 3.16.9 (evidence for Tauric origins of Orthia statue), and 8.24.11 (silting of Maeander estuary as evidence for Echinades islands). The one exception is 8.41.9 (evidence for timing of plague in Phigalea, where the sentence again begins μαρτύρια δέ, but with no dative). For Pausanias’ extensive use of Herodotus, esp. in literary citations, see Ambaglio (1991).

290

Todd

present historiographical inference, based on details of the tradition or on onomastics and ritual or on literary testimonia.50 More commonly, perhaps reflecting his interest as moral biographer, he uses it to present evidence of a moral or personal characteristic as perceived either by himself or by others, or to illustrate a moral dictum.51 4

Close Reading [ii]: martus, martureō (and a Bit More marturía)

Use of the agent-noun martus by early historians, Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, is relatively rare and is in each case confined to contexts involving actors in the narrative.52 In Herodotus, such witnesses are deployed normally by those seeking to persuade an internal audience about past events,53 albeit one such passage may be aimed also at buttressing Herodotus’ version of events for his external audience.54 Speakers in Thucydides, however, are generally more ready to cite witnesses in an explicit attempt to influence the internal audience’s decisions about the future,55 though the frequency with which 50  Plut. Public. 19.8 (Porsena’s gift to Cloelia cited as evidence by those claiming that she alone crossed river on horseback); Thes. 27.7 (place-name Horcomisium etc. as Plutarch’s evidence for ending of Amazon war); Thes. 32.7 (use by historian Hereas of epic fragment as evidence for killing of Alycus). 51  Moral or personal characteristic as perceived by Plutarch: Alcib. 4.1 (Socrates’ love as evidence of Alcibiades’ aretē); Coriol. 39.6 (indictment as evidence of gratitude owing to him); Comp. Demet. & Ant. 1.4 (Antony’s weaknesses as evidence of his greatness). Ditto as perceived by others: Pomp. 64.7 (Pompey regarding Tidius Sextius’ arrival as evidence of legitimacy of his own cause); Lycurg. 31.6 (Euripides’ supporters regarding lightning strike on his tomb as evidence presumably of divine honour). Moralising dictum, the second attributed to one of Plutarch’s characters: Galb. 1.4 (year of four emperors as evidence of Platonic dictum about the importance of good commander); cf. perhaps Sertor. 4.4 (S’s statement about decorative insignia as evidence of brave deeds). 52  For Herodotus’ use of martureō as a synonym for martúrion, see n. 42 above; the verb is not found in Thucydides; Xenophon uses it once, but in a quasi-judicial narrative (Astyochus testifying against Tissaphernes, Hell. 1.1.31). 53  Hdt. 6.65.4 (Leotychidas’ attack on Demaratus’ paternity, citing ephors as witnesses), 7.52.1 (Xerxes to Artabanus, citing those who campaigned against Scythians), 7.233.2 (Thebans’ plea to Xerxes, with Hdt. commenting that Thessalians testified to its truthfulness). 54  Hdt. 8.65.6 (Dicaeus’ repeated reporting of claim to have seen omen before Salamis, citing Demaratus and other martures). 55  Six of Thucydides’ seven uses of martus occur within speeches (1.37.2 [Corinthians in Athens], 1.73.2 and 1.78.4 [Athenians in Sparta], 2.71.3 [Plataeans to Archidamus and his army], 4.87.2 [Brasidas in Acanthus], 6.14.1 [Nicias to assembly]), while the other is from his account of the Pylos debate (4.28.3). Three them invoke the gods as witnesses of the opponents’ anticipated future misbehaviour (1.78.4, 2.71.4, 4.87.2), making them virtually equivalent to marturomai (for which see n. 21 above).

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

291

he has them cite the gods in this context may be a gesture of cynicism on his part. In Xenophon, the term occurs only in accounts of trials or speeches.56 By contrast, historical writers from Polybius onwards begin to deploy martus (plus the verb martureō, and occasionally its compounds) not simply to justify their own claims about the past,57 but explicitly when citing previous writers (sometimes with quotation) as authority for particular assertions.58 Polybius himself uses martus only twice (never martureō) in this sense, both times disparagingly, when criticizing previous writers’ use of literary sources.59 Subsequent writers are generally more positive and more frequent, with the only exceptions in table 1 being Appian and Cassius Dio.60 But there are some interesting divergences between authors, and one notable similarity. In Diodorus, for instance, this use of martus itself is applied only to Homer, always either in reported speech or in discussion of earlier writers’ citation habits, and each time accompanied by adjectives buttressing the poet’s reputation and/ or credibility.61 Diodorus, however, is significantly more ready to use martureō and compounds when presenting his own view, and applies it also to other 56  Twice in Xenophon’s account of the Arginusae trial (in the narrative at Hell. 1.7.6, and in Euryptolemus’ speech at 1.7.32, both referring to the battle, i.e. past events), and once in a Corinthian envoy’s speech at Athens (6.5.41, witnesses to how the audience will vote). 57  For a possible if tenuous precedent, cf. Herodotus on Dicaeus and Demaratus (in n. 54 above). 58  Admittedly this is not their only deployment: Polybius for instance uses them in contexts of litigation (e.g. 5.16.7), diplomacy (e.g. 32.1.1), and repeatedly in his account of guard-duty (6.34.9, 6.36.1, etc.); the prominence of the Conflict of the Orders in the extant books of Dion. Hal. may explain why 20 of his 31 uses of martus relate to litigation (7 of them in Verginia’s case in 11.28–40). Plutarch displays a particular fondness for marturía to explain Roman juridical testimony (Public. 8.8, Mar. 5.8, Caes. 4.1, Cat. Min. 19.7, 48.8, and cf. an anecdote about Lucullus in Cim. 2.1), presumably with the aim of clarifying this for a Greek audience. 59  Polyb. 4.40.2 (inappropriate to use poets and mythographers as martures about the unknown, as predecessors did), 12.13.4 (criticising Timaeus’ use of insignificant comic poet Archedicus as martus). 60  And perhaps Josephus, who cites previous writers in this way occasionally in the Jewish Antiquities (Nicolaus as martus in AJ 13.250, with martureō used of Polybius and Strabo in AJ 12.135 and 13.286 respectively), and esp. in the Contra Apionem (martus used of e.g. Berossus in CA 1.129, Manetho in CA 1.227, Homer in CA 2.155, “numerous Greek historians” in CA 2.228): for witness-vocabulary used in this text as if bringing previous authors into court, see Barclay (2007) xxxi; for other juridical metaphors, Inowlocki (2005) 272–273. The nearest equivalent in the Jewish War is the claim of “innumerable martures” for the siege of Jerusalem (BJ 6.200), but this is a contemporary event, hence presumably living informants rather than literary testimonia. 61  Diod. Sic. 3.2.3 (reporting the attitudes of earlier historians), 16.23.5 and 16.56.7 (speeches by two Phocian commanders to justify seizure of Delphi during third Sacred War, each introducing a Homeric quotation).

292

Todd

authors, albeit with poets and especially Homer predominant.62 Dionysius of Halicarnassus uses martus once of Homer in terms similar to those reported in Diodorus (“most credible and most ancient”, albeit in his own voice), but also of the genealogist Pherecydes, while he uses martureō in this sense twice, both referring to poets; he does also use marturía, but not of named literary authors.63 In Plutarch, use of martus as literary testimonium serves frequently to justify editorial choice,64 claiming to follow the most or most reliable martures (normally anonymous, versus unspecified rival versions), though once with passing acknowledgment of a variant account in a named author.65 By contrast, when naming the target author or identifying him as part of a group, he typically employs martureō.66 Pausanias occasionally uses martus in this sense, and much more frequently martureō, both of them overwhelmingly when citing Homer or occasionally other archaic poets:67 notable is Pausanias’ 62  Diod. Sic. uses martureō etc. of Homer (including Hymns) in 1.19.4, 3.66.3, 3.67.3, 4.2.4, 4.49.7; of Hesiod in 5.66.6; of Orpheus in 1.12.4; of Euripides in 20.41.6; of “many poets” in 12.14.1; of Carcinus etc. in 5.5.1; and once disparagingly “no credible historian” in 1.29.6. His use in this context of compounds (prosmartureō in 1.12.4, 3.67.3, 4.49.7, epimartureō in 5.66.6) seems unique. 63  Martus in Dion. Hal.: used of Homer (Rom.Ant. 7.72.3), Pherecydes (1.31.1). Martureō: “Homer and the most ancient of the poets” (2.12.4), Sophocles (1.12.1, μαρτυρεῖ μοι/marturei moi, “testifies for me”: for the self-referential use of μοι/moi here, cf. Pausanias in n. 49 above and n. 68 below). Marturía: “the marturíai of men not deserving disbelief” (1.90.2), “many irrefutable marturíai” (7.70.2), “the marturíai of the sacred and secret books” (11.62.3: i.e. sibylline oracles, presumably regarded as documentary text). 64  Schettino (2014) discusses implied as well as explicit literary citations in Plutarch in detail, though focusing on the authors cited rather than on the terminology of citation. 65  Plutarch claiming to give version of “numerous and credible martures” or “the most martures” or “so many martures”: Coriol. 38.4, Thes. 31.2, Romul. 3.1, Peric. 31.2, Sol. 27.1. Following anonymous majority of martures but acknowledging Simonides as dissentient: Lycurg. 1.7. 66  Plutarch citing e.g. Homer (Thes. 25.3, 34.1), Archilochus (Thes. 5.2), Aristotle (Sol. 11.1), Daimachus (Comp. Sol. & Public. 4.1), Polybius (Aratus, 38.12), Demosthenes plus comic poets (Alcib. 10.4), “some Greek historians” (Lycurg. 4.8), “no few of the credible [authors]” (Alex. 26.2). Two other notable passages: martureō used again of Archilochus, but with event cited as attesting truth of poetic proverb, rather than poet testifying to event (Mar. 21.7); marturía used once of literary testimonium (Telecleides, Nic. 4.4). Unlike those in n. 65 above, four of these passages introduce quotations (Thes. 5.2, 34.1, Nic. 4.4, Mar. 21.7), while others use reported speech. 67  Pausanias twice uses martus of Homer (6.25.3, 9.5.10, both introducing quotation), once of Sappho (8.18.5, “Lesbian poetess” rather than named, not quoted). He uses martureō ten times of Homer (1.12.5, 2.21.10, 2.26.10, 9.5.7, 9.36.3, 9.38.8 each introducing a quotation, 3.3.8, 4.36.5, 8.22.1, 8.41.2 without), twice of other archaic poets (Tyrtaeus in 4.6.5, Hesiod as “author of Great Eoeae” in 9.40.5, each with quotation), once Hellenistic ditto

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

293

fondness for third singular μαρτυρεῖ/marturei followed by dative μοι/moi or similar, perhaps consciously reinforcing his own use of μαρτύριον μοι/martúrion moi (for which see n. 49 above).68 Leaving aside individual differences in citation patterns, undoubtedly the most striking similarity here is the prominence of early poets, particularly Homer. This may both reflect, and also help explain, a puzzling feature of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, viz. that his discussion of martures, which is presented within a systematic analysis of five categories of forensic evidence (laws, witnesses, contracts, torture-challenges, oaths) begins by distinguishing between “ancient” and “recent” witnesses, with preference for the former, who turn out to be poets and famous sages.69 This certainly implies that use of martus to denote an earlier author is familiar by Aristotle’s date. But Homer in particular cannot have been regarded as evidence contemporary with events, since the memorialization of a distant past is intrinsic to the poetic persona: it follows that this usage of martus, both for Aristotle and for historical writers, cannot fundamentally carry the connotations of the English term “eye-witness”, but is closer to citing an “authority”.70 My final author is Eusebius, who deserves individual treatment for several reasons. One is the previous observation (n. 11 above) that his text incorporates extensive quotations from earlier works.71 Perhaps more significant, however, is his interest in Christian martyrology, which explains a high proportion (Hermesianax, 7.18.1, without), and twice of texts that are apparently inscriptions (10.7.6, quotation, and 6.12.8 “elegiac verses”, without). Marturía used once, of an inscription (5.10.2, with quotation). 68  The precise phrase μαρτυρεῖ δέ μοι is found as a literary testimonium in Pausan., 1.12.5, 2.21.10, 4.36.5, 9.5.7, 9.38.8 (and in non-literary contexts also in 1.23.3, 1.37.2, 2.26.8, 4.6.5, 6.4.6, 8.42.8, 10.7.6). Other literary testimonia using μαρτυρεῖ and μοι but with variations of phrasing: 2.26.10, 3.3.8, 9.36.3. 69  Arist. Rh. 1.15.13 = 1375b26–29. For an alternative reading of this passage, focusing on its wider context, see Vatri at pp. 301–302 below. Michael Gagarin draws my attention to Thucydides’ non-use of martus-language when citing Homer in the archaeologia (1.3.3, 1.9.4, 1.10.3), and suggests that it may be a post-Thucydidean and perhaps Aristotelian coinage. 70  Strathmann (1967 [1939]) 477, cited at p. 286 above, discussing Thuc. 1.8.1, regards it as an exceptional feature of martúrion that “any recollection that the stem word originally belonged to the legal sphere, esp. trials, has now completely faded”: if martus is glossed as “eyewitness” (though see pp. 295–296 below), the same would apply here. 71  Of Eusebius’ 118 uses of martus recorded in table 1, for instance, 30 occur within such quotations (including 19 in a single document, viz. the account of the martyrs of Lyons & Vienne), as do 24 of his 56 uses of martureō, and 17 of 50 uses of marturía, though only 4 of 44 uses of μαρτύριον/martúrion.

294

Todd

of his martus-terms. For Eusebius, martúrion typically denotes the act of martyrdom,72 and marturía the martyr’s behaviour as testimony or example.73 But he does use martus, marturía and occasionally martureō (though not martúrion) for written sources. Here, he tends to deploy martus when citing an earlier author in the conventional manner of post-classical historians, i.e. as evidence for a given version of events;74 and the same applies to his occasional use of martureō.75 By contrast, some (though not all)76 of Eusebius’ marturía references seem to be playing the authority game in reverse or at second hand, i.e. citing a later author as evidence for the authority that he accorded to earlier texts.77

72  Cf. e.g. his frequent association of μαρτύριον/martúrion with verbs like τελειόομαι/teleioomai “I am fulfilled/perfected” (Euseb. HE 2.22.2, 4.15.1, 6.3.13, 6.39.1, 7.11.26, all in his own voice). 73  Cf. marturía used to highlight the impact on bystanders (Euseb. HE 2.23.2, 2.23.14) or to celebrate it as glorious example (HE, 6.39.3, 6.43.20): again, all in his own voice. 74  Eusebius using martus of literary testimonia: HE 1.6.9 and 1.9.4 (Josephus for dates of Jesus’ birth and death), 1.12.4 (Paul for number of early disciples), 2.4.1 (Josephus for Caligula’s treatment of various Herods), 3.16.1 (Hegesippus for affairs in Corinth), 3.23.2 (Irenaeus and Clement as particularly reliable martures), 3.32.2 (Hegesippus for martyrdom of Symeon), 4.14.5 (Polycarp more reliable than Valentinus and Marcion), 5.5.5 (Tertullian for Thundering Legion story), 6.19.1 (contemporary philosophers for Origen’s achievements), 8.10.1 (Phileas for martydroms in Alexandria). In quotations: HE 3.6.20 (quoting Josephus, BJ 6.200, though the latter’s martures here may be non-literary, cf. n. 60 above). 75  Martureō used in this sense by Eusebius: HE 2.17.15 (Philo testifies to ascetic abandonment of property), 3.4.8 and 3.4.9 (statements about Crescens and Clement as testified by Paul), 3.9.3 (Josephus testifies to having written BJ both in Greek and in his native language). 76  Eusebius using marturía as conventional literary testimonium: frequently introducing named quotation as e.g. “Philo’s marturíai” (HE 2.17.15, cf. pl. used of Paul in 2.22.3, and sing. of Josephus in 3.10.8); once arguing that OT angelic appearances can be proved by many marturíai (HE 1.2.11); once referring to documentary rather than literary evidence (marturía from the archives in Edessa, HE 1.13.5). 77  Marturíai (typically pl.) used by Eusebius as evidence for cited author’s attitude to authority of earlier text: HE 3.39.17 (Papias citing marturíai from 1 John and 1 Peter), 3.3.2 (no orthodox writer citing Acts of Peter, etc.), 4.14.9 (Polycarp citing 1 Peter), 4.24.1 (Theophilus citing Revelation), 5.8.7 (Irenaeus citing Revelation and 1 John), 5.8.9 (Irenaeus frequently citing Justin and Ignatius), 5.18.4 (Apollonius citing Revelation), 6.13.6 (Clement citing disputed writings, including e.g. Wisdom of Solomon, etc.); cf. 3.24.18 (debate over authorship of Johannine texts illustrated by “the marturía of the ancients”).

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

5

295

Non-use of Language

We return finally to a puzzle noted at the outset: the non-use of martus-language in a context where translators expect it, i.e. Thucydides’ programmatic statement about having rigorously tested first-hand informants, with the natural inference that this involved cross-questioning them.78 Thucydides of course is not the first person to realize the importance of the historian’s own autopsy, which is a point emphasized also by Herodotus (references in n. 82 below), though Thucydides differs in insisting that real historical knowledge is possible only about contemporary events.79 Nor is he the only historian so to justify his subject matter. Polybius similarly (and probably imitating Thucydides) emphasizes his presence at some events and use of first-hand informants for others: for the latter, he admittedly varies the terminology (“those who had seen” rather than “those present”), but more striking for our purposes is the fact that this passage too does not employ either martus or its cognates.80 As a possible explanation, Trites seeks to distinguish language from ideas, saying of both the Thucydides and the Polybius passages that “the idea of witness is prominent, though the word is not used”.81 But the absence of martus-language from both passages invites further consideration, not least because when Herodotus chooses to emphasize the extent or limits of either his own or his informants’ first-hand knowledge, the word he uses is not martus but typically αὐτόπτης/autoptēs, lit. “personally seeing”.82 So I suggest we should instead emphasize not so much the similarities but the differences between ancient Greek martus and modern “eyewitness”. This is an approach 78  Thuc. 1.22.2–3 (discussed at n. 7 above). 79  For the impossibility of real knowledge about events before his lifetime, cf. e.g. Thuc. 1.1.3. 80  Polyb., 4.2.2–3: claim to have been present (αὐτοὺς ἡμᾶς παραγεγονέναι, cf. Thuc.’s αὐτὸς παρῆν); “heard from those who had seen” (παρὰ τῶν ἑωρακότων ἀκηκοέναι). Unlike Thucydides, for whom this is only implied, he explicitly uses the quasi-legal terminology of hearsay to criticize alternative methods (ὡς ἀκοὴν ἐξ ἀκοῆς γράφειν, “[to include earlier events would be] like writing akoē on the basis of akoē”). For Herodotus’ use of akoē, see n. 82 below; for its significance in the orators, see n. 86 below. 81  Trites (1972) 14. 82  Used of himself: Hdt. 2.29.1 (autoptēs as far as Elephantine, but akoē/hearsay beyond this: similar uses of akoē in 1.171.2, 2.123.1, 2.148.6, and cf. 4.16.1 below). Lack of autoptēs informant: 3.115.2 (for existence of river Eridanus); 4.16.1 (for land of Hyperboreans). His choice of language here, i.e. autopsy rather than testimony, is emphasized by Butti di Lima (1996) 130–1. On autopsy in Herodotus, Thucydides, and earlier writers, see generally Marincola (1997) 63–8, albeit occasionally using “eyewitness” terminology; Baron (2009) 9, 12 uses “eyewitness” when discussing Polybius’ book 12 critique of Timaeus, but referring apparently to phrases involving autoptēs (e.g. in 12.4c.4, 12.4d.2, 12.28a.4).

296

Todd

to the Greek term which I proposed some decades ago, when discussing the function of witnesses in Athenian lawcourts (Todd 1990). By no means all the suggestions proposed in my (somewhat contentious) 1990 chapter have been universally accepted,83 but nobody to my knowledge has challenged the emphasis on two related features of Athenian legal procedure that differ significantly from Anglo-American practice: first, that witnesses in an Athenian court deliver prepared statements rather than being exhaustively examined and cross-examined after the manner of Anglo-American courtroom drama; and secondly, that the primary narrator in an Athenian court is not the witness but the orator/litigant, periodically calling witness testimony to confirm his account. It is worth noting here that until some date in the 380s BC,84 witnesses were called to speak their own words and could presumably therefore have been interrogated in court, though no orator actually cross-examines; after that date, the witness was expected to affirm a text drafted for him apparently by the orator, i.e. giving the latter substantial control over its wording. This does not mean that Athenian lawcourts saw no association between witnessing and knowledge, though I have some reservations about attempts to argue that this will necessarily have presupposed presence at an event,85 or about attempts to match the Athenian concept of ἀκοή/akoē with common-law rules restricting hearsay to very limited circumstances.86 On this basis, despite possible inconsistency in giving such priority to a statement from the rhetorical 83  For specific criticisms, see e.g. Mirhady (2002) 261 n. 27, objecting that the evidence of Hdt. 2.18.1 and Thuc. 1.8.1 was “at least equivocal”; for broader methodological criticism, see Carey (1994a) 184 n. 31, noting that the absence of Athenian jurisprudence may lead us to exaggerate differences between modern theory and ancient practice. Broadly supportive, but seeking to develop the contrast between public and private trials: Rubinstein (2005) 101. 84  The later rule is stated explicitly e.g. in Dem. 45.44, whereas there is one earlier case of a witness being questioned but on a non-contentious matter (Andoc. 1.14): the date rests primarily on changing formulae for introducing witness testimony (and in the relevant lemmata, from martus/martures to marturía, cf. n. 33 above): details in Bonner (1905) 46–7 and Leisi (1907) 85–91. 85  Thus Mirhady (2002) 262 with n. 32, citing Isae. 3.19–20 as programmatic statement, but this is more a justification for using bystanders (τοῖς παραγενομένοις) to attest legal transactions in the absence of more authoritative witnesses (e.g. reliable friends), rather than a theory of first-hand knowledge. 86  Thus Bonner (1905) 20–5, noting the general principle that akoē was restricted to statements by the dead (e.g. Dem. 57.4), but focusing primarily on dying declarations and family history (i.e., categories permitted by common law, to which Leisi (1908) 95 rightly adds Chaerephon in Plato, Apol. 21a7–8), and tending to over-interpret certain passages (e.g. Bonner (1905) 20, citing Andoc. 1.116, where Callias’ inability to name his alleged informant becomes “[a case] which failed because it was supported only by hearsay evidence”).

The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers

297

theorists, I am tempted to conclude with Anaximenes’ definition of marturía as “a willing corroboration by someone who has knowledge”:87 as if what he is envisaging is not so much a primary informant, but instead somebody who is prepared publicly and authoritatively to back your version of events. table 1

Frequency of martus-terminology

C5/C4 orators μάρτυς martus

μαρτυρία marturía

μαρτύριον μαρτυρέω μαρτύρομαι ἀμάρτυρος martúrion martureō marturomai amarturos

Antiphon 45 (L:10) Andocides 7 (L:7) Lysias 76 (L:47) Isocrates 26 (L:8) Isaeus 105 (L:31) Aeschines 30 (L:0) Demosthenes 306 (L:50)

23 (C:10) 6 (C:0) 30 (C:6) 13 (C:4) 118 (C:32) 27 (C:7) 392 (C:65)

1 (C:0) 0 (C:0) 1 (C:0) 0 (C:0) 0 (C:1) 0 (C:2) 1 (C:19)

0 0 0 0 0 1 4

Hyperides Lycurgus Dinarchus Subtotal

7 (L:0) (C:0) 1 0 (L:0) (C:2) 0 (L:1) 3 (L:1) (C:1) 0 1 (L:1) (C:0) 1 62 (L:36) (C:27) 2 32 (L:16) (C:3) 0 323 (L:192) 1 (C:1) (C:57) 3 (L:0) 3 (L:1) (C:1) 0 5 (L:0) 7 (L:4) (C:0) 1 5 (L:0) 3 (L:2) (C:0) 0 604 (L:153) 441 (L:253) 6 (L:1) (C:91)   (C:1)

7 (C:0) 0 (C:0) 1 (C:2) 0 (C:0) 1 (C:2) 1 (C:0) 618 4 (C:22) (C:128)

0 0 0 5

C4 rhetorical theorists

μάρτυς

μαρτυρία

μαρτύριον

μαρτυρέω

μαρτύρομαι

ἀμάρτυρος

Anaximenes, Rhet. Alex. Aristotle, Rhetoric

16

7 (C:1)

0

4 (C:2)

0 (C:0)

0

14

6 (C:1)

3

9 (C:1)

0 (C:0)

0

87  [Rh. Al.] 15.1.1 (= 1431b20): μαρτυρία δέ ἐστιν ὁμολογία συνειδότος ἑκόντος (tr. Mirhady, in Mayhew and Mirhady 2011). For the risk of inconsistency, compare my reservations about using Aristotle as a starting-point (and by extension other fourth-century rhetorical theorists) in n. 4 above. The more we acknowledge a gap between the legal concept of martus and first-hand knowledge, the easier it becomes to explain its historiographical use to denote literary “authorities” (at n. 70 above).

298 table 1

Historical writers

Todd Frequency of martus-terminology (cont.)

μάρτυς

Herodotus 4 Thucydides 7 Xen., Hell. 3 Polybius 15 Diod. Sic. 9 Dion. Hal., 31 Rom. Ant. Josephus, 10 Jewish War Plutarch, Lives 29 Appian 9 Pausanias 9 Cassius Dio, 4 Hist. Rom. Eusebius, 118 Eccl. Hist. Subtotal 248

μαρτυρία

μαρτύριον

μαρτυρέω

μαρτύρομαι

ἀμάρτυρος

 0  0 (C:1)  0  4  3  7

9 6 1 8 1 1

4 0 (C:1) 1 (C:2) 6 (C:5) 17 (C:6) 26 (C:5)

1 (C:2) 2 (C:1) 0 (C:2) 3 (C:16) 3 (C:6) 5 (C:6)

0 1 0 0 0 2

 2

0

1 (C:0)

4 (C:1)

0

12 (C:2)  3  2  2 (C:1)

10 0 11 2

68 (C:23) 11 (C:3) 22 (C:0) 4 (C:9)

20 (C:7) 8 (C:1) 0 (C:0) 1 (C:0)

0 0 0 0

50

44

56 (C:10) 3 (C:8)

1

85 (C:4)

93

216 (C:64) 50 (C:50)

4

chapter 18

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt: How to (Re)cite It and How to Recognize It Alessandro Vatri 1

Quotations and Their Historical Reliability

The extant corpus of fourth-century Attic speeches contains 29 verbatim quotations of poetry (Table 1) across the speeches of Aeschines and Lycurgus, as well as Demosthenes’ On the Crown and On the False Embassy. All of these speeches were given at public, political trials.1 Quotations often cluster within limited sections of a speech and range in size from about half a hexameter to a fifty-five-line tragic rhēsis. All consist of recitative, non-sung narrative or gnomic/didactic verse from the epic tradition, fifth-century tragedy, elegy and epigrams.2 These quotations – especially the longer ones – could have been added to the published version of the speeches.3 This, however, would imply substantial revision, since the quotations are immediately relevant to the argument and integral to the rhetorical strategy of the speaker.4 In fact, several clues point to the fact that they reflect an authentic practice and, in some cases, are genuine (that is, that they must have been made as they appear in the written texts). A passage from Ar. Vesp. 579–80 is often cited in this connection: κἂν Οἴαγρος εἰσέλθῃ φεύγων, οὐκ ἀποφεύγει πρὶν ἂν ἡμῖν ἐκ τῆς Νιόβης εἴπῃ ῥῆσιν τὴν καλλίστην ἀπολέξας And if Oeagrus comes to court as a defendant, he won’t get off till he chooses the best speech from [Aeschylus’ or Sophocles’?] Niobe and recites it for us. Tr. Henderson (1998)

1  Scodel (2007) 134. 2  Perlman (1964) 163. 3  Rowe (1972) 442 n. 6 4  Wilson (1996) 312.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_019

300 table 1

Aeschines

Demosthenes

Lycurgus

Vatri Poetic quotations in Attic oratory

1.128 1.128 1.129 1.144 1.148 1.149 1.150 1.151 1.152 2.144 2.158 3.135 3.184

Il.Paru. fr. 27 Bernabé (doubtful)a Eur. fr. 865 Nauck2 =TrGF V Hes. Op. 763–4 Hom. Il. 18.324–9 Hom. Il. 18.333–5 (≠ vulgate) Hom. Il. 23.77–91 (≠ vulgate) Hom. Il. 18.95–9 (≠ vulgate) Eur. Sthen. fr. 672 Nauck2 = 661 TrGF V 24–5 Eur. Phoenix fr. 812 Nauck2 = TrGF V Hes. Op. 763–4 Hes. Op. 240–1 Hes. Op. 240–5 Epigram (stoa of the Herms), “Simonides” fr. 40b Page 3.184 Epigram (ibid.), “Simonides” fr. 40c Page 3.185 Epigram (ibid.), “Simonides” fr. 40a Page 3.190 Epigram (heroes from Phyle), anon. fr. 114 Page

18.267 Eur. Hec. 1 18.267 Trag. Adesp. fr. 122 Nauck2 = TrGF II 18.289 Epigram (Chaeronea), anon. fr. 126 Page (spurious) 19.243 Hes. Op. 763–4 19.245 Eur. Phoenix fr. 812 Nauck2 = TrGF V 19.247 Soph. Ant. 175–90 19.255 Solon Eunomia (fr. 4 West) 92 100 103 107 109 109 132

Trag. Adesp. fr. 296 Nauck2 = TrGF II Eur. Erechtheus (fr. 50 Austin, 360 Nauck2) Hom. Il. 15.494–9 Tyrtaeus fr. 10 West Epigram (Thermopylae) “Simonides”, fr. 22 Page Epigram (Marathon) “Simonides”, fr. 21 Page Trag. Adesp. fr. 297 Nauck2 = TrGF II

hex 3ia hex hex hex hex hex 3ia 3ia hex hex hex eleg.

2 feet + -⏑ 1 line 2 lines 6 lines 3 lines 18 lines 5 lines 2 lines 9 lines 2 lines 2 lines 6 lines 4 lines

S* S S S C† C C S S S S S S

eleg. 4 lines eleg. 6 lines eleg. 4 lines

S S C

3ia 1 line 3ia 1 line eleg. 10 lines

S S C

hex 3ia 3ia eleg.

2 lines 3 lines 16 lines 39 lines

S S C C

3ia 3ia hex eleg. eleg. eleg. 3ia

4 lines 55 lines 6 lines 32 lines 2 lines 2 lines 2 lines

S S S S S S S

*S = Delivered by the speaker †C = Read by the clerk a Fisher (2001) 268-9 and Carey (2000) 67 n. 140 suspect that this sequence was made up by Aeschines.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

301

This passage may be interpreted in at least two ways. We can either believe that Aristophanes refers to a real case and to the actual integration of dramatic recitation in Oeagrus’ defence speech,5 or we can read this as a sarcastic allusion to the penchant of the Athenian judges for theatrical entertainment.6 Possibly, Aristophanes alleges that dramatic performance could be accepted and even requested by the judges as a bribe of sorts.7 As Slater remarks, the assumption that Aristophanes relates a real episode is “plausible but not necessary”.8 Indeed, if this passage mocks judges presenting them as theatregoers, it need not be taken as factual evidence of the practice of quoting in the lawcourt. With a passage from Arist. Rh. 1.15 1375b26–76a7 we are on firmer ground: περὶ δὲ μαρτύρων, μάρτυρές εἰσιν διττοί, οἱ μὲν παλαιοὶ οἱ δὲ πρόσφατοι, καὶ τούτων οἱ μὲν μετέχοντες τοῦ κινδύνου οἱ δ’ ἐκτός. λέγω δὲ παλαιοὺς μὲν τούς τε ποιητὰς καὶ ὅσων ἄλλων γνωρίμων εἰσὶν κρίσεις φανεραί, οἷον Ἀθηναῖοι Ὁμήρῳ μάρτυρι ἐχρήσαντο περὶ Σαλαμῖνος, καὶ Τενέδιοι ἔναγχος Περιάνδρῳ τῷ Κορινθίῳ πρὸς Σιγειεῖς, καὶ Κλεοφῶν κατὰ Κριτίου τοῖς Σόλωνος ἐλεγείοις ἐχρήσατο, λέγων ὅτι πάλαι ἀσελγὴς ἡ οἰκία· οὐ γὰρ ἄν ποτε ἐποίησε Σόλων εἰπεῖν μοι Κριτίᾳ πυρρότριχι πατρὸς ἀκούειν. περὶ μὲν οὖν τῶν γενομένων οἱ τοιοῦτοι μάρτυρες, περὶ δὲ τῶν ἐσομένων καὶ οἱ χρησμολόγοι, οἷον Θεμιστοκλῆς ὅτι ναυμαχητέον, τὸ ξύλινον τεῖχος λέγων. ἔτι καὶ αἱ παροιμίαι, ὥσπερ εἴρηται, μαρτύριά εἰσιν, οἷον εἴ τις συμβουλεύει μὴ ποιεῖσθαι φίλον γέροντα, τούτῳ μαρτυρεῖ ἡ παροιμία, μήποτ’ εὖ ἔρδειν γέροντα, καὶ τὸ τοὺς υἱοὺς ἀναιρεῖν ὧν καὶ τοὺς πατέρας, νήπιος ὃς πατέρα κτείνας υἱοὺς καταλείπει. Witnesses are of two kinds, ancient and recent; of the latter some share the risk of the trial, others are outside it. By ancient I mean the poets and men of repute whose judgements are known to all; for instance, the Athenians, in the matter of Salamis, appealed to Homer9 as a witness, and recently the inhabitants of Tenedos to Periander of Corinth against the Sigeans. Cleophon also made use of the elegiacs of Solon against Critias, to prove that his family had long been notorious for licentiousness, otherwise Solon would never have written: 5  MacDowell (1971) 210. 6  Cf. Perlman (1964) 158; Hall (1995) 45. 7  Cf. Slater (2002) 35–6, 93. 8  Slater (2002) 93. 9  Cf. Hom. Il. 2.557–8, cf. Plu. Sol. 10, D.L. 1.2.48.

302

Vatri

“Bid me the fair-haired Critias listen to his father.” (fr. 18 Diehl = 22a West). One should appeal to such witnesses for the past, but also to interpreters of oracles for the future; thus, for instance, Themistocles interpreted the wooden wall to mean that they must fight at sea. Further, proverbs, as stated, are evidence; for instance, if one man advises another not to make a friend of an old man, he can appeal to the proverb, Never do good to an old man. And if he advises another to kill the children, after having killed the fathers, he can say, “Foolish is he who, having killed the father, suffers the children to live.” (Stasinus Cypria fr. 33 Bernabé) Tr. Freese (1926)

Here, Aristotle describes the persuasive function of poetic quotations as he suggests that poets can be cited as witnesses to remote times, as if they authored historical documents: this is how Solon used the Iliadic catalogue (Il. 2.557–8) in the Salamis affair (cf. Plu. Sol. 10 and D. L. 1.2.48) and how Cleophon used Solon against Critias.10 Moreover, (gnomic) poets could also be cited as moral and sapiential authorities and repertoires of maxims and proverbs. The use of poetic quotations in Attic oratory conforms to the ends described by Aristotle. For instance, Aeschines quotes metrical inscriptions as historical documents that only happen to be poetic (and not qua poetry),11 and so does Lycurgus with epitaphs. Arguably, the poetic form itself encourages such a reading of epigrams: their monumentality depends on their being formally remote from ordinary “speech” besides their content.12 Aeschines quotes lines of Hesiod (Op. 240–5) both as a maxim that applies to the current situation (2.158) and as an “oracle [χρησμόν] about Demosthenes’ policy” (3.136), just as Aristotle mentions. By contrast, tragedy is used as a source of statements about, and examples of, moral conduct,13 which transcends the observations of Aristotle. Quotations are also the basis of intertextual exchanges. Apart from Demosthenes’ mention (19.245) of Aeschines’ recitation of Euripides (in 10  Grimaldi (1980) 326–7. 11  Scodel (2007) 147. 12  Nagy (1990) 33–5. 13  Scodel (2007) 137.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

303

Aeschin. 1.152), these orators discuss the same passage of Hesiod (Op. 763–4) in a number of speeches: first Aeschines (1.129), then Demosthenes in the prosecution (19.243) and Aeschines in the defence speech (2.144) for the embassy affair two years later. In principle, this exchange might have existed only in published versions of the speeches. If this were the case, Demosthenes would have needed to access a written copy of Aeschines’ Against Timarchos and, after delivering his own embassy speech, he would have decided to engage in an indirect, entirely written agōn.14 After Demosthenes’ speech was circulated, Aeschines would have decided to counter-reply in his own published embassy speech. This scenario is rather convoluted. Demosthenes only appears to quote poetry in response to Aeschines,15 not to mention the fact that quoting poetry must have been a conceivable rhetorical strategy. Displaying implausible tactics in the written version of a speech would be of little use if the speech were to be used as a model or to promote the political views of the orator.16 Overall, it is likely that poetic quotations were actually made in the Attic lawcourts and that at least some of the preserved ones are authentic. Unlike laws, decrees and testimonies, which were normally left out of the written text of speeches and were sometimes added by later editors, quotations were probably included in the text by the author. The Homeric passages read by the clerk in Aeschines’ Against Timarchos, for instance, present different readings from the vulgate and it is implausible that an ancient editor selected a “deviant” text to fill in blanks in Aeschines’ speech.17 Moreover, quotations tend to appear in the earliest manuscript families transmitting the speeches. A notable exception is the spurious epigram for the fallen at Chaeronea cited by Demosthenes (18.289). This does not appear in the most important manuscripts (Parisinus, Monacensis and Laurentianus)18 but the quotation was certainly made, as is shown by the fact that Demosthenes comments on the epigram and re-cites line 9 (probably the only genuine one)19 immediately after the epigram was to be read. However, the quoted text must have been different from what ended up in the current version of the speech.

14  Olding (2007) 168 n. 52. 15  Cf. MacDowell (2000) 29. 16  Olding (2007) 169. 17  Martin and Budé (1928) 70 n. 1. 18  However, the elegy for Salamis, too, is missing from the Parisinus and almost completely from the Monacensis. 19  Cf. Page (1981) 432–5; Yunis (2001) 270.

304 2

Vatri

Persuasion through Quotation

If persuasion can be understood as a communication process by which “messages” are submitted to a target audience for the purpose of influencing it in a specific context,20 the ancient remarks on, and practice of, quoting suggest that the identity of the original sender of the message (i.e. the author of the quoted text) was perceived as part of the “message” itself. Now, the identity of the sender is a situational feature of a quotation qua communicative act and transcends its informational content or linguistic form. This implies that the persuasive effect of quotations was not only due to their form and content, but was entailed to a large extent by the very act of quoting. From this perspective, quotations may be construed as “special” speech-acts that differ from the rest of the text in that the speaker and the sender of the verbal/linguistic message do not correspond. As we shall see, much in the persuasive effect of quoting depended precisely on how clearly such a difference was marked in communication, and on whether or not such markedness was timely and appropriate in a specific communicative context: markedness itself could convey different meanings, but not necessarily those that the speaker intended to convey. Let us now focus on the contribution of quotations to oratorical strategy. Scholars have discerned a number of ways in which such “special” speech acts are used by Attic orators to bring about persuasive dynamics: – Stories and examples from poetry are appealing and influential (cf. Lycurg. 102, see Perlman 1964: 161 and 167); they enliven the speech and have an “inspired” character (cf. Ober and Strauss 1992: 251). Their rhetorical effectiveness is indicated by the fact that even a non-quoter like Demosthenes tends to respond to those made by Aeschines. (Wilson 1996: 315, MacDowell 2000: 29) – Quotations are sometimes used to counter arguments that the speaker anticipates the opponent will put forward (e.g. Aeschin. 1.125 [anticipation] and 129 [response], Lycurg. 90 [anticipation] and 92 [response], cf. Perlman 1964: 164). – Quotations can highlight the opponent’s misbehaviour against an illustrious example or a sapiential maxim (e.g. D. 19.248–9, D. 19.254, cf. Perlman 1964: 166, MacDowell 2000: 306).

20  Cf. the introduction to this volume.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

305

– Orators may use quotations to give advice to the judges; Aeschines (1.152– 3), for instance, presents the tragic character he quotes as a model for the judges (cf. also Lycurg. 102, see Perlman 1964: 166). – When legal evidence is scanty, general arguments may be drawn from poetry; so for instance Aeschines (1.128–9) on the divinity of rumour (φήμη) and, in general, the quotations through which Lycurgus accuses Leocrates (see Perlman 1964: 167, Wilson 1996: 312). On the latter point, Perlman observes that giving quotations for a clerk to read adds to their authoritativeness – as it were, they are sanctioned as legal documents.21 As we shall see, this does not account satisfactorily for the facts. Nor does it seem that this practice would save the speaker time, as scholars have argued. It is true that the clepsydra would be stopped when depositions were read,22 but this only applied to private cases (Arist. Ath. 67.3).23 Moreover, there is no visible relation between the length of a quotation and its assignment to the clerk (see Table 1). Orators occasionally appear self-conscious about quoting poetry (cf. Lycurg. 102, Aeschin. 1.141),24 since this would leave them vulnerable to a number of allegations. As we have seen, Demosthenes (19.243) accuses Aeschines of using poetry because he lacks witnesses and turns his quotations against him.25 Familiarity with poetry could also make the orator look like a well-educated snob (Aeschin. 1.141): ἐπειδὴ δὲ Ἀχιλλέως καὶ Πατρόκλου μέμνησθε καὶ Ὁμήρου καὶ ἑτέρων ποιητῶν, ὡς τῶν μὲν δικαστῶν ἀνηκόων παιδείας ὄντων, ὑμεῖς δὲ εὐσχήμονές τινες καὶ περιφρονοῦντες ἱστορίᾳ τὸν δῆμον, ἵν’ εἰδῆτε ὅτι καὶ ἡμεῖς τι ἤδη ἠκούσαμεν καὶ ἐμάθομεν, λέξομεν τι καὶ περὶ τούτων. ἐπειδὴ γὰρ ἐπιχειροῦσι φιλοσόφων ἀνδρῶν μεμνῆσθαι καὶ καταφεύγειν ἐπὶ τοὺς εἰρημένους ἐν τῷ μέτρῳ λόγους, θεωρήσατε ἀποβλέψαντες, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, εἰς τοὺς ὁμολογουμένως ἀγαθοὺς καὶ χρηστοὺς ποιητάς, ὅσον κεχωρίσθαι ἐνόμισαν τοὺς σώφρονας καὶ τῶν ὁμοίων ἐρῶντας, καὶ τοὺς ἀκρατεῖς ὧν οὐ χρὴ καὶ τοὺς ὑβριστάς.

21  Perlman (1964) 167. 22  Dorjahn (1927) 92; Wilson (1996) 325 n. 10. 23  Cf. Rhodes (1981) 722; MacDowell (2000) 23 n. 69; Olding (2007) 161. 24  Cf. Rowe (1972) 442. 25  Cf. Perlman (1964) 166, 171–2; Ford (1999) 250.

306

Vatri

But since you speak of Achilles and Patroclus and of Homer and other poets, as though the judges are men without education, and represent yourselves as impressive figures whose erudition allows you to look down on the people, to show you that we have already acquired a little knowledge and learning, we, too, shall say something on the subject. For since they see fit to talk about wise men and take refuge in tales told in verse, look at the poets, men of Athens, who are acknowledged to be noble and edifying and see how great a distance they perceived between decent men, lovers of their equals, and those whose love is illicit, men who recognize no limits. Tr. Carey (2000)

While the orator should avoid giving the impression of being better educated than the judges,26 he must not underestimate the audience.27 When quoting, Aeschines sides with his listeners as the champion of the “common education”28 against his erudite “posh” opponents and presents himself as someone who is compelled to talk about poetry. Speakers should choose accessible passages with which the listeners would conceivably be acquainted – Homer and tragedy most probably ticked this box29 – and their own public persona would justifiably be acquainted.30 Aeschines’ familiarity with Euripides’ Phoenix exposes him to Demosthenes’ accusation of being a sophist and a logographer (as well as a tritagōnistēs, D. 19.246–7 and 250),31 when orators like himself and Lycurgus (e.g. at 102) would rather present themselves as schoolmasters – educated but not pretentious, nor elitist individuals acting as “ventriloquists” for the “core” poets of the common paideia and able to provide “a democratic riposte to a patronizing litterateur”.32 The mode of delivery adopted by the orator could also make him vulnerable to his opponent’s attacks. Much as Athenian audiences enjoyed drama, actors were not always well regarded (cf. Arist. Pr. 30.10 956b10–12).33 As Serafim remarks, their interpersonal skills (cf. Aeschin. 2.15) could be used profitably 26  Perlman (1964) 156–7; Ford (1999) 250–1. 27  Cf. Ober and Strauss (1992) 251–2. 28  E.g. ἡμεῖς τι ἤδη ἠκούσαμεν καὶ ἐμάθομεν “we have picked up a thing or two” (1.141), in Ford’s (1999) 252 translation. 29  One can also compare Lycurg. 106 on Tyrtaeus (τίς γὰρ οὐκ οἶδε), cf. Ober and Strauss (1992) 251–3. Aristotle’s remark that only a minority of Athenians were acquainted with tragic materials (Poet. 9 1451b23–6) only means that plots and characters were not necessarily based on well-known mythological stories; see e.g. Yoon (2012) 2. At any rate, this remark is hardly to be taken at face value, see Lucas (1972) 123. 30  Cf. Scodel (2007) 141; Bers (2009) 38; Yunis (2001) 260. 31  Cf. Duncan (2006) 65; Serafim (2017a) 82–4. 32  Ford (1999) 253. 33  Cf. Duncan (2006) 61.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

307

by the polis “to cajole, mislead or deceive foreigners, thereby securing the best interests of Athens”, but they would raise suspicion when deployed in domestic politics.34 Histrionics were certainly considered entertaining, but they could ultimately make the speaker look insincere. Demosthenes plays on this sentiment as he portrays Aeschines as a bad and manipulative actor.35 He indirectly contrasts Aeschines’ recitation of poetry with that of Solon (D. 19.252) and openly lampoons his lawcourt histrionics and use of tragedy and the “tragedic” (which could range from fully-fledged recitation of drama to the adoption of any combination of tragic “vocabulary, phraseology, or delivery”).36 Demosthenes once (18.267) sarcastically invites Aeschines to read some of the lines he used to butcher and puts on Aeschines’ persona as he plies him with a sequence of citations:37 τὰς τῶν λειτουργιῶν μαρτυρίας ὧν λειτούργησα ὑμῖν ἀναγνῶ· παρ’ ἃς παρανάγνωθι καὶ σὺ μοι τὰς ῥήσεις ἃς ἐλυμαίνου, ἥκω νεκρῶν κευθμῶνα καὶ σκότου πύλας καὶ κακαγγελεῖν μὲν ἴσθι μὴ θέλοντά με, καὶ κακὸν κακῶς σε μάλιστα μὲν οἱ θεοί, ἔπειθ’ οὗτοι πάντες ἀπολέσειαν, πονηρὸν ὄντα καὶ πολίτην καὶ τριταγωνιστήν. Λέγε τὰς μαρτυρίας. And now let me read to you the evidence of the public burdens which I have undertaken; and side by side with them, do you, Aeschines, read the speeches which you used to murder, “I leave the abysm of death and gates of gloom,” (E. Hec. 1) and “Know that I am not fain ill-news to bring,” (adesp. fr. 122 TrGF II = Nauck2) and evil in evil wise may you be brought to perdition, by the gods above all, and then by all those here present, villainous citizen, villainous third-rate actor that you are. Read the evidence. Tr. Pickard-Cambridge (1912)

34  Serafim (2017a) 81. 35  Cf. Perlman (1964) 166; Duncan (2006) 60. 36  Bers (2009) 30–1. 37  Yunis (2001) 259; Scodel (2007) 134.

308

Vatri

Similarly, in the Embassy speech (19.189) Demosthenes takes Aeschines off, claiming that he goes around playing the tragedy as he laments Demosthenes’ betrayal of their sympotic fellowship: ‘ποῦ δ’ ἅλες; ποῦ τράπεζα; ποῦ σπονδαί;’ ταῦτα γὰρ τραγῳδεῖ περιιών “But what of the salt? What of the table? What of the libations?” That is his tragic lament … Tr. Yunis (2005)

The quotation that Demosthenes puts in Aeschines’ mouth contains no tragic vocabulary38 and is neither metrical nor recognisably iambic.39 It would appear that it is the dramatization of delivery, not the fact that tragedy is quoted, that qualifies the orator as an untrustworthy actor. In his Embassy speech, Aeschines (2.17) reminds the judges that Demosthenes did not despise the actor Aristodemus, whom he nominated for a crown.40 Arguably, a more effective strategy to counter this kind of attacks would have been the one adopted by Demosthenes himself – to have the quotations read, with the clerk as a spokesman (as indicated by the switch from the first person of ἀναγνῶ to the third person of λέγε at 18.267 quoted above).41 The only quotations that Demosthenes delivers personally are those already made by Aeschines – as his duty to respond would command – and those by which he scorns him (18.267). The repetition and analysis of quotations made by the opponent reminds of an anecdote told by Xenophon (Mem. 1.2.56):42 ἔφη δ’ αὐτὸν ὁ κατήγορος καὶ τῶν ἐνδοξοτάτων ποιητῶν ἐκλεγόμενον τὰ πονηρότατα καὶ τούτοις μαρτυρίοις χρώμενον διδάσκειν τοὺς συνόντας κακούργους τε εἶναι καὶ τυραννικούς, Ἡσιόδου μὲν τὸ ἔργον δ’ οὐδὲν ὄνειδος, ἀεργίη δέ τ’ ὄνειδος· τοῦτο δὴ λέγειν αὐτόν, ὡς ὁ ποιητὴς κελεύει μηδενὸς ἔργου μήτ’ ἀδίκου μήτ’ αἰσχροῦ ἀπέχεσθαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ ταῦτα ποιεῖν ἐπὶ τῷ κέρδει.

38  The items mentioned by Demosthenes are “symbols of fellowship at dinner and the symposium”; MacDowell (2000) 284; cf. Archil. fr. 173 West. 39  Cf. Bers (2009) 30–1. 40  Cf. Duncan (2006) 68. 41  Cf. Duncan (2006) 67. 42  Cf. Hall (1995) 45, Dorjahn (1927) 85 n. 10, Scodel (2007) 133.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

309

Again, his accuser alleged that he selected from the most famous poets the most immoral passages and used them as evidence in teaching his companions to be tyrants and malefactors: for example, Hesiod’s line: “No work is a disgrace, but idleness is a disgrace.” (Hes. Op. 309) He was charged with explaining this line as an injunction to refrain from no work, dishonest or disgraceful, but to do anything for gain. Tr. Marchant (2013)

The prosecutors accuse Socrates of perverting the meaning of a line of Hesiod. If they quoted the line during the actual hearing, as they probably would, this would not qualify as a “rhetorical” quotation. In other words, a quotation of this kind is not made as reinforcement to the argument or to contribute to the persuasive strategy of the accusation. No appeal to the authority of poetry is made, nor is any dramatized recitation to be envisaged – this episode rather resembles an exercise of literary criticism43 in public. The misinterpretation of the quotation is simply presented as a crime to be exposed, much in the same way as Demosthenes turns Aeschines’ quotations against him. On his part, Aeschines does not take advantage of the clerk for this purpose but mostly resorts to having him read the passages of Homer quoted in Against Timarchos. Dorjahn surmises that Aeschines leaves Homer for the clerk to read in order to prompt him to recite from memory and to highlight both Homer’s popularity and the clerk’s learning, which would amount to an “anti-snobbery” measure of sorts.44 However, the only passages assigned to the clerk are the “aberrant” ones – those whose text does not correspond to that of the vulgate. According to Sanz Morales, such an “alternative” text is not the work of Aeschines but simply the version with which he was familiar.45 According to Olding, instead, the fact that the only Homeric quotation personally delivered by Aeschines himself is the only one whose text corresponds fully to the vulgate indicates that Aeschines manipulated the text and probably used the clerk to authenticate it as an authoritative one.46

43  Cf. for instance the discussion of a line of Simonides (fr. 37 Page) in Plato’s Protagoras (343c–e). 44  Dorjahn (1927) 92. 45  Sanz Morales (2001). 46  Olding (2007) 156. Fisher (2001) 292–3 and Carey (2000) 73 n. 153 also believe that the text was manipulated.

310 3

Vatri

Persuasion through Form and/or Content?

If poetry was quoted for its historical and moral value, what it said – its gnōmē (Aeschin. 3.136) – evidently mattered. Poetry could be paraphrased, as in the following passage (Aeschin. 1.147): … λέγει ὅτι ‘οὐκέτι περὶ τῶν μεγίστων, ὥσπερ τὸ πρότερον, καθεζόμενοι μετ᾽ ἀλλήλων μόνοι ἄπωθεν τῶν ἄλλων φίλων βουλευσόμεθα’ … he says: “No more will we, as before, sit together apart from our other friends and deliberate on the most serious matters”. Tr. Carey (2000)

cf. Il. 23.77–8: οὐ μὲν γὰρ ζωοί γε φίλων ἀπάνευθεν ἑταίρων βουλὰς ἑζόμενοι βουλεύσομεν Never more in life shall we sit apart from our dear comrades and take counsel together. Tr. Murray (1924–5)

As Aeschines’ practice indicates, it is possible for paraphrases and direct quotations to appear in the same passage. More examples are found in Plato’s Apology of Socrates, which, admittedly, need not be faithful to actual forensic practice in this respect. In the following passage (Ap. 28c) a few lines of the Iliad are paraphrased and only one is directly quoted (and interrupted by φησί): ἐπειδὴ εἶπεν ἡ μήτηρ αὐτῷ προθυμουμένῳ Ἕκτορα ἀποκτεῖναι, θεὸς οὖσα, οὑτωσί πως, ὡς ἐγὼ οἶμαι· ‘ὦ παῖ, εἰ τιμωρήσεις Πατρόκλῳ τῷ ἑταίρῳ τὸν φόνον καὶ Ἕκτορα ἀποκτενεῖς, αὐτὸς ἀποθανῇ – αὐτίκα γάρ τοι,’ φησί, ‘μεθ’ Ἕκτορα πότμος ἑτοῖμος’ – ὁ δὲ τοῦτο ἀκούσας τοῦ μὲν θανάτου καὶ τοῦ κινδύνου ὠλιγώρησε. When his mother (and she was a goddess) said to him, as he was eager to slay Hector, something like this, I believe, “My son, if you avenge the death of your friend Patroclus and kill Hector, you yourself shall die; for straightway, after Hector, is death appointed unto you;” he, when he heard this, made light of death and danger. Tr. Fowler (1914)

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

311

Cf. Il. 18.94–6: τὸν δ᾽ αὖτε προσέειπε Θέτις κατὰ δάκρυ χέουσα· ‘ὠκύμορος δή μοι τέκος ἔσσεαι, οἷ’ ἀγορεύεις αὐτίκα γάρ τοι ἔπειτα μεθ’ Ἕκτορα πότμος ἑτοῖμος.’ Then Thetis again spake unto him, shedding tears the while: “Doomed then to a speedy death, my child, shalt thou be, that thou spakest thus; for straightway after Hector is thine own death ready at hand.” Tr. Murray (1924–5)

In another passage (Ap. 34d), Socrates quotes a Homeric expression without repeating the entire line from which it is extracted. Interestingly, the expression would still fit in a hexameter (⏑-⏑⏑-⏑⏑--): καὶ γὰρ τοῦτο αὐτὸ τὸ τοῦ Ὁμήρου, οὐδ’ ἐγὼ ‘ἀπὸ δρυὸς οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης’ πέφυκα ἀλλ’ ἐξ ἀνθρώπων. For I am, as Homer has it, ‘not born of an oak or a rock,’ but of human parents. Tr. Fowler (1914)

Cf. Od. 19.163 οὐ γὰρ ἀπὸ δρυός ἐσσι παλαιφάτου οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης For thou art not sprung from an oak of ancient story, or from a stone. Tr. Murray (1919)

A similar manipulation of quoted material is visible in a passage of Demosthenes (19.249): οὐκ ἀναμνησθεὶς ὅτι ‘ἥδ᾽ ἐστὶν ἡ σῴζουσα καὶ ταύτης ἔπι’ τελοῦσα μὲν ἡ μήτηρ αὐτοῦ … Not remembering that “this is the ship that saves and on this” (Soph. Ant. 189), his mother, performing her rites …

312

Vatri

Cf. Soph. Ant. 188–90 … τοῦτο γιγνώσκων ὅτι ἥδ᾽ ἐστὶν ἡ σῴζουσα, καὶ ταύτης ἔπι πλέοντες ὀρθῆς τοὺς φίλους ποιούμεθα Knowing this that this is the ship that saves and sailing this on a straight course we make friends. Here, Demosthenes recites a full line that had only just been read by the clerk (D. 19.247). The line is syntactically incomplete and Demosthenes embeds it in the syntax of his own sentence,47 imitating the original context. The very mixture of paraphrases and direct quotation suggests that the poetic form also played a role in the rhetorical effectiveness of a quotation. 4

Recognizing Quotations

If the form did matter, it follows that a poetic quotation had to be recognizable as such in order to serve its rhetorical purpose. This would probably be automatic with well-known quotations (as perhaps in Pl. Ap. 34d) or the first line of Euripides’ Hecuba (in D. 18.267); in other cases, the vocabulary and/or the metre could have this effect. However, sometimes listeners could be misled. Boegehold, for instance, observed that the phrase δυοῖν καδίσκοιν κειμένοιν (Lycurg. 149) corresponds to two-thirds of an iambic trimeter (cf. Eur. Erechteus fr. 362 TrGF V = Nauck2: δυοῖν παρόντοιν πραγμάτοιν) and argued that it could be a poetic quotation.48 Likewise, the series of quotations that Demosthenes unleashes on Aeschines in On the Crown (18.267) ends with a sequence (κακὸν κακῶς σε […] οἱ θεοί […] ἀπολέσειαν) that several scholars identify as part of an iambic trimeter.49 Meineke put it into relation with a similar sentence from Athenaeus (Ath. 4.33 Kaibel: κακὸν κακῶς σε, ἔφη, ὦ Αἰγύπτιε, ἀπολέσειαν οἱ θεοί) and reconstructed a full trimeter,50 which was included in Nauck’s collection of fragments of tragedy as an adespoton (fr. 123 Nauck2: κακὸν κακῶς 47  An example of what Hermogenes calls παρῳδία (Meth. 447.17–448.2 Rabe), see Pontani (2009) 406–7. 48  Boegehold (1985). This idea was refuted by Worthington (2001). Cf. Pontani (2009) 408–14 on a similar case of “hidden” comic trimeter. 49  For example: Goodwin (1904) 165; Wankel (1976) 2.1167–8; Yunis (2001) 260; Canfora (2000) 187 n. 104; Pontani (2009) 402–4. 50  Meineke (1843) 7.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

313

σε γ’ ἀπολέσειαν οἱ θεοί). The sequence occurs elsewhere in Demosthenes and has several parallels in tragedy; however, it is also common throughout Greek comedy and appears already in Homer.51 This sequence could be a colloquial expression in classical Greek (not necessarily only in Attic) and there is no need to look for a deconstructed trimeter in Demosthenes’ passage.52 Such false trails raise a real question. Let us imagine, for the sake of argument, that the phrase δυοῖν καδίσκοιν κειμένοιν was a poetic quotation that Lycurgus strangely omitted to introduce properly, as Boegehold contends. As Bers remarks, it takes more than a few words to “explicitly set off [a quotation] from the speaker’s own language”.53 Apart from the iambic rhythm of the sequence (which, arguably, is not sustained enough to be recognized as markedly regular) there is nothing intrinsically poetic about these three words – neither the vocabulary, nor a morphological feature like the oblique dual in ‑οῖν. In the fourth century, this form is in the process of disappearing from inscriptional Attic but is still found in texts dating to the 330s and is used by both Lycurgus and the other orators.54 Either this snippet was famous and immediately recognizable to the audience, or it needed to be marked off as a quotation in some other way. Boegehold conjectures that gestures could serve this purpose55 – a solution rejected by Worthington,56 who rightly wonders “whether a simple gesture (if indeed [Lycurgus] made any movement) would have alerted [the judges] to a quotation”. Given that the iambic sequence in Lycurgus is most probably not a quotation, how would real ones be marked off from the rest of 51  Tragedy: Soph. OT 248: κακὸν κακῶς νιν ἄμορον ἐκτρῖψαι βίον. Soph. Aj. 1177: κακὸς κακῶς ἄθαπτος ἐκπέσοι χθονός. Soph. Aj. 1391: κακοὺς κακῶς φθείρειαν. Soph. Phil. 1369: ἔα κακῶς αὐτοὺς ἀπόλλυσθαι κακούς. (fr. 697 Nauck2 = TrGF IV 764: ×- κακῶς σὺ πρὸς θεῶν ὀλουμένη, Nauck reconstructs ). Eur. Cyc. 268–9 κακῶς οὗτοι κακοὶ / οἱ παῖδες ἀπόλοινθ’. E. Med. 805: κακὴν κακῶς. Eur. Med. 1386: κακὸς κακῶς. Eur. Tro. 449: κακὸς κακῶς. Eur. Tro. 1055–6: κακῶς κακὴ. Comedy: Ar. Eq. 2–3 κακῶς… κακὸν / ἀπολέσειαν οἱ θεοί. Ar. Eq. 189 = 190 = Lys. 162: κακὰ κακῶς. Ar. Nu. 554: κακὸς κακῶς. Ar. Pl. 65: εἰ μὴ φράσεις γάρ, ἀπό σ’ ὀλῶ κακὸν κακῶς. Ar. Pl. 118: ἐγὼ γὰρ ὑμᾶς ἐξολῶ κακοὺς κακῶς. Ar. Pl. 879: τοὺς συκοφάντας ἐξολεῖ κακοὺς κακῶς. Eub. fr. 116.1–2 Kock: κακὸς / κακῶς ἀπόλοιτ’. Men. Epit. 424–5: κακὸν κακῶς / ὁ Ζεὺς ἀπολέσαι. Men. Dysc. 220–1: κακὸν / κακῶς ἅπαντες ἀπολέσειαν οἱ θεοί. Men. Dysc. 926–7: κακὸν δὲ / κακῶς ἅπαντες ἀπολέσειαν οἱ θεοί. Homer: Il. 16.111 κακὸν κακῷ. Od. 17.217 κακὸς κακόν. Demosthenes: 21.204, εἶτα θαυμάζεις εἰ κακὸς κακῶς ἀπολεῖ; 32.6 κακὸς κακῶς ἀπώλετο. Others: Hippon. fr. 126.3 Degani κακόν (reconstructed). Luc. ITr. 38: σὲ κακὸν κακῶς ἐπιτρίψαντες. Luc. Pseudol. 24: κακὸν κακῶς σε ὁ λόγιος Ἑρμῆς ἐπιτρίψειεν αὐτοῖς λόγοις. 52  Cf. Renehan (1976) 114–6; Kannicht and Snell (2007) 51. 53  Bers (2009) 38. 54  Cf. Meisterhans (1900) 201; Schwyzer and Debrunner (1950) 46 n. 5; Willi (2003) 254. 55  Boegehold (1999) 90–1. 56  Worthington (2001) 303.

314

Vatri

the speech, so that they would not be misinterpreted as accidentally metrical sequences, in the absence of formal clues? How often would this be the case with, for instance, Euripidean iambics? 5

Signalling Quotations

The orators commonly introduce the quotations, but explicit indications of “start quote” vary greatly, as shown in Table 2. table 2

Transitions from speech to quotation

Quotation at Aeschin. 1.128 1.128 1.129 1.144 1.148 1.149 1.150 1.151 1.152

2.144 2.158 3.135

3.184 3.184 3.185 3.190

Εὑρήσετε … καὶ τὸν Ὅμηρον πολλάκις ἐν τῇ Ἰλιάδι λέγοντα πρὸ τοῦ τι τῶν μελλόντων γενέσθαι καὶ πάλιν τὸν Εὐριπίδην… ὅταν λέγῃ ὁ δ’ Ἡσίοδος… λέγει γάρ ἔστι δὲ τὰ ἔπη, ἃ ἐγὼ νυνὶ μέλλω λέγειν λέγε πρῶτον τὰ περὶ τῆς Ἕκτορος τιμωρίας [CLERK] ἀναγίγνωσκε δὴ τὰ περὶ τοῦ ὁμοτάφους αὐτοὺς γενέσθαι καὶ περὶ τῶν διατριβῶν ἃς συνδιέτριβον ἀλλήλοις [CLERK] ἀνάγνωθι ἃ λέγει ἡ Θέτις [CLERK] ὁ … Εὐριπίδης … λέγει που πάλιν τοίνυν ὁ αὐτὸς ἐν τῷ Φοίνικι ἀποφαίνεται, ὑπὲρ τῆς γεγενημένης αὐτῷ πρὸς τὸν πατέρα διαβολῆς ἀπολογούμενος, καὶ ἀπεθίζων τοὺς ἀνθρώπους μὴ ἐξ ὑποψίας μηδ’ ἐκ διαβολῆς, ἀλλ’ ἐκ τοῦ βίου, τὰς κρίσεις ποιεῖσθαι φησὶ γὰρ με εἰπεῖν … τὸν δ’ Ἡσίοδον ποιητὴν ἀγαθὸν ὄντα λέγειν ὅ γε Ἡσίοδος λέγει εὖ γὰρ περὶ τῶν τοιούτων Ἡσίοδος ὁ ποιητὴς ἀποφαίνεται. λέγει γάρ που, παιδεύων τὰ πλήθη καὶ συμβουλεύων ταῖς πόλεσι τοὺς πονηροὺς τῶν δημαγωγῶν μὴ προσδέχεσθαι· λέξω δὲ κἀγὼ τὰ ἔπη· διὰ τοῦτο γὰρ οἶμαι παῖδας ὄντας ἡμᾶς τὰς τῶν ποιητῶν γνώμας ἐκμανθάνειν, ἵν’ ἄνδρες ὄντες αὐταῖς χρώμεθα· ὅτι δ’ ἀληθῆ λέγω, ἐξ αὐτῶν τῶν ποιημάτων γνώσεσθε. ἐπιγέγραπται γὰρ ἐπὶ τῷ μὲν πρώτῳ τῶν Ἑρμῶν ἐπὶ δὲ τῷ δευτέρῳ ἐπὶ δὲ τῷ τρίτῳ ἐπιγέγραπται Ἑρμῇ ἵνα δὲ μὴ ἀποπλανῶ ὑμᾶς ἀπὸ τῆς ὑποθέσεως, ἀναγνώσεται ὑμῖν ὁ γραμματεὺς τὸ ἐπίγραμμα ὃ ἐπιγέγραπται τοῖς ἀπὸ Φυλῆς τὸν δῆμον καταγαγοῦσιν [CLERK]

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

315

table 2

Transitions from speech to quotation (cont.)

D.

18.267 τὰς τῶν λειτουργιῶν μαρτυρίας ὧν λειτούργησα ὑμῖν ἀναγνῶ· παρ’ ἃς παρανάγνωθι καὶ σὺ μοι τὰς ῥήσεις ἃς ἐλυμαίνου 18.267 καὶ 18.289 λέγε δ’ αὐτῷ τουτὶ τὸ ἐπίγραμμα … λέγε [CLERK] 19.243 ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ ἔπη τοῖς δικασταῖς ἔλεγες, οὐδένα μάρτυρ’ ἔχων ἐφ’ οἷς ἔκρινες τὸν ἄνθρωπον παρασχέσθαι 19.245 ἔτι τοίνυν ἰαμβεῖα δήπου συλλέξας ἐπέραινεν, οἷον 19.247 ταῦτα τοίνυν ἐν τῷ δράματι τούτῳ σκέψασθ’ ὁ Κρέων Αἰσχίνης οἷα λέγων πεποίηται τῷ ποιητῇ, ἃ οὔτε πρὸς αὑτὸν οὗτος ὑπὲρ τῆς πρεσβείας διελέχθη οὔτε πρὸς τοὺς δικαστὰς εἶπεν. λέγε [CLERK] 19.255 λέγε δή μοι λαβὼν καὶ τὰ τοῦ Σόλωνος ἐλεγεῖα ταυτί (254) … λέγε σύ [CLERK]

Lycurg.

92 100

103 107

109 109 132

καὶ μοι δοκοῦσι τῶν ἀρχαίων τινὲς ποιητῶν ὥσπερ χρησμοὺς γράψαντες τοῖς ἐπιγιγνομένοις τάδε τὰ ἰαμβεῖα καταλιπεῖν ἄξιον τῶν ἰαμβείων ἀκοῦσαι, ἃ πεποίηκε λέγουσαν τὴν μητέρα τῆς παιδός. ὄψεσθε γὰρ ἐν αὐτοῖς μεγαλοψυχίαν καὶ γενναιότητα ἀξίαν καὶ τῆς πόλεως καὶ τοῦ γενέσθαι Κησιφοῦ θυγατέρα Ἕκτωρ γὰρ τοῖς Τρωσὶ παρακελευόμενος ὑπὲρ τῆς πατρίδος τάδ’ εἴρηκεν ἀκουσομένους τῶν Τυρταίου ποιημάτων ἅπαντας… χρήσιμον δ’ ἐστὶ καὶ τούτων ἀκοῦσαι τῶν ἐλεγείων, ἵν’ ἐπίστησθε οἷα ποιοῦντες εὐδοκίμουν παρ ἐκείνοις τοιγαροῦν ἐπὶ τοῖς ἠρίοις μαρτύρια ἔστιν ἰδεῖν τῆς ἀρετῆς αὐτῶν ἀναγεγραμμένα ἀληθῆ πρὸς ἅπαντας τοὺς Ἕλληνας, ἐκείνοις μέν τοῖς δ’ ὑμετέροις προγόνοις ὅθεν καὶ τῶν ποιητῶν τινες εἰρήκασιν

Expressions like (the poet) λέγει or εἴρηκεν, μέλλω λέγειν, or οἷον, or the imperatives λέγε, ἀναγίγνωσκε, ἀνάγνωθι combined with a change of speaker – who would not need to be introduced – are obvious quotation markers. However, such markers are not always there. At 3.135, for instance, Aeschines announces “λέξω” but adds an entire sentence before the quotation begins. This starts with the adverb πολλάκι, which is not common in prose and might function as a “quotation mark”. By contrast, at 1.152 the beginning of the quotation (ἤδη δὲ πολλῶν ἧρέθην λόγων κριτής) is not signalled by either an introductory speech-verb or a markedly poetic feature (word order, vocabulary).

316

Vatri

Paralinguistic marking of quotations is a normal feature of human communication. In writing, we use quotation marks, while in speaking we tend to slightly alter the quality of our voice, the intonation, volume or tempo. In other words, we tend to recite quotations using the same paralinguistic elements as we use when we impersonate a character or when we aim to signal that we have put on a different “way of being” (or ēthos, in ancient terms) from our normal one.57 An anthropological study of quotation in twentieth-century Britain found that speakers tend to indicate “quotedness” by means of speech-verbs (“he said” etc., just as the Attic orators),58 voice changes, gestures or pauses. Speakers often also wish to convey their attitude towards the quoted material for the listener to evaluate. They may make the quotation more vivid by dramatizing it or by simply imitating an accent. However, if the quotation is well known (e.g. a proverb), they would not signal it overtly, but just assume that listeners would recognize it. If the quoted text is metrical, the question of recitation gains another dimension. The extent to which metre determines how a text will be delivered is limited: a line of poetry may be recited in a variety of styles.59 For instance, a sense of regular rhythm may or may not be imposed on the phonological timing pattern encoded in metrical composition, strengthening or disrupting its intended effect.60 A case in point is that of enjambment, whose defining feature is a mismatch between metrical and natural prosodic units – a mismatch which could be either obfuscated or highlighted in recitation. In this connection, Battezzato has argued that when closely connected syntactic units are separated by line ends in Sophoclean trimeters, hiatus tends to be avoided; this should be an indication of a continuous, prose-like recitation.61 Conversely, hiatuses in such “strong” enjambments are relatively common in Homer and Aeschylus, which points to a more manneristic, slow-paced and dignified recitation.62 57  Duranti (1997) 287. 58  Finnegan (2011) 52–5. 59  Cf. Halle and Keyser (1966) 191; Allen (1973) 105; Nespor and Vogel (2007) 278. 60  Cf. Turk and Shattuck-Hufnagel (2013) 98–101. 61  Battezzato (2001). 62  This also seems to be the case with Aristophanes and with the late plays of Euripides, where hiatus seems to be more tolerated in general. If prose-like recitation is to be envisaged, Battezzato suggests that such hiatuses would create rhythmic irregularities that would be a desideratum for comedians, since they would make the text more similar to ordinary speech. Incidentally, tragic iambics were certainly not sung, even though this became a popular practice in the Roman period. Cf. [Plu.] de Musica 1141a7–b1, see Hall (2002) 7 n. 16, 34–5; Huys (1993) 31; Kannicht and Snell (2007) 267, 270–2.

Poetry in the Attic Lawcourt

317

In Athenian tribunals, if the quotations were left for the clerk to read, even the plainest oral anagnōsis (as described by Isocrates for written oratorical speeches at 5.26) would serve the orator’s purposes. The quotation would stand out and its gnōmē would be easily accessible. When the orators delivered the quotation themselves, we can envisage at least some degree of recitation and impersonation63 – perhaps in the “realistic” style of acting that was most in vogue in the fourth century.64 Proverbial and current expressions were probably not recited – and the same should apply to re-citations of material that had only just been quoted. Less identifiable iambic trimeters would probably need to be distinguished in some way from the surrounding prose, and judging from Demosthenes’ parodies, orators could, and probably should, give in to the temptation of reciting when citing in order for the quoted material to achieve the intended persuasive effect. Hexametric poetry could stand out merely by virtue of its “unnatural” rhythm (cf. Arist. Poet. 4 1449a24–8) and for the features of vocabulary and diction that normally go with it (e.g. verbal ellipsis and words such as τοι and πότμος in the Iliadic quotation at Pl. Ap. 28c), with no need for further marking through recitation. On the other hand, Aristotle (Poet. 4 1449a24–8) mentions that “we speak hexameters only rarely and diverging from the colloquial harmonia” (λέγομεν […] ἑξάμετρα […] ὀλιγάκις καὶ ἐκβαίνοντες τῆς λεκτικῆς ἁρμονίας). As I have shown elsewhere,65 in the Poetics and in the Rhetoric, harmonia does not refer to features of rhythm or, generally, composition, as it will in later Greek literary criticism, but it normally indicates the melodic component of music or speech – the pitch movements resulting from the combination of the melodic accent and intonation. If “colloquial harmonia” refers to such normal, spoken-language pitch movements, we could interpret the participle ἐκβαίνοντες as referring to the manner in which hexameters are spoken. From this perspective, Aristotle’s remark would mean that “hexameters do not naturally occur in ordinary language, and when we speak them, we depart from normal intonation”. In turn, this could mean that hexameters were hardly ever produced unintentionally, but that they only came up when they were (intentionally) quoted, and that quoting them prompted the speaker to somehow recite them. This interpretation supports Vettori’s reading of a corrupt parallel in Rh. 3.8 1408b33, whose transmitted text reads τῶν δὲ ῥυθμῶν ὁ μὲν ἡρῷος σεμνός καὶ λεκτικὸς καὶ ἁρμονίας δεόμενος (“among rhythms, the heroic is dignified, colloquial (sic) and lacks/requires harmonia”). With Vettori’s minimal emendation 63  Cf. Wilson (1996) 312. 64  Cf. Csapo and Slater (1995) 256. 65  Vatri (2016).

318

Vatri

(σεμνὸς καὶ λεκτικὸς καὶ ἁρμονίας δεόμενος) this sentence describes the hexameter as “non-colloquial” and ἁρμονίας δεόμενος, which Kennedy (2007: 212 n. 80) glosses as “needs to be chanted”.66 If this interpretation is correct, we can imagine that at least when quoting entire lines – instead of words or phrases, like Socrates in Plato’s Apology – speakers could have been encouraged by the metre itself to alter slightly their mode of delivery. This perhaps could have verged towards the solemn, slow-paced rhythmicized phonostyle of rhapsodes and old-fashioned tragedy. Once again, it is likely that citing poetry implied reciting, and that the persuasive effect of poetic quotations depended largely on appropriate delivery. 6 Conclusions The poetic quotations contained in the extant Attic speeches reflect a real practice and are instances of a rhetorical technique of which ancient theoreticians such as Aristotle were well aware. Their persuasive effect was certainly connected to the appeal and authoritativeness of poetry, but it depended decisively on the way in which quotations were performed. Speakers needed to make sure that the quotations were identified as such by their audiences. The voice of the poet was to be clearly heard and distinguished from the flow of the speech, and this was not guaranteed by formal features of the quotations themselves. Metre as a phonological feature of sequences of words is not always sufficient, nor is the vocabulary of quoted lines always distinct enough from that of the surrounding prose. Unsurprisingly, quotations were often signalled by expressions working as quotation markers. These, however, are not always there, which suggests that signalling involved the use of paralinguistic elements of speech communication. In other words, quoting would often correspond to a form of recitation. This was to be well planned by a speaker in order to avoid conveying the wrong ēthos: excessive histrionics could appear fake and deceptive and expose the speaker to the opponent’s rebuke, and at the same time the speaker would not wish to sound like a patronizing intellectual. To sum up, quotations of poetry in forensic speeches per se could in principle be inconspicuous or even counterproductive. Thus, as a rhetorical technique, they attest clearly to the function and importance of delivery in the dynamics of persuasion in Attic oratory. 66  Aristotle mentions a similar “need” as he describes the effect and role of asyndeton in the debating style (ἀγωνιστικὴ λέξις, Rh. 3.12 1413b29–30): asyndeton needs to be recited (ἀνάγκη γὰρ ὑποκρίνεσθαι, Rh. 3.12 1413b17–31).

chapter 19

Pliny’s Letters and the Art of Persuasion Margot Neger 1 Introduction In Arist. Rh. 1356a1–4 the depiction and presentation of an orator’s character (ēthos) is discussed as an important means of persuasion.1 Ancient theorists also regard the character of a person as an essential feature of epistolary writing: Demetrius in Eloc. 227 famously recommends that a letter should mirror the writer’s character (τὸ ἦθος) and provide an image of his soul (εἰκόνα … τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ψυχῆς). According to Demetrius, there is no other genre where the writer’s character can be discerned so clearly as in epistolography.2 Self-fashioning and the positive depiction of his character is also a central aim of Pliny the Younger in his collection of letters.3 Within his epistolary corpus, Pliny also shows a constant preoccupation with the relationship of epistolography to other prose genres and most importantly, oratory and historiography.4 In several letters, he presents himself as an orator and advocate in the Senate and Centumviral Court,5 or purports that he actively provided material to historians, such as Tacitus, for their works. Also in these narratives, Pliny often appears as one of the protagonists.6 In the course of his letters, Pliny discusses various means and techniques of persuasion and puts them into praxis at the same time: he reflects on rhetorical argument, describes the audience’s disposition and reaction, and highlights the speaker’s character. The epistolary framework7 of the collection enables us to distinguish at least 1  See the Introduction to this volume, pp. 3–5. 2  On Demetrius’ treatise on epistolography: Thraede (1970) 17–25. 3  Cf. Ludolph (1997). 4  On Pliny and oratory: Quadlbauer (1948) and (1958); Ussani (1971); Picone (1978); ArmisenMarchetti (1990); Boccuto (1990); Fantham (1990) 291–3; Iordache (1990); Roca Barea (1992) and (1998); Cova (2003); Cugusi (2003); Mayer (2003); Dominik (2007); Mastrorosa (2009); Whitton (2018); for Pliny and historiography see Traub (1955); Cova (1969); Ussani (1971); Cova (1975); Ash (2003); Baier (2003); Tzounakas (2007); Whitton (2012); Woodman (2012). 5  Cf. Ep. 1.5, 1.7, 1.18, 2.5, 2.11–12, 2.14, 2.19, 3.4, 3.9, 4.5, 4.9, 4.16, 4.17, 4.24, 5.20, 6.2, 6.5, 6.12, 613, 6.18, 6.23, 6.29, 6.33, 7.6, 7.10, 7.30, 7.33, 8.14, 9.13, 9.23.1–2. 6  Cf. 5.8, 6.16, 6.20, 7.33; cf. the dolphin-story in Ep. 9.33 for Caninius Rufus. 7  For a theoretical approach to epistolarity: Altman (1982); on ancient epistolary theory: Thraede (1970).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_020

320

Neger

three different levels of communication, where the writer or speaker tries to persuade a recipient. First, on an external level there is Pliny the writer and editor of the published letter collection, who addresses a general readership in a way where these texts can be read as a kind of epistolary autobiography or even a deliberate self-fashioning campaign. In this context, the various letters intentionally depict a positive image of Pliny’s character, life and social interactions. Second, on an internal level there is Pliny’s persona who appears as the writer/speaker of individual letters with the aim of persuading the respective addressees by applying different rhetorical strategies according to the type of letter (admonition, request, recommendation, advice, instruction, narration of events etc.).8 Third, on a secondary internal level we encounter Pliny as an acting figure during his accounts of spectacular trials where he appeared as an orator and succeeded in convincing his audience. Furthermore, Pliny shares his ideas of rhetorical persuasiveness with various addressees in some of his letters, thus conducting a kind of epistolary dialogus de arte oratoria.9 2

Debating the Length of a Speech

In letter 1.20 to Tacitus,10 whom we know as the master of brevitas due to his historiographical works,11 Pliny refers to a discussion he repeatedly leads with a certain homo doctus (1: frequens mihi disputatio est cum quodam docto homine et perito, “I am always having arguments with a man of considerable learning and experience …”).12 The subject of discussion is whether brevity or length would be ideal for speeches. The design of the letter as a record of an oral debate recalls the beginning of Tacitus’ Dialogus (1.1–3: saepe ex me requiris, Iuste Fabi, cur … ut quae a praestantissimis viris et excogitata subtiliter et dicta graviter accepi … persequar, … “Dear Justus Fabius, ‒ There is a question that you often put to me: How it is that … in order now to recount the sagacious thoughts and the weighty utterances which I heard from the lips of those eminent men …”),13 and as scholars have already illustrated, the letter is full of 8  Cf. the classification of letter-types by Sherwin-White (1966) 42–52. 9  Cf. Ep. 1.2, 1.20, 2.5, 3.18, 7.9, 7.12, 9.26. 10  On this letter: Quadlbauer (1958) 107–8; Sherwin-White (1966) 132–5; Cugusi (2003) 96–111; Edwards (2008) 47–9. 11  Cf. Cugusi (2003) 96; whether brevity was also a characteristic feature of Tacitus’ speeches is discussed by Edwards (2008) 49–50 and Whitton (2013a) 176. 12  Translations of Pliny’s letters are by Radice (1969); for the Latin text: Mynors (1963). 13  Translation by Peterson and Winterbottom (1970).

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

321

Tacitean reminiscences.14 Pliny presents his arguments in favour of length and tries to demonstrate that a long speech possesses more persuasive power than a short one.15 The content of the letter matches its form because Pliny deliberately makes his case in the longest letter of Book 1. He concludes the letter with the witty request that Tacitus, if convinced by Pliny’s arguments that length is favourable, may answer with a very short letter (25: quam voles brevi epistula), while on the contrary, a disagreement would mean having to write a very long letter (25: si erraro, longissimam para!). Let us look at the strategies Pliny applies in order to convince both his anonymous dialogue partner and Tacitus, his addressee (who might be the same person, as Riggsby argues).16 First, Pliny enriches his argumentation with various metaphors (3): nam plerisque longiore tractatu vis quaedam et pondus accedit, utque corpori ferrum, sic oratio animo non ictu magis quam mora imprimatur, “most points gain weight and emphasis by a fuller treatment, and make their mark on the mind by alternate thrust and pause, as a swordsman uses his steel”.17 The idea that persuasiveness can be effectuated by mora (pause) instead of ictus (thrust) stands in contrast to the rhetorical praxis of M. Aquilius Regulus, who serves as Pliny’s negative counterpart in the collection18 and is also characterized in letter 1.20 (14): Dixit aliquando mihi Regulus, cum simul adessemus: ‘Tu omnia quae sunt in causa putas exsequenda; ego iugulum statim video, hunc premo.’ premit sane, quod elegit, sed in eligendo frequenter errat. Regulus once said to me when we were appearing in the same case: “You think you should follow up every point in a case, but I make straight for the throat and hang on to that.” He certainly hangs on to whatever he seizes, but he often misses the right place.

14  Riggsby (1995); Edwards (2008) 47–9; for Pliny’s letters and Tacitus’ Dialogus see Murgia (1985). Mayer (2001) 22–27 dates the publication of the Dialogus to the beginning of the second century AD, but it is possible that Pliny had already known parts of the work before. Sherwin-White (1966) 41 dates Book 1–2 of Pliny’s letters to late 96–100 AD. 15  Ep. 1.20 corresponds with 9.26, a treatise in favour of rhetorical sublimitas; cf. Quadlbauer (1958) 108–9; Gamberini (1983) 45–9; Schenk (1999) 115–23; Cugusi (2003); Whitton (2013a) 111. 16  Riggsby (1995); however, after a second reading of the collection one could also think of Lupercus, addressee of rhetorical discussions in Ep. 2.5 and 9.26 as the anonymous homo doctus; cf. Ep. 1.20.1 frequenter mihi disputatio est and 2.5.1 actionem et a te frequenter efflagitatam et a me saepe promissam. 17  The idea is Ciceronian, as Cugusi (2003) 98 points out: cf. Cic. Balb. 4 and De or. 3.202. 18  On the “Regulus-cycle”: Ludolph (1997) 142; Hoffer (1999) 55–91.

322

Neger

In contrast to Pliny, Regulus trusts in ictus instead of mora but often chooses the wrong target. Apart from military metaphors Pliny also uses imagery from visual arts (5: vides, ut statuas, signa, picturas … nihil magis quam amplitudo commendet, “and statues, busts, pictures … can be seen to gain by being on a large scale”) and agriculture (16), in order to illustrate how a long speech can win over the audience. He also adduces evidence from the rhetorical tradition: he names several of Cicero’s speeches which he considers “witnesses” (7: testes sunt … orationes et Ciceronis pro Murena, pro Vareno … pro Cluentio … pro C. Cornelio). Pliny also claims that they were published in abbreviated form, whereas their performance took a much longer time (7).19 The Callimachean verdict μέγα βιβλίον μέγα κακόν20 is reversed when Pliny states that bonus liber melior est quisque quo maior, “a good book is all the better if it is a long one” (4).21 To reinforce his argumentation Pliny also cites Greek passages22 such as Eupolis’ Demes (CAF I, 281 fr. 94 Kock = PCG 5 fr. 102 K.-A.),23 where Pericles is praised for his πειθώ (17) and the sting (κέντρον) which he left in the hearts of the listeners (17). According to Pliny, however, the crucial factors for Pericles’ success were copia spatiumque dicendi (18). Pliny also quotes from Ar. Ach. 531 as a testimony of Pericles’ eloquence (19):24 Adde, quae de eodem Pericle comicus alter: ἤστραπτ᾽, ἐβρόντα, συνεκύκα τὴν Ἑλλάδα. Non enim amputata oratio et abscisa, sed lata et magnifica et excelsa tonat fulgurat, omnia denique perturbat ac miscet.

19  Pliny’s assertion stands in contrast to what Cornelius Nepos is said to have witnessed: refert enim Cornelius Nepos se praesente iisdem paene verbis, quibus edita est, eam pro Cornelio, seditioso tribuno, defensionem peroratam, “For Cornelius Nepos mentions that the speech Cicero delivered in support of Cornelius, the seditious tribune, was delivered in almost the same words as the one in the published version thereof,” Vita Ciceronis fr. 2 Peter); for a critical discussion see Riggsby (1995) 123–5. 20  Cf. Callim. fr. 465 Pf. 21  Cf. Cugusi (2003) 100. 22  Greek passages are also extensively quoted in letter 9.26 on rhetorical sublimitas, which serves as a companion-piece to Epist. 1.20; cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 508–9: “The extensive quotation of Greek is paralleled only in 1.20… In this letter Pliny defends fullness of verbal expression; in 1.20 fullness of argument is the theme”. Cf. Gibson and Morello (2012) 238; on Pliny and Ps.-Longinus’ treatise De sublimitate cf. Quadlbauer (1958); Armisen-Marchetti (2003); Cugusi (2003); Delarue (2004). 23  Cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 134; Plepelits (1970) 6–12; Cugusi (2003) 104–7; on the Demoi of Eupolis cf. Storey (2003) 111–74. 24  Cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 134; Cugusi (2003) 104.

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

323

And again, another comic poet said of Pericles that “he flashed lightning, thundered and confounded Greece.” It is no curtailed and restricted style but a grand oratory, spacious and sublime, which can thunder, lighten, and throw a world into tumult and confusion. Pliny’s comment on Aristophanes resembles Messalla’s position in the Dialogus, who laments the circumcisa et amputata eloquentia of his times (Dial. 32.4).25 Both Eupolis’ and Aristophanes’ appraisals of Pericles are frequently referred to in the rhetorical tradition,26 by Cicero and Quintilian for instance, who reproduce or summarize the respective lines in Latin (cf. Quint. Inst. 12.10.65): hanc vim et celeritatem in Pericle miratur Eupolis, hanc fulminibus Aristophanes comparat, haec est vere dicendi facultas, “this is the force and speed that Eupolis admires in Pericles and Aristophanes likens to the thunderbolts. This is in truth the power of speech”.27 Unlike his predecessors, Pliny quotes the original Greek text and, by laying claim to authenticity, tries to reinforce the credibility of his argumentation. In spite of Pliny’s citations of several canonical figures from Greek literature – Homeric lines are also quoted (22) – the fictitious interlocutor still does not seem to be convinced. He objects at est gratior multis actio brevis, “but a lot of people like a short speech” (23), reminding us of Aper’s position in the Dialogus who argues that long speeches are out of date (20.1: quis quinque in Verrem libros exspectabit? “Who will stand five books Against Verres?”).28 Pliny pointedly answers si hos in consilio habeas, non solum satius breviter dicere, sed omnino non dicere, “if you followed their advice you would do best not in a short speech but saying nothing at all”. If the audience unquestioningly adheres to brevitas, it would be better not to speak at all – a punchline which bears an epigrammatic character and which Pliny may have taken from Martial, who also opposes fanatical supporters of brevity (1.110): scribere me quereris, Velox, epigrammata longa. / ipse nihil scribis: tu breviora facis, “Velox, you complain that I write long epigrams, and yourself write nothing. You make shorter ones”.29

25  Cf. Murgia (1985) 183; Cicero frequently uses the combination of circumcidere and amputare: De or. 1.65; Fin. 1.13.41, 1.15.65, 5.14.39; Tusc. 4.26.57. 26  Cugusi (2003) 104–7 discusses the passages in question. 27  Translation by Russell (2001). 28  Translation is mine. 29  Translation by Shackleton Bailey (1993) slightly modified.

324

Neger

From the above analysis it becomes evident that letter 1.20 stages a dialogue on different textual levels. Consistent with ancient epistolary theory, it is shaped as one half of a dialogue30 with Tacitus, an addressee whom Pliny perceives as a literary authority. At the same time, however, Tacitus is expected to justify his arguments in case he disagrees (24: quamvis enim cedere auctoritati tuae debeam, rectius tamen arbitror in tanta re ratione quam auctoritate superari, “I know I should bow to your authority, but on an important question like this I would rather yield to a reasoned argument than to authority alone”). Moreover, the letter reproduces another dialogue ‒ Pliny’s debate with a certain homo doctus ‒ and finally, it conducts an intertextual dialogue with other texts where the problem of length and brevity is discussed. As the longest letter within Book 1, Epist. 1.20 puts into practice its theoretical ideas on persuasiveness. 3

How to Perform a Speech

Pliny considers length and sublimity to be important factors for persuasiveness. Let us now take a closer look at how the epistolographer depicts his own oratorical performance and how he characterizes other speakers. In various letters, Pliny provides background information on speeches, which he already published or is about to publish. As Roland Mayer has argued, Pliny the letter writer “becomes … a sort of commentator, his own Asconius”,31 an observation we can make, for example, in Ep. 6.33 addressed to Voconius Romanus,32 where the trial of Attia Viriola is narrated;33 Pliny explains the aim of his epistolary account as follows (7): Haec tibi exposui, primum ut ex epistula scires, quae ex oratione non poteras; deinde (nam detegam artes) ut orationem libentius legeres, si non legere tibi sed interesse iudicio videreris. I have told you this first so that this letter shall explain anything you cannot understand from the speech, and also (for I don’t conceal my guile) because I thought you would be more willing to read the speech if you imagined yourself not reading but present at the actual trial. 30  Demetr. Eloc. 223. 31  Mayer (2003) 230. 32  He is also the addressee of Ep. 1.5; 2.1, 3.13, 6.15, 8.8, 9.7 and 9.28; cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 93. 33  On this letter cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 398–400; Carlon (2009) 132–4; Shelton (2013) 231–4 and 292–4; Schwerdtner (2015) 84–90.

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

325

Through the narrative of the letter, Pliny aims to create enargeia and to leave his absent addressee with the impression that he was present at the court-session while reading the letter (interesse iudicio).34 A vivid and dramatic account of a trial is also provided in Ep. 2.11, which is the first letter in the collection with an elaborate narration of an extortion-trial that took place during the age of Trajan. Similar to Ep. 1.20, the motif of length also plays an important role here: the text is one of the longest letters within Book 235 and Pliny gives a detailed account of the trial of Marius Priscus, former proconsul of Africa, and his henchmen, whom Pliny and Tacitus jointly accused (2: ego et Cornelius Tacitus) in January 100 AD.36 As Pliny states, this trial stood out as pulchrum et antiquum, because the Senate was assembled for three days in a row (18). Like in the good old times of the republic, Pliny on the first day was allowed to speak for almost five hours (14: dixi horis paene quinque), which at first caused him distress, but then turned out to redound to his advantage (14). It is not just the duration of the narrated speech that is long, but the time that Pliny needs to report this speech (Erzählzeit) is also considerably longer (11–15) than the time he spends describing the other speeches in this trial. Whereas Pliny extensively recounts his inner feelings before his performance, the duration of the speech itself and Trajan’s worries about Pliny’s health, we cannot deduce anything concerning content, style or line of argumentation. Moreover, the speech of Pliny’s direct opponent, Claudius Marcellinus, is dealt with in only one sentence without any further information (16: respondit mihi pro Marciano Claudius Marcellinus, “Claudius Marcellinus replied on behalf of Marcianus”). A few more details are given about the speeches made on the second day, where Salvius Liberalis spoke for the defendant; he is characterized as vir subtilis, dispositus, acer and disertus, a speaker who used all his artistry and oratorical powers (17). In response to him, Tacitus answered eloquentissime et, quod eximium orationi eius inest – σεμνῶς, “… an eloquent speech … with all the majesty which characterizes his style of oratory”. Fronto Catius, in turn, pleaded on behalf of Marius Priscus; in spite of speaking insigniter, he used too much time for prayers (18: precibus) instead of actual defence – here Pliny probably alludes to theoretical statements on deprecatio, such as, e.g., in Cic. Inv. 2.104: deprecatio est, in qua non defensio facti, sed ignoscendi postulatio

34  Shelton (2013) 132: “Pliny constructed a very dramatic description of the setting in which he delivered his magnificent (in his judgement) speech”. A similar idea is expressed in Epist. 5.6, the ekphrasis of Pliny’s Tuscan villa: Here the reading of the letter is compared with a walk through the estate (41); on enargeia in ancient theory cf. Otto (2009); for the persuasive potential of ekphrasis and enargeia: Webb (2009); Serafim (2015) 96–108. 35  The longest letter is 2.17, followed by 2.11. Whitton (2013a) 186. 36  On the date: Sherwin-White (1966) 160; Whitton (2013a) 155.

326

Neger

continetur, “we speak of deprecation when we do not defend the action but plead to be pardoned”.37 Whereas Ep. 2.11 only gives us the background context of Pliny’s speech but nothing about its line of argument or stylistic character, letter 2.19 seems to supplement some crucial information. Here Pliny responds to a request of Cerialis,38 who had asked him to recite a speech (1: Hortaris, ut orationem amicis pluribus recitem). This is the first passage within the collection where Pliny presents himself as reciting his speeches.39 It is probably no coincidence that he does so only over the course of a few letters after the description of the Priscus-trial. Thus the reader is compelled to create a mental link with letter 2.11,40 for the oratio which Pliny mentions in 2.19 was also held in an extortion-trial (8: repetundarum legi), and is characterized as pugnax et quasi contentiosa, “a fighting speech, disputatious if you like” (5), as well as austera et pressa “a stiff, close-knit argument” (6). As Pliny states, the speech is not suitable for recitation, where the audience prefers dulcia et sonantia, “fine-sounding words” (6);41 the demands of the iudices in court and of the auditores of a recitation are different (6: aliud auditores aliud iudices exigant), and thus the altered context of rendition confers a more epideictic character on the speech. Pliny also elaborates on the different effects of a speech performed in the courtroom compared to one recited in a lecture hall (2): Neque enim me praeterit actiones, quae recitantur, impetum omnem caloremque ac prope nomen suum perdere, ut quas soleant commendare simul et accendere iudicum consessus, celebritas advocatorum, exspectatio eventus, fama non unius actoris, diductumque in partes audientium studium, ad hoc dicentis gestus incessus, discursus etiam omnibusque motibus animi consentaneus vigor corporis. I know very well that speeches when read lose all their warmth and spirit, almost their entire character, since their fire is always fed from the atmosphere of court: the bench of magistrates and throng of advocates, the suspense of the awaited verdict, reputation of the different speakers, and 37  Translation is mine. Cf. HWRh 2, 546–8 s.v. deprecatio. 38   Sherwin-White (1966) 201 identifies him with the Tuccius Cerialis mentioned in Ep. 2.11.9, whereas Whitton (2013a) 261 argues for Velius Cerialis, who is also the addressee of Ep. 4.21. 39  Whitton (2013a) 261. 40   Sherwin-White (1966) 201; Whitton (2013a) 260–1. 41  On the stylistic terminology: Whitton (2013a) 264–5.

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

327

the divided enthusiasm of the public; and they gain too from the gestures of the speaker as he strides to and fro, the movements of his body corresponding to his changing passions. As Pliny states, the impetus and calor of a speech are dependent on the atmosphere in the courtroom as well as the body language of the speaker: gestus, incessus, discursus, and motibus animi consentaneus vigor corporis.42 In the case of a recitation, in contrast, these means are limited (4: recitantium vero praecipua pronuntiationis adiumenta, oculi, manus, praepediuntur) “more­over, a man who is giving a reading has the two chief aids to his delivery (eyes and hands) taken up with his text” and therefore the audience is easily bored (4).43 A similar point was made in letter 2.3 on the Greek orator Isaeus, where Pliny tries to convince his addressee Nepos to come to Rome, to see or hear Isaeus in person. In this context, Pliny reflects on the difference between reading a speech and experiencing its live performance (9): altius tamen in animo sedent, quae pronuntiatio, vultus, habitus, gestus etiam dicentis adfigit, “anything which is driven into the mind by the delivery and expression, the appearance and gestures of a speaker remains deeply implanted there”.44 In order to strengthen his point, Pliny inserts two anecdotes into his letter: the first narrates the story of a man who came from Gades in Spain all the way to Rome just to see Livy and went back home immediately after the performance (8).45 While it is only Pliny who narrates this story, the second anecdote is a much better known incident: Aeschines read Demosthenes 18 to the people of Rhodes, a speech that had prevailed over Aeschines’ own speech Against Ctesiphon. While the Rhodians admired his lecture, Aeschines said (10): τί δέ, εἰ αὐτοῦ τοῦ θηρίου ἠκούσατε; “Suppose you had heard the beast himself?” Pliny adds: et erat 42  On the movements of the orator: Cic. Orat. 59; De or. 3.216; Quint. Inst. 11.3.125–6. Also: Whitton (2013a) 263. 43  Cf. Valerius Maximus on Demosthenes (8.10.ext.1): acerrimum vigorem oculorum, terribile vultus pondus, accommodatum singulis verbis sonum vocis, efficacissimos corporis motus (“the piercing force of the eyes, the formidable gravity of the countenance, the timbre of the voice accommodated to the several words, the arresting movement of the body”; translation by Shackleton Bailey 2000). 44  Also in Ep. 5.20.3 Pliny discusses the difference between a speech held in court and a written speech, this time in favour of the written text: liber offensis, liber gratia, liber et secundis casibus et adversis caret (“the written speech is quite free from influence one way or the other, and owes nothing to chance, whether lucky or not”). 45  This anecdote, although opened with the words numquamne legisti Gaditanum quendam etc., is only known from Pliny and picked up later by Jerome (Ep. 53.1). Sherwin-White (1966) 148; Whitton (2013a) 98.

328

Neger

Aeschines si Demostheni credimus λαμπροφωνότατος, “and yet, if we are to believe Demosthenes, Aeschines had a very good voice”.46 Other than his Latin predecessors, who used to quote Aeschines in Latin, Pliny leaves the quotations in their original Greek language, thus enhancing the authenticity of the anecdote.47 As he states at the end of letter 2.3, all this ends up as being compelling enough to convince his addressee to come to Rome and experience a live performance by Isaeus (11: ut audias Isaeum). Among other things, the presence and body language of the speaker is an important factor for a speech’s persuasiveness. The reader of a speech and a letter cannot achieve the intimacy of the speaker’s / writer’s physical presence. As a result, the speaker/writer has to use other means in order to impress his recipients. Especially in his narrative letters, such as those discussed in the following section, Pliny creates enargeia in order to make the absent reader feel present in the course of the action. As we will see, direct speech is often applied in order to depict the events more vividly. 4

Pliny’s Success as an Orator

Trial-narratives form a significant letter-cycle within the entire letter collection, beginning with Ep. 1.5 and ending with 9.13. Here, we read about Pliny’s success as an orator in the Senate or Centumviral Court and the various challenges he had to face. The first letter of this cycle (1.5)48 already presents Pliny as someone who is able to defend his position even in a precarious situation. During a trial before the centumviri under Domitian’s reign, Pliny was interrogated by his opponent, the notorious M. Aquilius Regulus, about his opinion of the exiled Mettius Modestus (1.5.5: quaero … quid de Modesto sentias).49 Pliny was caught in a dilemma between periculum and flagitium (1.5.5): vides quod periculum, si respondissem ‘bene’; quod flagitium si ‘male’, “now you can see the danger if I gave a good one, and the disgrace if I did not”. After Regulus had repeated his question three times and Pliny tried to avoid an answer, he finally replied (1.5.7): ‘Quaeris’ inquam ‘quid sentiam; at ego ne interrogare quidem fas puto, de quo pronuntiatum est, “you want my opinion,” said I, “but I think it 46  Cf. Aeschin. 2.167; Plin. Ep. 4.5; Cic. De or. 3.213; Val. Max. 8.10. ext.1; Plin. HN 7.110; Whitton (2013a) 100. On Pliny and Demosthenes: Tzounakas (2015). 47  The adjective λαμπροφωνότατος originates from Demothenes 18.313 and is actually used in a polemical context, which Pliny omits here. 48  On this letter: Ludolph (1997) 142–66; Hoffer (1999) 55–91. 49  Trebonius Proculus Mettius Modestus was exiled under Domitian due to maiestas minuta; cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 97.

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

329

is quite improper even to put questions about a man on whom sentence has been passed”. Now it was Regulus’ turn to be embarrassed and he immediately fell silent (1.5.7: conticuit), whereas Pliny received praise and was congratulated (1.5.7: me laus et gratulatio secuta est). The reader is supposed to believe that Pliny’s alert mind helped him to avert a perilous situation which otherwise might have led to him experiencing a similar fate like that of Arulenus Rusticus (1.5.2: Rustici Aruleni periculum foverat, “he was fond of Arulenus Rusticus’ danger”) or Herennius Senecio.50 Another instance of repartee is narrated in Ep. 7.33 on the trial against Baebius Massa, whom Pliny jointly accused with Herennius Senecio on behalf of the province Baetica. After Massa’s conviction, Senecio approached the consuls in order to ensure that the people in charge would not disperse Massa’s property, which had been put in official custody. Thereafter, Massa accused Senecio of violating his official duties as a counsel and displaying personal animosity (7: inimici amaritudinem); Massa threatened to prosecute Senecio for impietas,51 thus provoking general consternation (8: horror omnium). Undaunted by this intimidating atmosphere, Pliny sets himself apart through his ingenious reply (8): vereor … clarissimi consules, ne mihi Massa silentio suo praevaricationem obiecerit, quod non et me reum postulavit, “most noble consuls, I am afraid that by not including me in his accusation Massa’s very silence has charged me with collusion with himself”. According to Pliny, Massa accuses him of praevaricatio, i.e. acting in the interest of the opposing party (i.e. Massa himself), since he does not attack him together with Senecio. Instead of giving information about Massa’s reply to this bon mot, Pliny immediately describes the audience’s reaction (8): quae vox et statim excepta, et postea multo sermone celebrata est, “these words were acclaimed at once and subsequently much talked about”. It is not only in this instance, that Pliny indirectly describes himself by reporting on the reaction of others towards him. In Ep. 4.16, for example, a huge crowd waits for Pliny’s appearance in the Centumviral Court (1: tanta stipatione), leaving him no room to take his position from the usual way (1: adeundi mihi locus nisi a tribunali, nisi per ipsos iudices non fuit, “there was no room left for me to reach my place except by way of the magistrates’ bench, through 50  Arulenus Rusticus and Herennius Senecio were convicted and executed in 93 AD for having composed laudatory writings on Thrasea Paetus and Helvidius Priscus; cf. Tac. Agr. 2.1; Suet. Dom. 10.3; Dio Cass. 67.13.2; Sherwin-White (1996) 95 and 444–5. 51  According to Sherwin-White (1966) 446–7 the term impietas denotes the opposite of fides, i.e. the neglect of the lawyer’s duty; Lefèvre (2009) 154 reads it as laesa maiestas with reference to Senecio’s allegation that the official custodians might not manage the property correctly.

330

Neger

their assembled ranks”).52 From the crowd in the courtroom, a young patrician stands out as a figure who was spellbound and captivated by Pliny: although his tunic was torn, the misfortune did not prevent him from staying there and listening to Pliny’s speech for seven hours (2). Near the end of his nine-book collection, Pliny looks back on his career as an attorney and highlights the enthusiastic applause that frequently followed his performances in the Senate and Centumviral Court (9.23.1–2):53 Frequenter agenti mihi evenit, ut centumviri cum diu se intra iudicum auctoritatem gravitatemque tenuissent, omnes repente quasi victi coactique consurgerent laudarentque; frequenter e senatu famam qualem maxime optaveram rettuli. It has often happened to me when speaking in the Centumviral Court that my hearers have preserved their judicial dignity and impassivity for a while and then suddenly jumped to their feet with one accord to congratulate me as if driven by some compelling force. From the Senate, too, I have often had all the applause my heart could desire. Letter 9.23, which deals with Pliny’s literary fame in Rome and the provinces also depicts him as being an equal counterpart of Tacitus (3: Tacitus es an Plinius?),54 and is deliberately placed near the end of the corpus and after the long narration of Pliny’s speech De Helvidi ultione in Ep. 9.13.55 Similar to Ep. 1.5, the dramatic date of 9.13 is the year 97 AD after Domitian’s death (2: occiso Domitiano) when liberty was restored (4: primis … diebus redditae libertatis).56 Pliny provides a detailed account of his motives behind the censure of Publicius Certus, whom he held responsible for the condemnation of Helvidius Priscus and the respective meeting of the Senate where the speech De Helvidi ultione was performed.57 Although the senators initially showed their resentment (7–8) and various colleagues had warned Pliny against 52  Bablitz (2007) 65–8 discusses the interior arrangement of the panels in the Basilica Iulia: “Pliny’s remark suggests that the judges did sit together as a block” (68); the scene is reminiscent of Dem. 18.170–3. Also: Serafim (2015) 96–108. 53  Cf. the retrospect in Ep. 4.24. 54  Tzounakas (2017). 55  Whitton (2013b) 56 calls this letter the “political closure” of the epistolary collection. 56  The letter was composed around 10 years after the incident described (between 106– 08 AD), cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 491. 57  We do not learn, however, what exactly Certus had done (4: proprio crimine) and how he was involved in the condemnation; cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 492; Beutel (2000) 194 no. 538.

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

331

launching an attack on Certus (10–12), Pliny at the end succeeded in convincing his audience (18: tanta conversio … subsecuta est). The idea of Pliny the avenger who fearlessly threatens Domitian’s informers after the emperor’s death,58 recalls similar events, which are narrated in Tacitus’ Histories Book 4. This book depicts the events that occurred during the crucial years after Nero’s downfall and the discussions by the Senate about the treatment of Nero’s delators. In particular, the speeches of the elder Helvidius Priscus against Marcellus Eprius (4.6.1: delatorem Thraseae) and of Curtius Montanus against M. Aquilius Regulus (4.42.2–6) share many features with the way Pliny depicts himself in Epist. 9.13 and 1.5.59 The speech of Curtius Montanus is the only instance where Tacitus uses Ciceronian clausulae. This leads Christopher Whitton to the assumption that Tacitus is deliberately paying homage to Pliny: “here, then, we see a rare instance of Tacitus paying homage to Pliny beyond verbal allusion … he seems to have given Pliny a cameo in the Histories’ most forthright – and unrefuted – attack on delators”.60 In fact, it would be an instance of artful intertextual play if Tacitus’ account, which narrates a time predating the dramatic date of Pliny’s letters 1.5 and 9.13 by around 27 years, alluded to the epistles by creating a post-Neronian “Proto-Pliny” with Curtius Montanus. On the other hand, Pliny and Tacitus might as well have influenced each other reciprocally (Pliny was familiar with some books of the Histories, as letters 6.16 and 7.33 indicate). What is more, the juxtaposition of letter 9.13 with a letter addressed to Tacitus (9.14)61 suggests that Pliny deemed his attack against Publicius Certus as an accomplishment worthy of an account in Tacitus’ Histories. However, the inclusion of Ep. 9.13 within a published letter-collection already ensures that a broader readership would be familiar with Pliny’s facta et dicta. 5

The Art of Eloquent Silence

Apart from rhetorical strategies such as those discussed above, intentional silence can also be used as a means of persuasion, as Pliny argues in letter 7.6. This letter belongs to a cycle where Pliny narrates the trial of Rufus Varenus, the proconsul of Bithynia, whom he defended in another extortion trial

58  For the persuasive potential of ēthos: Wisse (1989); Serafim (2017a). 59  Martin (1967). 60  Whitton (2012) 361. 61  On the connections between these two letters: Marchesi (2008) 36–9.

332

Neger

around 106/7 AD.62 In letter 7.6, Pliny reports that the Bithynians had finally decided to drop the case against Varenus and that a legate of the province had come to Rome in order to hand over the decree of the decision to the emperor and other distinguished men including Pliny himself. Nevertheless, Fonteius Magnus and Nigrinus, who up to that point had represented the Bithynian party against Varenus, insisted that Varenus had to lay open his account books. Instead of replying to this demand with a speech, Pliny decided to stay silent, a decision justified with the following reasons (3–4): Adsistebam Vareno iam tantum ut amicus et tacere decreveram. Nihil enim tam contrarium quam si advocatus a senatu datus defenderem ut reum, cui opus esset, ne reus videretur. Cum tamen finita postulatione Nigrini consules ad me oculos rettulissent, ‘Scietis’ inquam ‘constare nobis silentii nostri rationem, cum veros legatos provinciae audieritis.’ Contra Nigrinus: ‘Ad quem missi sunt?’ Ego: ‘Ad me quoque: habeo decretum provinciae.’ At this stage I was standing by Varenus in a friendly capacity only and decided to say nothing, for it could only have done him harm if the counsel given him by the Senate began by defending him as if he were on trial when the essential thing was to show that he was not on trial at all. But when Nigrinus had made his request and the consuls turned to me, I said that they would see that I had good reason for my silence as soon as they had heard the true representatives of the province. “To whom have they been sent?” countered Nigrinus. “To me, among others,” I replied: “I have the Council’s decree.” Pliny justifies his strategy with the statement accepi enim non minus inter­dum oratorium esse tacere quam dicere, “I have learned that there are occasions when silence is as effective a form of oratory as eloquence” (7)63 and then gives an account of an earlier case, where he also helped his clients by staying silent instead of speaking (8–13). A mother had lost her son and accused his freedmen (who also were her joint-heirs) of having forged documents and poisoned the deceased.64 After the judgement was delivered in favour of these freedmen, who were defended by Pliny, the mother approached the emperor 62  For the date cf. Sherwin-White (1966) 61 and 351 ad Ep. 5.20; the Varenus trial is reported in Ep. 5.20, 6.5, 6.13, 7.6; and 7.10; cf. Pflips (1973) 312–57. 63  Cf. Cic. Att. 13.42.1: hoc loco ego sumpsi quiddam de tua eloquentia; nam tacui, “at this point I took something from your kind of eloquence; for I remained silent”; Pflips (1973) 350. 64  On testamentary falsum under the principate: Champlin (1986).

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

333

and wanted to re-open the proceedings, asserting that she had found new evidence. Sextus Attius Suburanus was commissioned to chair the revision of the trial, in case the plaintiff had new evidence to bring to court. Iulius Africanus, who tried to bring forward this new evidence, held a long speech and after he had surpassed his given time limit, he asked: rogo … Suburane, permittas mihi unum verbum adicere, “he asked Suburanus for permission to add ‘just one more word’” (11). Now everyone was curious to hear Pliny’s answer, but instead we are told: tum ego, cum omnes me ut diu responsurum intuerentur, ‘respondissem’ inquam, ‘si unum illud verbum Africanus adiecisset, in quo non dubito omnia nova fuisse’, “my turn came, and everyone was looking to me for a lengthy reply. ‘I should have spoken in reply,’ I said, ‘if Africanus had added his “one more word,” for this, I am sure, would have contained all the fresh evidence’”. As Iulius Africanus did not bring forth any new arguments, Pliny deemed that an answer was superfluous. He concludes the digression with the remark: non facile me repeto tantum adsensum agendo consecutum, quantum tunc non agendo, “I can scarcely remember ever winning such applause for a speech as I did on that occasion for not making one” (13). After all, we have read about Pliny’s rhetorical skills, this commitment to eloquent silence may strike us as a para prosdokian. 6

Praise and Self-Praise

As we have seen on numerous occasions, Pliny frequently refers to his success both as an orator and in other fields of social interaction by describing the reactions and opinions of his contemporaries.65 In Ep. 3.9 on the trial of Caecilius Classicus, for instance, we read what the opposing attorney had to say about Pliny’s persuasiveness (16): Solet dicere Claudius Restitutus, qui mihi respondit, vir exercitatus et vigilans et quamlibet subitis paratus, numquam sibi tantum caliginis tantum perturbationis offusum, quam cum praerepta et extorta defensioni suae cerneret, in quibus omnem fiduciam reponebat. Claudius Restitutus, who replied for the defence, is a practised speaker who is alert and ready for anything unexpected, but he now says that he never felt so dumbfounded and bewildered as when he saw all the points he was most relying on for his defence anticipated and torn out of his grasp. 65  Ludolph (1997) 115.

334

Neger

In this trial, Pliny managed to totally convince the judges and change their opinion (17): adeo grave visum est, quod initio dubitabatur an omnino crimen esset, “so serious did their conduct now seem, though at first it had been doubtful whether it was indictable at all”. Another letter gives an account of Pliny’s speech on behalf of Attia Viriola at the Centumviral Court (6.33); as Pliny proudly remarks, some of his friends already had the tendency to compare this speech with Demosthenes 18 (Plin. Ep. 6.33.11): in summa solent quidam ex contubernalibus nostris existimare hanc orationem (iterum dicam) ut inter meas ὑπὲρ Κτησιφῶντος esse: an vere, tu facillime iudicabis, “in fact – for the second time – some of my friends think that in comparison with my other speeches, this one is my ‘On the Crown’. Whether this is so or not, you can easily judge”. Pliny reproduces laudatory statements from others in reference to himself, in order to avoid self-praise. He applies rhetorical strategies in his letters, which are discussed by contemporary theorists; Quintilian points out in Inst. 11.1.22: ab aliis ergo laudemur: nam ipsos, ut Demosthenes ait, erubescere, etiam cum ab aliis laudabimur, decet, “Let us therefore leave it to others to praise us. As Demosthenes says, ‘it becomes us to blush, even when we are praised by others’”). Plutarch in his essay On inoffensive self-praise argues that praise from others is considered to be pleasant while self-praise causes the audience displeasure (Mor. 539 C-D).66 Apart from reproducing praise, which other people articulated, a collection of private letters also minimizes the offensive potential of self-praise. Upon first glance, the letters are exclusively directed to the respective addressees, whereas the general reader adopts the role of an eavesdropper on Pliny’s private correspondence. Ancient sources that discuss the problem of periautologia mainly consider self-praise as a no-go when it is articulated in a public speech.67 Private correspondence, however, seems to be less problematic. As Cicero states in one of his letters (Att. 1.16.8): non enim mihi videor insolenter gloriari cum de me apud te loquor, in ea praesertim epistula quam nolo aliis legi, “I don’t feel that I am bragging offensively when I talk about myself in your hearing, especially in a letter which I don’t wish to be read to other people”.68 By choosing the epistolary genre for his self-portrayal, Pliny strategically avoids the dangers of self-praise, a topic which seems to have played an important role in the rhetorical and philosophical discussion of his times.

66  On Pliny and the ancient periautologia-discourse: Gibson (2003); Neger (2015). 67  Pernot (1998). 68  Translation by Shackleton Bailey (1965).

Pliny ’ s Letters and the Art of Persuasion

335

7 Conclusions Pliny’s letters provide a variety of rhetorical and historiographical miniaccounts. On the one hand, the epistolographer presents himself as an authority in those texts where he discusses matters of persuasiveness, such as length, style and performance, with his addressees (Ep. 1.20, 9.26, 2.19), thus integrating the tradition of rhetorical didactics into an epistolary framework. On the other hand, Pliny also wants to persuade through his letters. Apart from letters which are composed with the aim of invoking a certain reaction from the addressee (requests, recommendations, consolations etc.), and where various rhetorical strategies are applied, Pliny aims to win over the general readership. Several times he appears as a narrator who describes his own successful performances in court as well as his personal triumphs, which he achieved through long speeches, repartee or even by choosing to remain silent at the right moments (Ep. 1.5, 2.11, 7.6, 7.33, 9.13). Not only does Pliny quote from famous writers of the past in order to make a point; we also encounter him quoting himself several times when he reproduces the ingenious answers he gave to his opponents at critical moments of a trial. In this regard, his letter collection resembles other literary corpora of the Imperial age where the bon mots of various historical characters are reproduced.69 Within the single books, Pliny’s trial-accounts are juxtaposed with letters on other topics which stand in contrast to the sphere of negotium and focus on other aspects of Pliny’s life; in the context of the whole collection, however, these trial-narratives form a significant letter-cycle which may even be read as an epistolary commentary on Pliny’s speeches and legal activities. Although only the Panegyricus Traiani has survived from Pliny’s orationes, one can conclude that Pliny tried to preserve his own posterity through his letter-collection, where readers would appraise and acknowledge him as a well-versed speaker in all the genera dicendi.

69  Cf. Seneca’s Controversiae or the exempla of Valerius Maximus, such as 7.2 (sapienter dicta aut facta) and 7.3 (vafre dicta aut facta).

part 6 The Rhetoric of Numbers

∵

chapter 20

Pericles’ Rhetoric of Numbers Tazuko Angela van Berkel 1

“Every Quantitative Measurement We Have Shows Us That We Are Winning the War”1

Six hundred talents of silver from the annual tribute of the allies; six thousand talents of coined silver left in the Acropolis; an unspecified quantity of uncoined gold and silver in public and private offering, sacred vessels for the processions and games, Median spoils, together no less than five hundred talents; the treasures of the other temples and, in case of emergency, the gold ornaments of Athena (forty talents of pure gold, usable for the preservation of the city, but to be restored!); thirteen thousand hoplites; sixteen thousand more soldiers in the garrison-posts; twelve hundred cavalry, including mounted archers; sixteen hundred unmounted archers; three hundred triremes fit for service. This may look like an empire’s grocery list, but is, in fact, part of a speech purportedly delivered by Pericles in the summer of 431, at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, when the Spartan troops were about to ravage the countryside of Attica. In Thucydides’ presentation of events, Pericles addresses the Athenians’ despair and lingering doubt in his strategy by reinstating the main lines of the war policy that he proposed in his earlier speech and that the Athenians had agreed upon earlier in 432/1 BC (1.143.5): to evacuate Attica, to not fight the Spartan infantry, to guard the city and to rely on the navy (2.13.2). Aware that simply rehearsing the previously established strategy will not be enough in the face of an imminent invasion, Pericles embarks on his impressive inventory of Athenian resources (2.13.3–8). Between the other three Periclean speeches presented by Thucydides, 2.13 is the odd one out: it is the only one reported in indirect discourse and by that quality seems to offer little opportunity to study Pericles’ rhetorical style. Instead, it is common to read this passage as a financial paragraph, representing new modes of communicating financial data2 and adding to the characterization 1  U.S. secretary of defence Robert McNamara in 1962 about the Vietnam War. This chapter is part of my research program Counting and Accountability, financed by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO). 2  Cuomo (2013) 19–20.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_021

340

van Berkel

of Pericles as a banker, or even as a Midas-figure,3 converting communal and religious values into cash ready to be expended on the war. The leading interpretation of this passage is the one by Lisa Kallet-Marx who convincingly argued that in this passage Pericles displays a new style of leadership, teaching the Athenians that “money is power” and that wars are won “with intelligence and money” (γνώμῃ καὶ χρημάτων περιουσίᾳ).4 To Pericles’ fifth-century audience these were not self-evident truisms: the connection between money and Athens’ supremacy implied a conception of power that needed to be created and conditioned by Pericles and to be understood in sharp opposition to a traditional understanding of war in terms of military manoeuvres on land, manpower and private financing. Hence, Pericles’ detailed enumeration of the figures that constitute Athens’ strength is not a rehearsing of information well known to his audience, but an act of instruction by which Pericles adopts the role of a teacher in financial matters. Pericles is not merely an adviser (σύμβουλος) – a role that can (but does not need to) be construed as subservient to the community – but a teacher (διδάσκαλος) endowed with power over the populace. Kallet-Marx’s interpretation is in line with Harvey Yunis’ approach of Thucydides’ Pericles as a model of political rhetoric,5 credited with the ability to not only devise sound policy, but to also explain (2.60.5: ἑρμηνεύειν) complex decisions to the populace by adopting a didactic persona offering instruction (διδάσκειν)6 in deliberative contexts. While both the financial subject matter and the didactic-authoritative communication style are highly relevant aspects to this speech,7 in this chapter I propose a different approach in order to both highlight other aspects of the speech, and at the same time appreciate the existing interpretations in a new light. I propose to read this paragraph not so much in terms of financial expertise but in terms of numerical rhetoric. There is one very obvious reason to do this: the simple fact that Pericles’ list not only includes financial data, but also other resources, as heterogeneous as the number of hoplites, guards, horses, 3  Foster (2010) 169, 172; cf. Edmunds (1975) 39–44. 4  Kallet-Marx (1994) 235, 239, 242–3, 244–6; cf. (1993) 111–2, 195–7. Cf. Foster (2010) 162–6; Edmunds (1975) 39–44. 5  Yunis (1991) and (1996); Tsakmakis (2006) 165. 6  2.60.6: σαφῶς διδάξας; 2.40.2: προδιδαχθῆναι λόγῳ. Cf. Plut. Per. 15.3: Pericles as someone πείθων καὶ διδάσκων. 7  Both Kallet-Marx (1994) and Yunis (1996) attribute a large role for the orator in creating and shaping collective beliefs and attitudes, thereby opposing Ober’s (1989) understanding of the speaker-dēmos-relation according to which the orator was under pressure to simply follow the collective will of the dēmos.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

341

triremes. Moreover, reading the speech as discourse about the use of numbers, rather than finances, allows us to recontextualize the passage and to read it in comparison with other passages that thematize the rhetoric of numbers in Thucydides as well as in other authors.8 Focusing on one specific aspect, the use of numbers for non-cognitive purposes in a context of war, i.e. to boost confidence in the audience, I propose to read this passage as an alternative to a battle-speech – i.e. a form of persuasion that does not aim at judgment formation (κρίσις) and decision-making but at exhorting its audience to action. If we understand persuasion as “all the techniques, mechanisms and symbols, both cognitive and emotional, deployed in oral or written discourse, to influence (…) attitudes, behaviours and beliefs of target audiences”,9 this reading sheds a somewhat paradoxical light on the synergy between emotional arousal and persuasion. A traditional application of this definition would be to analyse the ways in which emotions are aroused in an audience in order to influence beliefs, interpretations and judgments. In this chapter, I will bring out a contrary motion. Numbers, symbolic instruments pur sang, tend to be associated with rational and instrumental cognition10 and are often treated as informative, neutral and rhetorically inert.11 Thucydides’ historiographical presentation of “number speeches” suggests an alternative understanding of the persuasive workings of numbers: they represent cognitive and verbal means that have the capacity to persuade a target audience to adopt an interpretation of a situation that overrules visceral emotions of fear and overwrites these with confidence.12 It will be argued that in the case of a battle-speech, verbal means of persuasion compete with the direct persuasion of sight, and that the objective of persuasion is not judgment formation or decisionmaking, but mitigating such direct persuasion by controlling the audience’s interpretation of what they see. It is against this light that Pericles’ list in 2.13 should be read. 8  E.g. Aristophanes’ Wasps (Papageorgiou 2004), Aeschylus’ Persians and Herodotus (Irwin 2013, Greenwood 2018). 9  See the Introduction to this volume, p. 3. 10  Dehaene (1997), Everett (2017). 11  Ancient rhetorical theory is largely silent on the topic of numbers. Although the relevance and use of numbers may be implied in the questions of policy that symbouloi are expected to master (ways and means, war and peace, defence of the country, import and exports, legislation: Arist. Rh. I.4.7–13 (1359b–60a)), the fact that rhetorical theory does not identify arithmetic or quantitative reasoning as rhetorical tools in their own right suggests an instrumentalist view on numbers. 12  For the opposition between “calculation” or “instrumental reasoning” (λογισμός) and confidence (θάρσος) in Thucydides, see Section 5 below.

342 2

van Berkel

Thucydides 2.13 vs. Diodorus Siculus 12.39–40

The anomalous nature of Pericles’ speech in 2.13 becomes more evident when we compare Thucydides’ version with the account in the twelfth book of Diodorus Siculus.13 Diodorus’ account goes back to Ephorus14 and seems to report the same, or a very similar, speech by Pericles, but with a presentation guided by different historiographical choices.15 For our purposes, the question of the historicity of both accounts is irrelevant; a comparison between the two speeches merely serves to shed light on some of Thucydides’ choices. The similarities between the two speeches are obvious, both in form (Diodorus’ version too is in indirect discourse) and in content: the numbers mentioned in both accounts are largely compatible, with two exceptions, i.e. the estimate of Athens’ annual revenue16 and the value of the gold on the statue of Athena.17 More interesting are the differences in the status and timing of the speeches. Whereas Diodorus’ version refers to one specific speech, Thucydides’ account indicates that Pericles performed such enumerations of the empire’s resources habitually.18 Moreover, in Thucydides’ version, the war has already started: the Peloponnesians are on the verge of invading Attica, the decision to opt for war has already been taken and the strategy to evacuate Attica and to rely on naval forces has been endorsed by the Assembly and executed (1.144 ff.). Diodorus Siculus, by contrast, seems to conflate material that we have come to know as two speeches in Thucydides (1.144 ff. and 2.13). This has implications for the function of the enumeration of resources: in Diodorus’ account, Pericles’ list precedes the Assembly’s decision, which means that the list functions within a deliberative context, serving to defend (12.40.1) the course of action proposed by Pericles and to persuade the people to opt for this strategy (marked in the narratorial framing of the speech).19 Thucydides,

13  12.39.5–40.5. See also Irwin (2013) for a comparison between the two accounts. My analysis highlights different aspects of the comparison between the two texts, but I am indebted to Irwin for the idea of comparing the texts. 14  12.41.1: ὡς Ἔφορος ἀνέγραψε. 15  See Irwin (2013) 280 n. 38 for a discussion of the respective reliability of both Thucydides’ and Ephorus’ account. 16  600 talents according to Thucydides’ Pericles, but 460 according to Diodorus. This is, significantly, the number mentioned by the Thucydidean narrator himself in 1.96. 17  Thucydides’ Pericles does not mention a separate sum for the value of the gold on the statue of Athena, where Diodorus does specify it (50 talents). 18  2.13.2: ἅπερ καὶ πρότερον; 2.13.9: ἔλεγε δὲ καὶ ἄλλα οἷάπερ εἰώθει. Irwin (2013). Cf. Kallet-Marx (1994) 234 n. 30. 19  Ἔπεισε: 12.39.5, 12.40.5.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

343

by contrast, presents the speech as a means of boosting confidence (θάρσος).20 The rhetorical purpose is not decision-making, but encouraging the populace. It is a pep talk.21 This difference in communicative function of the speech as a whole accounts for differences in the meaning of the numbers on the list. In Diodorus’ version, where Pericles’ list serves the decision-making process, the numbers actually mean something because they are compared with the Spartan situation: the resources on the Athenian side compare favourably with those of the Spartans. Although this comparison only happens obliquely (Diodorus does not actually mention any Spartan numbers), the fact of comparison indicates that Pericles’ numbers are meant to inform the people in a context of rational deliberation. Whereas Thucydides’ Pericles does a similar act of comparison in his earlier speech in Book 1 (a deliberative speech),22 in 2.13 such a comparison is lacking. The list does its work solely by being a list:23 by containing many and large numbers. By themselves, these numbers do not mean anything (they are inherently relative and only meaningful in comparison to other numbers), nor does the enumeration really add up to something.24 There is no clear inference to be drawn from these heterogeneous numbers. This difference in function also explains the items lacking in Diodorus’ account where no mention is made of the length of the walls and the man-power in the cavalry. These figures do not fit in the rhetorical goal of Diodorus’ version of the speech where Pericles’ numbers add up to a favourable comparison with Spartan resources. In Thucydides’ version, the mish-mash of heterogeneous numbers does not add up to a decision, but to a sense of security about a decision already taken: the numbers persuade to action, not to judgment. Pericles’ use of a list of resources to boost people’s morale points out that numbers can serve non-cognitive functions in contexts of mass communication. This is a recurring motif in Thucydides, its visual equivalent being the visceral effects of fear and panic produced by the mere sight (ὄψις) of an 20  3.12.3: θαρσεῖν τε ἐκέλευε; 3.12.6: ἐθάρσυνεν. Kallet-Marx (1994) 236, Foster (2010) 166. Cf. Thucydides’ authorial analysis in 2.65.9 of Pericles’ ability to restore the dēmos to confidence (θάρσειν). 21  On the difference between deliberative oratory and battle exhortations: Zoido (2007). 22  Foster (2010) 162. 23  Cf. Kirk (2011) on the “rhetoric of boundlessness” of poetic catalogues and epigraphic inventories that, while presenting numerical data, effectively discourage rather than facilitate precise quantification, comparison and calculation. 24  Cf. Irwin who persuasively reads this passage together with the Croesus-Solon-episode in Herodotus.

344

van Berkel

opponents’ army,25 or of pride and confidence at the sight of one’s own magnificent troops.26 The verbal counterpart, the mentioning of sizes of troops and numbers of ships, is an essential element of military speeches that are meant to boost or restore confidence. Of course, in contexts of war, there is nothing unusual about using numerical information to make an estimation of one’s chances in battle. But comparison of such speeches reveals interaction between these speeches and suggests a thematic significance of the role of numbers. In the following, I will briefly discuss three vignettes of numbers in war-speeches where the interplay between cognitive and non-cognitive functions of numerical reasoning is thematized. 3

Superior Numbers Do Not Guarantee Victory

Before the outbreak of the war, the Spartan king Archidamus advises against waging war with the Athenians (1.81–5) because they are superior in resources (naval, financial and political (allies). The only asset on the Spartan side is their numerical superiority on land, in which “one might feel confidence” (τάχ’ ἄν τις θαρσοίη) – forging a direct link between the vocabulary of confidence and the idea of numerical superiority. Note how Archidamus takes care to mark the link as hypothetical, effectively warning against simplistic inferences from the sheer fact of numerical superiority: superiority on land will merely enable the Spartans to devastate Attica, but will leave Athens itself untouched. The reason, according to Archidamus, is that Athens’ tribute-paying allies are a game changer (1.83.2): war is no longer a matter of manpower, but of expenses,27 not built on private wealth but on public funds.28 In this deliberative context, Archidamus explicitly argues against simplifying inferences and in favour of sober inferential reasoning.29

25  E.g. 4.126.5. 26  E.g. the effect of the majestic size of the Athenian fleet for Syracuse at 6.31.1 that “restored the Athenians’ courage” (ἀνεθάρσουν). 27   Kallet-Marx (1994) 243 points out that here Archidamus too is exploiting (unsuccesfully) the “money = power”-equation, but in a much more elementary and explanatory way than Pericles does. Cf. Kallet-Marx (1993) 80–9. 28   Kallet-Marx (1993) 83. 29  E.g. 1.80.2–3: εἰ σωφρόνως τις αὐτὸν ἐκλογίζοιτο … εὕροιτε δ’ἂν. εὑρίσκω is a common verb for (numerical) inferential processes.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

345

Similar caution recurs outside deliberative context, in Archidamus’ warspeech (2.11) right before the invasion of Attica.30 Archidamus emphasizes the idea that the strength of the Peloponnesians lies with their numbers and the quality of their numbers (2.11.1) – in striking contrast with his earlier recognition of “the inadequacy of this asset”.31 However, here Archidamus is not arguing in a deliberative setting against an expedition, but exhorting his commanders on the verge of a military operation that is already decided on and that Archidamus is participating in against his better judgment.32 Pointing out the unprecedented size and quality of the Spartan expedition, Archidamus guides his commanders in the kind of inference that can be drawn from this numerical superiority (πλῆθος; 2.11.3). The course of war cannot be foreseen (2.11.4),33 and although confident warfare (θαρσαλέους στρατεύειν; 2.11.5) is appropriate for an invading army, it often happens that troops that are numerically inferior have success against superior armies (2.11.4) because overconfidence tends to lead to sloppy preparation (2.11.5).34 Large numbers mean responsibility, not necessarily victory.35 Moreover, the Athenians’ impressive degree of preparation might turn against them. Their preparation increases the likelihood that they let 30  This exhortation differs from the subsequent war-speeches in that it addresses not the entire fighting force, but only the commanders of the Peloponnesians participating in the first invasion of Attica. See the introduction of the speech in 2.10.3. On the historical reality of battle speeches, see Hansen (1993) for a sceptical position, and Pritchett (1994), ch. 2, who credits Thucydides’ battle-speeches with a higher degree of realism. For (later) rhetorical theory on battle exhortation, see Zoido (2007). Cf. Hornblower, ad 4.10. Thematically, the speech interacts with the narratorial exposition that precedes it (2.7–8), where the narrator shows how both parties’ preparations reflect their enormous ambitions (2.8.1) and the Spartans’ hope for a total of “up to five hundred ships” (ὡς ἐς τὸν πάντα ἀριθμὸν πεντακοσίων νεῶν ἐσομένων) seems megalomaniac (2.7.2). The combination of ὡς and participle marks that the focalization of the numerical estimate is with the Spartans: the estimate is a subjective expectation, not necessarily endorsed by the narrator. On the qualifier ἐς (“up to/almost”): Rubincam (1979); Foster (2010) 158 n. 16. 31   Kallet-Marx (1993) 96; cf. Allison (1989) 55–6. 32  Cf. Allison (1989) 55–6. 33  Cf. Archidamus in his previous speech (1.84.3) and Pericles’ admission in his final speech (2.64.1) that, notwithstanding his correct anticipation of the Peloponnesians’ strategy and the Athenians’ reaction (2.59.3), in human matters not everything can be foreseen. Cf. Rhodes (1988) 190–1, 239–40. 34  As Allison (1989) 55–6 points out, Archidamus’ expectation is based on hope and chance – factors that Αrchidamus had previously discarded as part of one’s strategy but that here serve his exhortatory purposes: he uses the idea of the Athenians’ losing control to encourage his forces. 35  Foster (2010) 160.

346

van Berkel

themselves be provoked by the Peloponnesian attacks and hence turn out to be unprepared in reality when θυμός, induced by the sight of their land being ravaged in the open,36 takes hold of them making them lose their ability to use λογισμός, sober inferential reasoning (2.11.6–9).37 Archidamus’ cautious warning not to rely too much on numerical superiority prepares a striking contrast with Pericles’ display of Athenian power and resources (2.13) that immediately follows it.38 The speeches are commonly categorized as “complementary speeches”:39 speeches by different speakers, addressing different audiences, but on the same kind of topic.40 On a substantial level, the two speeches reinforce each other:41 Archidamus stresses Athenian power and warns the Spartans not to underestimate it. Pericles gives a precise assessment of that power. On a more thematic level, the uses of the vocabulary of confidence (θάρσος, θαρσύνειν) invite us to compare the styles of leadership of Archidamus and Pericles and the use they make of numbers to manage collective emotions. Archidamus attempts to temper overconfidence in numbers; Pericles manages to arouse Athenian confidence in the abundance of their resources; Archidamus expects that attacks on land will eventually provoke the Athenians to forego rational calculation (λογισμός); Pericles anticipates this strategy and attempts to counter it by offering a speech that looks like a calculation. 4

Numerical Inferiority as a Psychological Advantage

The trope of overconfidence in numerical advantage is most explicit in the set of complementary speeches before the battle at Naupactus: the Peloponnesian commanders and the Athenian general Phormio address their respective troops in a pair of speeches that can be understood as a “battle of argument”,

36  Note the emphasis on the verb ὁρᾶν that is used thrice in this passage and the phrase ἐν τοῖς ὄμμασι. 37  In 2.21.2, the narrator confirms Archidamus’ expectation of the effects of sight: when the Athenians see (εἶδον) the army at Acharnai, the young Athenians, “having never seen (ὃ οὔπω ἑοράκεσαν)” such a sight before, are, “as was natural (εἰκός)”, terribly distressed and are eager to go out to attack the Peloponnesians. 38  Hornblower (1991) ad loc. 39  West (1973) 6. 40  Cf. 2.87 (speech of the Peloponnesian commanders) vs. 2.89 (Phormio’s speech) (see next section). 41  Hornblower (1991) ad loc.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

347

or a battle of prediction and preparation, fought out in advance.42 The speeches are constructed antithetically and coordinated carefully to make the arguments correspond closely43 – again inviting comparison. The upshot of the episode is that the Peloponnesians’ preparation of the material preconditions (numerical superiority being on their side) is countered by the Athenians’ awareness and anticipation of it.44 The speech of the Peloponnesians immediately follows their first disgraceful defeat at Patrai against Phormio’s ships in spite of their numerical advantage (47 Peloponnesian ships against merely 20 Athenian ones). Afterwards, reinforcements are added to the Peloponnesian fleet to secure their numerical superiority even more. The commanders address their troops, in what is probably best read as a general impression of several speeches delivered in front of several smaller contingents.45 Their primary target is to address the fear of the troops (2.87.1), or, to be more precise, to address the fear of fear itself: the commanders systematically downplay the fear among the troops to prevent the brave individuals from losing faith because of their peers’ fear.46 The bulk of the speech is aimed at rectifying incorrect diagnoses of the causes of the defeat: to invalidate the idea that a past defeat could repeat itself in the future, the commanders blame the defeat on poor preparation and a concatenation of bad luck (2.87.2; 2.87.6). The importance of inexperience is downplayed (2.87.2–3), the importance of bravery (2.87.4)47 and of the Peloponnesians’ numerical advantage are exaggerated (2.87.6)48 with slogans such as “numbers and equipment give victory” (2.87.6–7) giving the Peloponnesians reason to be confident (θαρσοῦντες) (2.87.8). In assessing their chances, the commanders resort to the language of straightforward calculation (2.87.5–7):49 the argument is structured as a systematic comparison (ἀντιτάξασθε) between the assets of two sides, setting advantages (the neuter 42  See Allison (1989) 135–6 for an analysis of the development of the concept of παρασκευή (occurring eleven times in 2.85–89) in this passage. 43  See for a detailed analysis of this pair of speeches Luschnat (1942) 26–32, De Romilly (2012) 80–7ff.; Leimbach (1985) 42–55. 44  Allison (1989) 135–6. 45  Cf. Hornblower (1991) ad loc. 46  The commanders use euphemisms to diagnose the situation: “defeat” (ἧσσα, 2.86.6) turns into “naval battle” (ναυμαχία, 2.87.2), the soldiers’ fear (2.86.6) is not treated as a given, but as hypothetical (εἰ) or incidental (τις, 2.87.1), i.e. as something unexpected taking the commanders by surprise, rather than a justifiable reaction to the situation. Leimbach (1985) 29. 47  Edmunds (1975) 98–9. 48  Cf. Allison (1989) 137. 49  De Romilly (2012) 136–7.

348

van Berkel

comparatives ἐμπειρότερον, τολμηρότερον) against each other from which the plausible inference follows (εὑρίσκομεν εἰκότως) that the surplus is in the favour of the Peloponnesians. Though such a speech is appropriate to the specific circumstances, the emphatic presentation of the point of numerical advantage as a general rule again invites comparison with the cautious Archidamus who repeatedly warned against overconfidence in numbers. The ease with which the commanders reverse Archidamus’ slogan in 2.11.4 is unsettling in its opportunism and expressive of their despair. It breeds irony considering the Peloponnesians’ recent defeat against a numerically inferior Athenian contingent – an irony amplified by the course of events following this speech (the Peloponnesians will lose again) and contrastively highlighted by Phormio’s subsequent speech to his men that is presented as a reaction to the Peloponnesians. Given the Athenians’ severe numerical disadvantage against the reinforced Peloponnesian fleet,50 it should not surprise us that Phormio argues the exact opposite of the points made by the Peloponnesian commanders. Note, however, that the narratorial introduction to the speech is exceptionally long and explicit about Phormio’s motivations behind the speech (2.88.1–3).51 Phormio, confronted too with the challenge of addressing “the fear for the fear of his men”, and having “noticed that [his men] were alarmed at the odds against them”, calls his troops together “to give them confidence” (θαρσῦναι) in their present predicament. The narrator’s repetition of the phrase τὸ πλῆθος τῶν νεῶν52 brings out Phormio’s prognostic skills, as this is precisely the situation that he had anticipated and to which end he had conditioned the reaction of his troops.53 Just like Pericles, who in 2.13 conditioned (2.13.2: παρῄνει … ἅπερ καὶ πρότερον) the Athenians into understanding that real numerical advantage inheres in money, Phormio too has done this talk before (πρότερον) and repeatedly (αἰεί), having “accustomed their minds to thinking” “that there was no numerical superiority that they could not face”. It is only the present sight (ὄψις) of the Peloponnesian fleet that temporarily disheartens the troops; so, with conspicuous repetition, Phormio “wanted to refresh their confidence (τοῦ θαρσεῖν)”. The unusually long introduction aligns the two speeches around the theme of “numbers and military confidence”, highlighting that, in contrast

50  The Athenians with 20 ships in total (2.83.1) risked a battle against the 77 ships of the Peloponnesians (2.86.4). See 2.89.5 and Rhodes (1988) 259. 51  Hornblower (1991) ad loc.: “inartistically repetitive and long-winded”. 52  2.88.2, used in 2.87.6 by the Peloponnesians. 53  Allison (1989) 138.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

349

to the opportunistic ad hoc arguments of Peloponnesians commanders, Phormio’s pep talk is actually anchored in a pre-existing training practice. Phormio’s actual speech starts with explicitly addressing the fear for the enemy’s numbers and can be read as a pre-emptive subversion of his opponents (and thus a demonstration of superior foresight [2.89.1–5]). The Peloponnesian commanders had stressed the importance of their troops’ bravery and their numerical superiority. Phormio insists that the Peloponnesians are not the only people with a claim to courage and explains the vast numerical advantage as a sign of weakness and self-doubt (2.89.2). Using a language of comparison and calculation similar to that of the Peloponnesians,54 Phormio argues that the advantage belongs to the Athenians, as the Peloponnesians are not superior to them in natural courage and the Athenians’ superior confidence (θρασύτεροι) is based on their superior experience. Numerical superiority is a sign of their lack of confidence,55 whereas experience on sea makes the Athenians more confident (ἐμπειρότεροι θρασύτεροι; 2.89.4). In fact, as Phormio explains in an instance of reverse psychology, the Spartans have more reason to fear them, for a numerically superior adversary trusts more on strength than on intelligence, whereas outnumbered troops, in the psychology of the adversaries, must be motivated by the security of a firm conviction (2.89.6–7). This is the way the Spartans will reason (ἃ λογιζόμενοι), and hence they will fear the Athenians’ unexpected resistance (τῷ οὐκ εἰκότι) more than commensurate preparation. This is a line of eikos-argumentation that has a sophistic ring to it, reminiscent of Protagorean stock-examples of “making the weaker logos stronger”,56 but also to Archidamus, who had insisted that the Spartans always prepare against an enemy on the assumption that his plans are good (1.84.3).57 Each party has a different analysis of morale. The outcome of the battle unambiguously demonstrates that Phormio is one up on the Spartans: the Athenians win, and their victory is determined by the fear that overtakes the Peloponnesians, making them confused, counterproductive, and prone to mistakes, whereas the Athenians are encouraged (showing θάρσος) and capable of acting “from a single command” (2.92.1–4).

54  De Romilly (2012) 136–7. 55  2.89.2: the Peloponnesians’ confidence (θαρσοῦσιν) is not constitutional to them but arises from successes on land. 56  E.g. Arist. Rh. 2.24 (1402a16–28). The technique already occurs in Antiphon’s Tetralogies (e.g. the εἰκός-argumentation in Tetralogy 1.2.2.3). On the ancient tradition that Thucydides was a student of Antiphon, see Marcellinus, Vit. Thuc. 22. 57  Cf. Allison (1989) 138.

350

van Berkel

The mere use of numerical information naturally belongs to the subject matter of warfare. It is the interaction of a series of speeches in which such numerical reasoning occurs that suggests thematic relevance of the relation between numbers, confidence and certainty in warfare – especially the danger of overconfidence attached to numerical reasoning. 5

Inferior Numbers Do Not Necessarily Imply Defeat

Throughout his work, Thucydides uses the vocabulary of λογίζεσθαι to refer to general processes of inferential reasoning (ἐκλογίζομαι “to think”, λογισμός “reflection”) and specifically to cognitive inferential processes associated with numbers, such as calculation and other types of instrumental reasoning.58 Both Archidamus and Pericles contrast confidence (θάρσος) with rational deliberation (λογισμός): when Archidamus ponders about the likelihood that the Athenians will after all succumb to anger and fight, he makes the observation that when suffering injuries and losses, people will be least inclined for reflection (λογισμός; 2.11.7–9) and, consequently, more prone to rush into action. Pericles, in his Funeral Oration, famously claims that the Athenians are exceptional in combining daring (τολμᾶν) and deliberation (ἐκλογίζεσθαι; 2.40.3), implying that confident courage (θράσος) is usually the product of ignorance and hence the opposite of reflection (λογισμός) that breeds hesitation. This standard opposition between confidence and rational calculation is echoed by Demosthenes in the precarious situation on the battlefield of Pylos when he paradoxically urges his men to forgo calculation (4.10.1–2), seemingly rejecting the Periclean virtues of intelligence and calculation:59 Demosthenes urges his men that this is not the place or moment to show one’s wit60 by “exactly calculating (ἐκλογιζόμενος) all the perils that surround us”, for “in emergencies calculation (λογισμόν) is out of place”. The “calculation” that Demosthenes has in mind is the kind of inference that men tend to draw when confronted with intimidating relays of triremes, i.e. the seemingly incontrovertible conclusion

58  Price (2001) 265 argues that when Thucydides uses forms of λογίζεσθαι in his narratorial voice, there is always the connotation of calculation directed at immediate advantage, “neglecting not only ethical considerations but even one’s own long-range interests”. 59  For another rejection of intelligence: see Cleon’s speech in the Mytilinaean debate, 3.37.3–5. 60  See Rhodes (1998) 219 on ξύνεσις as a typically Athenian virtue in Thucydides.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

351

that the battle is already lost at the outset. Instead, Demosthenes urges them to adopt an attitude of blind impetuosity.61 The rest of Demosthenes’ speech contradicts this seemingly anti-intellectual sentiment:62 he offers a systematic reassessment of the situation, arguing that the difficulty of the landing on the shore will be in the Athenians’ favour as long as they stand their ground.63 Demosthenes, moreover, offers an alternative interpretation of the numerical odds (4.10.4–5). Numerosity itself (πλῆθος; 4.10.2, 4.10.4) needs not to alarm the troops. Given the rocky terrain, the Spartans may not get into a position where they can take advantage of their numerosity, as armies on land can reap the advantages of numerical superiority, “because everything else is equal”, but sea battles require a different calculus because on sea there are more things beyond human control. The difficulties of the opponent counterbalance (ἀντιπάλους) the Athenians’ numerical situation – appealing to the type of rational calculation, and to the language of comparison,64 that he denounced at the outset of his speech. Demosthenes succeeds in encouraging his troops.65 While Demosthenes denounces the use of overmuch λογισμός in an emergency situation, his own argument relies on a willingness and ability of his audience to recalculate the odds. Behind the overt rejection of the value of intelligence lies a general’s monopolization of calculation: in war situations, it may not always be self-evident what it is that we need to count in order to assess our chances. Those are the times in which a general ought to take charge and position himself as a teacher of the masses by explicitly discouraging people from drawing their own conclusions from the facts at hand. 6

An Alternative Battle-Speech

The relation between numbers and confidence is a recurring theme throughout Thucydides’ History. In moments of crisis, leaders take control over the 61  Leimbach (1985) 58–9 notes that Demosthenes uses only abstract nouns in describing the risks that the army is facing (δεινόν, ἀνάγκη) and seems to avoid a more concrete assessment of the situation. 62  Luschnat (1942) 35–6. 63  This command is carried out in the narrative at 4.12.2. Cf. Morrison (2006) 262, who shows that Demosthenes’ anticipations are confirmed in the narrative of 4.12–13. 64  E.g. the use of the adjective ἀντίπαλος, also used in by the Peloponnesian commanders at Naupactus (2.89.6–7). 65  Retrospectively, the narrator refers to the speech with ἐθάρσησαν μᾶλλον “[the Athenians] felt more confident” (4.11.1).

352

van Berkel

way military numbers are interpreted and take charge over what needs to be counted in the situation at hand. What are the implications for Pericles’ list in 2.13? First, the emphatic framing in the vocabulary of boosting confidence, and its juxtaposition with Archidamus’ battle-speech before the Peloponnesians, position Pericles’ list in a series of battle-speeches that use numbers to boost collective morale. As battle-speeches do not function in contexts of decision-making, but serve to encourage troops to execute decisions already taken, the communicative function of the numbers used in such contexts should not so much be understood in terms of informative value, but in terms of their capacity to motivate and encourage, to incite confidence or inspire caution in their addressees – and hence should be evaluated as such by the reader. Pericles’ speech in 2.13 fits into this series and forms a complementary reaction on Archidamus’ battle speech in 2.11. However, 2.13 also deviates from the pattern on three points: unlike the typical battle speeches where numerosity (πλῆθος) is talked about, Pericles’ speech is the only one that uses actual numbers. Moreover, Pericles’ speech does not precede a battle, nor does it address an army. Finally, Thucydides does not give us Pericles’ words in direct speech but in oratio obliqua. As we have seen in Section 3, the challenge that Pericles has to meet is to prepare the citizens for something that they are about to see: the sheer sight of Attica being destroyed will in itself be provocative – just as the mere sight of a magnificent army can inspire either panic or confidence. Part of what war-speeches do is to manage the visceral effects of this sight – to restrain overconfidence and fear, or to arouse confidence – by reinterpreting what people think they see or by downplaying the importance of what they see. Pericles’ magnificent list of Athens’ resources offers a verbal substitute for the visual effects of a magnificent army: it inspires θάρσος to stay on course and to abide by the strategy that was decided on. Pericles’ speech is not a typical battle-speech, because it does not take place before the troops, but before the citizens in the Assembly. It is not about inciting soldiers to actions, but about inaction, about refraining from reacting to the imminent provocations of the Spartan troops and the disturbing sight of the destruction of their homes. It is a demonstration of the superior foresight of Pericles, who correctly anticipates Archidamus’ expectation that the Athenians would let go of rational calculation and who overrules the sight of destruction with the verbal and numerical display of Athens’ power.66 66  An instructive parallel is Pericles’ funeral oration that can be seen (and has been seen already in antiquity, e.g. by Ps.-Dion. Hal. Rhet. 8.9) as a blending of epideictic and exhortative oratory. Cf. Zoido (2007).

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

353

The speech is didactic, in the way that battle-speeches are instructive: it is not meant to facilitate deliberation, but it rather resembles Demosthenes’ corrective calculation or Phormio’s habitual efforts to condition his troops towards a correct reaction to an opponent that is numerically superior, or, as in this case, to provocations of an opponent yet to be met with restraint. Hence, the speech is better assessed not so much in terms of factual correctness, but by the measure of its efficacy in a battle situation where an army may face odds that result from decisions already taken. The speech, moreover, is a financial paragraph, but its significance lies in the fact that it is delivered in lieu of another type of numerical pep talk that thematizes either the numerical inferiority of the opponent or the irrelevance of their numbers. To Pericles’ long-term strategy, power is quantified in a different way: it is not landed manpower that counts; his war is won with other resources.67 A final question emerges. It seems significant that later in Book 2, in Pericles’ obituary, it is his foresight68 that is praised by Thucydides’ authorial judgment;69 the plague was the only event not foreseen by Pericles; his assessment of Athenian resources had proven brilliantly correct.70 This raises the vexed question of Thucydides’ implicit authorial judgment of Pericles. Does Thucydides endorse Pericles’ trust in numbers? Or does he present a Pericles who makes the fallacy of overconfidence in numbers? This is a complex matter, involving the question why this speech is rendered in indirect discourse.71 One factor may be that the presentation in indirect speech enables the authorial voice to mediate between speech and external audience. The verbs of speaking used by the narrator colour our interpretation of the speech, making clear that we are not dealing with a symbouleutic speech, offering numerical data to inform the decision-making process, but with a range of speech acts. These include a pre-emptive declaration

67  Kallet (1993); (1994). 68  His πρόνοια, here evoked by the verbal form προέγνω. 69  2.65.11–13. Pericles’ assessment of Athens’ resources was correct as an assessment for a war with the Peloponnesians (not for other, irresponsible imperial adventures). Foster (2010) 216. 70  Yunis (1996) 67–71; Mader (2007). See Edmunds (1975) 70–88, however, who emphasizes the shortcomings of Pericles’ calculations that underestimated the impact of chance in wars (2.74.4). 71  Drefke (1877) argues that Thucydides intended to insert a full speech here, but changed his mind on finding the subject “unsuitable for readers”. Hornblower too judges the subject matter to be “too technical” to include in a speech; moreover, according to him, indirect discourse is an indication that the material is intended to be treated as factual. It seems relevant to me that the other key speech that features numbers, Nicias’ final words in the Sicilian debate (6.25.2), is also rendered in indirect speech.

354

van Berkel

(προηγόρευε; 2.13.1), an instruction (παρῄνει; 2.13.2),72 encouragement (θαρσεῖν ἐκέλευειν; 2.13.3, ἐθάρσυνεν; 2.13.6) and verbal display of the magnificence of Athens (ἀπέφαινε; 2.13.5; 2.13.8). Whereas direct speech may serve to show an oration and its effects, indirect speech allows the narrator to tell and explain how Pericles’ extensive list of numbers is to be interpreted. This interpretation is in line with the reading of Edith Foster, who emphasizes the importance of the narratorial intrusions in 2.13:73 throughout we see the narrator interrupt the report of Pericles’ words by explaining them.74 The most salient example is the point where Pericles mentions the six thousand talents of coined money on the Acropolis in 2.13.3. The narratorial voice intrudes: Ὑπαρχόντων δὲ ἐν τῇ ἀκροπόλει ἔτι τότε ἀργυρίου ἐπισήμου ἑξακισχιλίων ταλάντων (τὰ γὰρ πλεῖστα τριακοσίων ἀποδέοντα μύρια ἐγένετο, ἀφ’ ὧν ἔς τε τὰ προπύλαια τῆς ἀκροπόλεως καὶ τἆλλα οἰκοδομήματα καὶ ἐς Ποτείδαιαν ἀπανηλώθη). Thuc. 2.13.3

[T]here still remained on the Acropolis a sum of six thousand talents in coined silver (at its highest this capital reserve had stood at nine thousand seven hundred talents, from which had been drawn the expenditure on the Propylaea of the Acropolis and the other buildings, and on Potidaea).75 Here, the narratorial voice intrudes by qualifying this statement with ἔτι τότε “still at the time” (the temporal orientation of the reporting narrator, instead of the speaking Pericles) and by explaining (γάρ introduces an explanatory parenthesis)76 that from the original 9700 in the Treasury, almost a third has been spent by Pericles on his building program. This reading of the parenthesis as an authorial comment is corroborated by the fact that the finite verbs in this sentence have aorist aspect (ἐγένετο, ἀπανηλώθη; the only two finite verbal forms in aorist in the entire speech), marking a transition from an “observing mode”, that presents the speech from the perspective of an observer who remembers it (with imperfects expressing “displaced immediacy”), to facts 72  Or rather: urging to stick to the policy previously decided on. 73  Foster (2010) 169 n. 42 on the high concentration of verbs of speaking in this part of the reported speech as a dissociating mechanisms on the part of the narrator. 74  Foster (2010) 163 nn. 27, 28, 29. 75  Tr. M. Hammond (2009). 76  Stadter (2011–2) objects that the γάρ-clause could equally plausibly introduce a clarification by Pericles himself.

Pericles ’ Rhetoric of Numbers

355

that are presented in relation to the present by the intrusion of the knowing narrator.77 This combination of report and commentary creates a tension: Pericles advises the Athenians to “keep the allies in check” (2.13.2);78 Thucydides reveals that one third of the money kept in the Treasury is spent on Pericles’ building program.79 Pericles boasts about the Athenian resources; Thucydides casts doubt about the sustainability of his policy. Pericles incites confidence in an invincible Athens80 with calculable amounts of wealth as if they are secure;81 Thucydides suggests fragility. Pericles takes people out of the equation, by privileging money and resources as the fundamental explanation of power;82 Thucydides’ vividly emotional description of Attic migration (2.14–17)83 and the effect of the sight that the Peloponnesian army has on the young Athenians (2.21.2), as well as his detached report of casualty numbers throughout the History brings people back into the narrative. Thucydides may endorse Pericles’ foresight as far as his estimation of resources is concerned (2.13.9; 2.65.13). The narrator never disputes the accuracy of the list.84 Moreover, Thucydides, more than once, displays deep appreciation for Pericles’ effectiveness in managing the mass psychology of his audience.85 But by placing Pericles’ list of resources in a series of battle-speeches that show the speaker’s ability to steer mass emotions in crisis situations, Thucydides draws attention to the fact that numbers are not inert bearers of data that allow for mechanical inferences. Numbers are objects of interpretation, and battle situations call for leaders capable of taking control over the way numbers are interpreted, by engaging in reinterpretations of the calculations (Demosthenes) or of almost sophistic interpretations of interpretations of numbers (Phormio), or by taking control over the decision what is and what is not to be counted – as Pericles does in his unusual yet effective battle-speech.

77  Debnar (2013) 37. 78  Cf. Foster (2010) 168 on the costs of this policy: Athens’ intervention in the revolt at Potidaea may have costed about two thousand talents – an amount hard to justify for the control over such a small contributor. 79  Foster (2010) 168: “Where Pericles shows us how much money the city has, Thucydides shows us how much money the city spends”. 80  Cf. Kallet-Marx (1994) 104. 81  Foster (2010) 168. 82  Cf. Kallet-Marx (1994) 246. 83  2.14.1–15.1. Foster (2010) 174–5. 84  Foster (2010) 173. 85  Cf. Yunis (1996) 59–86.

chapter 21

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes Robert Sing Understanding what sort of arguments Athenian orators used to win the votes of their fellow citizens is key to explaining how the democracy functioned as it did. The challenge, of course, is that no verbatim record of any assembly or courtroom proceeding survives. The cut and thrust of debate is therefore lost, and varying degrees of post-delivery polishing create a gap between the original speeches and the written versions we possess.1 Nevertheless, for these texts to circulate as illustrations of a speaker’s rhetorical skill, they must have been recognized as plausible pieces of rhetoric that could be delivered before real Athenian audiences. The relationship between speech and text in historiography is inevitably more complicated. The speeches of Thucydides are as close as we can come to the deliberative rhetoric of the fifth century, but they have long been recognized as problematic historical sources.2 Scepticism about the accuracy of Thucydides’ speeches as evidence for persuasive speech in actual debate has, however, not always extended to financial rhetoric. I begin by underscoring the limitations of Thucydides’ Pericles as a source for reconstructing the rhetoric of strategic financial decision-making, before offering a comparison with the financial rhetoric of Demosthenes. In this instance, the study of persuasion in oratory furthers the study of persuasion in historiography because Demosthenes’ argumentative approach gives a sense of the rhetoric that Thucydides was critiquing in the composition of his own speeches.3 Demosthenes shows that successful financial decision-making, contrary to 1  In the case of Demosthenes, this polishing does not seem to have extended to recomposition. Demosthenes appears to have been unusual in the extent to which his speeches were drafted beforehand (Plut. Dem. 8.3–5, cf. Dem. 21.191–2; [Plut.] Mor. 848c).Though the absence of financial proposals in speeches after 346 is striking, it is unlikely Demosthenes excised such plans on literary grounds: as time passed his interest lay less in making specific proposals than in changing Athens’ entire policy towards Philip (cf. Dem. 6.3–4, 8.23, 38, 68, 73–5), see Hansen (1984), 57–60. On the circulation of Demosthenes’ speeches in his lifetime, see Yunis (1996) 242–3; Gottesman (2014) 147–54, cf. Trevett (1996) for posthumous release. 2  On the “authenticity” of Thucydides’ speeches and his notorious statement on the subject (1.22.1–4), see Greenwood (2006) 63–82. 3  This is despite the fact that Demosthenes’ early deliberative speeches show the stylistic influence of Thucydides, see Dion. Hal. Thuc.53–55, Dem.9–10; Pearson (1964) 24–31, 112–9;

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412552_022

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

357

Thucydides, was not the result of arguments that relied almost exclusively on technical information delivered by experts. Persuasion was far more likely to take place via an aggregation of specialist knowledge and relevant popular understandings (δόξαι). The evidence of Demosthenes is, consequently, of more help to us in understanding how a majority of non-experts deliberated intelligently on this challenging area of public policy. For Lisa Kallet-Marx, the speech that Pericles delivers on the eve of the Peloponnesian War is evidence that a student-teacher dynamic existed between the dēmos and its advisers during financial deliberations.4 Before enumerating the number of Athenian hoplites, archers, cavalry and ships, and the length of Athens’ walls, Pericles quantifies the vast financial resources of the polis (Thuc. 2.13.2–5): He told them to be confident. Apart from other revenues, an average of 600 talents a year, most of it tribute, was coming into the city from the allies; and there were still 6,000 talents of coined silver on the acropolis, (there had once been 9,700 talents, from which the money had been taken for the Propylaea of the acropolis, for other public buildings, and for the campaign at Potidaea). There was the uncoined gold and silver in public and private dedications, the sacred vessels used in processions and games, the Persian spoils and other, similar treasures worth more than 500 talents. To this he added the not inconsiderable wealth of the other temples. All this could be used.5 Kallet-Marx argues that only professional orators had the time and resources to acquire the kind of comprehensive, up-to-date information about polis finances that Pericles displays. Consequently, a well-informed orator would have found it particularly easy to persuade the dēmos to follow his lead on financial problems. Kallet-Marx argues that many financial decisions were routine and well within the capacities of ordinary citizens. Athenians could acquire extensive experience in financial administration by attending assembly debates and serving on official boards. Yet, as she points out, this experience was not the same as having a firm grasp of the workings of the financial system.6 I hasten to Gotteland (2010). According to Yunis (1996) 247–68 and Mader (2007a), Thucydides’ Pericles was also a major influence on Demosthenes’ self-presentation as an adviser. 4  Kallet-Marx (1994) 232–3. 5  On the historical information contained in 2.13, see Meritt et al. (1950) 118–32; Kallet-Marx (1993) 96–108 with earlier work cited at n. 60; Figueira (1998) 200–6, 308–9; Samons (2000) 107–63. Translations are adapted from the Loeb edition. 6  Kallet-Marx (1994) 228–32.

358

Sing

add that it was not simply a question of accumulating information. The dēmos needed assistance because long-term, strategic decisions also had to be made about spending priorities and institutional reform. A gap in knowledge and policy skill certainly existed between citizens and professional orators.7 However, the context of 2.13 means that the speech is unlikely to be a very typical piece of financial rhetoric. As van Berkel demonstrates in this volume, Pericles’ aim is to make the Athenians confident (θαρσεῖν) in the decision they have already made to go to war with Sparta, and the overwhelming impression of numerical superiority created by a catalogue of figures fits the bill.8 The speech does not actually prove that Athens will prevail by weighing anticipated expenditure against income. Few orators could have delivered such a speech successfully, and not simply because Pericles wielded exceptional political influence. Too many numbers and facts will ordinarily make a speech dry, at worst incomprehensible.9 The independent verification of specific factual claims was also harder for Athenians than for present-day consumers of financial rhetoric. Numbers that had not been verified through democratic processes of counting (like the auditing of accounts), did not carry an authority independent of the authority of the speaker and the skill of the argument. Pericles’ earlier speech advocating war with Sparta (1.140–4) does not have the same objective and intense emotional context that makes 2.13 exceptional. Rather than a catalogue of numbers meant to stiffen resolve, Pericles gives 7  Ober (2008) 160–5 believes that the dēmos could control strategic financial decision-making without the guidance of expert orators. He argues that assembly proposals, including financial proposals, were subjected to scrutiny by the aggregate knowledge of the entire dēmos: during debate, an individual audience member would follow the lead of other members of his social network whom he recognized as more knowledgeable on the subject in question. This scenario, however, over-taxes the intelligibility and the sophistication of θόρυβος as an epistemic mechanism. Ober also gives insufficient weight to the greater time, oratorical skill, and policy-drafting experience orators enjoyed. Similarly, Lewis (1996) 103, writing about the communication of information in the polis, seriously underestimates the skill needed to aggregate and interpret technical information. 8  That said, the version of Pericles’ speech at 2.13 found in Diodorus (12.39–40) raises the possibility that numerical argument like this could also be used in a deliberative setting, that is, to persuade the Athenians to vote in favour of war in the first place. 9  Speakers can consequently make a special effort to ensure audiences keep up with calculations (e.g. Isae. 11.44; Dem. 14.18–9, 20.32, 33.6–12, 36.6–8). Contrast this with the presentation of calculations (or mere lists of numbers), that are not intended to be verified but to give an impression of magnitude (e.g. Lys. 19.57–9, 21.1–5). Similarly, the profusion of numbers in Demosthenes’ On the Symmories (Dem. 14) is designed to give a favourable impression of sophisticated planning, not to ensure that everyone will come away with a thorough understanding of the workings of his plan.

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

359

an extended analysis of the underpinnings of Spartan and Athenian financial power to an undecided audience (Thuc. 1.141.3–5): For the Peloponnesians are self-reliant farmers (αὐτουργοί) who have no wealth, either private or public, and they have no experience in long wars across the sea, because their poverty means they can only wage short campaigns against one another. People such as this are not able to man ships or send out armies very frequently, since they would be away from their properties and at the same time would be drawing down their own resources to meet their expenses; and besides, they are excluded from the sea. Surplus revenues rather than forced contributions (αἱ βίαιοι ἐσφοραὶ) sustain wars. Those who farm are always quicker to sacrifice their lives in war than their property. Is this a more representative example of financial persuasion? Though numbers are now absent, 1.141 (like 2.13) enunciates a mantra that informs Thucydides’ narrative of the war: power depends on the intelligent expenditure of plentiful cash reserves.10 Moreover, as both Yunis and Ober have shown,11 Thucydides uses Pericles to articulate a specific model of sound advice-giving and decision-making. The good Thucydidean adviser is a subject specialist who empowers the dēmos to make correct decisions by giving the facts (ἔργα), in this case about the generation and expenditure of cash, and by encouraging trust in the value of intelligent reflection.12 Bad advisers, like those who are said to come after Pericles (Thuc. 2.65.10–11), act out of self-interest, flatter their listeners,13 use the wrong material facts, and rely on contestable assumptions about human nature.14 The difficulty with Thucydides’ idealized depiction of financial persuasion, and consequently with Kallet-Marx’s account of how financial decision-making worked, is the competitive nature of advice-giving. In Thucydides, Pericles has no rivals. In reality, orators had to succeed against rival speakers, and as such, they had to engage and entertain, not just educate. It was not enough for would-be leaders to follow the advice of Aristotle (Rh. 1359b34–9, 1396a5–12) and of Xenophon’s Socrates (Mem. 3.6.7–10), and ensure they possessed impressive factual knowledge. How was financial information to be translated 10  E.g. Thuc. 1.13, 1.122.1, 3.13.6, 39.8, 46.3. 11  Yunis (1991) 198–9, (1996) 247–68; Ober (1998) 53–121. 12  Thuc. 2.62.5, cf. 2.40.3. 13  Thuc. 2.59.3, 2.65.8–9. 14  Thuc. 3.39.4–5, 45.1–7, 6.36.3; see Ober (1998) 109 n. 103.

360

Sing

into persuasive argument? When it comes to this problem, remarkably little attention has been paid to Demosthenes, whose speeches preserve almost all surviving Athenian rhetoric on matters of public finance. In part, I suspect this is because the Periclean picture of financial decision-making gels with the present-day assumption that mass deliberation is inherently incapable of producing responsible financial policy. Our experience of public finance as an inescapably technical subject makes it, whether we like it or not, a game for the experts. What most distinguishes Demosthenes from the Thucydidean Pericles is not so much the extent to which he selects or distorts his facts, but the extent of his reliance on popular beliefs (δόξαι). These were built up over time and through experience, and ranged from opinions about particular people or things to axiomatic beliefs about human nature. Thucydides emphatically rejects them as a basis for sound deliberation.15 By contrast, Demosthenes takes δόξαι about the relationship between political and economic organization and financial power, and gives them epistemic primacy over the impression of Philip II’s unassailable strength as conveyed by common report (φήμη) of his successes.16 Demosthenes presents Macedon as a financially inferior opponent in the years before Athens came to terms with Philip in the Peace of Philocrates (346). In the Second Olynthiac (349/8) he claims that despite Macedon’s territorial expansion, the kingdom is weak and will collapse under the first direct 15  Best seen in the opposition between Cleon and Diodotus in the Mytilene debate: Thuc. 3.37.3–5, 38.4–5, 42.2, 43.4. In general, δόξαι tend to be mistaken in Thucydides: 1.32.5, 4.85.2, 5.108.3, cf. Gorg. Hel. 11. Speakers will nevertheless claim popular endorsement for an assertion by saying it is something ‘everyone knows’ (Arist. Rh. 1408a32–6). See further Ober (1993), (1998) 52–63. 16  On the idea of φήμη see Aeschin. 2.145, 3.127–30; Dem. 19.244; Arist. Rh. 1416a36–8, with Ober (1989) 148–51; Lewis (1996) 12–13; Hesk (2000) 227–31. Trade, religious gatherings, tourism and personal networks must have allowed information about Philip and Macedon to trickle into Athens, see Lewis (1996) 31–46. Lewis is therefore wrong (103–9) to read Demosthenes’ vague, unsubstantiated statements about Macedon as reflective of a genuine lack of hard information about the kingdom in Athens. It is especially difficult to believe that professional orators were no better informed about foreign affairs than ordinary citizens: one need only read Against Aristocrates (Dem. 23) to appreciate Demosthenes’ capacity for fact-finding about the north. Forestalling the long-standing worry that Macedon was finally becoming a major power (cf. Hdt. 5.23.1–2; Thuc. 2.97.2–5; Xen. Hell. 5.2.16–7, 6.1.10–2) would have been particularly important for Demosthenes if evidence of Philip’s wealth had already made it to Athens in the early 340s in the form of his gold coinage. While Philip’s silver was struck on the Thraco-Macedonian standard, the Attic standard used for his gold issues meant these coins could travel widely, see Le Rider (1977) 354–5. However, when Philip’s gold currency began is disputed. Martin (1985) 284–92 argues for the 350s. In response to Martin, Le Rider (1996) 68, cf. 63, 74–7, is only prepared to revise his dating for the start of Philip’s gold from post-346 to post-348.

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

361

application of pressure.17 The supposed reason for this is that Philip’s subjects hate him just as much as his allies do (2.5–8). Philip is reviled because he has destroyed the domestic economy of Macedon (2.16): His subjects are always buffeted and wearied and distressed by these expeditions north and south, never suffered to give their time to their work (ἔργα) or their private affairs (ἴδιοι), never able to dispose of such produce as they can raise, because the war has closed all the markets (ἐμπορία)18 in their land. The situation that this state of affairs implies – that Philip lacks the vibrant domestic economy to generate reliable, consistent revenues – lies behind Demosthenes’ earlier statement, in the First Philippic (351/0), that Philip has to source most of his wealth from outside sources, namely through opportunistic, ad hoc predation. Demosthenes tells the Athenians that if they assert their naval power: “you will be depriving Philip of his largest single source of revenue. And what is that? For the war against you he makes your allies pay by raiding their sea-borne commerce” (Dem. 4.34). The ships Philip once used to stage a raid at Marathon are referred to as “pirate triremes” (Ex. 21.2, cf. 10.34). In the First Olynthiac, Philip, who had been chosen as archon of the Thessalian League, is said to be spending the harbour and market revenues of Thessaly for his own ends and contrary to the expectations of the Thessalians (1.22–3, cf. 6.22). Within these speeches, nothing is said of the revenues Philip was collecting from the cities he had taken, like Amphipolis, the tribute he was receiving, or the gold and silver being mined around Mount Pangaeum.19 Instead, 17  Dem. 2.5–21, cf. 4.8, 1.21–4. The critique is reworked and set in the context of 340 in the Pseudo-Demosthenic Reply to Philip ([Dem.] 11.2–15). 18  The potential meaning of ἐμπορία as harbours (cf. Dem. 19.315), rather than inland markets, allows this to be taken as a suggestion that Macedonian prosperity is subject to Athenian naval power. If so, it is a significant exaggeration. Athens had a presence off Philip’s coasts (Polyaenus, Strat. 4.2.22) and raided them (Theopomp. FGrH 115 F249), but the Athenians never had enough ships in the north to maintain a blockade. One was certainly not in place when Demosthenes called for it in 351 (4.32). Some Athenians even ignored their own embargo against exporting to Macedon (Dem. 19.286–7). 19  On the latter: Diod. 16.8.7, cf. Theophrast. 4.108.1; Xen. Hell. 5.2.17. On the conquest of the area and the foundation of Philippi, see Ellis (1976) 68–70; Hammond and Griffith (1979) 246–50. On the growth of Philip’s mineral resources in general, see Borza (1990) 53–5. It is difficult to believe, with Montgomery (1985) 40–5, that Demosthenes’ depiction of Philip’s poverty before 346 is at least in part a reflection of reality. Montgomery is nearer the mark with his earlier analysis (1983) 15–8, in which Demosthenes constructs the Macedonian economy according to democratic assumptions about how leaders and people interact in a successful state.

362

Sing

Athenians are given an image of Philip as a ruler of insatiable greed and aggressiveness who lacks both a durable revenue stream and an understanding of the fundamental importance of wealth to war.20 This depiction of Philip and his kingdom draws much of its credibility from Athenians’ δόξαι about the nature of tyrants as rulers and Macedon as a state.21 It was relatively easy for the Athenians to see all autocrats as tyrants, and Demosthenes consistently labels Philip as a tyrant in an effort to inspire a crusade for Greek liberty.22 Insatiable, transgressive greed (πλεονεξία) and the violent humiliation of others (ὕβρις) feature prominently in Demosthenes’ attack on Philip’s character;23 these were qualities naturally associated with the self-indulgent, war-mongering stereotype of the tyrant in fourth-century thought.24 Tyrants were also seen as pursuing revenue-raising strategies that were oppressive, ad hoc and self-serving, as seen in the many fundraising schemes attributed to tyrants and kings in the Pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica (1346a31f.). It was equally tempting to continue to see Macedon, despite Philip’s military success, as an unstable, second-rate power. Athens had intervened in 368 (Aeschin. 2.26–9), followed by Thebes one year later, and Athens attempted another intervention against the young Philip in 359 (Diod. 16.3.5). The Macedonian crown sometimes ran short of funds,25 and in the 350s the 20  The hostile Theopompus also depicts Philip as a careless spender and a poor financial manager (FGrH 115 F224). Hammond and Griffith (1979) 671 see some basis for this dim view of Philip in the phenomenon of a ‘rolling economy’: what came in was quickly spent, see further Bosworth (1988) 8–10. It is probably true that the Macedonian treasury at Philip’s death was depleted and in debt (Arr. 7.9.6; Curt. 10.2.24; Plut. Alex. 15.2). 21  It therefore has about the same historical value as the account in Alexander’s Opis speech of Philip civilizing Macedon by bringing the people into cities and opening the country to trade (Arr. Anab. 7.9.2–3, cf. Just. Epit. 8.5.7–6.3): Montgomery (1985) and Bosworth (1988) 101–13. For the contrary view, see Hammond and Griffith (1979) 657–71 and N. G. L. Hammond (1995). Philip clearly took significant steps to increase the prosperity and security of his kingdom (cf. Thuc. 2.100.2) in support of his military objectives, see Borza (1990) 215–6. Millett (2010) 472–504 argues that socio-economic change under Philip was remarkable in degree rather than kind. 22  τύραννος: Dem. 2.21, 6.24, 9.38; δεσπότης: 1.4, 18.47, 69, 235. Demosthenes only calls Philip a βασιλεύς in relation to his predecessors (1.9, 2.15, 6.20, [Dem.] 7.11). See Leopold (1981) on the ideological opposition between Philip as tyrant and Athens as democracy. 23  Philip’s acquisitiveness: Dem. 4.9, 42–3, 1.3, 14, 8.11, 10.10, πλεονεξία: 23.114, 2.9, 6.3, 7, 12, 13, 9.27, 10.2, 11.7, 19, 19.152, hubristic arrogance: 4.3, 9, 37, 49, 1.23, 3.14, 9.1, 32. On Demosthenes’ prosecution of Philip through character, see Pearson (1976) 129–57; Mader (2007b) 345 ff. 24  Aristotle describes tyrants as selfish (Arist. Pol. 1311a1–4), accustomed to treating public wealth as their own (1314a40–b18) and ready to make war (1313b20, cf. Pl. Resp. 566e). The successful tyrant, in fact, ought to cultivate military prowess above all other strengths (Pol. 1314b18). 25  Ath. 4.155d; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.2.6, 10.2.

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

363

Athenian orator Callistratus had been employed as a financial consultant to lift Macedon’s harbour revenues.26 The Athenian sense of political and technical superiority even went as far as imagining that Macedon had actually been subject to Athens in the fifth century.27 Demosthenes’ attacks imply that Athens has what Philip does not: a prosperous economy providing durable revenues, made possible by a constitutional government. In On the Symmories Athens has an “abundant” (μέγας) source of money (14.24, cf. 3.33), in the First Philippic “unsurpassed resources – fleet, infantry, cavalry, revenues” (4.40), and in the First Olynthiac “more [money] than any other nation has for military purposes” (1.19). This contrast between the economy of the polis and that of the autocrat comes out most clearly in On the Symmories, when Demosthenes insists that Athens’ fiscal foundation (ἀφορμή) is stronger than that of the Great King himself. Athenians are said to have a never-ending source of regular revenue in the form of the eisphora, as opposed to a tribute system that might extract too much money too quickly and hence fail (Dem. 14.29–30, cf. [Arist.] Oec. 1345b–46a).28 When it comes to fighting a war against Philip, it is accordingly much better to do so far from Athens and to avoid the huge costs of a war fought in Attica itself (Dem. 1.27). After the Third Sacred War and the Peace of Philocrates in 346, Philip’s immense financial resources were plain to see. Demosthenes accordingly alters his characterization of Philip’s financial power in order to advocate renewed warfare, but still relies on δόξαι about tyrannical government. He tries to frighten his fellow citizens into taking action without terrifying them to the point that appeasement becomes the only sensible option. Demosthenes’ new analysis acknowledges Philip’s financial power, but still affirms Athens as the paradigm of a financially powerful state. The peace itself is said to have made Philip rich (19.89) because it has given him the breathing space to pursue the Athenian path to financial power through maritime trade. When he was at war with Athens “his country was overrun by pirates and his ἐμπορία shut off, so he got no profit from all his goods” (19.315, cf. 18.145). The image of Philip as dependent on commerce for his income is very different from the First Philippic and Second Olynthiac: piracy once provided Philip’s revenue but now deprives him of it.29 Demosthenes is less explicit about the superiority of 26  [Arist.] Oec. 1350a16–22; cf. Andoc. 1.133–4. 27  Dem. 3.24; [Dem.] 7.12. 28  On the topos of the King’s wealth, see Hall (1989) 79–81, 127–8. 29  Philip seems primarily to have been the victim of piracy, and he took decisive action against pirates in 345 or 344 ([Dem.] 7.2; [Dem.] 12.13). Some pirates were probably supported by Athens or were Athenian privateers. In Philip’s Letter (c. 340), Athens is accused of ignoring pirates, sending out privateers, and in one case allowing a general to enslave

364

Sing

Athenian wealth despite the revenue recovery then underway (Dem. 10.34). In the Third Philippic, Athens’ ἀφορμαί in general are πλεῖσται (9.70). Still, if the Athenians would now take action “you could … involve him again in a shortage of money and a blockade of other supplies, and so he, and not you, would be wholly dependent on the contingent benefits of the peace” (19.153, cf. 5.13, 6.36). Demosthenes’ characterization of Philip’s financial power after 346 is, however, more concerned with emphasizing the danger of Philip qua tyrant through his spending rather than his revenues. Philip the tyrant labours under none of the political, practical or cultural constraints that are imposed on spending within a polis. His allegedly prodigious bribery is one expression of this freedom. Bribery represented the corruption of the political process of the polis, in which the dēmos required speakers to provide sincere and honest advice,30 and so it is naturally associated with tyrannical power as inherently transgressive of constitutional and moral boundaries. References to Philip’s bribe giving are sparse until 344, just before the coordinated prosecutions of Aeschines and Philocrates by Demosthenes and Hypereides, respectively, over the events of 346. After Demosthenes accused Aeschines of acting as Philip’s hireling in On the False Embassy (343/2),31 the claim that all the politicians of Greece (save, of course, Demosthenes) have been bribed by Philip to serve his interests becomes a fixture of Demosthenes’ rhetoric.32 The scale and danger of Philip’s bribe giving is magnified by drawing on the past in the Second Philippic (344/3). Demosthenes presents it as a conscious imitation of the bribery practised in 480/79 by the tyrant par excellence, the Great King, and as having the same end in mind – the conquest of Greece (6.7–12). By the Third Philippic (342/1), Greece is said to have become diseased (νενόσηκεν) with division and self-delusion because of Philip’s subversive payments (9.39, 54). merchants en route to Macedon ([Dem.] 12.2, 5). The comment that Athens, back in 346, could have again caused Philip a shortage of money (Dem.19.153) may hint that the Athenians had been cooperating with pirates before 346 (cf. 19.315), see N. G. L. Hammond (1994) 369. MacDowell (2000) 344 is more sceptical. On the blurring of the distinction between war and brigandage in this period through state-sponsored piracy, see De Souza (1999) 33–41. 30  On the definition of bribery, see Taylor (2001) 159–62, 166–7. On the ubiquity of allegations of bribe taking and the extent of bribery in Athenian political life, see Wankel (1982); Strauss (1985); Harvey (1985) 89–102; Kulesza (1995). 31  E.g. 19.7, 27–8, 96–8, 106–10, 115–27, 136–42, cf. 18.31–3. 32  8.52, 53, 61 (=10.63), 64, 66, 69, 76, 9.36–46, 53, 10.4, 59, 68, 18.19, 45–9, 61–2, cf. [Dem.] 7.5, 17, 23; Hyp. 4.29–30, 5.15, 25; Din. 1.3.

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

365

The second financial freedom of the tyrant is the ability to spend in whatever way he likes on war. Philip can move with a speed and efficiency that the Athenians cannot match.33 In response to claims that Philip is less of a threat than Sparta was during its supremacy, Demosthenes, in an exaggerated distinction between past and present in the Third Philippic, describes Philip as the exemplar of a new form of unconventional, deceitful warfare that has replaced pitched hoplite battle.34 In this, Philip excels because he is not “citizen-like” (πολιτικῶς) as the Spartans were and is not wedded to the customary (νόμιμος) way of waging war by battles without bribery (9.48).35 Moreover, while Greek poleis are restricted to fighting during the summer campaigning season by their citizen armies and limited budgets, Philip the wealthy tyrant can deploy heterogeneous forces and campaign everywhere, all year-round (9.49–50):36 You hear of Philip marching unchecked, not because he leads a phalanx of hoplites, but because he is accompanied by skirmishers, cavalry, archers, mercenaries and similar troops. When, relying on this force, he attacks a people that is at variance with itself, and when through distrust no one goes forth to fight for his country, then he brings up his artillery and lays siege. I need hardly tell you that he makes no difference between summer and winter and has no season set apart for inaction. For Demosthenes, the combination of financial resources and tyrannical power makes Philip an especially dangerous enemy – so much so that Athens must, for the present, limit itself to raiding and do all it can to keep Philip at arm’s length (9.51–3). The Athenians ignore the insufficiency of their own resources 33  Compare Dem. 1.4, 2.23, 8.11 on Philip with 4.36–7, 19.184–6 on Athens. 34  Even in the Peloponnesian War tactics were changing and lightly-armed troops were becoming more important, see Wheeler (1991) 136f.; Trundle (2004) 48–9. On Demosthenes’ description, see van Wees (2004) 115–7. 35  Cicero (ad Att.1.6) attributes to Philip the remark that any stronghold could be stormed provided an ass laden with gold could reach it. 36  Demosthenes elsewhere speaks of Philip’s forces as though they were largely mercenary in nature (1.22, 2.17, 11.18). Mercenaries were prominent in southern Greece’s military experience of Philip in the form of garrisons (e.g. 9.32, 19.81) and expeditionary forces (e.g. 6.15, 9.16, 33), but the argument is also plausible because tyrants were thought to rely heavily on mercenaries due to their distrust of their own people (Pl. Resp. 567d–e; Arist. Pol. 1311a6–7, cf. Dem. 23.138–9). Philip made relatively little use of mercenaries in his regular army, preferring to rely on Macedonian and allied troops, see Cawkwell (1978) 150–8. On the use of mercenaries in the fourth century more generally, see Pritchett (1974) 59–116; Trundle (2004) 6–9, 45–6, 54–63, 70–9.

366

Sing

at their peril, and must do all they can to increase their military capacity by acquiring allies (9.70–1). The case is made in deliberately provocative terms in On the Chersonese (342/1) (8.66–7, cf. 10.68–9): For a city’s wealth, I hold to be allies, credit (πίστις), goodwill (εὔνοια), and of all these you are destitute. Because you are indifferent to these advantages and allow them to be taken from you, Philip is prosperous and powerful and formidable to Greeks and barbarians alike, while you are deserted and humiliated, famous for the abundance of goods in your markets but ridiculous when it comes to military preparedness. The passage recalls the critique of Philip’s power in the Second Olynthiac seven years earlier. While the closure of Philip’s ἐμπορία at that time was used to indicate his financial and military weakness (2.13–17), the present denunciation of the Athenians for treating fully stocked markets as a reliable barometer of power underscores how much the situation, and accordingly Demosthenes’ handling of financial power, has changed. Demosthenes’ depiction of Macedonian power differs from Pericles’ depiction of Spartan power, in part, because it reflects an altered Athenian understanding of the origins of financial power following the loss of the fifth-century empire: one centred on a durable economy and domestic taxation instead of the projection of naval power and the acquisition of tribute.37 What is specific to Demosthenes is a reluctance to provide and rely on facts. It was not impossible to gather such information, and it was probably easier to do for Macedon than for Sparta;38 the Athenians had first-hand knowledge of the revenues of the coastal cities in the north that had once been theirs, and had long been attracted to the abundant natural resources of the region.39 The simple reason why Demosthenes avoids basing his analysis on a mass of factual data is that Philip’s financial resources were vast, and Demosthenes was wary of discouraging the Athenians from attacking Macedon head on (e.g. Dem. 2.3). 37  In the case of Xenophon (Vect. 1.1) and Isocrates (8.20–3), both writing in the 350s, this new conceptualization of power included the renouncement of hegemonic ambition. 38  See Hodkinson (2000) 176–82 on the acquisition and generation of monetary wealth in Sparta before the fourth century. 39  Macedonian timber was much sought after by Athens for shipbuilding (Dem. 49 passim), see Meiggs (1982) 123, 131–2. On the False Embassy suggests that in addition to timber (19.114, 145, 265), other primary produce like grain (114, 145), sheep, cattle and horses (265), were characteristic forms of Macedonian wealth. Athenian interest in the region went back to the sixth century (Hdt. 1.64.1) and the Athenians’ ongoing interest during the fourth century is best expressed in the obsessive desire for the restoration of Amphipolis (e.g. Dem. 2.6; Aeschin. 2.21).

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

367

The avoidance of overly technical argumentation was also consistent with the rhetorical persona he had constructed for himself in opposition to men like Eubulus, whose political power centred on their skill as financial managers. Demosthenes styles himself as a different, better kind of expert. He is an adviser who analyses the present more acutely and predicts the future more accurately because of his unimpeachable integrity.40 But does the misleading nature of Demosthenes’ depiction of Philip’s power, especially before 346, mean that he is no more representative of the actual texture of Athenian financial rhetoric than Thucydides’ Pericles? It must be said that Demosthenes’ rhetoric is reminiscent of the duplicitous, deceptive rhetoric that Thucydides depicts as antithetical to that of Pericles. In the Sicilian Debate the ambitious Alcibiades, relying not on facts but on what he claims to have heard, assures the ignorant and jingoistic assembly that the Sicilian cities are disorganized rabbles with far fewer troops than the Greeks believe they have (Thuc. 6.1.1, 17.2–6).41 Yet Demosthenes’ analysis of enemy power is different. The Athenians were not as ignorant about Philip as Thucydides claims they were concerning Sicily.42 Demosthenes accordingly fits examples of common report (φήμη), like Philip’s territorial expansion, and pieces of specialist knowledge, like the alleged attitude of Philip’s subjects, into pre-existing δόξαι of financial power. The resulting characterization of Athens’ enemy is not just intelligible, but plausible. Athenians were, after all, aware of the deceptive capacity of rhetoric and arguments based on specialist knowledge,43 and so assessed the veracity of claims in terms of the reputation of the speaker and the extent to which they corresponded with δόξαι.44 Nor was this strategy 40  E.g. Dem. 5.11–12, 8.71–2, 19.223. 41  Cf. the similarly deceptive rhetoric of Aristagoras in 490 (Hdt. 5.49–50, 97.1–2). It is a measure of how far removed Alcibiades is from the Periclean ideal that he denies the necessity of subjecting military expenditure to calculations of commensurate reward: “it is not possible for us to calculate like a treasurer (ταμιεύεσθαι) how much we want to rule” (6.18.3, cf. Pericles 2.65.7). For analysis of the Sicilian Debate, see Connor (1984) 162–8; Hornblower (1991) 311–67; Ober (1998) 105–20. The later debate in the assembly of Syracuse (Thuc. 6.32–41), in response to reports of the Athenian invasion, continues the contrast between wholly good and wholly bad advice giving with the fact-focused, cautious Hermocrates opposed by the unthinking, swaggering Athenagoras. 42  See n. 16. 43  Demosthenes exploits popular anxiety on this score, warning the Athenians not to be led into making the wrong decision, as they had been in the past, by the financial claims of experts (22.48–9, 19.291, cf. 18.152). On deception and rhetoric, see Ober (1989) 165–70, 187–91; Hesk (2000) 202–41; Johnstone (2011) 163–70. 44  Aristotle recognizes that arguments based on popular knowledge are often more persuasive than those based on specialist knowledge (Rh. 1355a.1.24–30, 1395b30–96a4, cf. Gorg. Hel. 11). In speech 18, Demosthenes brands as unjust (not to mention sophistic and, as

368

Sing

without practical benefit as part of a wider, vigorous debate; δόξαι were vital heuristic tools that helped Athenians to fill gaps in knowledge and to speculate intelligently about future uncertainties45 – and the course of war was especially unpredictable (cf. [Rh. Al.] 1425b1–5). Pericles himself is not above using a convenient, generalizing δόξα when he labels all the Peloponnesians as self-reliant farmers (αὐτουργοί) with no financial resources (Thuc. 1.141.3). The claim is far from baseless (cf. 3.15.2), and is certainly a more factually secure premise for an assessment of financial power than Demosthenes’ inferences based on Philip’s “tyrannical” status. Nevertheless, it conspicuously ignores the Spartans as formidable military professionals. Whether intentionally or not, Thucydides’ account also suggests that speculation narrowly based on material fact is far from infallible when it comes to the financial dimension of war. Pericles’ confident declaration that Athens’ existing resources would allow it to prevail “easily” (ῥᾳδίως) over Sparta (2.65.13, cf. Archidamus 1.81.6) is quickly proved wrong. In 428 the Athenians were forced to levy an eisphora for the first time and to make ad hoc collections of money from allies.46 The political challenge of persuading the Athenians to spend scarce resources fighting a distant power, one that many did not regard as a serious threat, naturally led Demosthenes to be selective in his presentation. The fact that he enunciated his questionable analyses of Philip’s power over the course of several years – whether that of Philip the cash-strapped pirate or, after 346, Philip the dangerous spender – reveals the extent to which serious financial rhetoric on the subject of war-making could differ from both the cool calculation offered up by Pericles and the baseless, self-serving assertions of Alcibiades. Demosthenes indicates that even on the most technical subject, in a period when financial skill had become even more politically important than it had been in the time of Pericles, displays of technical prowess were insufficient on their own. What counted as “relevant” knowledge was broader than we might expect. Athenians, knowledgeable about routine financial matters and suspicious of claims of technical authority, were not accustomed to be lectured like students. They voted for arguments they understood and that seemed such, elitist and suspicious) the argument of Aeschines that the jury should trust an argument even when it is contradicted by δόξαι (Dem. 18.227–9, cf. Hyp. 4.40). 45  Cf. the cognate δοκεῖν in the enactment clause of decrees (ἔδοξε [τῇ βουλῇ καὶ] τῷ δήμῷ) and laws (ἔδοξε τοῖς νομοθέταις). 46  Thuc. 3.19.1, cf. 2.69.1; Ar. Eq. 1070–1, see Kallet-Marx (1993) 200–2. Between 600 and 1,400 talents were borrowed every year for the first few years of the war, meaning that by 428/7 most of the 5,000 talents left after the creation of the reserve had been spent (IG I3 369), see Samons (2000) 206–11. Thucydides’ praise of Pericles at 2.65.13 may, in fact, be purposefully ambiguous, see Connor (1984) 63 n. 30 and Hornblower (1991) 229.

Financial Rhetoric in Thucydides and Demosthenes

369

plausible, and so forced orators to engage with the majority of ordinary citizens when tackling the most difficult deliberative challenges. Demosthenes’ rhetoric on financial power provides us with a sense of persuasive financial argument as an aggregation of specialist and popular knowledge, and underscores the way Thucydides deploys representations of good and bad rhetoric as centrepieces in his own persuasive project.

Bibliography Agati Madeira, E. M. 2001. “La lex Oppia et la condition juridique de la femme dans la Rome républicaine.” Revue internationale des droits de l’Antiquité 3e sér. 51: 87–99. Agha, A. 2007. Language and social relations (No. 24). Cambridge. Ahl, F. 2007. Virgil: Aeneid. Translated with Notes. Oxford. Allan, R. J. 2014. “Changing the topic.” Mnemosyne 67: 181–213. Allan, R. J. Forthcoming. “Persuasion by immersion.” In: Language of persuasion, eds. T. Liao and A. Vatri. Leiden and Boston. Allan, R. J., de Jong, I. J. and de Jonge, C. C. 2017. “From enargeia to immersion: The ancient roots of a modern concept.” Style 51: 34–51. Allen, W. S. 1973. Accent and rhythm: Prosodic features of Latin and Greek: a study in theory and reconstruction. Cambridge. Allison, J. W. 1989. Power and preparedness in Thucydides. Baltimore. Allison, J. W. 1997. Word and concept in Thucydides. Atlanta. Altman, J. G. 1982. Epistolarity: Approaches to a form. Columbus. Ambaglio, D. 1991. “La Periegesi di Pausania e la storiografia greca tradita per citazioni.” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 39: 129–38. Amossy, R. 2001. “Ethos at the crossroads of disciplines: Rhetoric, pragmatics, sociology.” Poetics Today 22: 1–23. Andersen, K. E. 1971. Persuasion theory and practice. Boston. Anderson, B. R. O’ G. 1991. Imagined communities: Reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism. London and New York. Appel, W. 1994. Die homerischen Hapax Legomena in den Posthomerica des Quintus Smyrnaeus. Ph.D. diss., Nicolaus Copernicus University in Torun. Torun. Arena, V. 2007. “Roman oratorical invective.” In: A companion to Roman rhetoric, eds. W. Dominik and J. Hall: 149–60. London. Ariel, M. 1991. “The function of accessibility in a theory of grammar.” Journal of Pragmatics 16(5): 443–63. Armisen Marchetti, M. 1990. “Pline le Jeune et le sublime.” Revue des Études Latines 68: 88–98. Atkins, E. M. 2000. “Cicero.” In: The Cambridge history of Greek and Roman political thought, eds. C. Rowe and M. Schofield: 477–516. Cambridge. Aygon, J.-P. 2014. “Les tragédies de Sénèque: cohérence dramaturgique, mise en scène et interprétation ‘stoïcienne’.” Pallas [Online], 95 | 2014, made available online on 0107-2014, last visited 13-10-2017. URL: http://pallas.revues.org/1647; DOI: 10.4000/pallas.1647 [= Jean-Pierre Aygon, “Les tragédies de Sénèque: cohérence dramaturgique, mise en scène et interprétation ‘stoïcienne’.” Pallas 95: 13–32]. Azoulay, V. 2009. “Lycurgue d’Athènes et le passé de la cité: Entre neutralisation et instrumentalisation.” Cahiers des Études Anciennes 46: 149–80.

372

Bibliography

Bablitz, L. E. 2007. Actors and audience in the Roman courtroom. London and New York. Baier, T. 2003. “Κτῆμα oder ἀγώνισμα: Plinius über historischen und rhetorischen Stil (Epist. 5,8).” In: Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit, eds. L. Castagna and E. Lefèvre: 69–81. Munich and Leipzig. Bakker, W. F. 1966. The Greek imperative. An investigation into the aspectual differences between the present and aorist imperatives in Greek prayer from Homer up to the present day. Amsterdam. Balot, R. K. 2014. Courage in the democratic polis: Ideology and critique in classical Athens. Oxford. Baltussen, H. 2009. “A grief observed: Cicero on remembering Tullia.” Mortality 14: 355–69. Bär, S. 2010. “Quintus of Smyrna and the Second Sophistic.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 105: 287–316. Bär, S. ed. 2009. Quintus Smyrnaeus, Posthomerica 1: die Wiedergeburt des Epos aus dem Geiste der Amazonomachie: Mit einem Kommentar zu den Versen 1–219. Göttingen. Baragwanath, E. 2017. “The character and function of speeches in Xenophon.” In: The Cambridge companion to Xenophon, ed. M. Flower: 279–97. Cambridge. Baraz, Y. 2012. A written Republic: Cicero’s philosophical politics. Princeton. Barclay, J. M. G. 2007. Flavius Josephus: Translation and commentary, Volume 10: Against Apion. Leiden and Boston. Baron, C. A. 2009. “The use and abuse of historians: Polybius’ Book XII and our evidence for Timaios.” Ancient Society 39: 1–34. Basore, J. W. 1928. Seneca: Moral Essays Volume I. Translation by J. W. B. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Bassi, K. 2003. “The semantics of manliness in ancient Greece.” In: Andreia. Studies in manliness and courage in classical antiquity, eds. R. M. Rosen and I. Sluiter: 25–58. Leiden. Battezzato, L. 2001. “Enjambement, iati e stile di recitazione nella tragedia greca.” Seminari Romani 4: 1–38. Baumbach, M. and Bär, S. eds. 2007. Quintus Smyrnaeus: Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic epic. Berlin. Beard, M. 2014. Laughter in Ancient Rome: On joking, tickling, and cracking up. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Bentein, K. 2015. “Politeness in pronouns: Third-person reference in Byzantine documentary papyri.” Philologus 159: 256–67. Benwall, B. and Stokoe, E. 2006. Discourse and identity. Edinburgh. Berno, F. R. 2004. “Un truncus, molti re: Priamo, Agamennone, Pompeo (Virgilio, Seneca, Lucano).” Maia 56: 79–84. Bers, V. 1994. “Tragedy and rhetoric.” In: Persuasion. Greek rhetoric in action, ed. I. Worthington: 176–95. London and New York.

Bibliography

373

Bers, V. 2009. Genos dikanikon: Amateur and professional speech in the courtrooms of classical Athens. Washington, DC and Cambridge, MA. Bettinghaus, E. P. and Cody, M. J. 1987. Persuasive communication. New York. Beutel, F. 2000. Vergangenheit als Politik: Neue Aspekte im Werk des jüngeren Plinius. Frankfurt. Biesinger, B. 2016. Römische Dekadenzdiskurse: Untersuchungen zur römischen Geschichtsschreibung und ihren Kontexten (2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.). Stuttgart. Block, E. 2008. “Indicative conditionals in context.” Mind 117 ns: 783–94. Blundel, S. and Llewellyn-Jones, L. eds. 2002. Women’s dress in the ancient Greek world. Swansea. Boccuto, G. 1990. “Sulle idee retoriche di Plinio il Giovane.” In: La fortuna e opere di Plinio il Giovane: Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, 111–37. Città di Castello/ San Giustino. Boegehold, A. L. 1985. “Lycurgus 1.149.” Classical Philology 80: 132–5. Boegehold, A. L. 1999. When a gesture was expected: A selection of examples from archaic and classical Greek literature. Princeton. Bömer, F. 1982. P. Ovidius Naso: Metamorphosen. Kommentar. XII–XIII. Heidelberg. Bonifazi, A. 2009. “Discourse cohesion through third-person pronouns. The Case of Κεῖνος and αὐτός in Homer.” In: Discourse cohesion in ancient Greek, ed. S. Bakker: 1–20. Leiden and Boston. Bonner, R. J. 1905. Evidence in Athenian courts. Chicago (repr. New York 1979). Bonner, R. J. and Smith, G. 1930–38. The administration of justice from Homer to Aristotle. 2 vols. Chicago (repr. New York 1970). Bonner, S. F. 1949. Roman declamation in the late Republic and the early Empire. Liverpool. Bonner, S. F. 1977. Education in Ancient Rome: From the Elder Cato to the Younger Pliny. London. Borza, E. N. 1990. In the Shadow of Olympus: The emergence of Macedon. Princeton. Bosworth, A. B. 1988. Conquest and empire. Cambridge. Bowie, A. 2007. Herodotus Histories Book VIII. Cambridge. Boyer, P. 2001. Religion explained: The evolutionary origins of religious thought. New York. Boyle, A. J. 1997. Tragic Seneca. An essay in the theatrical tradition. London. Boyle, A. J. 2014. Seneca: Medea. Oxford. Bradley, M. 2015. “Foul bodies in Ancient Rome.” In: Smell and the ancient senses, ed. M. Bradley: 133–45. Abingdon. Brandt, J. 1986. Argumentative Struktur in Senecas Tragödien. Eine Untersuchung anhand der Phaedra und des Agamemnon. Hildesheim, Zurich and New York.

374

Bibliography

Bremmer, J. 1983. “Scapegoat rituals in ancient Greece.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 87: 299–320. Briscoe, J. 1981. A Commentary on Livy, vol. 2, Books XXXIV–XXXVII. Oxford. Brock, R. 2000. “Sickness in the body politic: Medical imagery in the Greek Polis.” In: Death and disease in the Ancient City, eds. V. M. Hope and E. Marshall: 24–34. London and New York. Brown R. 1995. “Livy’s Sabine women and the ideal of concordia.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 125: 291–319. Bruss, K. S. 2013. “Persuasive ethopoeia in Dionysius’s Lysias.” Journal of the History of Rhetoric 31: 34–57. Burgess, J. S. 2001. The tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle. Baltimore and London. Buszard B. 2010. “The speech of Greek and Roman women in Plutarch’s Lives.” Classical Philology 105: 83–115. Butler, H. E. 1953. Quintilian IV, Books X–XII. Cambridge, MA. Butti di Lima, P. 1996. L’inchiesta e la prova. Immagine storiografica, pratica giuridica e retorica nella Grecia classica. Turin. Byrne, A. H. 1920. Titus Pomponius Atticus: Chapters of a biography. Ph.D. diss. Pennsylvania. Cairns, D. 2015. “The horror and the pity: Phrikē as a tragic emotion.” Psychoanalytic Inquiry 35: 75–94. Caizzi, F. D. 1966. Antisthenis fragmenta. Milan. Caizzi, F. D. 2009. “Minor Socratics.” In: A companion to ancient philosophy, ed. M. L. Gill and P. Pellegrin: 119–35. Malden, MA, Oxford and Chichester. Calder, W. M. 1975. “The size of the chorus in Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Classical Philology 70: 32–5. Calder, W. M. 1976. “Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Classical Philology 71: 27–36. Campbell, C. R. 2008. Verbal aspect and non-indicative verbs: Further soundings in the Greek of the New Testament. New York. Canevaro, M. 2013. The documents in the Attic orators: Laws and decrees in the public speeches of the Demosthenic Corpus. Oxford. Canfora, L. 2000. Discorsi e lettere di Demostene: Discorsi in tribunale. Torino. Canter, H. V. 1917. “Rhetorical elements in Livy’s direct speeches: Part I.” American Journal of Philology 38: 125–51. Canter, H. V. 1918. “Rhetorical elements in Livy’s direct speeches: Part II.” American Journal of Philology 39: 44–64. Carawan, E. 1983. “Erotesis: Interrogation in the courts of fourth-century Athens.” Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 24: 209–26. Carawan, E. 1998. Rhetoric and the Law of Draco. Oxford. Carey, C. 1989. Lysias: Selected speeches. Cambridge.

Bibliography

375

Carey, C. 1990. “Structure and strategy in Lysias XXIV.” Greece & Rome 37: 44–51. Carey, C. 1994a. “Legal space in classical Athens.” Greece & Rome 41: 172–86. Carey, C. 1994b. “Rhetorical means of persuasion.” In: Persuasion: Greek rhetoric in action, ed. I. Worthington: 26–45. London. Carey, C. 2000. Aeschines. Austin. Carey, C. 2007. Lysiae Orationes cum Fragmentis. Oxford. Carey, C. and Reid, R. A. 1985. Demosthenes. Selected private speeches. Cambridge. Carlon, J. M. 2009. Pliny’s women: constructing virtue and creating identity in the Roman world. Cambridge. Cartledge, P. 1998. “The machismo of the Athenian empire – or the Reign of the Phaulus?” In: When men were men: Masculinity, power and identity in classical anti­ quity, eds. L. Foxhall and J. Salmon: 54–67. London and New York. Cawkwell, G. L. 1978. Philip of Macedon. London. Champlin, E. 1986. “Miscellanea Testamentaria.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 62: 247–55. Chantraine, P. 1933. La formation des noms en Grec ancien. Paris. Chaplin, J. D. 2000. Livy’s exemplary history. Oxford and New York. Chapman, H. A. and Anderson, A. K. 2013. “Things rank and gross in nature: A review and synthesis of moral disgust.” Psychological bulletin 139: 300–27. Christ, M. R. 1998. The litigious Athenian. Baltimore and London. Christ, M. R. 2003. “Sycophancy and attitudes toward litigation.” In: Athenian law in its democratic context, ed. A. Lanni (Center for Hellenic Studies On-Line Discussion Series 2003). Available at: http://www.stoa.org/projects/demos/sycophancy.pdf. Clark, P. A. 1991. “Tullia and Crassipes.” Phoenix 45: 28–38. Cleland, L., Mary, H. and Llewellyn-Jones, L. eds. 2005. The clothed body in the ancient world. Oxford. Cogan, M. 1981. The human thing: The speeches and principles of Thucydides’ History. Chicago and London. Cohen, S. T. 2006. “Cicero’s Roman exile.” In: Writing exile: The discourse of displacement in Greco-Roman antiquity and beyond, ed. G. F. Gaertner: 1–20. Leiden and Boston. Connor, W. R. 1984. Thucydides. Princeton. Conover, P. J. 1984. “The influence of group identifications on political perception and evaluation.” The Journal of Politics 46: 760–85. Cook, E. T. ed. 1903. A popular handbook to the Greek and Roman antiquities in the British Museum. London. Cooper, C. 1995. “Hyperides and the trial of Phryne.” Phoenix 49: 303–18. Corbeill, A. 1996. Controlling laughter: political humor in the late Roman Republic. Princeton. Cova, P. V. 1969. “Problemi della lettera pliniana sulla storia.” Aevum 43: 177–99.

376

Bibliography

Cova, P. V. 1975. “Contributo allo studio della lettera pliniana sulla storia.” Rivista di Cultura Classica e Medioevale 17: 117–39. Cova, P. V. 2003. “Plinio il Giovane contro Quintiliano.” In: Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit, eds. L. Castagna and E. Lefèvre: 83–94. Munich and Leipzig. Cox, C. A. 1992. “On Roger Just’s women in Athenian law and life.” The Ancient History Bulletin 6: 177–86. Croisille, J-M. 1964. “Le personnage de Clytemnestre dans l’Agamemnon de Sénèque.” Latomus 23: 464–72. Csapo, E. and Slater, W. J. 1995. The context of ancient drama. Ann Arbor. Cugusi, P. 2003. “Qualche riflessione sulle idee retoriche di Plinio il Giovane: Epistulae 1.20 e–9.26.” In: Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit, eds. L. Castagna and E. Lefèvre: 95–122. Munich and Leipzig. Culham, P. 1982. “The Lex Oppia.” Latomus 41: 786–93. Cuniberti, G. 2014. “L’utilisation des questions rhétoriques dans la stratégie historiographique de Xénophon.” In: Xénophon et la rhetorique, ed. P. Pontier: 139–57. Paris. Cuomo, S. 2013. “Accounts, numeracy and democracy in classical Athens.” In: Writing science. Medical and mathematical authorship in ancient Greece, ed. M. Asper: 255– 78. Berlin and Boston. Currie, B. 2004. “Reperformance scenarios for Pindar’s Odes.” In: Oral performance and its context, ed. C. J. Mackie: 49–69. Leiden and Boston. Currie, H. M. 1981. “Ovid and the Roman Stage.” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.31.4: 2701–42. Davidson, J. 1997. Courtesans & fishcakes: The consuming passions of classical Athens. Chicago. Davidson, J. 2007. The Greeks and Greek love: A bold new exploration of the ancient world. New York: Davies, G. 1985. “The significance of the handshake motif in classical funerary art.” American Journal of Archaeology 89: 627–40. De Brauw, M. 2006. “The parts of the speech.” In: A companion to Greek rhetoric, ed. I. Worthington: 187–202. Oxford. De Romilly, J. 1956. “La crainte dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide.” Classica & Medievalia 17: 119–27. De Romilly, J. 2012. The mind of Thucydides. Translated by E. Trapnell Rawling. Ithaca, NY and London. De Souza, P. 1999. Piracy in the Greco-Roman world. Cambridge. Dean-Jones, L. 1991. “The cultural construct of the female body in classical Greek science.” In: Women’s history and ancient history, ed. S. B. Pomeroy: 111–37. Chapel Hill. Debnar, P. 2001. Speaking the same language: Speech and audience in Thucydides’ Spartan debates. Ann Arbor.

Bibliography

377

Debnar, P. 2013. “Blurring the boundaries of speech: Thucydides and indirect discourse.” In: Thucydides between history and literature, eds. A. Tsakmakis and M. Tamiolaki: 271–86. Berlin and Boston. Degiovanni, L. 2004. “Sui modelli nell’Agamemnon di Seneca: tre note testuali e interpretative.” Studi Classici e Orientali 50: 373–94. Dehaene, S. 1997. The number sense. Oxford. Dehghani, M. et al. 2016. “TACIT: An open-source text analysis, crawling and interpretation tool.” Behaviour Research Methods DOI 10.3758/s13428-016-0722-4. Delarue, F. 2004. “Le sublime et Pline, ep. IX, 26.” In: Epistulae Antiquae III. Actes du IIIe Colloque International “L’épistolaire antique et ses prolongements européens”, eds. L. Nadjo and E. Gavoille: 449–61. Louvain and Paris. Demont, P. 2014. “Remarques sur la technique du dialogue dans la Cyropédie.” In Xénophon et la rhetorique, ed. P. Pontier: 195–209. Paris. Dendle, P. 1997. “Direct discourse and gender in the Ágrip af Nóregs konunga sögum.” Neophilogus 81: 403–8. Desideri, P. 1984. “Catone e le donne: Il dibattito liviano sull’abrogazione della lex Oppia.” Opus 3: 63–74. Devereaux, J. J. 2016. “Embodied historiography: Models for reasoning in Tacitus’s Annales.” In: Embodiment in Latin semantics, ed. W. Short: 237–68. Amsterdam. Dewald, C. 2006. Thucydides’ war narrative. A structural study. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Dickey, E. 1996. Greek forms of address: From Herodotus to Lucian. Oxford. Dickey, E. 1997. “Forms of address and terms of reference.” Journal of linguistics 33(02): 255–74. Dik, H. 1995. Word order in ancient Greek: A pragmatic account of word order variation in Herodotus (Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 5). Amsterdam. Dik, H. 2003. “On unemphatic ‘emphatic’ pronouns in Greek: Nominative pronouns in Plato and Sophocles.” Mnemosyne 56: 535–50. Dik, H. 2007. Word order in Greek tragic dialogue. Oxford. Dillon, M. 2017. Omens and oracles: Divination in ancient Greece. New York and London. Dippel, M. 1990. Die Darstellung des trojanischen Krieges in Ovids Metamorphosen (XII– XIII 622). Frankfurt am Main. Dodds, E. R. 1957. The Greeks and the irrational. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Dominik, W. 1997. “The Style is the man: Seneca, Tacitus and Quintilian’s Canon.” In: Roman eloquence: Rhetoric in society and literature, ed. W. Dominik: 50–68. London and New York. Dominik, W. 2007. “Tacitus and Pliny on oratory.” In: A companion to Roman rhetoric, eds. W. Dominik and J. Hall: 323–38. Malden, MA. Donaldon, I. 1982. The rapes of Lucretia: A myth and its transformations. Oxford. Dorjahn, A. P. 1927. “Poetry in Athenian courts.” Classical Philology 22: 85–93.

378

Bibliography

Dover, K. J. 1974. Greek popular morality in the time of Plato and Aristotle. Oxford. Dover, K. J. 1978. Greek homosexuality. New York. Drefke, O. 1877. De orationibus quae in priore parte Historiae Thucydideae insunt et directis et indirectis. Halis Saxonum. Ducos, M. 2010a. “Rhétorique et politique chez Tite-Live: Le débat sur la loi Oppia.” Aevum antiquum 10: 267–78. Ducos, M. 2010b. “Caton l’ Ancien: Un exemple d’identité romaine.” In: Figures de l’identité: Naissance et destin des modèles communautaires dans le monde romain, eds. M. Blandenet, C. Chillet and C. Courrier: 87–101. Lyon. Duncan, A. 2006. Performance and identity in the classical world. Cambridge and New York. Duranti, A. 1997. Linguistic anthropology. Cambridge and New York. Eagly, A. H. 1995. “The science and politics of comparing women and men.” American psychologist 50: 145–58. Edgington, D. 1995. “On conditionals.” Mind 104 (414): 235–329. Edmunds, L. 1975. Chance and intelligence in Thucydides. Cambridge, MA. Edwards, M. 1999. Lysias: Five speeches. Bristol. Edwards, M. 2004. “Oratory.” In: Narrators, narratees, and narratives in ancient Greek literature: Studies in ancient Greek narrative, vol. 1, eds. I. de Jong, R. Nünlist and A. Bowie: 317–56. Leiden and Boston. Edwards, M. and Usher, S. 1985. Antiphon and Lysias. London. Edwards, R. 2008. “Hunting for Boars with Pliny and Tacitus.” Classical Antiquity 27: 35–58. Egeberg, M. 2003. “How bureaucratic structure matters: An organizational perspective”. In: Handbook of public administration, eds. B. G. Peters and J. Pierre: 116–26. London. Eidinow, E. 2010. “Patterns of persecution: ‘Witchcraft’ trials in classical Athens.” Past & Present 208: 9–35. Eidinow, E. 2015. Envy, poison, and death: Women on trial in classical Athens. Oxford. Eliot, T. S. 1951. “Seneca in Elizabethan translation”, Selected essays, 3rd edition: 65–105. London. Ellis, J. R. 1976. Philip II and Macedonian imperialism. London. Evenepoel, W. 2007. “Cicero’s Laelius and Seneca’s letters of friendship.” L’ antiquité classique 76: 177–83. Everett, C. 2017. Numbers and the making of us. Cambridge MA. Fägersten, K. B. 2012. Who’s swearing now? The social aspects of conversational swearing. Newcastle upon Tyne. Fanning, B. M. 1990. Verbal aspect in New Testament Greek. Oxford. Fantham, E. 1990. “Latin criticism of the early Empire.” In: The Cambridge history of literary criticism, ed. G. A. Kennedy: 274–96. Cambridge.

Bibliography

379

Fantham, E. 2008. “Virgil’s Dido and Seneca’s heroines.” In: Oxford readings in classical studies: Seneca, ed. J. G. Fitch: 372–85. Oxford. Farrell, J. 1997. “Towards a rhetoric of (Roman?) epic.” In: Roman eloquence: Rhetoric in society and literature, ed. W. J. Dominik: 131–46. New York and London. Fausto-Sterling, A. 2000. Sexing the body: Gender politics and the construction of sexuality. New York. Fehr, B. 2009. “Pornos and the pleasure of rest: Some thoughts on body language in ancient Greek art and life.” In: An Archaeology of representations. Ancient Greek vasepainting and contemporary methodologies, eds. T. J. McNiven, F. Frontisi-Ducroix, F. Lissarrague, D. Yatromanolakis: 128–58. Athens. Feichtinger, B. 2015. “Streiten über luxuria. Überlegungen zur lex Oppia-Episode bei Livius.” Latomus 74: 671–88. Feinberg, J. 1998. “Coercion.” In: Routledge encyclopaedia of philosophy, ed. E. Craig: 387–90. London. Figueira, T. J. 1998. The power of money: Coinage and politics in the Athenian empire. Philadelphia. Filonik, J. 2013. “Athenian impiety trials: a reappraisal.” Dike 16: 11–96. Finnegan, R. H. 2011. Why do we quote? The culture and history of quotation. Cambridge. Fisher, N. 2001. Aeschines: Against Timarchos. Oxford and New York. Fisher, N. 2005. “Body-abuse: The rhetoric of hybris in Aeschines’ Against Timarchos.” In: La violence dans les mondes grec et romain: actes du colloque international Paris, ed. J. M. Bertrand: 67–89. Paris. Fisher, N. 2017. “Demosthenes and the use of disgust.” In: The ancient emotion of disgust, ed. D. Lateiner and D. Spatharas: 103–24. Oxford. Fitch, J. G. and McElduff, S. 2008. “Construction of the self in Senecan drama.” In: Oxford readings in classical studies: Seneca, ed. J. G. Fitch: 157–80. Oxford. Fleming, S. J. 1999. Roman glass: Reflections on cultural change. Philadelphia. Flory, S. 1978. “Medea’s right hand: Promises and revenge.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 108: 69–74. Ford, A. L. 1999. “Reading Homer from the rostrum: Poems and laws in Aeschines.” In: Performance culture and Athenian democracy, ed. S. Goldhill and R. Osborne: 231–56. Cambridge and New York. Fornara, C. W. 1983. The nature of history in ancient Greece and Rome. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Fortenbaugh, W. W. 1992. “Aristotle on Persuasion through Character.” Rhetorica 10: 207–44. Foster, B. O. 1919. Livy, History of Rome. Vol. 1: Books 1–2. Translated by B. O. F. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Foster, E. 2010. Thucydides, Pericles, and Periclean imperialism. Cambridge.

380

Bibliography

Fowler, H. N. 1914. Plato: Euthyphro. Apology. Crito. Phaedo. Phaedrus. Translated by H. N. F. Introduction by W. B. M. Lamb. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Fox, M. 1998. “The constrained man.” In: Thinking men: Masculinity and its selfrepresentation in the classical tradition, ed. L. Foxhall and J. Salmon: 6–22. New York. Foxhall, L. 1996. “The law and the lady: Women and legal proceedings in classical Athens.” In: Greek law in its political setting: Justifications not justice, ed. L. Foxhall: 133–52. Oxford. Freese, J. H. 1926. Aristotle. Art of Rhetoric (Volume 22). Translated by J. H. F. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Fuhrmann, M. 1992. Cicero and the Roman republic. Oxford. Gärtner, U. 2005. Quintus Smyrnaeus und die Aeneis. Zur Nachwirkung Vergils in der griechischen Literatur der Kaiserzeit. Munich. Gärtner, U. 2013. “Πιερίδες τί μοι ἁγνόν ἐφωπλίσσασθε Μάρωνα; Das griechische Epos der Kaiserzeit und die Bezüge zur lateinischen Literatur.” In: Les Grecs héritiers des Romains : huit exposés suivis de discussions. Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique, 59, eds. P. Schubert, P. Ducrey and P. Derron: 87–139. Vandoeuvres and Geneva. Gagarin, M. 1997. Antiphon: The speeches. Cambridge. Gagarin, M. 1998. “Women in Athenian courts.” Dike 1: 39–51. Gagarin, M. 2001. “Women’s voices in Attic oratory.” In: Making silence speak: Women’s voices in Greek literature and society, eds. A. Lardinois and L. McClure: 161–76. Princeton. Gagarin, M. 2002. Antiphon the Athenian: Oratory, law and justice in the age of the sophists. Austin. Gagarin, M. and MacDowell, D. 1998. Antiphon and Andocides. Translated by M. G. & D. M. Austin. Gamberini, F. 1983. Stylistic theory and practice in the Younger Pliny. Hildesheim. Gera, D. L. 1993. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Style, genre and literary technique. Oxford. Gibson, R. 2003. “Pliny and the art of inoffensive self-praise.” Arethusa 36: 235–54. Gibson, R. and Morello, R. 2012. Reading the letters of Pliny the Younger: An introduction. Cambridge. Girod, R. 1980. “Caton l’Ancien et Catilina.” Caesarodunum 15 bis: 61–9. Glucker, J. 1988. “Cicero’s philosophical affiliations.” In: The question of eclecticism, eds. J. M. Dillon and A. A. Long: 34–69. Berkeley and London. Goldhill, S. 1994. “Representing Democracy: Women at the Great Dionysia.” In: Ritual, Finance, Politics: Athenian Democratic Accounts Presented to David Lewis, eds. R. Osborne and S. Hornblower: 347–69. Oxford. Gomme, A. W. 1956. A historical commentary on Thucydides, Vol. 2, Books II–III. Oxford. Gommel, J. 1966. Rhetorisches Argumentieren bei Thukydides. Hildesheim. Gonnet, D. 2001. “L’acte de citer dans l’Histoire ecclésiastique.” In: L’historiographie de l’église des premiers siècles, eds. B. Pouderon and Y. M. Duval: 181–93. Paris.

Bibliography

381

Goodwin, W. W. 1904. Demosthenes: On the Crown. Cambridge. Gotteland, S. 2010. “Conseiller et persuader: quelques échos thucydidéens dans les Harangues de Démosthène.” In: Ombres de Thucydide, eds. V. Fromentin, S. Gotteland and P. Payen: 35–50. Paris. Gottesman, A. 2014. Politics and the street in democratic Athens. Cambridge. Graff, R. 2001. “Reading and the ‘written style in Aristotle’s Rhetoric.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 31: 19–44. Graver, M. 2002. Cicero on the emotions: Tusculan Disputations 3 and 4. Chicago. Gray, V. J. 1989. The character of Xenophon’s Hellenica. London. Gray, V. J. 2011. Xenophon’s mirror of princes: Reading the reflections. Oxford. Greenwood, E. 2006. Thucydides and the shaping of history. London. Grethlein, J. 2010. “Experientiality and ‘narrative reference’ with thanks to Thucydides.” History &Theory 49: 315–35. Grethlein, J. 2011. “The rise of Greek historiography and the invention of prose.” In: The Oxford history of historical writing: Volume 1: Beginnings to AD 600, eds. A. Feldherr and G. Hardy: 148–70. Oxford. Grethlein, J. 2012. “Xenophon’s Anabasis from character to narrator.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 132: 23–40. Grethlein, J. 2013. “The presence of the past in Thucydides.” In: Thucydides between history and literature, eds. A. Tsakmakis and M. Tamiolaki: 91–118. Berlin. Gribble, D. 1999. Alcibiades and Athens: A study in literary presentation. Oxford. Gries, K. 1949. “Livy’s use of dramatic speech.” American Journal of Philology 70: 118–41. Griffin, J. 1980. Homer. Oxford (rpt. Bristol 2001). Griffin, M. 1997. “From Aristotle to Atticus: Cicero and Matius on friendship.” In: Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome, ed. J. Barnes: 85–109. Oxford. Grimal, P. 1983. “Le Rôle de la mise en scène dans les tragédies de Sénèque: Clytaemestra et Cassandra dans l’Agamemnon.” In: Théâtre et spectacles dans l’antiquité. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg, 1981. Travaux du Centre de recherches sur le Proche-Orient et la Grèce antique 7, 123–39. Leiden. Grimaldi, W. M. A. 1980. Aristotle, Rhetoric I: A commentary. New York. Gundel, J., Hedberg, N. and Zacharski, R. 2001. “Definite descriptions and cognitive status in English: Why accommodation is unnecessary.” English Language and Linguistics 5: 273–95. Hagen, J. 2016. “Emotions in Roman historiography: The rhetorical use of tears as a means of persuasion.” In: Emotion and persuasion in classical antiquity: 199–212. Stuttgart. Hainsworth, J. B. 1993. The Iliad: A commentary. Vol. 3. Books 9–12. Cambridge. Haley, S. P. 1989. “Livy’s Sophoniba.” Classica et Medievalia 40: 171–81. Hall, D. E. 2004. Subjectivity. New York and London. Hall, E. 1989. Inventing the barbarian: Greek self-definition through tragedy. Oxford.

382

Bibliography

Hall, E. 1995. “Lawcourt dramas: The power of performance in Greek forensic oratory.” Bulletins of the Institute of Classical Studies 40: 39–58. Hall, E. 2002. “The singing actors of antiquity.” In: Greek and Roman actors: Aspects of an ancient profession, ed. P. E. Easterling and E. Hall: 3–38. Cambridge and New York. Hall, E. 2006. The theatrical cast of Athens. Oxford. Halle, M. and Keyser, S. J. 1966. “Chaucer and the study of prosody.” College English 28: 187–219. Halliday, M. A. and Hasan, R. 1976. Cohesion in spoken and written English. London. Halperin, D. M. 1989. “Is there a history of sexuality?” History and Theory 28: 257–74. Hamblin, J. 2016. “Trump is a climax of American masculinity.” The Atlantic; available online at: https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/08/trump-masculinity -problem/494582/. Hammond, M. 2009. Thucydides. The Peloponnesian War. A New Translation by M. H. Oxford World’s Classics. Oxford. Hammond, N. G. L. 1994. “Philip’s actions in 347 and early 346 BC.” Classical Quarterly 44: 367–74. Hammond, N. G. L. 1995. “Philip’s innovations in Macedonian economy.” Symbolae Osloenses 70: 22–9. Hammond, N. G. L. and G. T. Griffith. 1979. A history of Macedonia, ii. Oxford. Hancock, J. L. 1917. Studies in stichomythia, Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago. Hansen, M. H. 1984. “Two notes on Demosthenes’ symbouleutic speeches.” Classica & Medievalia 35: 57–70. Hansen, M. H. 1993. “The battle exhortation in ancient historiography: Fact or fiction?.” Historia 42: 161–80. Hardie, P. R. 1993. The epic successors of Virgil. Cambridge. Harris, E. M. 2013. “How to address the Athenian assembly: Rhetoric and political tactics in the debate about Mytilene (Thuc. 3.37–50).” Classical Quarterly 63: 94–109. Harrison, A. W. 1971. The Law of Athens. Vol. II. Oxford. Harvey, F. D. 1985. “Dona ferentes: Some aspects of bribery in Greek politics.” In: Crux: Essays in Greek history presented to G. E. M. de Ste. Croix, eds. P. Cartledge and F. D. Harvey: 76–117. Exeter. Harvey, D. 1990. “The sycophant and sycophancy: Vexatious redefinition?” In: Nomos: Essays in Athenian law, politics and society, eds. P. Cartledge, P. Millett and S. Todd: 103–21. Cambridge. Hau, L. 2013. “The shadow of what might have been: Sideshadowing in Thucydides and Xenophon.” In: Hindsight in Greek and Roman history, ed. A. Powell: 71–90. Swansea. Hau, L. 2016. Moral history from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus. Edinburgh. Haury, A. 1976. “Une année de la femme à Rome, 195 avant J. C.” In: L’Italie préromaine et la Rome républicaine. Mélanges offerts à Jacques Heurgon: 427–36. Paris.

Bibliography

383

Heath, M. 1986. “Thucydides. 1.23.5–6.” Liverpool Classical Monthly 11.7: 104–5. Heinze, R. 1993. Virgil’s epic technique. Translated from the 1915 first edition by H. Harvey, D. Harvey, and F. Robertson. Berkeley. Heldmann, K. 1974. Untersuchungen zu den Tragödien Senecas. Wiesbaden. Heldmann, K. 1982. Antike Theorien über Entwicklung und Verfall der Redekunst. Munich. Hellmann, F. 1940. “Zur Cato- und Valerius-Rede (Liv. XXXIV,1–7).” Neue Jahrbücher für Antike und Deutsche Bildung: 81–6. Henderson, J. 1998. Aristophanes, Volume II: Clouds. Wasps. Peace. Translated by J. H. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Herington, J. C. 1966. “Senecan tragedy.” Arion 5: 422–71. Herrmann, L. 1924. Le théâtre de Sénèque. Paris. Hesk, J. 1999. “The rhetoric of anti-rhetoric in Athenian oratory.” In: Performance culture and Athenian democracy, eds. R. Osborne and S. Goldhill: 201–30. Cambridge. Hesk, J. 2000. Deception and democracy in classical Athens. Cambridge. Hesk, J. 2006. “Homeric flyting and how to read it: Performance and intratext in Iliad 20.83–109 and 20.178–258.” Ramus 35: 4–28. Higginbotham, J. A. 1997. Piscinae: Artificial fishponds in Roman Italy. Chapel Hill. Highet, G. 1972. The speeches in Vergil’s Aeneid. Princeton. Hill, D. E. 2000. Ovid Metamorphoses XIII–XV and indexes: Edited with an introduction, translation and notes. Warminster. Hodkinson, S. 2000. Property and wealth in classical Sparta. London. Hoffer, S. 1999. The anxieties of Pliny the Younger. Atlanta. Hogan, J. T. 1980. “The ἀξίωσις of words at Thucydides 3.82.4.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 21: 139–49. Hopkinson, N. ed. 2000. Ovid: Metamorphoses Book 13. Cambridge. Horn, L. 1984. “Toward a new taxonomy for pragmatic inference: Q-based and R-based implicature.” In: Meaning, form and use in context, ed. D. Schiffrin: 11–42. Washington, DC. Hornblower, S. 1987. Thucydides. London. Hornblower, S. 1991–2008. A commentary on Thucydides. 3 volumes. Vol. 1: Books i–iii (1991); vol. 2: Books iv–v.24 (1996); vol. 3: Books v.25–viii (2008). Oxford. Huang, Y. 2000. “Discourse anaphora: Four theoretical models.” Journal of pragmatics 32: 151–76. Huart, P. 1968. Le vocabulaire de l’analyse psychologique dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide. Paris. Hubbell, H. M. 1949. Cicero, On Invention. The Best Kind of Orator. Topics. Translated by H. M. H. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Huddy, L. 2003. “Group identity and political cohesion.” In: Oxford handbook of political psychology, eds. D. Sears, L. Huddy and R. Jervis: 511–58. Oxford.

384

Bibliography

Hunter, V. J. 1994. Policing Athens: Social control in the Attic lawsuits, 420–320 BC. Princeton. Hutchinson, G. O. 1998. Cicero’s correspondence: A literary study. Oxford. Huys, M. 1993. “P. Oxy. LIII 3705: A line from Menander’s ‘Periceiromene’ with musical notation.” Zeitschift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 99: 30–2. Innes, D. 2007. “Aristotle: the written and the performative styles.” In: Influences on peripatetic rhetoric, ed. D. C. Mirhady: 151–68. Leiden and Boston. Inowlocki, S. 2005. “La pratique de la citation dans le Contre Apion de Flavius Josèphe.” Ktèma 30: 371–93. Iordache, R. 1990. “Algunas influencias de Cicerón y Quintiliano en el estilo de Plinio el Joven.” Helmantica 41: 189–99. Irwin, E. 2013. “To whom does Solon speak? Conceptions of happiness and ending life well in the late fifth century: contemporary allusions in Herodotus’ Croesus logos.” In: Herodots Wege des Erzählens. Logos und Topos in den Historien, eds. K. Geus, E. Irwin and T. Poiss: 261–321. Bruxelles. James, A. and Lee, K. eds. 2000. A commentary on Quintus of Smyrna Posthomerica 5. Leiden. Jameson, M. H. 1997. “Women and democracy in fourth-century Athens.” In Esclavage, guerre, économie en Grèce ancienne: Hommages à Yvon Garlan, eds. P. Brulé and J. Pierre-Oulhen: 95–107. Rennes. Jay, T. 2009. “The utility and ubiquity of taboo words.” Perspectives on Psychological Science 4: 153–61. Jebb, R. C. 1876. The Attic orators from Antiphon to Isaeos (Vol. 2). London. Johnstone, S. 1998. “Cracking the code of silence: Athenian legal oratory and the histories of slaves and women.” In: Women and slaves in Greco-Roman culture, eds. S. R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan: 221–35. New York and London. Johnstone, S. 2011. A history of trust in ancient Greece. Chicago. Jouanna, J. 2012 [1984]. “Rhetoric and medicine in the Hippocratic Corpus: A contribution to the history of rhetoric in the fifth century.” In: Greek medicine from Hippocrates to Galen: Selected papers, ed. J. Jouanna: 39–53. Leiden and Boston. (Orig. pub. in Fr. in REG 1984.) Jowett, G. S. and O’Donnell, V. 1986. Propaganda and persuasion. Beverly Hills. Just, R. 1989. Women in Athenian law and life. New York and London. Juster, A. M. and Maltby, R. 2012. Elegies: With parallel Latin text. Oxford. Kallet, L. 2007. “The Athenian economy.” In: The Cambridge companion to the age of Pericles, ed. L. J. Samons II: 70–95. Cambridge. Kallet-Marx, L. 1993. Money, expense, and naval power in Thucydides’ History 1–5.24. Berkeley. Kallet-Marx, L. 1994. “Money talks: Rhetor, demos and the resources of the Athenian empire.” In: Ritual, finance, politics, eds. R. Osborne and S. Hornblower: 227–51. Oxford.

Bibliography

385

Kannicht, R. and Snell, B. 2007. Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta II. Göttingen. Kapparis, K. 1999. Apollodoros, Against Neaira [D. 59]. Edited with introduction, translation and commentary. Berlin. Kapust, D. J. 2011. Republicanism, rhetoric, and Roman political thought: Sallust, Livy and Tacitus. Cambridge. Karavites, P. 1979. “Morality and the Mytilenaean revolt.” Annali Della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. Classe di Lettere e Filosofia, Serie III, 9: 895–917. Kaster, R. A. 2001. “The dynamics of fastidium and the ideology of disgust.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 131: 143–89. Kaster, R. A. 2005. Emotion, restraint, and community in ancient Rome. Oxford. Keith, A. M. 2005. “Sex and gender.” In: A companion to Latin literature, ed. S. J. Harrison: 331–44. Malden, MA. Kennedy, G. A. 1963. The art of persuasion in Greece. Princeton. Kennedy, G. A. 1972. The art of rhetoric in the Roman world: 300 BC–AD 300. Princeton. Kennedy, G. A. 1994. A new history of classical rhetoric. Princeton. Kennedy, G. A. 2007. Aristotle On rhetoric: A theory of civic discourse. 2nd ed. Oxford and New York. Keydell, R. 1961. “Review of Francis Vian, Recherches sur les Posthomerica de Quintus de Smyrne, Paris 1959.” Gnomon 33: 278–84. Kilmer, M. F. 1993. Greek erotica on Attic red-figure vases. London. Kimmel, M. S. 2006. Manhood in America. A cultural history. Oxford. Kirk, A. E. 2011. The list as treasury in the Greek world. PhD. diss. Berkeley. Kline, A. S. 2009. trans. Homer: the Iliad (Book 23). Poetry in translation. Online at: http:// www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Iliad23.htm#anchor_Toc239246470. Kohl, O. 1872. Über Zweck und Bedeutung der Livianishen Reden. Jahresbericht über die Realschule. Kohn, T. D. 2013. The dramaturgy of Senecan tragedy. Ann Arbor. Konstan, D. 2006. The emotions of the ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and classical literature. Toronto, Buffalo and London. Konstan, D. 2010. “Rhetoric and emotion.” In: A companion to Greek rhetoric, ed. I. Worthington: 411–25. Malden, MA. Kövecses, Z. 2000. Metaphor and emotion: Language, culture, and body in human feeling. Cambridge. Kowalewski, B. 2012. Frauengestalten im Geschichtswerk des T. Livius. Munich. Koziak, B. 2000. Retrieving political emotion: Thumos, Aristotle, and gender. University Park. Kreibig, S. D. 2010. “Autonomic nervous system activity in emotion: A review.” Biological psychology 84: 394–421. Krentz, P. 1989. Xenophon Hellenika I–II.3.10. Warminster. Krüger, M. 1940. “Die Abschaffung der lex Oppia (Liv. XXXIV,1–8,3).” Neue Jahrbücher für Antike und Deutsche Bildung: 65–81.

386

Bibliography

Kugelmeier, C. 2007. Die innere Vergegenwärtigung des Bühnenspiels in Senecas Tragödien. Munich. Kugelmeier, C. 2013. “Agamemnon.” In: Brill’s companion to Seneca: Philosopher and dramatist, ed. G. Damschen and A. Heil: 493–500. Leiden. Kulesza, R. 1995. Die Bestechung im politischen Leben Athens im 5. und 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Konstanz. Kuno, S. 1987. Functional syntax: Anaphora, discourse and empathy. Chicago. Lakoff, G. and Johnson, M. 2003. Metaphors we live by. Chicago. Lambert, A. 1946. Die indirekte Rede als künstlerisches Stilmittel des Livius. Ph.D. diss., Zurich. Lamers, H. and Rademaker, A. 2007. “Talking about myself: A pragmatic approach to the use of aspect forms in Lysias 12.4–19.” Classical Quarterly 57: 458–76. Lanni, A. 1997. “Spectator sport or serious politics? οἱ περιεστηκότες and the Athenian lawcourts.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 117: 183–9. Lateiner, D. 1975. “The speech of Teutiaplus (Thuc. 3.30).” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 16: 175–84. Lateiner, D. and Spatharas, D. 2017. “Introduction: Ancient and modern modes of understanding and manipulating disgust.” In: The ancient emotion of disgust, eds. D. Lateiner and D. Spatharas: 1–42. Oxford. Lau, R. 1989. “Individual and contextual influences on group identification.” Social Psychology Quarterly 52: 220–31. Lavery, J. 2004. “Some Aeschylean influences on Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Materiali e Discussioni 53: 183–94. Le Rider, G. 1977. Le monnayage d’argent et d’or de Philippe II frappé en Macédoine de 359 à 294. Paris. Le Rider, G. 1996. Monnayage et finances de Philippe II: un état de la question. Paris. Lee, M. M. 2015. Body, dress, and identity in ancient Greece. Cambridge. Lefèvre, E. 2009. Vom Römertum zum Ästhetizismus: Studien zu den Briefen des jüngeren Plinius. Berlin and New York. Lehoux, D. 2012. What did the Romans know? An inquiry into science and worldmaking. Chicago and London. Leimbach, R. 1985. Militärische Musterrhetorik: Eine Untersuchung zu den Feldherrnreden des Thukydides. Stuttgart. Leisi, E. 1907. Der Zeuge im attischen Recht. Frauenfeld. Leopold, J. W. 1981. “Demosthenes on distrust of tyrants.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 22(3): 227–46. Leslie, R. J. 1950. The Epicureanism of Titus Pomponius Atticus. Ph.D. diss., Philadelphia. Lewis, S. 1996. News and society in the Greek polis. London. Liao, T. 2017. The communicational patterns in Demosthenic symbouleutic speeches. Ph.D. diss., London.

Bibliography

387

Liotsakis, V. 2016. “Narrative defects in Thucydides and the development of ancient Greek historiography.” In: The art of history: Literary perspectives on Greek and Roman historiography, eds. V. Liotsakis and S. Farrington: 73–98. Berlin and Boston. Lofberg, J. O. 1917. Sycophancy in Athens. Chicago. Lofberg, J. O. 1920. “The Sycophant-Parasite.” Classical Philology 15: 61–72. Loraux, N. 2009. “Thucydides and sedition among words.” In: Thucydides. Oxford readings in classical studies, ed. J. S. Rusten: 261–92. Oxford. Lorenzetti, E. 2001. “L’ Armorum Iudicium di Ovidio Appunti sulla Tradizione Epica nelle Metamorfosi.” Università di Macerata. Annali della Facolta di Lettere e Filosofia 25: 221–47. Lucas, D. 1972. Aristotle: Poetics. Oxford. Luce, T. J. 1977. Livy: The composition of his history. Princeton. Luce, T. J. 1993. “Structure in Livy’s speeches.” In: Liuius: Aspekte Seines Werkes, ed. W. Schüller: 71–85. Konstanz. Ludolph, M. 1997. Epistolographie und Selbstdarstellung. Untersuchungen zu den ‚Paradebriefen’ Plinius des Jüngeren. Tübingen. Luginbill, R. D. 1999. Thucydides on war and national character. Boulder and Oxford. Luschnat, O. 1942. Die Feldherrnreden im Geschichtswerk des Thukydides. Leipzig. MacDowell, D. M. 1971. Aristophanes: Wasps. Oxford. MacDowell, D. M. 1978. The law in classical Athens. Ithaca, NY. MacDowell, D. M. 2000. Demosthenes: On the false embassy (oration 19). Oxford and New York. MacDowell, D. M. 2009. Demosthenes the orator. Oxford. MacGillvray, E. D. 2012. “The popularity of Epicureanism in elite late-Roman society.” Ancient World 43: 151–72. Maciver, C. A. 2012a. Quintus Smyrnaeus’ Posthomerica: Engaging Homer in late antiquity. Leiden. Maciver, C. A. 2012b. “Flyte of Odysseus: Allusion and the hoplōn krisis in Quintus Smyrnaeus Posthomerica 5.” American Journal of Philology 133: 601–28. MacPhail, E. 2001. “The plot of history from antiquity to the renaissance.” Journal of the History of Ideas 62: 1–16. Mader, G. 1988. “Fluctibus variis agor: An aspect of Seneca’s Clytemnestra Portrait.” Acta Classica 31: 51–70. Mader, G. 2007a. “Dramatizing Didaxis: Aspects of Demosthenes’ ‘Periclean’ project.” Classical Philology 102: 155–79. Mader, G. 2007b. “Foresight, hindsight, and the rhetoric of self-fashioning in Demosthenes’ Philippic cycle.” Rhetorica 25(4): 339–60. Mader, G. 2018. “Ἐναργὲς καὶ σαφές: Demosthenes and the rhetoric of disclosure in the Philippic Orations.” American Journal of Philology 139: 183–93.

388

Bibliography

Malherbe, A. J. 1986. Moral exhortation: A Greco-Roman sourcebook. Philadelphia. Maltby, R. 1991. A lexicon of ancient Latin etymologies. Leeds. March, J. G. and Olsen, J. P. 1995. Democratic governance. New York. Marchant, E. C., Todd, O. J. and Henderson, J. 2013. Xenophon: Memorabilia. Oeconomicus, Symposium. Apology. Translated by E. C. M. and J. O. T. Revised by J. H. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Marchesi, I. 2008. The art of Pliny’s letters: A poetics of allusion in the private correspondence. Cambridge. Marcucci, S. 1996. Modelli “tragici” e modelli “epici” nell’Agamemnon di L. A. Seneca. Milan. Marincola, J. 1997. Authority and tradition in ancient historiography. Cambridge. Marincola, J. 2007. “Speeches in classical historiography.” In: A companion to Greek and Roman historiography, vol. I, ed. J. Marincola: 118–32. Malden, MA, Oxford and Victoria. Marti, B. 1945. “Seneca’s tragedies: A new interpretation.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 76: 216–45. Martin, G. 2006. “Forms of address in Athenian courts.” Museum Helveticum 62: 75–88. Martin, G. 2009. Divine talk: Religious argumentation in Demosthenes. Oxford. Martin, R. H. 1967. “The speech of Curtius Montanus: Tacitus, Histories IV, 42.” Journal of Roman Studies 57: 109–14. Martin, R. P. 1989. The language of heroes: Speech and performance in the Iliad. Ithaca, NY. Martin, T. R. 1985. Sovereignty and coinage in classical Greece. Princeton. Martin, V. and Budé de G. 1928. Eschine: Discours. Tome I: Contre Timarque; Sur l’Ambassade Infidèle. Paris. Martina, A. 1981. “Il mito della casa di Atreo nella tragedia di Seneca.” Dioniso 52: 125–209. Mastrorosa, I. G. 2009. “La pratica dell’oratoria giudiziaria nell’alto impero: Quintiliano e Plinio il Giovane.” In: Quintilien: ancien et moderne études réunies. Latinitates, 3, eds. P. Galand-Hallyn et al.: 125–52. Turnhout. May, J. 1988. Trials of character: The eloquence of Ciceronian ethos. Chapel Hill and London. Mayer, R. 2001. Tacitus: Dialogus de Oratoribus. Cambridge. Mayer, R. 2003. “Pliny and Gloria Dicendi.” Arethusa 36: 227–34. Mayhew, R. and Mirhady, D. C. 2011. Aristotle, Volume XVI: Problems, Books 20–28; Rhetoric to Alexander. Edited and translated by R. M. and D. C. M. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA and London. McClain, T. D. 1994. “Gender, Genre, and Power: The Depiction of Women in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita.” Ph.D. diss., Indiana.

Bibliography

389

McGraw, A. P. and Warren, C. 2010. “Benign violations making immoral behaviour funny.” Psychological Science 21: 1141–9. Meiggs, R. 1982. Trees and timber in the ancient Mediterranean world. Oxford. Meineke, J. A. F. 1843. Philologicarum exercitationum in Athenaei Deipnosophistas. Berlin. Meisterhans, K. 1900. Grammatik der attischen Inschriften. 3rd ed. Berlin. Mendels, D. 2001. “The sources of the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius: The case of Josephus.” In: L’historiographie de l’église des premiers siècles, eds. B. Pouderon and Y. M. Duval: 195–205. Paris. Mercer, J. 2014. “Feeling like a state: Social emotion and identity.” International Theory 6: 515–35. Meritt, B. D., Wade-Gery H. T. and Francis McGregor, M. 1950. The Athenian tribute lists, iii. Princeton. Meyer, J. and Rowan, B. 1977. “Institutionalized organizations: Formal structure as myth and ceremony.” American Journal of Sociology 83: 340–63. Miles, G. B. 1995. Livy: Reconstructing early Rome. Ithaca, NY. Miller, A. H., Gurin, P., Gurin, G., Malanchuk, O. 1981. “Group consciousness and political participation.” American Journal of Political Science 25: 494–511. Miller, F. J. 1917. Seneca’s Tragedies. 2 volumes. Loeb Classical Library. London and Cambridge, MA. Miller, W. 1914. Xenophon V Cyropaedia I. Translated by W. M. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Miller, W. I. 1998. The anatomy of disgust. Cambridge, MA. Millett, P. 2010. “The political economy of Macedonia.” In: A companion to ancient Macedonia, eds. J. Roisman and I. Worthington: 472–504. Malden, MA and Chichester. Mineo, B. 2006. Tite-Live et l’histoire de Rome. Paris. Mirhady, D. C. 1994. “Aristotle, the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum and the tria genera causarum.” In: Peripatetic rhetoric after Aristotle, eds. W. W. Fortenbaugh and D. C. Mirhady: 54–65. New Brunswick, NJ. Mirhady, D. C. 2002. “Athens’ democratic witnesses.” Phoenix 56: 255–74. Mitchell-Boyask, R. 2008. Plague and the Athenian imagination: Drama, history, and the cult of Asclepius. Cambridge. Monro, D. B. and Allen, T. W. eds. 1920. Homeri Opera. 3d ed. Oxford. Montgomery, H. 1983. The way to Chaeronea. Bergen. Montgomery, H. 1985. “The economic revolution of Philip II – Myth or reality?” Symbolae Osloenses 60: 37–47. Montiglio, S. 2011. From villain to hero: Odysseus in ancient thought. Ann Arbor. Moore, F. G. 1940. Livy, History of Rome. Vol. VI: Books 23–25. Translated by F. G. M. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA.

390

Bibliography

Moore, T. J. 1998. The theater of Plautus: Playing to the audience. Austin. Morgan, K. A. 2000. Myth and philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato. Cambridge. Morrison, J. V. 2006. “Interaction of speech and narrative in Thucydides”. In: Brill’s companion to Thucydides, eds. A. Rengakos and A. Tsakmakis: 251–77. Leiden. Müller, C. W. 1997. Philoktet. Beiträge zur Wiedergewinnung einer Tragödie des Euripides. Stuttgart and Leipzig. Müller-Strübing, H. 1881. Thukydideische Forschungen. Wien. Murgia, C. W. 1985. “Pliny’s letters and the Dialogus.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 89: 171–206. Murray, A. T. 1919. Homer. Odyssey. 2 volumes. Translated by A. T. M. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Murray, A. T. 1924–5. Homer. Iliad. 2 volumes. Translated by A. T. M. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Mustakallio K. 2011. “Representing older women: Hersilia, Veturia, Virgo Vestalis Maxima.” In: On old age: Approaching death in antiquity and the Middle Ages. The History of Daily Life 2, eds. C. Kroetzl and K. Mustakallio: 41–76. Turnhout. Mynors, R. A. B. ed. 1963. C. Plini Caecili Secundi Epistularum libri decem. Oxford. Mynors, R. A. B. ed. 1969. P. Vergili Maronis Opera. Oxford. Nagy, F. 1986. “The contrast signs of an antique topos.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 16: 275–77. Nagy, G. 1990. Pindar’s Homer: The lyric possession of an epic past. Baltimore. Narducci, E. 1997. “Perceptions of exile in Cicero: The philosophical interpretation of a real experience.” American Journal of Philology 118: 55–73. Narducci, E. 2007. “Rhetoric and epic: Vergil’s Aeneid and Lucan’s Bellum Civile.” In: A companion to Roman rhetoric, ed. W. J. Dominik and J. Hall: 382–95. Malden, MA. Neger, M. 2015. “Neque enim vereor, ne iactantior videar …: Plinius und der kaiserzeitliche Diskurs über das Selbstlob.” Gymnasium 122: 315–38. Nespor, M. and Vogel, I. 2007. Prosodic phonology. 2nd ed. New York. Nicolai, R. 2014. “Cyrus orateur et ses maîtres (grecs).” In: Xénophon et la rhetorique, ed. P. Pontier: 179–94. Paris. Oakley, S. P. 1997. A commentary on Book VI–X, Vol. I: Introduction and Book VI. Oxford. Oakley, S. P. 2005. A commentary on Book VI–X, Vol. IV: Book X. Oxford. Ober, J. 1989. Mass and elite in democratic Athens: Rhetoric, ideology, and the power of the people. Princeton. Ober, J. 1993. “Thucydides’ criticism of democratic knowledge.” In: Nomodeiktes: Greek studies in honour of Martin Ostwald, eds. R. M. Rosen and J. Farrell: 81–98. Ann Arbor. Ober, J. 1998. Political dissent in democratic Athens: Intellectual critics of popular rule. Princeton. Ober, J. 2008. Democracy and knowledge: Innovation and learning in classical Athens. Princeton.

Bibliography

391

Ober, J. and Strauss, B. 1992. “Drama, political rhetoric, and the discourse of Athenian Democracy.” In: Nothing to do with Dionysos? Athenian drama in its social context, ed. J. Winkler and F. I. Zeitlin: 237–70. Princeton. O’Donnell, V. and Kable, J. 1982. Persuasion: An interactive dependency approach. New York. O’Keefe, D. J. 1990. Persuasion: Theory and research. Newbury Park, CA. Olding, G. 2007. “Myth and writing in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus.” In: Politics of Orality, ed. C. R. Cooper: 155–70. Leiden. Osborne, R. 1997. “Law, the democratic citizen and the representation of women in classical Athens.” Past & Present 155: 3–33. Osborne, R. 2011. The history written on the classical Greek body. Cambridge. O’Sullivan, N. 1992. Alcidamas, Aristophanes, and the beginnings of Greek stylistic theory. Stuttgart. O’Sullivan, N. 1996. “Written and spoken in the first sophistic.” In: Voice into text: Orality and literacy in ancient Greece, ed. I. Worthington: 115–27. Leiden and Boston. O’Sullivan, P. 2005. “Homer.” In: Classical rhetorics and rhetoricians, eds. M. Balliff and G. Moran: 214–18. Westport. Otto, N. 2009. Enargeia. Untersuchungen zur Charakteristik alexandrinischer Dichtung. Stuttgart. Pagán, V. E. 2004. “Livy: The bacchanal conspiracy.” In: Conspiracy narratives in Roman history, ed. V. Pagán: 50–67. Austin. Page, D. L. 1981. Further Greek epigrams: epigrams before AD 50 from the Greek anthology and other sources, not included in Hellenistic epigrams or The garland of Philip. Cambridge and New York. Palmer, R. E. A. 1974. “Roman shrines of female chastity from the caste struggle to the Papacy of Innocent I.” Rivista storica dell’Antichità 4: 113–59. Papageorgiou, N. 2004. “Rhetoric and arithmetic in Aristophanes’ Wasps.” Maia 56 (3): 525–35. Papaioannou, S. 2007. Redesigning Achilles: “Recycling” the Epic Cycle in the ‘Little Iliad’ (Ovid, Metamorphoses 12.1–13.622). Berlin and New York. Papaioannou, S. 2016. “Plautus undoing himself – What is funny and what is Plautine in Stichus and Trinummus?” In: Roman drama and its context, eds. S. Frangoulidis, S. J. Harrison and G. Manuwald: 167–202. Berlin and Boston. Paratore, E. 1957. “Originalità del teatro di Seneca.” Dioniso 20: 53–74. Parker, R. 1983. Pollution and purification in early Greek religion. Oxford. Parker, R. G., Barbosa, R. M. and Aggleton, P. 2000. Framing the sexual subject: The politics of gender, sexuality and power. Berkeley. Parsons, J. 2013. “Command and consequence.” Philosophical Studies: An International Journal for Philosophy in the Analytic Tradition 164: 61–92.

392

Bibliography

Patterson, C. 2007. “Other sorts: slaves, foreigners, and women in Periclean Athens.” In: The Cambridge companion to the age of Pericles, ed. L. J. Samons: 153–78. New York and Cambridge. Patterson, C. B. 1991. “Marriage and the married woman in Athenian law.” In: Women’s history and ancient history, ed. S. B. Pomeroy: 48–72. Chapel Hill. Pavlou, M. 2013. “Attributive discourse in the speeches in Thucydides.” In: Thucydides between history and literature, eds. A. Tsakmakis and M. Tamiolaki: 409–33. Berlin. Pearson, L. 1964. “The development of Demosthenes as a political actor.” Phoenix 18 (2): 95–109. Pearson, L. 1976. The art of Demosthenes. Meisenheim am Glan. Pepe, C. 2013. The genres of rhetorical speeches in Greek and Roman antiquity. Leiden and Boston. Perl, G. and El-Qalqili, I. 2002. “Zur Problematik der lex Oppia (215/195 v. Chr.).” Klio 84: 414–39. Perlman, S. 1964. “Quotations from poetry in Attic orators of the fourth century BC.” American Journal of Philology 85: 155–72. Perloff, R. M. 2003. The dynamics of persuasion: Communication and attitudes in the 21st century. Mahwah, NJ and London. Pernot, L. 1998. “Periautologia: Problèmes et méthodes de l’éloge de soi même dans la tradition éthique et rhétorique gréco-romaine.” Revue des Études Greques 111: 101–24. Pernot, L. 2005. Rhetoric in antiquity, trans. W. E. Higgins. Washington, DC. Perrin, B. 1949. Plutarch’s Lives of the ten orators. London and Cambridge, MA. Perutelli, A. 1995. Seneca. Agamennone, trad. G. Paduano. Milan. Petersen, R. and Liaras, E. 2006. “Countering fear in war: The strategic use of emotion.” Journal of Military Ethics 5: 317–33. Peterson, W. and Winterbottom, M. 1970. Tacitus: Dialogus de oratoribus. Translated by W. P.; revised by M. W. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Pflips, H. 1973. Ciceronachahmung und Ciceroferne des jüngeren Plinius: Ein Kommentar zu den Briefen des Plinius über Repetundenprozesse (epist. 2,11; 2,12; 3,9; 4,9; 5,20; 6,13; 7,6). Ph.D. diss., Bamberg. Pickard-Cambridge, A. W. 1912. The Public Orations of Demosthenes. In 2 Volumes. Translated by A. W. P.-C. Oxford. Picone, G. 1978. L’eloquenza di Plinio: teoria e prassi. Palermo. Plamper, J., Reddy, W., Rosenwein, B. and Stearns, P. 2010. “The history of emotions: An interview with William Reddy, Barbara Rosenwein, and Peter Stearns.” History and Theory 49: 237–65. Plepelits, K. 1970. Die Fragmente der Demen des Eupolis. Wien. Pontani, F. 2009. “Demosthenes, parody and the Frogs.” Mnemosyne 62: 401–16. Pratt, N. T. Jr. 1948. “The Stoic base of Senecan drama.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 79: 1–11.

Bibliography

393

Preisendanz, K. ed. 1908. Sentenzen. Jena. Price, J. J. 2001. Thucydides and internal war. Cambridge. Pritchett, W. K. 1974. The Greek state at war, II. Berkeley. Pritchett, W. K. 1994. Essays in Greek history. Amsterdam. Pucci ben Zeev, M. 2006. “Josephus’ ambiguities: his comments on cited documents.” Journal of Jewish Studies 57(1): 1–10. Quadlbauer, F. 1948. Plinius der Jüngere und der Begriff der erhabenen Rede. Ph.D. diss., Graz. Quadlbauer, F. 1958. “Die genera dicendi bei Plinius d. J.” Wiener Studien 71: 56–111. Radice, B. 1969. Pliny: Letters and Panegyricus. Translation by B. R. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA and London. Ramsey, J. T. 2007. Sallust’s Bellum Catilinae, 2nd ed. Oxford. Rauh, N. K. 1986. “Cicero’s business friendships: economics and politics in the late Roman Republic.” Aevum 60: 3–30. Rauh, N. K., Dillon, M. and McClain, T. D. 2008. “OCHLOS NAUTIKOS: Leisure, culture and underclass discontent in the Roman maritime world.” In: The maritime world of ancient Rome (Supplements to the memoirs of the American Academy in Rome), ed. R. L. Hohlfelder: 190–245. Ann Arbor. Rawlings, H. R. 1981. The structure of Thucydides’ History. Princeton. Rawson, B. 1978. The politics of friendship: Pompey and Cicero. Sydney. Rawson, E. 1975. Cicero: A portrait. London. Reddy, W. M. 2001. The navigation of feeling: A framework for the history of emotions. Cambridge. Renehan, R. 1976. Studies in Greek texts: Critical observations to Homer, Plato, Euripides, Aristophanes and other authors. Göttingen. Rhodes, P. J. 1981. A commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia. Oxford. Rhodes, P. J. 1988. trans. Thucydides. History II. Warminster. Rhodes, P. J. 1994. trans. Thucydides. History III. Warminster Rhodes, P. J. 1998. trans. Thucydides. History IV.1–V.24. Warminster. Richardson, L. 1992. A New topographical dictionary of ancient Rome. Baltimore. Riggsby, A. M. 1995. “Pliny on Cicero and oratory: Self-fashioning in the public eye.” American Journal of Philology 116: 123–35. Riggsby, A. M. 2004. “The rhetoric of character in the Roman courts.” In: Cicero the advocate, eds. J. Powell and J. Paterson: 165–85. Oxford. Riggsby, A. M. 2015. “Tyrants, fire, and dangerous things.” In: Roman reflections: Studies in Latin philosophy, eds. G. D. Williams and K. Volk: 111–28. Oxford. Rijksbaron, A. 2002. The syntax and semantics of the verb in classical Greek: An introduction. Chicago. Robert, J.-N. 2003. “Remarques sur la légendaire misogynie de Caton l’Ancien.” In: Hommages à Carl Deroux. 3, Histoire et épigraphie, droit, ed. P. Defosse: 376–83. Bruxelles.

394

Bibliography

Roca Barea, E. 1992. “La influencia de Quintiliano en los criterios retóricos de Plinio el Joven.” Helmantica 43: 121–9. Roca Barea, E. 1998. “La influencia de Cicerón y Quintiliano en las ideas sobre el estilo en las cartas de Plinio el Joven.” In: Quintiliano: historia y actualidad de la retórica III, eds. T. Albaladejo, E. del Rio and J. A. Caballero: 1053–58. Calahorra. Roisman, J. 1987. “Alkidas in Thucydides.” Historia 36: 385–421. Roisman, J. 2005. The rhetoric of manhood: Masculinity in the Attic orators. Berkeley. Rood, T. 2004a. “Panhellenism and self-presentation: Xenophon’s speeches.” In: The long march: Xenophon and the ten thousand, ed. R. L. Fox: 305–29. New Haven. Rood, T. 2004b. “Xenophon and Diodorus: Continuing Thucydides.” In: Xenophon and his world, ed. C. Tuplin: 341–95. Stuttgart. Rosenmeyer, T. G. 1989. Senecan drama and Stoic cosmology. Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford. Rosenwein, B. 2002. “Worrying about emotions in history.” American Historical Review 107: 821–45. Rosenwein, B. 2006. Emotional communities in the Early middle Ages. Ithaca, NY. Ross, W. D. ed. and trans. 1924. The Works of Aristotle. Oxford. Rowe, G. O. 1972. “A problem of quotation in Demosthenes’ Embassy Speech.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 103: 441–9. Rozin, P., Haidt, J. and McCauley, C. R. 1999. “Disgust: The body and soul emotion.” In: Handbook of cognition and emotion, eds. T. Dalgleish and M. J. Power: 429–45. Chichester. Rubincam, C. 1979. “Qualification of numerals in Thucydides.” American Journal of Ancient History 4: 77–95. Rubinstein, L. 2004. “Stirring up dicastic anger.” In: Law, rhetoric, and comedy in classical Athens: Essays in honour of Douglas M. MacDowell, eds. D. L. Cairns and R. A. Knox: 187–203. Swansea. Rubinstein, L. 2005, “Dangerous liaisons? Litigants and witnesses in the Athenian courts.” In: Symposion 2001: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte, eds. R. W. Wallace and M. Gagarin: 99–120 (with response by G. Thür at pp. 121–4). Vienna. Russell, D. A. trans. 2001. Quintilian, The Orator’s Education. Vol. 5. Cambridge, MA and London. Sacharoff, M. 1972. “Suicide and Brutus’ philosophy in Julius Caesar.” Journal of the History of Ideas 33, 115–22. Safran M. 2010. Civis romana: Women and civic identity in Livy AUC I. Ph.D. diss. Princeton. Sage, E. T. 1936. Livy, History of Rome. Vol. IX: Books 31–33. Translated by E. T. S. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA.

Bibliography

395

Sagi, E. and Dehghani, M. 2014. “Measuring moral rhetoric in text.” Social Science Computer Review 32: 132–44. Salmon, C. 2016. “Trump, Fascism, and the construction of ‘the people’: An interview with Judith Butler.” Available online at https://www.versobooks.com/blogs/3025 -trump-fascism-and-the-construction-of-the-people-an-interview-with-judith -butler. Samons, L. J. 2000. Empire of the owl: Athenian imperial finance. Stuttgart. Sanders, E. 2014. Envy and jealousy in classical Athens: A socio-psychological approach. Oxford. Sandridge, N. B. 2012. Loving humanity, learning and being honoured: The foundations of leadership in Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus. Washington, DC. Sanz Morales, M. 2001. “El Homero de Esquines.” L’antiquité classique 70: 49–67. Scafuro, A. 1989. “Livy’s comic narrative of the Bacchanalia.” Helios 16: 119–42. Scardino, C. 2012. “Indirect discourse in Herodotus and Thucydides.” In: Thucydides and Herodotus, eds. E. Foster and D. Lateiner: 67–96. Oxford. Schaps, D. M. 1975. “Women in Greek inheritance law.” Classical Quarterly 25: 53–7. Schaps, D. M. 1998. “What was free about a free Athenian woman?” Transactions of the American Philological Association 128: 161–88. Schein, S. 2013. Sophocles: Philoctetes. Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Cambridge. Schenk, P. 1999. “Formen von Intertextualität im Briefkorpus des jüngeren Plinius.” Philologus 143: 114–34. Schettino, M. T. 2014. “The use of historical sources.” In: A companion to Plutarch, ed. M. Beck: 417–36. Hoboken, NJ. Schiesaro, A. 2014. “Seneca’s Agamemnon: the entropy of tragedy”, Pallas 95: 179–191 [put online on 01-06-2014, last visited 13-02-2017. URL: http://pallas.revues.org/1726; DOI: 10.4000/pallas.1726.]. Schiesaro, A. 2015. “Seneca and Epicurus: The allure of the Other.” In: The Cambridge companion to Seneca, eds. S. Bartsch and A. Schiesaro: 239–52. Cambridge. Schmitz, T. A. 2010. “The Mitylene Debate in Thucydides.” In: Stimmen der Geschichte: Funktionen von Reden in der antiken Historiographie, eds. D. Pausch: 45–65. Berlin and New York. Schubert, C. 2002. “Texte aus dem Geschlechterdiskurs: Catos Rede gegen die Aufhebung des Oppischen Luxusgesetzes (Liv. 34, 1, 2–4, 21).” Sudhoffs Archiv 86: 93–105. Schwerdtner, K. 2015. Plinius und seine Klassiker: Studien zur literarischen Zitation in den Pliniusbriefen. Berlin and Boston. Schwyzer, E. 1939. Griechische Grammatik, auf der Grundlage von Karl Brugmanns Griechischer Grammatik: Erster Band: Allgemeiner Teil, Lautlehre, Wortbildung, Flexion. Munich.

396

Bibliography

Schwyzer, E. and Debrunner, A. 1950. Griechische Grammatik, Grammatik, auf der Grundlage von Karl Brugmanns Griechischer Grammatik: Zweiter Band: Syntax und syntaktische Stilistik. Munich. Scodel, R. 2007. “Lycurgus and the state text of tragedy.” In: Politics of orality, ed. C. R. Cooper: 129–54. Leiden. Seager, R. 1967. “Alcibiades and the charge of aiming at tyranny.” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 16: 6–18. Seager, R. 1979. Pompey the Great: A political biography. Oxford. Sealey, R. 1990. Women and law in classical Greece. Chapel Hill. Seidensticker, B. 1969. Die Gesprächsverdichtung in den Tragödien Senecas. Heidelberg. Serafim, A. 2015. “Making the audience: Ekphrasis and rhetorical strategy in Demosthenes 18 and 19.” Classical Quarterly 65: 96–108. Serafim, A. 2017a. Attic oratory and performance. London and New York. Serafim, A. 2017b. “‘Conventions’ in/as performance: Addressing the audience in selected public speeches of Demosthenes.” In: The theatre of justice: Aspects of performance in Greco-Roman oratory and rhetoric, eds. S. Papaioannou, A. Serafim and B. da Vela: 26–41. Leiden and New York. Serafim, A. Forthcoming (a). “Speaking scripts: Hypocrisis in selected speeches of Aeschines and Demosthenes.” University of Belgrade, Faculty of Law. Serafim, A. Forthcoming (b). “Language and persuasion in Attic oratory: Imperatives and questions.” Argos: Revista de la Asociación Argentina de Estudios Clásicos. Serafim, A. Forthcoming (c). “Comic invective in the public forensic speeches of Attic oratory.” Hellenica. Serafim, A. Forthcoming (d). Religious discourse in Attic oratory and politics. London and New York. Sexton, J. Y. 2016. “Donald Trump’s toxic masculinity.” The New York Times, October 13. Online at: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/13/opinion/donald-trumps -toxic-masculinity.html. Shackleton Bailey D. R. 1965. Cicero’s Letters to Atticus. Vol. 1. Cambridge. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1971. Cicero. London and New York. = id. 1999. Cicero: Letters to Atticus, vol. 1. Edited and Translated by D. R. S.-B. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1993. Martial, Epigrams. 3 vols. Edited and translated by D. R. S.-B. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA and London. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 2000. Valerius Maximus, Memorable Doings and Saying. 2 vols. Edited and translated by D. R. S.-B. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA and London. Sharples, R. W. and Sorabji, R. 2007. Greek and Roman philosophy 100 BC–200 AD, vol. 1. London.

Bibliography

397

Shelton, J.-A. 1977. “The dramatization of inner experience: The opening scene of Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Ramus 6: 33–43. Shelton, J.-A. 1983. “Revenge or resignation: Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Ramus 12: 159–83. Shelton, J.-A. 2013. The women of Pliny’s letters. London and New York. Sherwin-White, A. N. 1966. The letters of Pliny: A historical and social commentary. Oxford. Sicking, C. M. J. 1991. “The distribution of aorist and present tense stem forms in Greek, especially in the imperative.” Glotta 69: 14–43, 154–70. Siewierska, A., 2004. Person. Cambridge. Sihvola, J. and Engberg-Pedersen, T. 1998. “The emotions in Hellenistic philosophy.” Springer Science & Business Media 46: 21–70. Sipple, A. 1938. Der Staatsman und Dichter Seneca als politischer Erzieher. Würzburg. Skinner, M. B. 2014. Sexuality in Greek and Roman culture. Malden, MA. Slater, N. W. 2002. Spectator politics: Metatheatre and performance in Aristophanes. Philadelphia. Slaughter, M. S. 1921. “Cicero and his critics.” Classical Journal 17: 120–31. Smith, C. L. 1896. “Cicero’s journey into exile.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 7: 65–84. Smith, M. J. 1982. Persuasion and human action: A review and critique of social influence theories. Belmont, CA. Smith, R. E. 1966. Cicero the statesman. Cambridge. Solmsen, F. 1938. “Aristotle and Cicero on the orator’s playing upon the feelings.” Classical Philology 33: 390–404. Spatharas, D. 2017. “Sex, politics, and disgust in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus.” In: The ancient emotion of disgust, ed. D. Lateiner and D. Spatharas: 125–40. Oxford. Stadter, P. 2011–2012. “Review of E. Foster, Thucydides, Pericles, and Periclean imperialism. Cambridge 2010.” Classics Journal 107: 243–5. Stahl, H. P. 1966. Thukydides. Die Stellung des Menschen im geschichtlichen Prozeß. Munich. Stanford, W. B. 1963. The Ulysses theme: A study in the adaptability of a traditional hero. 2nd ed. Oxford. Steel, C. E. W. 2001. Cicero, rhetoric, and empire. Oxford. Steenblock, M. 2013. Sexualmoral und politische Stabilität: zum Vorstellungszusammen­ hang in der römischen Literatur von Lucilius bis Ovid. Berlin and Boston. Sterling, G. E. 1992. Historiography and self-definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and apologetic historiography. Leiden. Stevenson T. 2011. “Women of early Rome as exempla in Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, Book 1.” Classical World 104: 175–89. Stockton, D. 1971. Cicero: A political biography. Oxford.

398

Bibliography

Storey, I. C. 2003. Eupolis: Poet of old comedy. Oxford. Strathmann, H. 1967 [1939]. “Mάρτυς, μαρτυρέω, μαρτυρία, μαρτύριον.” In: Theological dictionary of the New Testament, trans. and ed. G. W. Bromiley, vol. 4, 474–514. Grand Rapids, MI. (Originally pub. in German in G. Kittel (1939), ed., Theologisches Wörterbuch zum neuen Testament, vol. 4, fasc. 7–8: 477–520. Stuttgart.) Strauss, B. S. 1985. “The cultural significance of bribery and embezzlement in Athenian politics: The evidence of the period 403–386 BC.” Ancient World 11 (3–4): 67–74. Streubel, G. 1963. “Seneca’s Agamemnon.” Ph.D. diss., University of Vienna. Stronk, J. 2016. Semiramis’ legacy: The history of Persia according to Diodorus of Sicily. Edinburgh. Struck, P. T. 2010. “Allegory and ascent in Neoplatonism.” In: The Cambridge companion to allegory, eds. R. Copeland and P. T. Struck: 57–70. Cambridge. Sunstein, C. R. 2005. Law of fear: Beyond the precautionary principle. Cambridge. Syme, R. 1961. “Who was Vedius Pollio?” Journal of Roman Studies 51: 23–30. Tajfel, H. and Turner, J. C. 1979. “An integrative theory of intergroup conflict.” In: The social psychology of intergroup relations, eds. W. G. Austin and S. Worchel: 33–37. Ann Arbor. Tamiolaki, M. 2014. “A l’ombre de Thucydide? Les discours des Helléniques et l’influence thucydiéenne.” In: Xénophon et la rhetorique, ed. P. Pontier: 121–38. Paris. Taoka, Y. 2011. “Quintilian, Seneca, imitatio: Re-reading Institutio Oratoria 10.1. 125–31.” Arethusa 44: 123–37. Taousiani, A. 2011. “ΟΥ ΜΗ ΠΙΘΗΤΑΙ: Persuasion versus deception in the prologue of Sophocles’ Philoctetes.” Classical Quarterly 61: 426–44. Taplin, O. 1985. Greek Tragedy in action. 2nd ed. London. Tarrant, R. 1976. Seneca: Agamemnon. Cambridge. Tarrant, R. 2006. “Seeing Seneca whole?” In: Seeing Seneca whole: Perspectives on philosophy, poetry and politics, ed. K. Volk and G. D. Williams: 1–17. Leiden. Tatum, J. 1989. Xenophon’s imperial fiction. Princeton. Taylor, C. 2001. “Bribery in Athenian politics part II: Ancient reaction and perceptions.” Greece & Rome 48: 154–72. Taylor, C. C. W. 1991. Plato, Protagoras. Translated with notes, revised ed. Oxford. Tetlow, E. M. 2004. Women, crime, and punishment in ancient law and society. London. Thomas, R. 2000. Herodotus in context: Ethnography, science and the art of persuasion. Cambridge. Thraede, K. 1970. Grundzüge griechisch-römischer Brieftopik. Munich. Todd, S. C. 1990. “The purpose of evidence in Athenian courts.” In: Nomos: Essays in Athenian law, politics and society, eds. P. A. Cartledge, P. C. Millett and S. C. Todd: 19–39. Cambridge. Todd, S. C. 1993. The shape of Athenian law. Oxford. Todd, S. C. 2000. Lysias. Translated with introduction and notes. Austin.

Bibliography

399

Todd, S. C. 2007. A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11. Oxford. Tordoff, R. 2014. “Counterfactual history and Thucydides.” In: Probabilities, counterfactuals and hypotheticals in ancient Greek thought, ed. V. Wohl: 101–21. Cambridge. Tränkle, H. 1971. Cato in der vierten und fünften Dekade des Livius. Mainz and Wiesbaden. Traub, H. W. 1955. “Pliny’s treatment of history in epistolary form.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 86: 213–32. Trevett, J. 1992. Apollodoros the son of Pasion. Oxford. Trevett, J. 1996. “Did Demosthenes publish his deliberative speeches?” Hermes 124: 425–44. Trites, A. A. 1977 [repr. 2004]. The New Testament concept of witness. Cambridge. Trundle, M. 2004. Greek mercenaries. London. Tsakmakis, A. 1995. Thucydides über die Vergangenheit. Tübingen. Tsakmakis, A. 2006. “Leaders, crowds, and the power of the image: Political communication in Thucydides.” In: Brill’s companion to Thucydides, eds. A. Rengakos and A. Tsakmakis: 161–87. Leiden. Tsakmakis, A. 2016. “Speeches.” In: The Oxford handbook of Thucydides, eds. R. Balot, S. Forsdyke and E. Foster: 267–82. Oxford and New York. Tsakmakis, A. and Themistokleous, C. 2013. “Textual structure and modality in Thucydides’ military exhortations.” In: Thucydides between history and literature, eds. A. Tsakmakis and M. Tamiolaki: 391–408. Berlin and Boston. Tuplin, C. 1993. The failings of empire: A reading of Xenophon, Hellenica 2.3.11–7.5.27. Stuttgart. Tuplin, C. 2014. “Le salut par la parole: Les discours dans l’Anabase de Xénophon.” In: Xénophon et la rhetorique, ed. P. Pontier: 69–120. Paris. Turk, Al. and Shattuck-Hufnagel, S. 2013. “What is speech rhythm? A commentary on Arvaniti and Rodriquez, Krivokapić, and Goswami and Leong.” Laboratory Phonology 4: 93–118. Tyrrell, R. Y. and Purser, L. C. 1904. The correspondence of M. Tullius Cicero. Dublin and London. Tzounakas, S. 2007. “Neque enim historiam componebam: Pliny’s first Epistle and his attitude towards historiography.” Museum Helveticum 64: 42–54. Tzounakas, S. 2015. “Pliny as the Roman Demosthenes.” In: En hommage à Nicole Méthy, ed. O. Devillers: 201–18. Bordeaux. Tzounakas, S. 2017. “Self-presentation in Pliny’s Epistle 9.23.” In: Self-presentation and identity in the Roman world, ed. A. Gavrielatos: 82–92. Newcastle upon Tyne. Ullman, B. 1942. “History and tragedy.” Transactions and proceedings of the American Philological Association 73: 25–53. Ullmann, R. 1927. La technique des discours dans Salluste, Tite-Live et Tacite: La matière et la composition. Oslo. Usher, S. 1999. Greek oratory: Tradition and originality. Oxford.

400

Bibliography

Usher, S. 2007. “Symbouleutic oratory.” In: A companion to Greek rhetoric, ed. I. Worthington: 220–35. Malden, MA and Oxford. Ussani, V. 1971. “Leggendo Plinio il Giovane, II. Oratio – historia.” Rivista di Cultura Classica e Medioevale 13: 70–135. Vallette E. 2012. “Les discours de Veturia, Valeria et Hersilia.” Cahiers Mondes anciens 3. Online publication. Available at: URL: http://journals.openedition.org/ mondesanciens/782. van der Ben, N. 1998. “The Interpretation of Teutiaplus’ Speech, Thucydides 3.30, and Its Textual Problem.” Mnemosyne 51: 64–71. Vangelisti, A. L., Daly, J. A. and Rudnick J. R. 1991. “Making people feel guilty in conversations: Techniques and correlates.” Human Communication Research 18: 3–39. Vassiliades, G. 2016. “La res publica et sa décadence: de Salluste à Tite-Live.” Ph.D. diss., Paris IV Sorbonne. Vatri, A. 2016. “Between song and prose: The meaning(s) of Harmonia in Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics.” Rhetorica 34: 372–92. Vian, F. 1959. Recherches sur les Posthomerica de Quintus de Smyrne. Paris. Vian, F. ed. 1966. Quintus de Smyrne, La suite d’Homère. vol. 2. Paris. Vingerhoets, A. J. J. M., Bylsma, L. M. and de Vlam, C. 2013. “Swearing: A biopsychosocial perspective.” Psychological Topics 22: 287–304. von Haehling, R. 1993. “Furcht und Schrecken in Herodots Darstellung und Deutung der Perserkriege.” Klio 75: 85–98. Vretska, K. 1976. De Catilinae coniuratione/ C.Sallustius Crispus / kommentiert von Karl Vretska, vol. I–II. Heidelberg. Walbank, F. W. 1960. “History and tragedy.” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 9: 216–34. Walbank, F. W. 1965. Speeches in Greek historians (3rd Myres Memorial Lecture). Oxford. (= Walbank, Frank W. 1985. Selected Papers: Studies in Greek and Roman history and historiography: 242–61. Cambridge.) Walker, A. 1993. “Enargeia and the spectator in Greek Historiography.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 123: 353–77. Walsh, P. G. 1996. “Making a drama out of a crisis: Livy on the bacchanalia.” Greece & Rome 43: 188–203. Walters, K. R. 1993. “Women and power in classical Athens.” In: Women’s power, man’s game: Essays on classical antiquity in honor of Joy J. King, eds. J. K. King and M. DeForest: 194–214. Wauconda, IL. Wankel, H. 1976. Demosthenes: Rede für Ktesiphon über den Kranz. Heidelberg. Wankel, H. 1982. “Die Korruption in der rednerischen Topik und in der Realitat des klassischen Athen.” In: Korruption im Altertum, ed. W. Schuller: 29–47. Munich. Weaver, R. K. and Rockman, B. A. 1993. Do institutions matter? Government capabilities in the United States and abroad. Washington, DC.

Bibliography

401

Webb, R. 1997. “Imagination and the arousal of the emotions in Greco-Roman rhetoric.” In: The passions in Roman thought and literature, eds. S. Braund and C. Gill: 112–27. Cambridge. Webb, R. 2009. Ekphrasis, imagination and persuasion in ancient rhetorical theory and practice. Farnham and Burlington. Wees, H. van. 2004. Greek warfare: Myths and realities. London. Welch, K. E. 1996. “T. Pomponius Atticus: A banker in politics?” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 45: 450–71. West III, W. C. 1973. “The speeches in Thucydides: A description and listing.” In: The speeches in Thucydides, ed. P. A. Stadter: 3–15. Chapel Hill. Westbrook, R. 1999. “Vitae necisque potestas.” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 2: 203–23. Wheeler, E. 1991. “The general as hoplite.” In: Hoplites: The classical Greek battle experience, ed. V. D. Hanson: 122–72. London. Wheeler, E. L. 1988. “Πολλὰ κενὰ τοῦ πολέμου: The history of a Greek proverb.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 29: 153–84. Whitton, C. 2012. “‘Let us tread our path together: Tacitus and the Younger Pliny.” In: A companion to Tacitus, ed. V. E. Pagán: 345–68. Malden, MA. Whitton, C. 2013a. Pliny the Younger, Epistles Book 2. Cambridge. Whitton, C. 2013b. “Trapdoors: The falsity of closure in Pliny’s Epistles.” In: The door ajar: False closure in Greek and Roman literature and art, eds. F. F. Grewing, B. Acosta-Hughes and A. Kirichenko: 43–61. Heidelberg. Whitton, C. 2018. “Quintilian, Pliny, Tacitus.” In: Literary interactions under Nerva, Trajan and Hadrian, eds. A. König and C. L. Whitton: 37–62. Cambridge. Wickkiser, B. L. 2008. Asklepios, medicine, and the politics of healing in fifth-century Greece: Between craft and cult. Baltimore. Willi, A. 2003. The languages of Aristophanes: Aspects of linguistic variation in classical Attic Greek. Oxford and New York. Wilson, J. 1981. “Strategy and Tactics in the Mytilene Campaign.” Historia 30: 144–63. Wilson, J. 1982. “The customary meanings of words were changed – or were they? A note on Thucydides 3.82.4.” Classical Quarterly 32: 18–20. Wilson, P. J. 1996. “Tragic rhetoric: The use of tragedy and the tragic in the fourth century.” In: Tragedy and the tragic: Greek theatre and beyond, ed. M. S. Silk: 310–31. Oxford and New York. Winkler, J. 1990. “Laying down the law: The oversight of men’s sexual behaviour in classical Athens.” In: Before sexuality: The construction of erotic experience in the ancient Greek world, eds. J. Winkler, D. M. Halperin and F. I. Zeitlin: 171–209. Princeton. Winkler, J. 1990. “Phallos politikos: Representing the body politic in Athens.” Differences 2: 29–45.

402

Bibliography

Winterbottom, M. 1974. The Elder Seneca: Declamations, Vol. 2. Controversiae Bks. 7–10, Suasoriae. Translated by M. W. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA. Wirth, H. 2010. Die linke Hand: Wahrnehmung und Bewertung in der griechischen und römischen Antike. HABES: Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien Bd. 4. Stuttgart. Wiseman, T. P. 1998. Roman Drama and Roman History. Liverpool. Wisse, J. 1989. Ēthos and pathos from Aristotle to Cicero. Amsterdam. Wohl, V. 1999. “The eros of Alcibiades.” Classical Antiquity 18: 349–85. Wohl, V. 2002. Love among the ruins: The erotics of democracy in classical Athens. Princeton. Wohl, V. 2010a. Law’s cosmos: Juridical discourse in Athenian forensic oratory. Cambridge. Wohl, V. 2010b. “A tragic case of poisoning: Intention between tragedy and the law.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 140: 33–70. Wolpert, A. 2002. Remembering defeat: Civil war and civic memory in ancient Athens. Baltimore. Woodman, A. J. 2012. “Pliny on writing history: Epistles 5.8.” In: From poetry to history: Selected papers, ed. A. Woodman: 223–42. Oxford. Worman, N. B. 1999. “Odysseus Panourgos: The Liar’s style in tragedy and oratory.” Helios 26: 35–68. Worthington, I. 1982. “A note on Thucydides 3.82. 4.” Liverpool Classical Monthly 7: 124. Worthington, I. 2001. “Lycurgus 1.149 and those two voting urns.” Classical Quarterly 51: 301–4. Yoon, F. 2012. The use of anonymous characters in Greek tragedy: The shaping of heroes. Leiden and Boston. Yunis, H. 1991. “How do people decide? Thucydides on Periclean rhetoric and civic instruction.” American Journal of Philology 112 (2): 179–200. Yunis, H. 1996. Taming democracy: Models of political rhetoric in Athens. Ithaca, NY. Yunis, H. 2001. Demosthenes: On the Crown. Cambridge. Yunis, H. 2005. Demosthenes. Speeches 18 and 19. Translated with introduction and notes by H. Y. Austin. Zanobi, A. 2008. Seneca’s tragedies and the aesthetics of pantomime, Ph.D. diss., University of Durham. Zoido, J. C. I. 2007. “The battle exhortation in ancient rhetoric.” Rhetorica 25: 141–58. Zwierlein, O. 1966. Die Rezitationsdramen Senecas. Meisenheim am Glan.

Index Locorum Aeschines 1.129 300, 303, 314 1.141 305, 306 n28 1.147 310 2.15 306 2.144 300, 303, 314 2.158 300, 302, 314 3.136 302, 310 Anaxandrides PCG Fr. 9

196 n12, 197 n14

Andocides 1.48–53 66–7 1.112 284 n20, 286 1.116 296 n86 1.129 68 Antiphon 1.1–20 58–60 5.15 287 n32, 288 n35 5.72 138 Aristophanes Acharnians 716 221 Wasps 579–80 299 Aristotle Poetics 4 1449a24–8 317 Problems 30.10 956b10–12 306 Rhetoric 1356a1–4 3, 55, 138, 319 1359b34–9 359 1366a 97 n25 1375b26–29 293 n69 1375b26–76a7 301–2 1377b 97 1378a20–23 216 99 nn33, 35 1382a–b 100 n39 1383a 1393a 98 n27 1396a5–12 359

1408b33 317–8 1409b 102 n51 1419b 99 n36 Athenaeus 4.33 Kaibel 13.60

312 200 n24

Cicero De inventione 1.1 23 n59 1.22 116 n39 De oratore 3.213 328 n46 3.216 327 n42 Epistulae ad Atticum 1.16.8 334 3.3 155–7, 157 nn25, 27, 158 3.6 155 n15, 158 3.7.2 155, 159 3.8.2 155 nn17, 20, 160 n35 3.10.2 160–1 3.11.2 161–2 3.15.7 161 n38, 162–163 11.2.2 164 11.4a 165 12.13.2 166, 166n62 Pro Murena 31.66 117 n40 Topica 23.91 107 n14 Demosthenes 2.16 361 4.34 361 8.66–67 366 9.49–50 365 14.29–30 363 18.1 147 18.10 263 18.25 263 18.31–33 361 18.72 261–2 18.117 267–8 18.120 267

404

Index Locorum

Demosthenes (cont.) 18.129 69–70 18.261 264–5 18.267 300, 307–8, 312, 315 300, 303, 315 18.289 18.303–5 255–6, 266 18.324 142, 147–8 21.133 265 19.153 363–4 n29, 364 19.189 308 19.228 5, 138 19.243 300, 303, 305, 315 19.245 300, 302–3, 315 19.249 311 19.259 141 19.262 140–2 19.315 361 n18, 363, 364 n29 25.63 149 54.3–12 65–6 Diodorus Siculus 12.39–40 342–344 Gorgias Encomium of Helen §6 96 §8 96, 98 §11 100 n38 §13 100 nn38, 41 §14 99 §17 97 §20 96 Homer Iliad 5.677–8 43 9.443 36, 37n6, 94 9.312–3 37 9.624–42 37 11.422–6 43 11.458f. 39 23.313–18 49–50 Hypereides Fr. 178 Jensen

201 n26

Isaeus 3.19–20 5.41

296 n85 287 n32, 288 n36

Isocrates 6.32

287 n32, 288 nn34, 37

Livy 1.13.3 227–8 229, 230 1.39.3 1.41.3 230 1.47.3–5 232 1.58.2 234 1.58.7–8 233 1.58.10 233–4 2.40.5–9 235–6 25.40.1–3 113–4 30.12.12–16 239–40 34.1.1 106–7 118, 118 n46 34.1.5 34.3.8–9 110 34.1–7 104–123 34.4.1ff 111 n28 34.4.11 115 n36 34.4.15 115 n37 34.4.19 115–6 34.5.5–11 117–8 34.6.56 118 n49 34.6.9 120 34.6.12–15 119–20 122 34.8.1–3 112 n32 39.6.7 39.10.2–4 241 39.40.10 117 40.4.13–14 243–4 Lycurgus 149 312 Lysias 1.1–16 60–3 13.29–30 67–8 Fr. 165 Carey 198 n19 Ovid Metamorphoses 13.1–383 38–44 13.34–42 38 13.71–81 39 13.124–7 40–1 13.128–381 40–3 13.162–215 41–2 13.216–95 42–4

405

Index Locorum 13.257–60 43 13.296–305 44 13.306–332 44 13.370–380 44 13.382–383 44

97–8 n25 3.8.13 11.1.22 334 Rhetoric to Alexander 297 n87 15.1.1= 1431b20

Plato Apology of Socrates 28c 310 34d 311–2 Gorgias 452e 96 n19 453a 96 n19 455a 96 n19 491a–494e 221–2 Phaedrus 261a 99 n31

Quintus of Smyrna Posthomerica 5.181–236 47–8 5.237–8 48 5.239 48 5.243–52 49 5.253–289 50–1

Polybius 4.2.2–3

Seneca Agamemnon 125–130 20–1 131–144 21–3 145–161 23–6 162–202 26–30 203–225 31–3

295, 295 n80

Pliny Epistulae 1.5 15, 319 n5, 324 n32, 328–9, 330–1, 335 1.20 15, 320–4, 325, 335 2.3 15, 327–8 2.11 15, 319 n5, 325–6, 335 2.19 15, 319 n5, 326–7, 335 3.9 319 n5, 333–4 4.16 329–30 6.33 319 n5, 324, 334–5 7.6 319 n5, 331–3, 335 7.33 319 nn5, 6, 329, 331, 335 9.13 15, 319 n5, 328, 330–1, 335 9.23 319 n5, 330 Plutarch Moralia 539 C–D

334

Quintilian Institutio oratoria 2.15.4 96 n18 2.15.9 201 n27 3.4 107 n14

Rhetorica ad Herennium 1.2.2 107 n14 1.8 116 n39

Tacitus Dialogus 38.2 134 Histories 4.6.1 331 4.42.2–6 331 Thucydides 1.22.2–3 282 n7, 295 n78 1.22.4 103 1.32–43 92 1.68–86 92 1.88 76, 76 n10, 93 1.120–124 92 1.139 78, 91, 94 1.140–144 99, 358 1.141 359, 368 2.8.4 94 n10 2.13 339–44, 346, 348–55, 357–9 2.35–46 91 n1 2.40 214, 217–8, 350

406 Thucydides (cont.) 2.59 92, 345 n33, 359 n13 2.60–64 91 2.62.4–5 214–5 2.72.1 79, 94 n10 3.9–14 75 3.29 77 3.30 9, 73–90 passim, 91 n1, 92 3.37–48 92 3.53–67 92 3.82.4 210–5 4.59–64 92 n4 4.73.4 94–5 n12 4.81 93–4, 97 n25 4.84 93 4.85–87 91–103 4.88 80, 95 n13, 96 4.92 82 n23, 85 n26, 91 n1, 92 n4 94 n8 4.105.2 4.106.1 94 n8 4.108 93 n7, 94 nn8, 10, 95 n12 4.114.3 94 n10

Index Locorum 94 n10 4.121.1 6.9–14 215–6 6.16–18 217–8 6.17 217 6.24.4 222–3 Valerius Maximus 9.1.3

104 n1, 121

Virgil Aeneid 2.31–39 125 2.43–4 129 n6 2.145–9 127–8 2.195–8 127 2.228–34 128–9 2.242–4 129 6.847–53 129–30 11.445 125 12.930–38 132 12.938–52 132–3 Xenophon Memorabilia 1.2.56 308–9

General Index Acting 15, 33, 65, 87, 148, 158, 184, 215, 233, 306, 317, 320, 329, 349 Actions 11, 26, 34, 40, 74, 78, 81, 87, 96, 98, 137, 141, 144, 149, 151, 158, 163, 165, 167, 183–4, 203, 210–2, 219, 224, 226–7, 229, 231, 236–8, 243–6, 254, 256–60, 264, 266, 268–9, 288, 352 Aeschines 69, 71, 140–5, 149–51, 196, 249–52, 257, 259, 261, 264, 266–9, 274, 297, 299, 300, 302–10, 315, 327–8, 364 Agamemnon 8, 19–23, 25–7, 29–30, 32–4, 38, 40, 42–3, 48, 59 Akoē 295–6 Alcibiades 80, 198, 210, 212–3, 217–24, 290, 367–8 Alcidas 9–10, 73, 76–9, 81–2, 85–8, 90 Amicitia 165, 167 Andreia 209–14, 218, 221–3 Anecdote 272, 277, 291, 308, 327–8 Aristotle 3–5, 30, 41, 55–7, 60, 72, 97–8, 100, 102, 137–8, 141, 154, 168, 175, 183–4, 216, 221, 249, 256–7, 283, 286, 292–3, 297, 302, 306, 317–8, 359, 362 Athenaeus 174, 202, 312 Athens 10, 59, 64–5, 73, 75, 80, 87, 89, 91–3, 96–7, 113, 140–1, 144–5, 147, 149–50, 193, 198, 202–3, 205, 209–10, 213–5, 217–23, 256–7, 259–61, 268, 270–1, 282, 288–91, 306–7, 340, 342, 344, 352–8, 360–8 Atticus 11, 153–67, 225 Augustus 108, 134, 177–8, 180, 184, 189 Autoptēs 295

Catullus 179 Centumviral Court 319, 328–30, 334 Cicero 11, 116, 123, 153–67, 173–4, 181–2, 184, 225, 285, 322–3, 334, 365 Clytemnestra 8, 19–26, 28–34, 42, 58–9 Communications management 275 Conversation 34, 43, 63, 124–5 Conversationalized narrative 14, 270–1, 279

Basanos 58, 282 Battle exhortation 275, 343, 345 Body 12, 14, 37–40, 43, 67, 62, 70, 98, 133, 141, 146, 169, 173, 176, 178–80, 182–3, 193, 195–6, 198–201, 204, 210, 213, 233, 242, 257, 262, 327–8 Body language 327–8 Brasidas 10, 80, 83, 91–103

Eikos 276, 283, 349 Emotions 2, 4–9, 11, 14, 21, 34, 44, 55, 67–8, 70, 72, 74, 86, 89–90, 97–9, 101–2, 107, 124–5, 127, 129–30, 132, 137–41, 143–4, 146, 149, 151–5, 167, 169, 171, 176, 182, 186, 204, 207–8, 216, 237, 241, 341, 346, 355 Anger 5, 8, 26, 34, 71, 98, 132–3, 138, 140, 151, 154, 171, 173, 175–180, 183, 185, 186, 189, 216, 227, 235–6, 350 Fear 10–11, 22, 34, 32–3, 39, 45, 47, 75–7, 80, 83, 85, 87–8, 90, 93, 96–100, 102–3, 112, 115, 128, 130–1, 133, 140–2, 145–6, 148,

Calculation 98, 205, 214, 217, 222, 260, 341, 343, 346–7, 349, 350–3, 355, 358, 367–8 Callicles 210, 221

Debate 14, 16, 19–20, 22–3, 25–6, 30, 34–8, 45–6, 49, 73, 89, 92, 101–9, 116, 118, 122, 123, 125, 131, 134, 176, 209–11, 213, 215, 222, 270–1, 284, 294, 320, 324, 350, 353, 356, 358, 360, 367–8 Decline 10, 104–9, 112, 115, 120–1, 123, 134, 196 Delivery 9, 15, 105, 173, 195, 280, 306–8, 318, 327, 356 Demosthenes 5, 13, 16, 65–6, 69–70, 138, 141–51, 205, 249–51, 253, 255–7, 259, 261, 263, 265, 267, 269, 276, 285, 292, 297, 299–300, 302–9, 311–3, 317, 327–8, 334, 350–1, 353, 355–69 Dialogue 10, 24–5, 33, 61, 67, 124, 197, 271–4, 279, 321, 324 Dikē pseudomarturiōn 69, 71 Disgust 80, 171–4, 176, 180, 182–4, 188–9, 228 Domitian 328, 330–1 Doxa 16, 100, 102 Dress 195, 205, 207

408 Emotions (cont.) 150–1, 155, 158, 162–3, 171, 175, 178, 183, 186, 201, 203, 206–7, 217, 219, 222–3, 230, 235, 239–40, 242–4, 271, 276, 331, 341, 343, 347–9, 352 Hatred 48, 116, 132, 139–40, 144, 151 Ekphrasis 5–6, 195, 264, 325 Enargeia 195, 200, 325, 328 Epictetus 189, 286 Ēthos 3–4, 11, 14, 28, 30, 41, 55, 64, 66, 70–2, 97–8, 107, 116–7, 127, 129, 133, 154, 216, 229, 233–4, 246, 257, 278, 316, 318–9 Exile 11, 95, 153–5, 158–64, 167, 235–6, 244 Fabula palliata 181–2 Figures of speech 10 Frankness 156 Gender 7–8, 12, 195–6, 209–11, 219, 222, 224, 226 Genre 1, 3–4, 6–8, 11, 13–4, 51, 152–3, 169, 226, 249–50, 281, 283, 285, 319 Gorgias 96–8, 100–1, 169, 209–10, 221 Hispala Faecenia 13, 241–2 Humour 57, 183–4 Homer/Homeric 35–7, 39–46, 48–51, 82, 94, 124–5, 174, 250, 291–3, 301, 303, 306, 309, 311, 313, 316, 323 Hoplōn krisis 8–9, 35, 51 Iambics 314, 316 Indirect audience 14, 278 Judgment 4–5, 8, 35, 83, 98, 138–9, 210–1, 222, 224, 251, 257, 283–4, 341, 343, 345, 353 Kinaidos 220–2 Language 7, 11–3, 19, 32, 37, 45–6, 59, 137, 139, 142–3, 150, 152, 156, 163, 165, 168–70, 184–5, 187, 195–7, 210–5, 217, 226, 230, 232, 254, 271, 279, 281, 293–5, 328, 347, 349, 351 Body language 37, 327–8 of andreia 212 of sōphrosynē 215

General Index Letters 11, 15, 78, 153–60, 163–7, 319–21, 323–9, 331, 333–5 Lex Oppia 10, 104, 105, 107, 109–11, 113–5, 117–21, 123 Lucretia 13, 233–4, 243, 245–6 Luxuria 10, 104–12, 114, 116, 119–22, 177 Macedon/Macedonian 16, 243, 249, 360 Martureō 284–5, 288–94, 297 Marturía 281, 284–8, 290–4, 296–7 Martúrion 284–90, 293–4, 297 Marturomai 284–5, 290, 297 Martus 282–4, 287, 290–8 Martyrology 293 Martyrdom 294 Masculinity 12–3, 209–13, 215–9, 221–4 Money 16, 118–9, 164–5, 216, 340, 344, 348, 354–5, 357, 363–4, 368 Narrative 7, 9, 11, 13–5, 40, 42, 45, 51, 55–61, 63–7, 69–72, 74, 76–9, 81–5, 88–90, 92–3, 95, 97, 106–10, 116–22, 124, 129–31, 196, 198–9, 205, 210, 213, 218, 222–6, 243–6, 256–7, 262–4, 270–1, 273, 275–7, 279, 284, 289–91, 299, 319, 325, 328, 335, 351, 355, 359 Narrative composition 58, 69, 71–2 Narrative and proof 69, 71 Neikos 3, 45–8 Nero 331 Nicias 13, 73, 78, 80, 83, 210, 212–3, 215–9, 221–4, 290, 353 Numbers 7, 16, 87, 283, 339, 341–55, 358–9 Numerosity 16, 351–2 Oratory 98, 134, 137–8, 140, 147, 177, 181, 195, 226, 237, 264, 272, 276, 282, 287, 300, 302, 318–9, 323, 325, 332, 343, 356 Forensic 55, 57, 59, 61, 63, 65, 67, 69–72, 137, 140, 276, 278 Ovid/Ovidian 8–9, 22, 26, 35–41, 45–51, 104, 178 Pathos 10–1, 14, 25, 60, 66–9, 71–2, 98, 101, 107, 115–6, 129, 133, 144, 154, 216–7, 223, 237, 244, 246, 278 Pericles 13, 16, 91–2, 94, 102, 210, 213–8, 223, 322, 366–8

General Index Personal references 250–2, 258, 269 Persuasion 1–16, 19, 29, 33–9, 41, 43–5, 47, 49–51, 55–6, 58, 60, 72–4, 80–1, 86, 89–91, 96, 98, 100, 101, 104–5, 107–8, 115–6, 120–4, 127, 129–32, 134, 137–8, 151, 153–5, 157, 159–61, 163–5, 167, 195–6, 204–5, 209–10, 213, 216, 226, 246, 250, 257–8, 263–4, 270–1, 273–5, 277, 279–81, 289, 304, 310, 318–9, 321, 331, 341, 356–7, 359 Failed 104–5, 120, 123, 132 Financial 359 Means of 3, 9–10, 14, 41, 55–6, 58, 60, 72, 98, 107, 116, 121, 129, 138, 164–5, 196, 274, 319, 331, 341 Philip II 360 Plato/Platonic 182–3, 209–10, 221–3, 274, 290, 296, 309, 310, 318 Pliny 15, 178–80, 319–32, 334–5 Politeness 82, 85, 90 Precautionary principle 88 Principia proludentia adfectibus 182 Protrepsis 168, 170, 189 Quintilian 5, 6, 12, 168–70, 177, 184–7, 189, 201, 323–4 Quintus of Smyrna 9, 36 Quotations 15, 272, 283–4, 292–4, 299–300, 302–5, 308–10, 312, 314, 316–8, 328 Rage 71, 133, 139, 144 Readers 5, 10, 12, 14–5, 36, 41, 79, 84, 93–4, 102–3, 105, 107–8, 117, 120–1, 168–9, 174, 180, 182, 184, 185, 187–9, 273, 278, 280, 285, 287, 335, 353 Readership 320, 331 Recitation 301–2, 307, 309, 316–8, 326–7 Regulus (M. Aquilius) 321–2, 328–9, 331 Rhetoric/Rhetorical 3, 5–16, 19, 21–2, 24–5, 30, 35–7, 45–7, 50–1, 55–7, 61, 65–7, 69–70, 73–4, 79, 81, 89–91, 96, 98–9, 101–3, 106–7, 119–21, 123–5, 127–31, 133–4, 137–8, 140, 144, 153–4, 159–60, 164, 168–70, 173–4, 181–2, 195–6, 198, 200, 202, 204, 208–13, 215, 217–25, 234, 264, 270–9, 281–3, 285, 296–7, 299, 303–4, 309, 312, 317–23, 331, 333–5

409 Financial Rhetoric 356–9, 361, 363, 365, 367–9 Rhetoric of numbers 7, 16, 339, 341, 343, 345, 347, 349, 351, 353, 355 Rhetorical question 67, 69–70, 119, 160, 234, 277–8, 324–5 Self-praise 15, 333–4 Sēmeion 283 Senate 104, 119, 134, 236–7, 242, 319, 325, 328, 330–2 Seneca 8, 12, 19–23, 25–7, 29–34, 168–71, 173–6, 179, 181–9, 335 Sicilian expedition 93, 213 Sight 16, 89, 133, 156, 163, 177, 235, 243, 270, 341, 343–4, 346, 348, 352, 355 Silence 15, 20–1, 33, 43, 82, 86, 90, 134, 212, 222, 234, 329, 331–3 Sophoniba 13, 239–40, 243–6 Speeches 8–13, 15–6, 20, 25, 35–7, 45–7, 55–7, 60, 63–4, 66, 69, 70, 72–4, 76, 78–83, 89, 91–3, 95–6, 99–100, 102–3, 105–9, 121–4, 130, 133, 137–8, 142, 144–5, 149–52, 172, 193–7, 205–7, 209–10, 213, 215, 225–7, 229, 231, 240, 245–6, 250–64, 266, 269–71, 275–6, 282–4, 289–91, 299, 303, 307, 317–8, 320, 322–6, 331, 334–5, 339, 341–2, 344–8, 350, 352–3, 355–6, 360–1 Deliberative 56, 107, 145, 226, 356 Epideictic 152 Forensic 55, 66, 70, 72, 151, 283, 318 Stasis 209–5, 217, 219, 221, 223 Suasoria 32, 34, 37, 45 Tacitus 15, 134, 319–21, 324–5, 330–1 Tanaquil 13, 228–34, 245–6 Tekmērion 283, 286 Testimonia 283–4, 290–1, 293–4 Teutiaplus 9, 73–4, 76–9, 81–8, 90–2 Theoxena 13, 243–6 Thucydides 9–10, 12–4, 16, 73–9, 81–2, 84–99, 101–3, 209–14, 219, 221–4, 270–1, 275, 281–3, 288, 290, 293, 295, 298, 339, 341–3, 345, 349–53, 355–7, 359–61, 363, 365, 367–9 Tibullus 184

410 Tragedy 19, 30, 36, 46, 67, 141, 225, 299, 302, 306–8, 312–3, 318 Tyranny 16, 88, 145, 220, 223 Verginia 13, 237–8, 246, 291 Veturia 13, 235–7, 245–6

General Index Women 8, 12–3, 19, 22, 25, 32, 59, 63, 68, 92, 104–5, 108, 110–1, 114–9, 122, 129, 193–7, 199, 201–8, 225–9, 231–9, 241–6 Sabine 13, 117, 227, 231 Xenophon 14, 270–80, 290–1, 308, 359, 366