The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory [1° ed.] 0367228203, 9780367228200

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The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory

Focusing on extant speeches from the Athenian Assembly, law, and Council in the fifth to fourth centuries BCE, these essays explore how speakers constructed or deconstructed identities for themselves and their opponents as part of a rhetorical strategy designed to persuade or manipulate the audience. According to the needs of the occasion, speakers could identify the Athenian people either as a unified dēmos or as a collection of sub-groups, and they could exploit either differences or similarities between Athenians and other Greeks and between Greeks and ‘barbarians’. Names and naming strategies were an essential tool in the (de)construction of individuals’ identities, while the Athenians’ civic identity could be constructed in terms of honour(s), ethnicity, socio-economic status, or religion. Within the forensic setting, the physical location and procedural conventions of an Athenian trial could shape the identities of its participants in a unique if transient way. The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory is an insightful look at this understudied aspect of Athenian oratory and will be of interest to anyone working on the speeches themselves, identity in ancient Greece, or ancient oratory and rhetoric more broadly. Jakub Filonik is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Silesia in Katowice, Poland. Brenda Griffith-Williams is Honorary Research Associate in the Department of Greek and Latin at University College London, UK. Janek Kucharski is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Silesia in Katowice, Poland.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Titles include: Fantasy in Greek and Roman Literature Graham Anderson Piracy, Pillage, and Plunder in Antiquity Appropriation and the Ancient World Edited by Richard Evans and Martine de Marre Romans at War Soldiers, Citizens, and Society in the Roman Republic Edited by Jeremy Armstrong and Michael P. Fronda The Discourse of Kingship in Classical Greece Carol Atack Emotional Trauma in Greece and Rome Representations and Reactions Edited by Andromache Karanika and Vassiliki Panoussi The Representation of Slavery in the Greek Novel Resistance and Appropriation William M. Owens Memories of Utopia The Revision of Histories and Landscapes in Late Antiquity Edited by Bronwen Neil and Kosta Simic The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory Edited by Jakub Filonik, Brenda Griffith-Williams and Janek Kucharski For more information on this series, visit: www.routledge.com/classicalstudies/ series/RMCS

The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory

Edited by Jakub Filonik, Brenda Griffith-Williams and Janek Kucharski

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Jakub Filonik, Brenda GriffithWilliams, and Janek Kucharski; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Jakub Filonik, Brenda Griffith-Williams, and Janek Kucharski to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Filonik, Jakub, editor. | Griffith-Williams, Brenda, editor. | Kucharski, Janek, editor. Title: The making of identities in Athenian oratory/edited by Jakub Filonik, Brenda Griffith-Williams and Janek Kucharski. Other titles: Routledge monographs in classical studies. Description: New York City : Routledge, 2020. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019040827 (print) | LCCN 2019040828 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367228200 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429277023 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Oratory, Ancient. | Rhetoric, Ancient. | Greek literature—History and criticism. Classification: LCC PA3264 .M35 2020 (print) | LCC PA3264 (ebook) | DDC 885/.009—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019040827 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019040828 ISBN: 978-0-367-22820-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-27702-3 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

Notes on contributors Abbreviations Introduction

vii ix 1

JA N E K K U C H ARSK I , B RE NDA GRI FFI TH- WI LLI AM S, AN D JA K U B F I L O NI K

PART I

The politics of naming and individuals’ rhetorical identities 1 Civic and local identities in Athenian rhetoric

13 15

RO GE R B RO C K

2 The two Mantitheuses in Demosthenes 39 and [Demosthenes] 40: a case of Athenian identity theft?

32

B R E N DA G R I F FI TH- WI LLI AMS

3 Constructing the identity of Timarchus in Aeschines 1

47

RO SALI A H ATZI LAMB RO U

4 Constructing gender identity: women in Athenian trials

63

KO N S TAN T I N OS K APPARI S

PART II

The rhetorical construction of civic identities 5 Athenian identity and the ideology of autochthony: an institutionalist approach M ATTE O BARBATO

81

83

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Contents

6 Lysias and the rhetoric of citizen honour

102

B E N JA M I N K E I M

7 Archaism, performance, and civic status in Lysias 10 Against Theomnestus

122

A LE X P E T K A S

8 Seeing others as Athenians in Demosthenes’ third Philippic

137

J U D S O N H E RRMAN

PART III

Social and material dimensions of Athenian identities 9 The rich and the poor, conflicts and alliances: socio-economic identities and their uses in the Demosthenic corpus

151

153

L U C I A C E C C HE T

10 Prosecutorial identities and the problem of relevance

171

JA N E K K U C HARSK I

11 Space, place, and identity in Antiphon On the murder of Herodes

191

C H R I STI N E PLASTOW

Index Index locorum

206 210

Notes on contributors

Matteo Barbato is Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at the University of Birmingham. His work currently focuses on the institutional reality and ideology of political power in Athenian democracy as well as on honour in Athenian politics and society. He is the author of a forthcoming monograph entitled The ideology of democratic Athens: institutions, orators and the mythical past. Roger Brock is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the University of Leeds, coeditor of Alternatives to Athens (2000, with Stephen Hodkinson) and Defining citizenship in archaic Greece (2018, with Alain Duplouy), and author of Greek political imagery from Homer to Aristotle (2013) and numerous articles on Greek history and literature. Lucia Cecchet is Lecturer in Ancient History at the Johannes Gutenberg University of Mainz. She is interested in the social and cultural history of the Greek world from the classical to the imperial period, with a focus on poverty and citizenship. Her most recent publications include Poverty in Athenian public discourse (Steiner 2015), Citizens in the Graeco-Roman world (with A. Busetto, Brill 2017), and The Ancient war’s impact on the home front (with Ch. Degelmann, M. Patzelt, Cambridge Scholars 2019). Jakub Filonik (PhD University of Warsaw 2015) is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Silesia in Katowice. He has published on Athenian oratory, Greek tragedy, ancient impiety trials, metaphors in Greek political discourse, and liberty ancient and modern. He was a visiting researcher at University College London, Indiana University Bloomington, Royal Holloway University of London, and the Jagiellonian University in Kraków and a Fulbright fellow at the University of Chicago. Brenda Griffith-Williams is Honorary Research Associate in the Department of Greek and Latin at University College London. She has published A commentary on selected speeches of Isaios (Leiden, 2013) and several articles on Athenian law and rhetoric. She is co-editor, with Chris Carey and Ifigeneia Giannadaki, of Use and abuse of law in the Athenian courts (Leiden, 2018).

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Notes on contributors

Rosalia Hatzilambrou is Assistant Professor in the Department of Classics at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. She is the author of Isaeus’ On the estate of Pyrrhus (2018). Her PhD thesis on a selection of unpublished Greek papyri was published in separate volumes of The Oxyrhynchus Papyri. Her research interests include Attic oratory, Greek rhetoric, and Greek papyrology, and she has published a number of articles in each of these areas. Judson Herrman is Frank T. McClure Professor of Greek and Latin at Allegheny College. He is the author of three books: Athenian funeral orations (Focus, 2004), Hyperides: Funeral oration (Oxford, 2009), and Demosthenes: selected public speeches (Cambridge, 2019). Konstantinos Kapparis is University of Florida Research Foundation Professor and Director of the Center for Greek Studies. His research interests include the Attic orators, ancient Greek social and cultural history, and ancient medical literature. Recent and forthcoming publications include Athenian law and society (London 2018), Prostitution in the ancient Greek world (Berlin 2018), and Women in the law courts of classical Athens (forthcoming). Benjamin Keim is Associate Professor of Classics at Pomona College. His research interests include ancient and modern concepts of honour, ancient democracy, the Attic orators, and Greek historiography. He has published a number of articles on these topics and is currently working on a monograph project: City of honor: the politics of honor in democratic Athens. Janek Kucharski is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Silesia in Katowice. His main research interests include Greek rhetoric, law, and tragedy, while occasionally he also ventures into more exotic domains such as Greek magic or Byzantine reception of antiquity. He has published a Polish translation of Hypereides, completed another one of Antiphon and Dinarchus, and is currently working on a similar project related to selected works of Demosthenes. Alex Petkas is Assistant Professor of Classics at California State University, Fresno. His research focuses on Greek rhetoric of all periods, with an emphasis on the classicizing authors of late antiquity. He is working on a book on the letter collection of the philosopher Synesius of Cyrene and has co-edited a volume on Synesius’ teacher, Hypatia of Alexandria. Christine Plastow is Lecturer in Classical Studies at the Open University. She has published on various aspects of Athenian forensic rhetoric, as well as classical reception and Classics pedagogy. She is currently completing her book Homicide in the Attic orators (Routledge).

Abbreviations

General ed. edn eds esp. fr. MS trans.

edited by/editor edition editors especially fragment Manuscript translated by

Ancient authors and works Aeschin. Andoc. Antiph. Ar.

Arist.

Athen. Ath. Pol. Cic. Dem. Din.

Aeschines Andocides Antiphon Aristophanes Ach. Acharnians Eq. Knights Plut. Plutus Ran. Frogs Thesm. Thesmophoriazusae Vesp. Wasps Aristotle Pol. Politics Rh. Rhetoric [Rh. Al.] Rhetorica ad Alexandrum Athenaeus [Arist.] Athēnaiōn politeia Cicero Nat. D. De natura deorum Demosthenes Dinarchus

x

Abbreviations

Dion. Hal. Eur.

Gorg. Harp. Hdt. Hom. Hsch. Hyp.

Isae. Isoc. Lex.Seg. Luc. Lycurg. Lys. Paus. Pl.

Plaut. Plin. Plut.

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Dem. De Demosthene Lys. De Lysia Euripides El. Electra Heracl. Heraclidae’ Or. Orestes Supp. Suppliants Gorgias Harpocration Herodotus Homer Il. Iliad Od. Odyssey Hesychius Hypereides Ath. Against Athenogenes Dem. Against Demosthenes Epit. Funeral oration Dion. Against Diondas Eux. In defence of Euxenippus Lyc. In defence of Lycophron Tim. Against Timandrus Isaeus Isocrates Lexica segueriana Lucian Dial.meret. Dialogi meretricii Lycurgus Lysias Pausanias Plato Ap. Apology Crat. Cratylus Criti. Critias Lg. Laws Menex. Menexenus Resp. Republic Symp. Symposium Plautus Bacch. Bacchides Pliny NH Naturalis historia Plutarch Dem. Demosthenes Lyc. Lycurgus

Abbreviations

[Plut.] Quint. Schol. Soph. Theophr. Thuc. Xen.

[Xen.]

xi

Mor. Moralia Sol. Solon X Orat. Vitae decem oratorum Quintilian Scholia or Scholio Sophocles Ant. Antigone Theophrastus Char. Characters Thucydides Xenophon Hell. Hellenica Mem. Memorabilia Oec. Oeconomicus Ath. Pol. Respublica Atheniensium

Journals Abbreviations of journal titles follow the usage of L’Année Philologique, with the exception that TAPA = Transactions of the American Philological Society.

Modern works BNJ FGrH IG LSJ PCG

I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s new Jacoby F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker Inscriptiones Graecae Liddell, Scott, Jones, Greek-English lexicon R. Kassel and C. Austin (eds.), Poetae Comici Graeci

Introduction Janek Kucharski, Brenda Griffith-Williams, and Jakub Filonik

Identities and rhetoric Is it possible at all to speak about ancient Greek identities? The question itself may sound perverse, given how much scholarly effort has been devoted to this subject in the last four decades or so. Greek identities have been studied from numerous vantage points, such as ethnicity (Hall 1997, 1999); cultural change (Goldhill 2007); archaeology (Marcon 1997; Lomas 2004; Demetriou 2012); literary strategies (Smith 2007; Whitmarsh 2011); regional (Whitmarsh 2010) and cultural history (Lee 2015); and, most importantly, given the scope of the present volume, in the collection of papers by Boegehold and Scafuro (1994), which deals with the legal and social aspects of Athenian citizenship in the classical period. But at its core the initial question taps into a non-negligible problem: classical Greek, before Aristotle, has no word to denote identity as such. And in the literature which postdates him, the term tautotēs is nonetheless limited chiefly to philosophical and scientific discourse. Does this mean that for the Athenians of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE the question of identity or identities did not exist? This would be a valid inference based on the so-called Sapir-Whorf hypothesis (also known as the theory of linguistic relativity),1 which holds that language is not just a passive reflection of objectively existing categories, but in fact creates them by providing its users with a notional grid which organizes the otherwise shapeless continuum of reality. Take the celebrated example of Inuit vocabulary for snow, which (purportedly) shows how different their worldview is from that, say, of English-speaking people: to the latter ‘snow on the ground’ is a purely incidental manifestation of the same phenomenon as ‘falling snow’; to the former, however, the two (aput and qana respectively) count as distinct linguistic categories, and therefore two distinct things. An Englishman, therefore, will never be able to appreciate ‘snow on the ground’ in the way that his Inuit friend would. By this token, one might assume that the question of identity not only was never a topic of reflection for the ancient Athenians of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, but perhaps not even ‘a thing’ at all. It is, of course, easy to disprove such a naïve theorem. Not only do the aforementioned studies (a rather small, and avowedly biased, selection) provide ample

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practical proof to the contrary. On the level of theory, the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis in its strong, yet melodramatically appealing version (as it tapped into the everattractive stereotype of the ‘noble savage’)2 was disproved3 and relegated to the domain of pop-culture mythology.4 The ancient Greeks of the classical period were well aware of the sense of belonging and discrimination, on which the idea of identity is founded, and that on multiple levels. They clearly distinguished themselves, Greeks, that is users of a certain language (despite its dialectical variations), from non-Greek people. They had a very well-pronounced sense of affiliation to their polis (or ethnos) and, within it, to a socio-economic class. Granted, in many cases on the micro-level we find these categories deconstructed, their boundaries fuzzy, their principles subverted. We shall find many examples of this in the chapters of this volume. But deconstruction always presupposes a structure, and the structure which will provide the analytical framework for this volume is social identity theory. Social identity theory began with the seminal works of Henri Tajfel published in the 1970s.5 His first discovery may not seem so very contentious to us: humans are hard-wired towards in-group bias (that is to favouring people who belong to the same group as they do), at the expense of the out-group. His other finding was, however, much more perplexing: the categorization into groups, which led to the said favouritism, could be completely arbitrary, without any grounding in the personal attributes of individuals making up those groups (as in a random assignment of subjects into cohorts, based on lot). Social identification therefore is less a matter of mutual attraction and cohesion and more one of discrimination.6 To refer to Tajfel again, ‘the definition of a group (national, racial or any other) makes no sense unless there are other groups around’.7 And, as aptly observed by Stuart Hall in a more recent study, ‘Identities can function as points of identification and attachment only because of their capacity to exclude, to leave out, to render “outside”, “abjected”’.8 The fundamental, basic step of such identification by exclusion is providing someone with the essentials of personal identity, such as name and family name. Although personal identity was frequently seen as a phenomenon sharply distinct from its social aspect,9 this differentiation has been rightly disproved in more recent studies.10 The reason for this is intuitively obvious: the details of one’s personal identity serve no other purpose but to distinguish one from others. Without social interaction, there is no need for personal identity. As noted by Martin Ehala, ‘there is no Self without socialization, and socialization means becoming authentic in terms of external social verification’.11 A particularly apt illustration of how personal identity is at the same time a social matter comes from no better historical place than ancient Athens. There, one’s formally recognized personal identity consisted of a proper name, a patronymic and a demotic (an issue frequently raised in the following chapters, as in Brock, Griffith-Williams, Hatzilambrou, and Keim). Such identification, however, not only served to distinguish one person from another, but also fixed him or her in a certain social group: Athenian (male) citizens, as opposed to metics (who had no demotic), slaves (identified by the name of their owner),

Introduction

3

and women (identified by the name of their guardian). Giving a name was therefore tantamount to defining one’s role and place in a society. Recognizing that identity is primarily a social phenomenon presupposes, to quote Richard Jenkins, ‘that it is somewhat negotiable and flexible’.12 A particularly useful way of thinking about social identity in these terms is by way of a spatial metaphor, as suggested by Pierre Bourdieu – as a distinct place within a social space: Agents who occupy similar or neighbouring positions [within the social space] are placed in similar conditions and subjected to similar conditionings, and therefore have every chance of having similar dispositions and interests.13 To move this observation from ‘the stratosphere of grand theory to the more oxygenated altitudes’ (Jenkins’ bon mot), one could bring up a slightly modified example provided by Bourdieu himself: those who usually drink champagne have a much higher chance of having antique furniture, playing golf at country clubs, and riding horses for recreation than those who drink beer.14 Most importantly, however, social space is a space of constant shifting and renegotiation of places, that is, identities. This may be done either by playing the game, that is moving up or down the social ladder, or breaking it through revolution (which need not necessarily take the form of a violent upheaval) and the reassignment or dissolution of pre-existing categories. In any case, as stressed by Bourdieu, the primary means of negotiating such change is through discourse; to ‘make groups’ requires symbolic power, and symbolic power ‘is the power to make things with words’.15 The ancient Greeks – the Athenians in particular – were acutely aware of this power. Probably the most explicit and haunting instance of this awareness is Thucydides’ description of the Corcyrean revolution (stasis), where the chaos of appalling violence brings about a redefinition of categories and values (3.82.4); prudence came to be regarded as cowardice, and recklessness as bravery, and so on.16 But, as already noted, the power to alter the social space is by no means limited to such paroxysms of brutality. In fact, in ancient Athens as today, it was subject to a constant process of negotiation and renegotiation in the numerous venues for public discourse, such as the theatre, the Assembly, other religious festivals with public performances, and – most importantly for the purposes of this volume – the law-courts. This power, to manipulate the social space of the ancient polis, to forge or twist the social identities which constitute it, is a recurrent theme in the following chapters, in particular in the contributions of Kapparis, Cecchet, Barbato, and Petkas. It would be wrong, however, to assume that social identities can only be negotiated by means of discourse. In fact, the language of identity is a polysemiotic system, which comprises not only verbal communication but an entire plethora of other types of signification, most notably (in terms of Peirce’s philosophy) indexes and symbols.17 An index is a type of sign which remains in

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a relation of spatial, temporal, or causal contiguity with its object: smoke, for instance, is an index of fire. Symbolic communication, by contrast, is based on a purely arbitrary association between the sign and its denotatum; granted, its most obvious example is language itself, but hardly the only one. Take for instance the aforementioned example: drinking champagne is on the one hand an index, used by an individual (or in his or her representation) to communicate membership of the champagne-drinking upper class. However, the association of drinking champagne with that particular social group (or social place, in Bourdieu’s terms) is nonetheless an arbitrary one and therefore belongs to the domain of symbolic signification. Many historical communities had an established, formal code of communicating identities by way of such indexical and symbolic signification. In ancient Sparta for instance, the helots were expected to wear a dogskin cap (kunē) and a leather jerkin (diphthera) as marks of their status.18 In democratic Athens, however, no such official requirements were enacted (much to the displeasure of the Old Oligarch),19 although a clear system of less formalized signs of identity, such as tattoos on the one hand and long hair on the other, were frequently seen in action. Many of those will be found in the chapters of this volume, most clearly (though not exclusively) in the contributions of Hatzilambrou, Petkas, and Keim. This volume, nonetheless, is concerned primarily with identity as a very specific rhetorical construct: how speakers in the Athenian law-courts and political institutions discursively constructed or deconstructed their own and others’ identities, individually or collectively, as part of a rhetorical strategy designed to persuade their audiences that they had a stronger legal case or a more advantageous policy proposal than their opponents. In this particular respect a brilliant simile proposed by Ehala provides a revealing vantage point: One can compare the game of chess with a debate over some issue where two sides try to convince a jury (or each other) whose position is right. Something similar goes on in chess, too, where players use the language of chess to convince the opponent that they are superior.20 In chess, every piece has a double identity: with respect to the ‘team’ (black or white) and with respect to their distinct functions (pawns, bishops, rooks, knights, queens, etc.). But the board and pieces are nothing more than dispensable props: what matters is the ‘dialogue’ of chess itself, a form of discourse founded on a distinct, identity-based sign-system, which happens to materialize in the form of the game’s physical attributes. It has been frequently stated that chess is indeed a model of human society; not exclusively a mediaeval society (to which it is compared most frequently), but any society, with different actors, identities, teams, and hierarchy. Unlike the pieces, however, human beings are endowed with numerous overlapping identities, not just two. And as in a game of chess, these can be played out one way or another in the context of a public judicial (or any other, for that

Introduction

5

matter) hearing. In the age of the orators, the Athenians identified themselves, individually and collectively, from a range of antithetical perspectives, such as citizen/slave, Athenian/foreigner, male/female, legitimate/illegitimate, public speaker/private citizen, and so on. A skilful deployment and manipulation of these identities could spell victory or defeat in a court-room – and success or failure in the Assembly. This forensic or deliberative background of such manipulation is present in all the contributions to this volume, but put to the fore in the chapters by Herrman, Plastow, and Kucharski. Most of the chapters of this book are based on papers presented by members of a panel on ‘The rhetoric of identity in Greek oratory’ which we organized for the tenth Celtic Conference in Classics (Montreal, July 2017). In defining our topic, both for the conference panel and for the published volume, we were aware of the need to distinguish identity from other rhetorical constructs such as character (ēthos) or role. Character, in particular, was recognized as a means of persuasion (pistis) by Aristotle and other ancient rhetoricians and has long been a focus of interest for modern scholars interested in the rhetorical features of Athenian oratory. To be sure, a character is a social phenomenon as well, a discursive representation of a given person, of an agent in a historical or fictitious narrative. As such, however, it is not tantamount to a particular (social) identity, but rather to an amalgam of identities. And bearing in mind that a character is not a person, but only a representation of a person, we should stress that it will never appear as a perfectly rounded phenomenon: certain identities, which it includes, will necessarily be given prominence over others, according to the exigencies of the narrative in which the character comes to life. As observed by John C. Turner, some identities will become more salient than others, just as they regularly become in historical periods of crisis (e.g., civil or tribal wars).21 Accordingly, for the ancient Athenian orators and logographers, creating persuasive characters was – to use the chess example mentioned above – a complex game of identities, some of which were nonnegotiable, such as gender or political status, while many others were malleable and therefore subject to a considerable degree of manipulation.

The scope of this volume Part I of the volume, ‘The politics of naming and individuals’ rhetorical identities’, focuses on the rhetorical construction (or deconstruction) of personal identities for individual Athenians. Deme membership was fundamental to the identity of an Athenian citizen, and an adult male was formally identified by his given name, patronymic, and demotic; but, as Roger Brock points out in Chapter 1 (‘Civic and local identities in Athenian rhetoric’), the demotic occurs surprisingly rarely in forensic speeches. Its use, as Brock argues, is not random, but deliberate and calculated: when it goes beyond the basic function of distinguishing between homonyms, the demotic tends to identify an individual as a legal personality such as an arbitrator, a surety, or a witness. It is also commonly used of someone involved in commercial or financial dealings, or

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for the assertion of a legal status such as marriage, and sometimes as a mark of respect. Moving on to the wider implications of deme membership, Brock suggests that the most salient characteristic of the ‘rhetorical deme’ is solidarity – as evidenced, especially, in the willingness of demesmen to testify on one another’s behalf – and concludes that ‘one might say that the prerequisite for being a good citizen was to be a good demesman’. In Chapter 2, ‘The two Mantitheuses in Demosthenes 39 and [Demosthenes] 40: a case of Athenian identity theft?’ Brenda Griffith-Williams analyzes the notorious dispute between two half-brothers who both claimed the same identity for themselves: Mantitheus, the son of Mantias of Thoricus. Mantitheus, the speaker of the two extant speeches, insists that he alone is entitled to the name Mantitheus, while his opponent was named Boeotus by their father. The speaker, as Griffith-Williams argues, seems to feel that his own identity is threatened by the ‘rival’ Mantitheus, but there may also have been a political dimension to their hostility. When Mantias was ‘forced’ (as Mantitheus claims) to acknowledge Boeotus as his legitimate son, Boeotus acquired a public identity as both a member of his father’s oikos and an Athenian citizen. Mantitheus seeks to deconstruct that identity by identifying Boeotus as an outsider who inveigled his way into the family by fraud. The speeches thus illustrate the close connection between personal and political identity in democratic Athens. Rosalia Hatzilambrou’s chapter (Chapter 3, ‘Constructing the identity of Timarchus in Aeschines 1’) reveals how the prosecutor, Aeschines, on the one hand deconstructs aspects of Timarchus’ public identity as a respectable citizen and public speaker (name, oikos/family, gender, ideology, status, and friends) while on the other hand constructing for him a rhetorical identity as an addict to shameful desires. Aeschines gradually reveals that the nickname pornos (‘prostitute’) had been attached to Timarchus for years, thus depriving Timarchus of an important aspect of his civic identity: Timarchus, son of Arizelus of Sphettus, becomes Timarchus the Prostitute. Throughout the speech, Aeschines emerges as a representative of the democratic values of ‘moderation’ (metriotēs) and ‘self-control’ (sōphrosunē), thus constructing a shared cultural identity between himself (the prosecutor) and the judges while alienating them from Timarchus and his associates. The quarrel between the two sons of Mantias of Thoricus features again in Chapter 4, by Konstantinos Kapparis, ‘Constructing gender identity: women in Athenian trials’. Here the focus is on Boeotus’ mother, Plangon: Mantitheus’ hostile portrayal of her, according to Kapparis, shows ‘how to call a woman a whore without saying the word’. Seeking to convince the judges that Plangon was a hetaira, not a wife, and so could not have brought a dowry into Mantias’ household, Mantitheus subtly constructs her identity as a dangerous seductress – a Circe or a Siren, who has led Mantias to insidious mistakes. Kapparis uses two more case studies to develop his theme of female identity as it was constructed by male speakers in the Athenian courts. In the case of Phryne, who was prosecuted for impiety around the middle of the fourth century, he argues that the identity on trial was that of the legendary hetaira rather than

Introduction

7

the real woman or any illegal actions she took. Similarly, when Aristagora was accused of violating immigration laws by not having a prostatēs (sponsor), it was her constructed identity as a hetaira, lewd and dangerously seductive – not the vulnerable woman she really was – that went on trial. Kapparis concludes that the construction of identities for these women was not merely a matter of assembling gender stereotypes but an imaginative array of topics creating images which (even if they bear little resemblance to the real person) appear to be truthful, real, and persuasive. Part II, ‘The rhetorical construction of civic identities’, contains four studies of speeches constructing the collective identities of the Athenians and other civic or ethnic groups. An essential and distinctive feature of the Athenians’ collective identity was the myth of autochthony: the belief that they, uniquely among all the Greeks, were born from the very soil of their land, Attica. In Chapter 5, ‘Athenian identity and the ideology of autochthony: an institutionalist approach’, Matteo Barbato notes the varying scholarly responses to the inherent contradictions in this notion. Addressing the issue from the perspective of discursive institutionalism, Barbato explores how the Athenians managed to construct a coherent ideology of autochthony and shows how the discursive parameters of three Athenian institutions (the state funeral, the dramatic festivals, and the law-courts) influenced the conceptualization of autochthony in, respectively, the extant funeral speeches, Euripides’ Ion, and Apollodoros’ speech Against Neaera. In Chapter 6, ‘Lysias and the rhetoric of citizen honour’, Benjamin Keim argues that just as citizenship was an honour, so holding office was an honour, and thus it was in the interests of the Athenians to scrutinize their colleagues before giving them additional recognition and (representative) authority. After an introductory survey of the Athenian conception of ‘honour(s)’ (timē/timai) and ‘scrutinies’ (dokimasiai), the chapter explores how the claims and negotiations of honour shape the creation of forensic identities in the four surviving political dokimasia speeches by Lysias. The speaker of Lysias 31 Against Philon, as Keim argues, simultaneously constructs a collective identity for the current Council as an honour group and creates a group from which Philon should rightly be excluded. Taken together, Lysias 25 On a charge of overthrowing the democracy and 26 Against Evandrus present complementary sets of contrasting arguments about the worthiness for office of two Athenian citizens who remained in the city during the regime of the Thirty. While the speaker of Lysias 25 constructs an identity for himself as a ‘good remainer’, worthy of being honoured by the dēmos, the speaker of Lysias 26 wants to identify Evandrus as one of the ‘bad remainers’ who sympathized or collaborated with the Thirty. The defendant in Lysias 16 For Mantitheus has been chosen to serve on the Council, but was undermined by accusations of collaboration with the Thirty. Unable to deny his philotimia, he works to establish his identity as a good philotimos rather than a bad one. Alex Petkas’ contribution (Chapter 7, ‘Archaism, performance, and civic status in Lysias 10 Against Theomestus’) takes issue with the perception of modern

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scholars that expert legal knowledge was invariably frowned upon in classical Athens. In a prosecution for kakēgoria (defamation), the speaker claims that Theomnestus slandered him by accusing him of killing his own father. Theomnestus evidently denied this on the basis that he did not actually use any of the ‘forbidden words’ specified in the law, so the point at issue is how the archaically worded law should be interpreted. Both the specific circumstances of the case and the legal framework, as Petkas argues, turn on the question of who belongs fully to the citizen community and how people can be effectively forced out of that community. The speaker portrays Theomnestus as someone who has not bothered to learn the basics of Athenian law and legal culture, implying that working familiarity with the legal institutions is a mark of good citizenship – and one which the jurors as well as the speaker have acquired. Drawing on Aristotle’s stylistic theory, Petkas examines the relation in the speech between linguistic archaism and civic identity and considers the dynamics of how the speech was performed. He concludes that a literal performance of the laws constituted a metaphorical performance of civic identity. The centrepiece of Judson Herrman’s contribution (Chapter 8, ‘Seeing others as Athenians in Demosthenes’ Third Philippic’) is a close reading of Demosthenes 9.53–69, a historical account of recent events in Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus. Demosthenes’ third Philippic, of which this passage forms part, is one of the two Assembly speeches he delivered in early 341 – the culmination of a decade in which the Athenians had come to view Philip as an increasingly imminent threat. Demosthenes, as Herrman argues, adopts a rhetorical technique conflating the identities of the peoples of the three cities with that of the Athenians; concentrating in his accounts on interactions between corrupt leaders and a gullible dēmos, he reinforces this focus by adopting specific Athenian terminology to describe the internal affairs of other Greek cities. By describing the fall of Olynthus and the stasis on Euboea in Athenian terms, and identifying the dēmos of those states with the Athenians, Demosthenes subtly underscores his argument that the same thing could happen in Athens. Part III, ‘Social and material dimensions of Athenian identities’, brings together chapters dealing, first, with the rhetorical manipulation of socioeconomic identities, second with the various identities assumed by (or attributed to) prosecutors in the Athenian courts, and third with space and place as factors shaping the identities of the participants in a homicide trial. In Chapter 9 (‘The rich and the poor, conflicts and alliances: socio-economic identities and their uses in the Demosthenic corpus’), Lucia Cecchet discusses the exploitation of common assumptions about ‘the rich’ and ‘the poor’ in the rhetorical construction of group and individual socio-economic identities, based on a number of speeches in which Demosthenes and Apollodorus re-define the conventional binary opposition to manipulate the sympathies of the judges. In Against Meidias (Dem. 21), Demosthenes is anxious to identify himself with the judges, but he faces the problem that they belong to ‘the poor’ while he, like his opponent, belongs to ‘the rich’. So he identifies Meidias as a ‘bad rich man’, aligning himself (as a ‘virtuous rich man’) with the judges as representatives of

Introduction

9

the ‘virtuous poor’ whose values he claims to share. Apollodorus, as the son of a former slave who was granted Athenian citizenship by decree, faces a different problem. Seeking to construct his own identity as a rich citizen, he knows that, for native Athenians, ‘good wealth’ means inherited wealth derived from land, so by stressing how generously he has used his wealth for the benefit of the polis, he hopes to make the judges overlook the origin of that wealth in banking. The starting point of Chapter 10 (‘Prosecutorial identities and the problem of relevance’), by Janek Kucharski, is the idealized prosecutorial identity assumed by Lycurgus in his Against Leocrates. Lycurgus’ model of the prosecutor as a public-spirited individual, motivated solely by the interest of the polis, resembles the modern idea of the criminal prosecutor as a disinterested public servant, but differs sharply from the identities assumed by ‘volunteer prosecutors’ (or attributed to them by their opponents) in the majority of extant speeches from Athenian public lawsuits. Kucharski first identifies three positive identities constructed by prosecutors for themselves: the ‘concerned citizen’, the ‘quiet enemy’, and the ‘benefactor’, then three negative ones deployed by defendants: the ‘sykophant’, the ‘criminal double’, and ‘the degenerate and the buffoon’. Turning to the vexed question of how (if at all) these identities were relevant to the issues on trial, Kucharski concludes that the rhetorical persona of the prosecutor in fact served a different purpose: to establish (or undermine) the credibility and integrity of the prosecutors in a system that left them vulnerable to attack. Christine Plastow’s chapter (Chapter 11, ‘Space, place, and identity in Antiphon On the murder of Herodes’) shows how the speech composed by Antiphon for the defendant (Euxitheus) in a homicide trial deploys concepts of space and place, in the narrative about the sea voyage on which Herodes went missing, which are designed to distance him from his perceived identity as a murderer. But the physical space of delivery (the court-room) can also be used to shape the identities of those present at the trial, and Antiphon adopts the rather risky strategy of playing with Euxitheus’ potential identity as a polluted killer in order to cast doubt on the appropriateness of the dicastic court (rather than a dedicated homicide court) as the venue for the trial. Euxitheus, moreover, also needs to defend his father, whose identity as a loyal Athenian citizen has evidently been questioned by the prosecution because of his periods of residence away from the city.

Notes 1 For which see Whorf (1956) 134–159 (based on the earlier work of E. Sapir and F. Boas). The theory made its way to Classics quite early: it is already found in Snell (1953), esp. 1–22. 2 As evident from Whorf ’s famous remark: ‘English compared to Hopi is like a bludgeon compared to a rapier’ (1956) 85. 3 In particular by Berlin and Kay (1969), who demonstrate that colour terminology has universal, culturally independent constraints.

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4 The weaker version (that language influences, but does not determine, the way its users perceive the world) fared much better and has now been taken up by cognitive linguists; cf. Lakoff (1987) 304–337. 5 e.g., Tajfel (1972), (1974), (1978), (1982). 6 Tajfel (1972) 276, 279, Hall (1996) 4, Gilroy (1997) 301; cf. Turner (1982) 15–17 (social cohesion vs social identification). 7 Tajfel (1974) 71–72. 8 Hall (1996) 5. 9 See, e.g., Goffman (1968) 105–139, Turner (1982) 18; also presupposed in the works of Tajfel; cf. Jenkins (2014) 116. 10 Jenkins (2014) 17–28, 39–50, Ehala (2017) 110–112. 11 Ehala (2017) 111. 12 Jenkins (2014) 20. 13 Bourdieu (1989) 18. 14 Bourdieu (1989) 19–20. 15 Bourdieu (1989) 23. 16 For a re-evaluation of the traditional understanding of this passage, as ‘words changing their meaning’, see Wilson (1982); cf. also Isoc. 7.20; for an outline of Peirce’s semiotics see Peirce (1932) 134–185. 17 Barth (1969) 14, Bourdieu (1989) 20, cf. Ehala (2017) 56–57. 18 Myron FGrH/BNJ 106 F2; cf. David (1989) 8–9, Ducat (1990) 111–113. 19 [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.10; cf. Marr and Rhodes (2008) 76–77. 20 Ehala (2017) 67. 21 Turner (1982) 19–20, 26; cf. Ehala (2017) 19–20.

Bibliography Barth, F. (1969) Ethnic groups and boundaries: the social organization of cultural difference (Boston) Berlin, B. and Kay, P. (1969) Basic color terms: their universality and evolution (Berkeley) Boegehold, A.L. and Scafuro, A.C. (eds.) (1994) Athenian identity and civic ideology (Baltimore, MD and London) Bourdieu, P. (1989) ‘Social space and symbolic power’, Sociological Theory 7, 14–25 David, E. (1989) ‘Dress in Spartan society’, AncW 19, 3–13 Demetriou, D. (2012) Negotiating identity (Cambridge) Ducat, J. (1990) Les Hilotes (Athens) Ehala, M. (2017) Signs of identity: the anatomy of belonging (London) Gilroy, P. (1997) ‘Diaspora and the detours of identity’, in K. Woodward (ed.) Identity and difference (London) 299–343 Goffman, E. (1968) Stigma: notes on the management of spoiled identity (Englewood Cliffs, NJ) Goldhill, S. (2007) Being Greek under Rome (Cambridge) Hall, J.M. (1997) Ethnic identity in Greek antiquity (Cambridge) Hall, J.M. (1999) Hellenicity (Chicago) Hall, S. (1996) ‘Introduction: who needs identity?’, in S. Hall and P. du Gay (eds.) Questions of cultural identity (London) 1–17 Jenkins, R. (2014) Social identity, 4th edn (London) Lakoff, G. (1987) Women, fire, and dangerous things: what categories reveal about the mind (Chicago) Lee, M.M. (2015) Body dress and identity (Cambridge) Lomas, K. (2004) Greek identity in the western Mediterranean (Leiden) Marconi, C. (1997) Temple decoration (Cambridge) Marr, J.L. and Rhodes, P.J. (2008) The ‘Old Oligarch’: the constitution of the Athenians attributed to Xenophon, with introduction, translation and commentary (Oxford)

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Peirce, C.S. (1932) Collected papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (Cambridge, MA) Smith, S.D. (2007) Greek identity in Chariton (Groningen) Snell, B. (1953) The discovery of the mind, translated by T.G. Rosenmeyer (Oxford) Tajfel, H. (1972) ‘La catégorisation sociale’, in S. Moscovici (ed.) Introduction à la psychologie sociale, vol. 1 (Paris) 272–302 Tajfel, H. (1974) ‘Social identity and intergroup behaviour’, Social Science Information 13, 65–93 Tajfel, H. (1978) Differentiation between social groups: studies in the social psychology of intergroup relations (London) Tajfel, H. (ed.) (1982) Social identity and intergroup relations (Cambridge) Turner, J.C. (1982) ‘Towards a cognitive redefinition of the social group’, in Tajfel (1982) 15–40 Whitmarsh, T. (2010) Local knowledge and microidentities (Cambridge) Whitmarsh, T. (2011) Narrative and identity (Cambridge) Whorf, B.L. (1956) Language, thought, and reality: selected writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf, edited with an introduction by J.B. Carroll (Cambridge, MA) Wilson, J. (1982) ‘“The customary meanings of words were changed” – or were they? A note on Thucydides 3.82.4’, CQ 32, 18–20

Part I

The politics of naming and individuals’ rhetorical identities

1

Civic and local identities in Athenian rhetoric Roger Brock

Membership of a deme was an essential part of the identity of an Athenian citizen: formally speaking, his identity consisted of name, patronymic, and demotic,1 and his status was officially validated through registration in his father’s deme by vote of the demesmen, under oath, that he was of age, free, and born according to the laws,2 as we learn from Ath. Pol. 42.1,3 and thereafter by the maintenance of the deme registers, which constituted the only comprehensive record of citizens which democratic Athens possessed. Deme membership was thus essential for citizen identity:4 in this chapter I want to look at how the local identity in the deme – and occasionally and insofar as limited evidence permits, other civic subdivisions – functioned in Athenian rhetoric. In practice this very largely means forensic rhetoric: the political sphere is reflected in passages in which office-holders are identified by demotic, as is quite commonly also the case in inscribed decrees,5 and a fragment of Hypereides Against Demades (fr. 76) contains a parody decree in which Demades as proposer is identified by patronymic and demotic,6 but demegoric speeches themselves make little reference to civic subdivisions, although that is less surprising if one considers that they are directed to the citizen body as a whole.7 To begin with formalities, the civic identity and status of citizens were reflected in the legal procedure, and so the name and demotic of the litigants featured in the plaint (enklēma or graphē) which formed the basis for litigation: thus, for example, ‘Euctemon of Lousia indicted Demosthenes of Paeania for desertion of his post’ (Dem. 21.103, cf. 45.46 and, for the form, 13.5). Likewise, the testimony read out in court identified the witnesses in the same way, for example, ‘Satyrus of Alopece, Saurias of Lamptrae and Diogeiton of Acharnae depose that they effected a settlement between Stephanus and Phrynion when acting as arbitrators in the matter of Neaira, the defendant in this case; and that the terms on which they effected the settlement were such as Apollodorus produces’ ([Dem.] 59.47).8 That procedure is echoed in the citation of the deposition of Conon’s witnesses at Dem. 54.31, perhaps to underline their notoriety,9 and occasionally elsewhere we seem to hear the formal documentation evoked when orators make reference to other cases, as, for example, when Hypereides discusses the relative appropriateness of prosecutions in his defence of Euxenippus and identifies many of the parties in question by

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demotic, including Alexander of Oeon, who previously prosecuted his opponent Polyeuctus (Hyp. Eux. 12, 28–29, 34–35). Aeschines does the same thing when discussing celebrated impeachments (3.194–195), as well as maliciously naming the cousin, Demomeles of Paeania, whom Demosthenes prosecuted (2.93, 3.51), and Isaeus names Xenocles of Coprus, kurios of the claimant Phile, who was convicted of perjury (3.2).10 However, such echoes of official language are rare, although perhaps we should not expect more given the amateur ethos of the Athenian courts. What is surprising is how relatively infrequently citizens are identified by demotic in the speeches themselves; I count fewer than 200 passages, and though some of those do refer to multiple individuals that is still a rate of only a handful per speech on average. That would suggest that whereas in formal procedural terms there are no distinctions made in the naming of citizens, once speakers start speaking, the use of demotics is deliberate and calculated. That is not to say that it is always manipulative, and the commonest purpose for which demotics are used is, unsurprisingly, to distinguish between homonyms: since Athens was far from being a face-to-face society in reality,11 jurors would never have been familiar with everyone mentioned in the course of a trial and could reasonably expect some assistance. So, for example, the two politically prominent individuals named Thrasybulus both feature in Aeschines Against Ctesiphon and are duly tagged as ‘of Collytus’ (3.138, cf. Dem. 24.134) and ‘of Steiria’ (3.195), although the latter was enough of a celebrity for Lysias’ client Mantitheus to allude to him in his lifetime or shortly thereafter as ‘the pretentious man from Steiria’ (16.15); contrariwise, Andocides needs to label ‘Alcibiades of Phegus’ to distinguish him from the more famous homonym lurking behind On the Mysteries (1.65).12 There were, however, other ways of doing the same job: as well as patronymics, the other obvious option, we find references to trades, as, for example, ‘Meno the miller’ in Dinarchus 1.23 or ‘Cleainetus the chorus-trainer’ and ‘Timesitheus the runner’ in Aeschines Against Timarchus (1.98, 156). The demotic was therefore neither essential for identifying individuals nor the only possible means of doing so: indeed, it is intriguing that while patronymic and occupation are quite prominent in Eleanor Dickey’s study of forms of address, there is only one such usage of the demotic, and that in a Platonic context which defies easy explanation.13 In fact, I would suggest that in the majority of cases where demotics are used, there are more specific and pointed reasons. One such reason, I think, is the evocation of the individual in question as a legal personality: so, for example, those who act as arbitrators are often assigned a demotic, for example, Nikomachus of Bate, whom Isocrates names in Against Callimachus (18.10), or the panel of three specified in Against Apaturius ([Dem.] 33.14).14 That speech also names sureties by demotic ([Dem.] 33.15, 22), as does Isaeus in an instance where the other surety had been one of the speaker’s opponents (Isae. 5.18), perhaps to underline the official status of an adjudgment which in the event was not adhered to, and Isaeus and Demosthenes sometimes handle those with whom documents were deposited in

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the same way (Isae. 9.5, [Dem.] 43.7, 48.11). Witnesses are also sometimes so identified, although less often than one might have expected, and usually with a further agenda: thus at Isaeus 3.22–23 the demotics distinguish the first pair of witnesses, both public figures, whom Xenocles took along for a commercial transaction, from the chance figures used for an allegedly important deposition; again, Ariston provides a demotic for his friend Phanostratus of Cephisia, who is his only witness to Conon’s assault, but not for Pamphilus the fuller or any of Conon’s other companions at the time.15 Here the demotic seems intended to imply a difference in respectability and so credibility;16 when Aeschines calls on Amyntor of Erchia to attest to a conversation with Demosthenes, on the other hand, it looks like a gesture of respect to a man he fears might not be prepared to give evidence on his behalf (2.67–80). Another common use of demotics concerns financial or commercial dealings. Here too one can surmise that the underlying agenda is to imply both the reality and the regularity of the contract, loan, sale, mortgage, or whatever:17 when Lycurgus provides demotics for (almost) all those involved in the liquidation of Leocrates’ assets, it is not only to cover for the unavailability of one of them, Amyntas, since deceased, but also to underline that this was no temporary or improvised measure but a considered withdrawal from Athens (1.22–24). Again, Demosthenes contrasts the settlement of an estate properly leased by Theogenes of Probalinthus with the chicanery of his own guardian Aphobus (27.58), while in the case of Athenogenes the detailed specification of those involved is perhaps intended by Hypereides to imply a contrast between the formality of the contract and the chicanery which it was intended to conceal (5 [Ath.].8–9).18 As with the other uses of demotics I have so far discussed, practice is never fully consistent: when Aeschines discusses the dissipation of Timarchus’ estate, he provides some demotics, but also records that his house in the city was sold to Nausicrates the comic poet, who sold it to Cleainetus the chorus-trainer (1.98–100). That speech also supplies a unique case concerning a related issue, the vindication of an individual’s freedom: Aeschines names as Glaucon of Cholargus the man who intervened on behalf of Pittalacus (1.62–65) when Hegesandrus claimed that he was his own slave.19 Here we have a mixture of contract and ownership (or its absence) and status, and that brings me to another important role for demotics, namely the assertion of legal status.20 One context in which demotics are commonly specified is marriage. In Lysias’ speech On the property of Aristophanes, for example, the speaker provides this information for the husbands of his sisters and the father of his own wife, as well as a patronymic for the father of his mother, in a passage (19.15–16) which is clearly intended to reflect exemplary behaviour. On the other hand, when Demosthenes specifies that Aphobus married the daughter of Philonides of Melite (27.56, 29.48), the emphasis on a regular marriage to someone else underlines his failure to marry Demosthenes’ mother, despite having appropriated her dowry. Not surprisingly, this is a common motif in Isaeus (2.9; 5.5, 26; 7.18; 8.8; 10.4), where it can interact with the niceties of naming women highlighted by Schaps (1977):

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thus in speech 6 the mother of Philoctemon and wife of Euctemon is properly identified indirectly as the daughter of Meixiades of Cephisia, whereas the purported mother of the rival claimants to Philoctemon’s estate is first allegedly said to have been a Lemnian and then named, according to the claim of the opponents, as Callippe daughter of Pistoxenos.21 Pseudo-Demosthenes plays a similar game in the second speech against Boeotus, giving a full account of the marital history of the speaker’s mother, ‘the daughter of Polyaratus of Cholargus’, while bluntly naming ‘Plangon, the mother of these men’ ([Dem.] 40.6–8; cf. Dem. 39.9).22 Demotics are also in play in references to adoption, as again in Isaeus 6.3, where Philoctemon of Cephisia is named as the adopter of the claimant Chairestratus; in similar vein, pseudo-Demosthenes makes extensive play with the two demes, Prospalta, the deme of Macartatus’ mother into which he was adopted (43.77–78), and Oeon, identified as Hagnias’ deme at the beginning of the narrative.23 The final exploitation of demotics to be addressed here can be seen as cognate, since it also concerns the handling of naming as a mark of respect. This has been implicit in some of the cases already mentioned, for example in the presentation of witnesses, but also occurs in contexts where there is no such obvious and immediate agenda, and in this form the tactic would seem to be a particular characteristic of Aeschines. We encounter it early in the narrative of the career of Timarchus, when he states that ‘there is a certain Misgolas, men of Athens, of the deme of Collytus’ (1.41); there is no need for disambiguation here, since as Fisher (2001) says in his note, only two Athenians of that name are known, and the fact that Aeschines goes on to style him kalos k’agathos (‘fine and good’, i.e. a gentleman) strengthens the implication that the form of naming is intended to express respect. That may be partly because he intends to challenge Misgolas to give evidence, like Phaedrus son of Callias of Sphettus, so named at 43, whom he does seem to have persuaded to testify (50); since Aeschines prepares quite elaborately for a refusal, however – and so Fisher infers that that is what happened – it cannot have been his only objective. Rather it seems to be part of a pattern whereby he uses naming as a token of esteem to separate Timarchus and his close associates from more reputable figures in the case, such as his uncle Arignotus, whom he had – on Aeschines’ account – treated appallingly (104). Another clear example of this comes with his survey of celebrated boy-lovers of the past: a number of those deemed respectable are identified in 156–157 by demotic, or else by patronymic or profession, whereas in the rogues’ gallery of 158 we have only nicknames.24 Aeschines does this elsewhere in his allusions to Hegesippus, brother of Timarchus’ lover, Hegesandrus. Both of these were prominent politicians at the time, but Hegesippus was the more important of the two, and so likely to carry weight with the jury in defence of Timarchus: Aeschines therefore seeks to undermine him by never mentioning him by name and instead referring to him throughout as ‘Crobylus’, i.e. top-knot.25 Other orators deploy the same tactic: Isaeus combines a clarifying demotic with a disrespectful nickname in his mention of ‘Diocles of Phlya, surnamed Orestes’ (8.3),26 while Lysias’ reference to ‘Theocritus, the

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one called Elaphostictus (“deer tattoo”)’ marks an associate of Agoratus as of foreign and/or servile origin (Lys. 13.19).27 This of course is a speech where status is very much at issue: hence it has what is a more or less unique mention of the opponent’s demotic, Anagyrasios (13.73),28 but of course the mention is only made by Lysias because the identification is self-fashioned and spurious; that, too, is why Aristophanes of Cholleidai, who went surety for Aphobus, is so denoted, to mark him out, despite slurs on his citizen status, as a proper and decent Athenian citizen and quite unlike the defendant, whose victim he became (13.58–61). To return to Aeschines, we can see the same techniques at work in the later speeches: even a controversial figure like Philocrates is given his demotic (2.13, 3.54) as an opponent of Demosthenes, as are victims of his like Nicodemus of Aphidna (2.148) and the cousin mentioned earlier (above, 16), and it is also a feature of the roll-call of earlier pro-Thebans in 3.138–139. Above all, though, it is a feature of his treatment of the respective parentages of the two litigants in both speeches, twisting the citation of demotics with reference to marriage to give a particular edge to the forensic and comic topos of the illegitimacy of politicians, but employing demotics with reference to his own family to imply an antithesis he therefore does not need to spell out (2.78, 3.171–172). In fact, though, the speech in which this technique is most prominent is Apollodorus Against Neaera, where it is implemented with what one might consider characteristic heavy-handedness: this speech alone accounts for around a tenth of all passages in which demotics are used. This is another speech in which citizen status is the central issue, and so Apollodorus pretty systematically summons his witnesses by name and demotic29 and similarly labels arbitrators and the parties to marriages, as well as incidental characters; almost everyone is identified by demotic and, occasionally, patronymic, although in a couple of instances their genos is used as a substitute, while non-Athenians are identified by ethnic or, in the case of Lysias, activity:30 the sole exception31 is Stephanus, who is thus subliminally isolated from the citizen community while his alleged manipulation of legitimate status in deme and phratry is being described. The demotic as label is thus a flexible and powerful rhetorical tool; what about the wider implications of deme membership? I would suggest that the most salient characteristic of the rhetorical deme is solidarity: speakers reflect a consistent expectation that demesmen will support and look out for one another.32 The most obvious and best attested expression of this is in acting as witnesses, which I will come to in a moment, but it is evidently not regarded as surprising or particularly controversial that Diopeithes of Sounion, the appointed arbitrator in the case of Pittalacus, should have kept deferring judgment as a favour to his demesman Hegesandrus (Aeschin. 1.63). As Apollodorus’ mention of ‘the sailors enrolled by the deme’ ([Dem.] 50.7) reminds us, deme members would serve together on campaign, where solidarity would certainly be essential: Polystratus’ son appeals to his dēmotai as suneidotes (‘sharing knowledge’) of his steadfast service (Lys. 20.23), and Menecles’ adopted son speaks of having served in his adopted tribe and deme on all the campaigns of

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the period in question (Isae. 2.42), while Mantitheus cites material support of his demesmen as part of his portrait of a dutiful soldier (Lys. 16.14). By contrast, the failure of Philon either to bear arms himself in the fight against the Thirty or to equip any of his demesmen, as many others unable to serve had done, is clearly a black mark, and attested by Diotimus of Acharnae and others ‘appointed to arm the demesmen’ (Lys. 31.15).33 The case of Agoratus at the same time was similar: no one would share his tent or table, and the taxiarch did not station him in the tribal formation (Lys. 13.79).34 There are similar although sparser indications of solidarity at the tribal level: we have already noted the tribal element in warfare,35 and the speaker in Lysias 21 suggests that shared tribal membership would be a factor in a commander’s choice of ship (21.6). Demosthenes argues that one of his witnesses might have been expected to support Aphobus, being a member of his tribe (29.23), and one of Lysias’ clients implies that tribal affiliations might influence the judging of choral contests (Lys. 4.3–4);36 indeed, there is evidence that tribes might supply advocates to support litigants (Andoc. 1.150; Dem. 23.206; Hyp. Eux. 12); perhaps the small size of many demes made it impractical to operate such a scheme at that level. Besides the motif of support for military activity, Polycrates’ son remarks on his father’s failure to contribute to the fine imposed on his fellow demesman Phrynichus (Lys. 20.12), and we see a broader expectation of contribution to both tribe and deme that mirrors the civic ideal which is reflected in the routine enumeration by litigants of their liturgies and eisphorai: at the tribal level this typically entails acting as a chorēgos or gymnasiarch,37 while at deme level we find specific mention of support for the Thesmophoria (Isae. 3.80).38 The flip side of this is the potential of tribes and demes as a source of honour: they might elect members to office, as Polystratus is said to have been chosen by his tribesmen hōs chrēstos ōn . . . peri tous dēmotas (‘as being a good man in regard to the demesmen’: Lys. 20.2), which incidentally points to interaction between the different subdivisions, and not only among men: Isaeus defends the status of his client’s mother, which had been attacked by his opponents, by citing her joint election to preside at the Thesmophoria as a mark of acceptance and esteem that she would never have received had the wives of the demesmen had reservations about her (8.19–20); elsewhere, he mentions the deme both as a source of, and as an audience for, the praise of individuals (Isae. 2.18, 36). Finally, there were the crowns, the proclamation of which Aeschines discusses in the legal preliminaries of his case against Ctestiphon (3.41, 44). There were material benefits to deme membership, too, particularly participation in sacrifice, the meat from which would be shared among deme members, so that non-participation is an argument against being a member of a given deme (Isae. 9.33). The deme also controlled the distribution of the theoric fund, which Leostratus tried to muscle in on at Otryne ([Dem.] 44.37); a little earlier in that speech the speaker refers to his attempt to metechein tōn koinōn (share in the common things) ([Dem.] 44.35), and sharing in hiera kai hosia (religious and civic acts: Isae. 9.13, Dem. 39.35) is something that binds together the deme community as it does the polis as a whole.39

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The sense of community solidarity is most conspicuous in the provision of witnesses for fellow demesmen, which seems to be much less common at the tribal level.40 We have seen that the military shortcomings of Philon are supported by deme testimony, and the reverse is implicit for Polystratus, but deme evidence is most prominent in the corpus of Isaeus. Here demesmen witness to the legitimacy of adoption (2.14–17, 44; 7.27–28), the absence of a marriage and the obligations it would have triggered (3.80), the legitimacy of children (6.10), and a wife’s holding deme office (8.20 – implied), while the absence of deme witnesses can be appealed to as implying that a will is forged (9.8–9), and demesmen can attest to the ineligibility of a purported son to share their sacrifices (9.33). Similarly, pseudo-Demosthenes appeals to a deme’s knowledge of its membership to prove that an opponent has returned from his adoptive to his native deme and tribe (44.44), and Lysias invokes the knowledge of the Deceleans as well as that of the Plataean community to refute the claims of Pancleon to civic status (Lys. 23.3–8). It should be noted that what demes attest to is therefore the characteristic military and cultic activity of their communities, together with the membership in good standing of their members (or not in the case of impostors) which they have originally validated. That they are appealed to as a source of knowledge is clear from the account which the speaker gives of his researches in Against Pancleon: ‘I went to the barber’s near the Herms, which is frequented by the members of Decelea, and asked those of the Deceleans I met there whether they knew any deme member from Decelea called Pancleon. None of them claimed to know him’ (23.3, trans. Todd 2000). It is also worthy of note that he seeks out Euthycritus, the oldest Plataean, as likely to be best informed (Lys. 23.5), and this is a motif which recurs elsewhere: Aeschines claims that the questionable circumstances of Demosthenes’ registration are known to ‘the older demesmen of Paeania’ (2.150), and Isaeus in the fragmentary Against Epicrates (fr. 10a Thalheim) says, ‘I will produce . . . a written deposition from Myronides, who was the eldest of the demesmen’. In the same way, Euxitheus claims that the older Halimousians know about the machinations surrounding the loss of the previous deme register (Dem. 57.60), and the implication of mentioning their absence when he was struck off is that their knowledge would have prevented it (57.10). More generally, Aeschines claims in support of his appeal to common knowledge of Timarchus’ misdeeds that if a deme states that it has struck off a member in the recent diapsēphismos simply on the basis of their personal knowledge, jurors hearing the appeal will reject it out of hand (1.77–78); the passage is obviously highly tendentious, but the underlying belief in the deme as a community of record on which it relies must have been widely accepted.41 We should in passing register what demes as such do not bear witness to, namely particular events, for which litigants more typically appeal to the knowledge of neighbours: the well-known passage in the speech On the olive stump alludes to ‘neighbours who not only know what is open for all to see, but even get information of what we try to keep hidden’.42 Just as that speech deals with the specifics of farming, the speaker in Lysias 17 appeals to the

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neighbours for their knowledge of a property dispute (17.8), and the neighbours of the speaker of Demosthenes 55 testify to the local hydrology (55.21), but neighbours knew about other things too: in Isaeus 3 they testify to a disorderly house (3.13) and in pseudo-Demosthenes 47 to the invasion of the speaker’s property by Euergus and Theophemus (47.60), while it is again to neighbours and local residents that Lycurgus appeals for the details of Leocrates’ flight (1.19). Of course, neighbours will often have been demesmen too, but there is, I suggest, a good reason for the distinction: neighbours are by definition on hand to witness events, and so have a distinct spatial identity that is missing from all but the smallest deme, a point nicely brought out by the use of the word proschōroi (‘those nearby’) for the witnesses to the uprooting of olive trees at [Dem.] 43.70.43 By contrast, a deme’s members must have been to a greater or lesser degree spread out across its territory, at least outside the city, whether we incline to a belief in more dispersed or more nucleated settlement, not to mention the perennial problem of the proportion of members who had migrated to live elsewhere, which generates as a corollary the likelihood that some neighbours are not demesmen.44 It is the spatially dispersed character of the deme which obliges Pancleon’s prosecutor to visit ‘the barber’s near the Hermae which is frequented by the Deceleans’ (Lys. 23.3) if he wants to tap into deme knowledge: only social or political gatherings provide it with any specific locus – and in this case that locus is of course not in the deme itself. It is intriguing that in the one instance where deme members are canvassed as possible witnesses to a specific incident, in this case a violent affray resulting in a fatality, the speaker says that ‘many of the Araphenians who were also farming at the time could perhaps bear witness for me’ (Isae. 9.18), but evidently they do not: if the demesmen and fellow farmers are imagined as amounting to the same thing45 – and the small size of Araphen, with a bouleutic quota of two, makes that conceivable – it is possible that in the absence of witnesses of any kind the speaker is attempting to promote the more transitory testimony of specific neighbours to the status of deme knowledge,46 but at all events this passage would seem to be a one-off.47 There is also an important conceptual distinction to be made between neighbours and demesmen as regards relationships. Neighbours belong to a realistic world in which it is hardly feasible to be on friendly terms with everyone:48 the speaker in Lysias 7 presents it as commonplace that he is friendly with some of his neighbours and at odds with others, so that there were bound to be hostile witnesses to any misdemeanour available to Nicomachus (7.18–19), and Demosthenes speeches 53 and 55 contain narratives of deteriorating neighbourly relations, the speaker in the latter claiming in his peroration that he is being driven out of the deme by their harassment (55.35). The deme, on the other hand, is to a considerable extent idealized as uniform, sharing knowledge and bound together by solidarity: that is surely implicit in the testimony of demesmen qua deme members as well as the practical expressions of support mentioned above. When it is claimed that Polystratus as katalogeus (registrar) enrolled 9,000 individuals in the Five Thousand ‘to avoid quarrelling with any

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of the deme members’ (Lys. 20.13), that must reflect normative expectations; demesmen may make appeals for clemency (Lys. 27.12), shared deme membership is canvassed along with kinship or friendship as a possible motivation for acquitting Andocides (Lys. 6.53),49 and the intervention of Hagnodorus of Amphitrope to save his fellow demesman Menestratus under the Thirty (Lys. 13.55) is a marked example of such support. By contrast, willingness to testify against a demesman can be adduced as proof of the veracity of the evidence, for who would bear false witness against a dēmotēs ([Dem.] 52.28)? A final element of idealization of the deme is that just as they are regarded as internally harmonious and homogeneous, so demes seem for rhetorical purposes to be treated as all essentially similar: although particular demes are mentioned in particular contexts, there is, as far as I can see, none of the kind of individual characterization or evocation of associations which Whitehead discusses with regard to comedy,50 and apart from Euxitheus’ appeal to ‘those of you [jurors] who are from the large demes’ (Dem. 57.57) there is not even any acknowledgement of the wide disparities in population and location which are bound to have made demes far from uniform in reality.51 I would therefore argue that the deme in Attic oratory is to a significant extent an ideological construct; however, this brings with it some inevitable problems in the real world. Deme solidarity can be twisted to suggest guilt by association: that tactic is reflected in the response of Polystratus’ defence to the prosecution’s attempts to tie him to his demesman Phrynichus, which includes trying to dilute it by extrapolation to the level of the polis.52 A more acute difficulty appears when the deme itself becomes the locus of dispute. At one level there is an obvious discomfort in dealing with division in what is supposed to be a harmonious community, as we can see from the proem of Isaeus’ lost speech Against the Demesmen, Concerning an Estate (fr. 4 Thalheim), which is worth quoting in full: My desire, judges, would have been never to suffer injustice at the hands of any one of my fellow citizens; or, if that were impossible, to find adversaries to quarrel with whom would cause me little concern. As it is, the most grievous thing possible has happened to me: I am the victim of injustice at the hands of my fellow demesmen, whose robbery I cannot easily pass over in silence, yet with whom it is unpleasant to be at enmity, since I am obliged to share their sacrifices and attend their common gatherings. It is difficult to defend oneself at law against a large body of adversaries, for their mere number contributes in no small degree to give their statements an appearance of truth. Nevertheless, since I have confidence in the facts, though many difficulties beset me, I think I ought not to shrink from trying to obtain justice at your hands. I beg you, therefore, to excuse me, if at my early age I have ventured to address a court of law; it is those who are wronging me who constrain me to act thus in a manner alien to my natural character. I will try to put my story before you from the beginning in the briefest possible words. (trans. Forster)

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There is a striking similarity, as Whitehead rightly notes,53 with the rhetorical commonplaces about the undesirability of having to go to law with family, but it is also worth noting the specific mention of communal activities and of the number of opponents, suggesting an unequal contest between the speaker and the otherwise united deme. The problem becomes even more acute when the dispute is not merely about money, but concerns the citizen status itself of an individual, of which as we have seen the deme was the arbiter. We have details of two such disputes arising from the diapsēphisis of 346/345 in Demosthenes 57 and Isaeus 12: both are appeals against the deme judgment, a process in which we know that the odds were weighted in the deme’s favour, since if the appellant succeeded the deme would have to enrol him, but if he lost he would be sold into slavery (Ath. Pol. 42.1). Robin Osborne drew attention to Euxitheus’ emphasis in Dem. 57 on family-based arguments and the testimony of kin and suggested that his links with the deme of Halimous may have been weak and that perhaps he was not even resident there;54 that may well be right, but it is striking that in the case of Euphiletus in Isae. 12 the pattern is the same: the evidence in the portion of the speech which we have relies entirely on relatives and the phratry, and while there is no indication of the kind of political feud underlying Demosthenes 57, the deme has refused to reinstate him despite two prior verdicts in his favour. There seems to be an implication that in such cases the deme would close ranks and that it might be very difficult to find witnesses other than the closest of kin who were willing to risk opposing the community consensus, given the choice between going against one’s whole deme or one now ex-demesman. It may therefore be that phratries functioned in part as a safety-net which could be invoked in cases such as this; in particular, the marriage feasts which newly-wed members gave for their phrateres furnished some kind of formal acknowledgement, which could later be witnessed to if needed, of the status of women, who were not in a strict sense members of the deme.55 The other conspicuous difficulty was to come up with plausible explanations for the failure of the system. It would hardly have been possible to call it into question as a whole, although Euxitheus observes that the existence of a right to appeal implies that it is imperfect (Dem. 57.6, 60): we have already noted Aeschines’ appeal to the soundness of deme knowledge, and even Euxitheus himself is obliged to concede at the outset that ‘many men have justly been expelled from all the demes’ (Dem. 57.2) and that spurious registrations had caused anger (57.49);56 but equally, it would have been completely illogical to seek readmission to a community by arguing that it was fundamentally dysfunctional. Hence the blame had to be diverted to individuals; if the problem was simply internal this might be either the demarch, whose authority made him a natural suspect, as in the case of Euboulides or the unnamed demarch of pseudo-Demosthenes 44, in both cases with associates who are stated or implied to be a small minority ([Dem.] 44.37, 39; contrast ‘all the demesmen’ at 57.61–62), or perhaps individual enemies (their position is not

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clear in Isae. 12). Alternatively, it was possible to put the blame on the deceit of outsiders like Timarchus (Aeschin. 1.114) or Boeotus, who allegedly had the effrontery to register himself (Dem. 39.5);57 in fact, the case of Leostratus is presented in pseudo-Demosthenes 44 as a combination of the brass neck of the individual and collusion by insiders ([Dem.] 44.35–40; cf. 57.59), although the former is emphasized and the plaintiff is at pains to emphasize that the deme did the right thing in the end, since of course he himself has a stake in it as a member.58 These purportedly exceptional instances of the malfunctioning of associations at Athens also gesture towards the ideal from which they are a departure. What – in the view of Athenian litigants – makes a good demesman, and is he distinct, or different, from the good citizen? One feature which has emerged from the preceding discussion is the affinities between the deme and the oikos: not only is there an expectation of the same kind of homonoia, but the knowledge that demes qua demes have of their members and bear witness to is very much tied up with the oikos. Most of the material covered so far has been concerned with aspects of legitimacy such as marriage, birth, and legal recognition, but the other end of the life cycle is also important: there is a recurrent emphasis on proper attention to the dead in the performance of ta nomizomena, the ‘customary rites’, and again this is linked to the demes, most markedly when it is missing: in Against Macartatus the speaker relates how the female relatives of his opponent had no place at the burial of Hagnias because they belonged to a different deme; similarly, Isaeus has a client appeal to a lack of local knowledge of such matters, challenging his opponent to produce ‘the demesmen and the phrateres, if they have ever heard or have any knowledge that Euctemon performed any services [ti . . . lēitourgesanta] on behalf of her [his purported wife], and furthermore where she is buried, and in what kind of tomb and who has ever seen Euctemon performing the customary rites’.59 At first sight, one might perceive a disjunction between the oikos-centred behaviour expected of the demesman and the exemplary citizen who enumerates his service to the city in liturgies, eisphorai, and campaigns served,60 but the same verb, leitourgein, can be applied to either (cf. Isae. 3.80), and in any case, there were also deme liturgies, as we have seen; we have also observed that military service was very much a matter of tribes and demes, and if there was little or no overlap between participants in politics at the level of the polis and of the deme,61 the two spheres were strongly linked through the questions asked of candidates for office at their dokimasia, where a citizen’s ancestry and legitimacy and his local cults and family tombs were of key importance:62 looking at things in that light, one might say that the prerequisite for being a good citizen was to be a good demesman. In this regard, then, civic and deme identities meshed tidily on the ideological level, but in rhetorical contexts the picture that has emerged is a little more complex: the function of deme identity and the demotic as a basic and universal constituent of civic identity is reflected in echoes of procedure, but demotics appear surprisingly sparsely in the speeches themselves, and then as

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a device deployed to particular ends; likewise, if orators typically work with a normative model of demes as uniform, homogenous, and harmonious, it is hardly surprising that in court-room settings we frequently catch glimpses of the messiness, tensions, and friction of everyday life in real demes.63

Notes 1 Hence the arguments in Dem. 39.7–18 about the administrative chaos which would result if two individuals were to have the same name, patronymic, and demotic (N.B. 39.9 for the lack of any further discriminator): the speaker’s focus is on civic affairs such as liturgies, office-holding, litigation, and legal liability, to which a citizen’s formal identity was germane, though there is some rhetorical exaggeration (see Carey and Reid (1985) ad loc.), and in day-to-day reality alternatives such as identification by trade were available, as we shall see. Ath. Pol. 21.4 asserts that Cleisthenes’ intention was that the demotic should replace the patronymic, but if so this was evidently a failure: see Rhodes (1981) ad loc., Whitehead (1986) 69–72 and n.4 below. 2 i.e. of citizen descent on both sides, in accordance with Pericles’ citizenship law of 451/0 (Ath. Pol. 26.4); the passage does not make clear whether those parents had to be legally married and there is scholarly disagreement on the matter: Rhodes (1981) 496–497, 499–500. 3 See Kierstead (2017) for a recent discussion which defends the strict accuracy of Ath. Pol.’s account of the respective roles of deme, courts, and Boulē. 4 Meyer (1993) has highlighted the huge increase in Athenian epitaphs which give a demotic (and in the vast majority of cases a patronymic: 111 and n.31) from the end of the fifth century, when Pericles’ law was re-enacted (Dem. 57.30), and argued that this was directly connected to the ideology of citizenship. 5 Trierarch: [Dem]. 50.41, 52, 53 (cf. Lys. 21.9, with a mention of a general at 21.8); sundikoi: Dem. 20.146; symmory: [Dem.] 47.22; Pylagorai and hieromnēmōn: Aeschin. 3.115; bouleutēs: Dem. 22.40; ambassador: Dem. 24.13, 116; compare the naming of ‘Meidias of Anagyrous’ for any available appointment (Dem. 21.200). In decrees, those so identified tend to be particularly the grammateus and epistatēs (suggesting a concern with correct procedure and record), magistrates with financial responsibilities, and generals: Kahrstedt (1934) 202–211; there are some illuminating similarities with forensic use of demotics which will be further explored below. 6 As was the norm from c.350, perhaps as a result of legislation: Kahrstedt (1934) 208– 209, cf. Aeschin. 2.83, 3.187, [Dem.] 7.42. 7 Compare the retort of Alcibiades (Thuc. 6.18.6) to what he represents as Nicias’ ‘attempt to set the young against the old’ at 6.13.1. 8 The authenticity of the documents in this speech has been much discussed (Carey (1992) 20; for the wider principles note also the sceptical treatment of Canevaro (2013)), but even if they are forgeries, one would expect such witness statements to follow conventional practice: N.B. Carey (1992) on 59.23 and 25. 9 See Carey and Reid (1985) ad loc.; it perhaps also prepares for the prosopopoeia putting scurrilous words in the mouths of those witnesses at 35. 10 Further mentions of litigants by demotic at Hyp. Dem. 26, Aeschin. 2.148, Dem. 24.134, 138; [Dem.] 47.28, 58.6; cf. the use of the same style for state debtors: Dem. 22.60, and note the use of the demotic in [Dem.] 25.7 for Ariston of Alopece, who registered Aristogeiton as a debtor; one might compare the full naming in the Attic Stelae of the Hermocopids whose property has been confiscated (Osborne and Rhodes (2017) no. 172). 11 Osborne (1985) 64–65, 89, (2011a) 217–218. 12 ‘Pretentious’ is Todd’s translation for semnos ((2000) 183). Disambiguation seems to have been the only regular reason for assigning a demotic to the eponymous archon, when

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18

19

20

21

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23 24 25

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two men of the same name held office in close succession: Kahrstedt (1934) 201, Henry (1977) 9, 71. Dickey (1996) 52–56 (patronymics); she discusses the unique demotic at Pl. Symp. 172a in the wider context of address by ethnic (174–177); for addresses by occupation or activity, see 177–184, esp. 183–184 for single individuals identified by profession. Further examples at Aeschin. 1.63, Dem. 21.83, [Dem.] 40.16, 47.5, 59.45; compare the naming with demotic of the arbitrators in the decree of the Salaminioi (Rhodes and Osborne (2003) no. 37.6–8). Dem. 54.7. Besides the labelling of Pamphilus by profession, two are given patronymics, so are presumably meant to be recognized by some members of the jury, but Diotimos tis is more straightforwardly dismissive. Cf. Aeschin. 2.155, Dem. 27.14, 54.10; [Dem.] 50.17, 47, 58.33, 37, 59.25, 32, 40, 47–48, 54, 84. There are again similarities with documentary sources: financial officials are particularly likely to be identified by demotic (Kahrstedt (1934) 202–205), but there is a tendency for the other parties named in accounts and similar documents to be given their demotic too: the prescripts of the Athenian Tribute Lists are a notable instance, but see also, e.g., Osborne and Rhodes (2017) no. 148 (payments for the Corcyra expedition of 433); 180 (payments from the treasury of Athena in 410/09); Rhodes and Osborne (2003) no. 28 (payments of the Athenian Amphictyons of Delos); 36 (sales of public property). The distinction between the existence of the contract and its fairness is the main point of this speech: see Hyp. Ath. 13–20 and cf. Whitehead (2000) 296–297 and 269–271 for the underlying rhetorical strategy. For other instances cf. Isae. 2.29, Dem. 37.4; [Dem.] 40.52, 42.28, 49.14, 31, 50.17, 52.20, 53.13, 20; demotics also appear in disputes over property in Lys. frr. 167.89–90 (partially restored) and 217 Carey. There is no use of the demotic in the case of Pancleon (Lys. 23.9–11), though that might be because, if we follow the suggestion of Todd ((1993) 168–169, (2000) 246–247), the speaker does not want to appear too close to Nicomedes, with whom he is colluding; [Dem.] 58.19 refers to a failed aphaeresis (the technical term for such intervention) by the opponent’s father which resulted in a fine and debt to the state. Contrast Dem. 18.129, where Phormion’s owner is given as Dion of Phrearroi, implying a contrast with the blunt naming of Aeschines’ father as Tromes. Status distinctions are clearly important in the building accounts of the Erechtheum (Osborne and Rhodes (2017) no. 181), where citizen craftsmen are identified by demotic, metics by the ‘living in’ formula (for which see Whitehead (1977) 31–32) and slaves by ownership; compare also the late fifth-century list of trireme crews (Osborne and Rhodes (2017) no. 190). Isae. 6.10, 13, the latter without demotic; one might compare the play made with the name of the alleged epiklēros (heiress) Phile or Cleitarete in speech 3.30–34: if Phile is a pet name (for which N.B. next note) the dilemma Isaeus tries to create here may be based on misrepresentation. The mention of the demotic of the first husband of Dioxippus’ sister at Hyp. Lyc. fr. 4 is presumably intended to lend support to the argument that his child was legitimate and so entitled to inherit his estate. Plangon is a pet name (‘Dolly’), the use of which implies an even greater lack of respect: see Carey and Reid (1985) on 39.9, comparing [Dem.] 59.121, where the allusion to Neaira’s daughter as ‘Phano known as Strybele’ plainly has the same intent, and Isae. 3.30–31. On the naming of Plangon in Dem. 39 and [Dem.] 40, see Kapparis in this volume. 66–67. See also Dem. 57.37–38, 43, 68, [44].9–10, 17, [59].50, 58. On Aeschines’ nickname for Timarchus, ‘Pornos’ (‘prostitute) see Hatzilambrou in this volume, 56. Fisher (2001) 188–189, 203–204 discusses the political standing of the two; he also suggests that the hairstyle in itself ‘could carry powerful negative associations’ (203). Davies (2011) offers a sympathetic portrait of Hegesippus (including his hairstyle: 17) and includes a draft entry on the whole family for a future edition of Davies (1971).

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26 Todd (2007) on Lys. 4.4 reports that there are 238 individuals named Diocles listed in the LGPN volume for Attica, and a homonym is referred to in section 19 of this speech; for the nickname Orestes, see Wyse (1904) ad loc. 27 On the implications of the tattoo, see Jones (1987), esp. 145–146. 28 The other instance of which I am aware is Demosthenes’ opposition of Battalus of Painaia to Oenomaus of Cothocidai (18.180): for the rhetorical tactics here see Yunis (2001) ad loc., who sees a combination of self-deprecation and puncturing of his opponent’s pretension. 29 [Dem.] 59.25, 32, 40, 47, 48, 54, 84. The identification of Hipparchus just as ‘the actor’ may be because he is, or is being represented as, a reluctant or hostile witness (N.B. Carey (1992) ad loc. for possible deceit here), while Xenocleides the poet has been disenfranchised and so lacks proper citizen status (59.26–28). 30 Arbitrators: 45; marriages: 50, 58; incidental characters: 22, 24, 30, 33, 39, 43; substitution of genos: Theogenes of the Koironidai (72), Archias the hierophant (116–117); non-Athenians: e.g., 18, 24, 29; ‘Lysias the sophist’: 21. 31 Almost: his political associates Cephisophon and Apollophanes are also mentioned by name alone in Theomnestus’ preliminary address (10). 32 On deme solidarity in general see Whitehead (1986) 223–234, also 301–313 and Osborne (1985) 41–42, 138–146. This is of course an idealising perspective: for the potential for problems in reality see below, 23–25. 33 On civic identity in Lys. 16 and 31, see Keim in this volume, 108–111, 114–118. 34 Cf. also Theophr. Char. 25.3 with Whitehead (1986) 226 for demesmen campaigning together. 35 Of which the tribal organisation of casualty lists is a conspicuous illustration: Osborne and Rhodes (2017) no. 129 with commentary; on tribes as communities of memory see Steinbock (2017), esp. 106–109. 36 The complexities of the context are discussed by Todd (2007) 351–353, with additional references. 37 Antiph. 6.11, 13, Isae. 5.36 and 6.60 with Wyse 1904 ad locc., 7.36, Dem. 21 passim; for deme chorēgoi see Whitehead (1986) 215–219 (and n.38 below), Wilson (2000) 244–252, 282–283. 38 Whitehead (1986) 234–252 discusses deme honours and the parallel cultivation of philotimia in deme and polis; see also Daverio Rocchi 2016 for the reciprocal economy of euergetism in the demes as relieving social tensions. 39 For deme administration of the theōrikon see Whitehead (1986) 110, for deme expenditure on sacrifices 163–169, and for the likelihood that participation was largely restricted to demesmen, 205–206. Metechein tōn koinōn (‘sharing in the common things’) covers both communal activity, especially cult, and its material benefits, while the formula hiera kai hosia (literally ‘holy things and actions acceptable to the gods’) embraces the key aspects of civic life; Blok’s discussion of the sharing of hiera kai hosia in citizenship is now fundamental: Blok (2017) 47–99. 40 Isae. 7.36 is the only example I have registered; for the demesman as witness see also Whitehead (1986) 227–228. 41 Scafuro (1994) 165–170 discusses the role of deme testimony in the demonstration of citizen status in court (and N.B. 158–165 on the key communal events involved). 42 Lys. 7.18, cf. 28; Carey (1989) ad loc. cites a proverb that ‘neighbours see more keenly than foxes’. 43 Todd (2007) 533 likewise suggests, with reference to the debate over settlement patterns in Attica (next n.), that perioikousin (‘live round about’) in Lys. 7.28 implies residence. 44 The literature is extensive: see, e.g., Osborne (1985) 15–63, Whitehead (1986) 352– 358, Jones (2004) 17–47 (with the retort of Osborne (2005)), Osborne (2010c), Kellogg (2013) 26–34, 51–71 (with further references); doubtless there was considerable variation between demes.

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45 Which entails bracketing the second kai in the MS reading kai Araphēniōn kai polloi tōn tote sungeōrgountōn, as Wyse does (Forster (1927) follows the MS but mistranslates). 46 Whitehead (1986) 228 cf. 300, 312 suggests that the demesmen may have been reluctant to give evidence against Thudippus or his family, though again, the implication of intimidation could be simply a cover for the lack of actual testimony but it also cleverly insinuates a deplorable breakdown in normal deme solidarity – in reality individuals would surely be afraid as much qua neighbours as qua demesmen. 47 There are indications that sussitoi (messmates) could function in a similar manner in the military sphere: Lys. 13.79–82, Isae. 4.18, Dem. 54.4. 48 I would therefore want to qualify slightly the position of Whitehead (1986) 231–232, who hints at an identification between demesmen and neighbours as a source of solidarity, since his illustrations (231 n.37) come only from comedy: the subsequent identification of dēmotai and philoi is much more straightforwardly normative (though contrast 337–338, recognizing the scope for conflict in reality); likewise Scheid-Tissinier (2011) 280–284. 49 Though this is Blass’s emendation for the MS dikastēn: see Todd (2007) ad loc. for some reservations. 50 Whitehead (1986) 327–345, esp. 331, 333–334 for allusions to local character traits and produce in Old Comedy; N.B. also 292–293 for allegations of corruption in particular demes. A possible exception is Lysias frr. 251–252, 254 Carey, from a prosecution of Nicides for argia (idleness: MacDowell (1978) 155, or perhaps dissipation of property: Todd (1993) 106, 245), each the name of a deme: the third, Potamus, is not just identified by Harpocration but glossed with reference to comic allegations of its readily accepting corruptly enrolled citizens, so it is conceivable that play was made with the reputations of all three. 51 Acknowledgement of the inherent diversity of demes and the danger of generalisation is one of the key principles of Whitehead (1986), esp. 56–63, and more recently Osborne (2011b) has pointed to the likelihood of wide differences in community and experience; on the other hand, the essential similarity in the modalities of their political activity, especially with regard to citizenship (Osborne (2010b), cf. Whitehead (1986) 92–96) may be a factor in the way they are represented in forensic oratory. 52 Lys. 20.11–12; N.B. Whitehead (1986) 229. 53 Whitehead (1986) 330; compare, for example, the beginning of Lys. 32, which we also owe to Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 54 Osborne (1985) 147–151. 55 Lambert (1993) 36–37, 178–188 discusses the gamēlia (marriage feast) and the limited evidence for the occasional introduction of girls to phratries; on the ambiguous position of women in the demes see Whitehead (1986) 77–81. Scheid-Tissinier (2011) 284–291 stresses the potential for conflict in the deme and argues that the oversight of citizenship exercised by the polis functioned as a safeguard against the possibility of injustice. Note the mention of the phratry in Lys. fr. 258 Carey, from a defence against a graphē xenias; similarly, orgeōnes appear as witnesses alongside phratry members in Isae. 2.16–17, 44 and gennētai in 7.15–17, and thiasōtai on their own at 9.30. 56 For the controversy of 346/5 and the problem of malpractice in the deme see Whitehead (1986) 291–301. 57 Though this looks distinctly tendentious, since there must always have been an issue when a man’s father died before he went through his dokimasia: presumably in such cases, which cannot have been uncommon, the evidence that the father had presented the infant to the oikos and phratry would have to have served as a proxy for his endorsement at the dokimasia, and the deme will have had to make a judgment. 58 In theory Lys. 8, a prosecution of sunousiastai for slander, with its vivid portrait of backbiting, disloyalty, and unfairness in what should likewise have been a harmonious association, would form an instructive point of contrast, but the speech is almost certainly

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60 61 62 63

Roger Brock post-classical: Todd (2007) 541–552; if it were a product of the Second Sophistic it might possibly be drawing on classical sources, but even so it is best left to one side. Absence of ta nomizomena: [Dem.] 43.64, Isae. 6.64–65, and cf. Lys. fr. 415 Carey; for due performance see, e.g., Isae. 1.1, 2.10, 36–37, 7.30, 8.21–26; [Dem.] 48.6–7, Din. 2.18. See Griffith-Williams (2012) 146, 158–160 for the force of these arguments; Meyer (1993) 117–118 argues that proper burial and commemoration came to be regarded as ‘a fundamental Athenian right’ after the rule of the Thirty. Dover (1974) 293 helpfully collects the evidence. Osborne (1985) 64–92, Whitehead (1986) 301–326. Ath. Pol. 55.3; note that the same term, dokimasia/dokimazein is used of the scrutiny of new citizens (cf. n.3 above) and diapsēphizesthai of the voting procedure (42.1, 55.4 with Rhodes 1981), and both were handled in the courts by the thesmothetai (59.4). I am grateful to the editors for their invitation to participate in the original CCC panel, to my fellow panellists and the audience in Montreal for helpful suggestions, and to the editors again for their valuable comments on this expanded version of my paper, as well as for saving me from a number of errors.

Bibliography Blok, J.H. (2017) Citizenship in classical Athens (Cambridge) Canevaro, M. (2013) The documents in the Attic orators: laws and decrees in the public speeches of the Demosthenic corpus (Oxford) Carey, C. (1989) Lysias, selected speeches (Cambridge) Carey, C. (1992) Apollodorus against Neaira: [Demosthenes] 59 (Warminster) Carey, C. (2007) Lysiae orationes cum fragmentis, Oxford Classical Text (Oxford) Carey, C. and Reid, R.A. (1985) Demosthenes: selected private speeches (Cambridge) Daverio Rocchi, G. (2016) ‘Political institutions between centre and periphery, between public and private in 4th century Athens: constructing shared civic identity’, in C. Tiersch (ed.) Die Athenische Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert: zwischen Modernisierung und Tradition (Stuttgart) 163–183 Davies, J.K. (1971) Athenian propertied families, 600–300 B.C. (Oxford) Davies, J.K. (2011) ‘Hegesippos of Sounion: an underrated politician’, in S.D. Lambert (ed.) Sociable man: essays on ancient Greek social behaviour in honour of Nick Fisher (Swansea) 11–23 Dickey, E. (1996) Greek forms of address (Oxford) Dover, K.J. (1974) Greek popular morality in the time of Plato and Aristotle (Oxford) Fisher, N. (2001) Aeschines, against Timarchos (Oxford) Forster, E.S. (1927) Isaeus (Cambridge, MA and London) Griffith-Williams, B. (2012) ‘Oikos, family feuds and funerals: argumentation and evidence in Athenian inheritance disputes’, CQ 62, 145–162 Henry, A.S. (1977) The prescripts of Athenian decrees, Mnemosyne Supp. 49 (Leiden) Jones, C.P. (1987) ‘Tattooing and branding in Graeco-Roman antiquity’, JRS 77, 139–155 Jones, N.F. (2004) Rural Athens under the democracy (Philadelphia, PA) Kahrstedt, U. (1934) Staatsgebiet und Staatsangehörige in Athen (Stuttgart & Berlin) Kellogg, D.L. (2013) Marathon fighters and men of maple: ancient Acharnai (Oxford) Kierstead, J. (2017) ‘Associations and institutions in Athenian citizenship procedures’, CQ 67, 444–459 Lambert, S.D. (1993) The phratries of Attica (Ann Arbor, MI) MacDowell, D.M. (1978) The law in classical Athens (London) Meyer, E.A. (1993) ‘Epitaphs and citizenship in Classical Athens’, JHS 113, 99–121 Osborne, R. (1985) Demos: the discovery of classical Attica (Cambridge)

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Osborne, R. (2005) Review of Jones (2004), CR 55, 585–587 Osborne, R. (2010a) Athens and Athenian democracy (Cambridge) Osborne, R. (2010b) ‘The demos and its divisions in classical Athens’, in Osborne (2010a) 39–63 [Originally published in O. Murray & S. Price (eds.) (1990) The Greek city: from Homer to Alexander (Oxford)] Osborne, R. (2010c) ‘The potential mobility of human populations’, in Osborne (2010a) 139–167 [Originally published in OJA 10 (1991) 231–252] Osborne, R. (2011a) The history written on the classical Greek body (Cambridge) Osborne, R. (2011b) ‘Local environment, memory and the formation of the citizen in classical Attica’, in S.D. Lambert (ed.) Sociable man: essays on ancient Greek social behaviour in honour of Nick Fisher (Swansea) 25–43 Osborne R. and Rhodes, P.J. (eds.) (2017) Greek historical inscriptions 478–404 BC (Oxford) Rhodes, P.J. (1981) A commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford) Rhodes, P.J. and Osborne, R. (eds.) (2003) Greek historical inscriptions, 404–323 BC (Oxford) Scafuro, A. (1994) ‘Witnessing and false witnessing: proving citizenship and kin identity in fourth-century Athens’, in A.L. Boegehold and A.C. Scafuro (eds.) Athenian identity and civic ideology (Baltimore) 156–198 Schaps, D. (1977) ‘The woman least mentioned: etiquette and women’s names’, CQ 27, 323–330 Scheid-Tissinier, E. (2011) ‘Les dèmes, lieux de citoyenneté, lieux de conflits’, in V. Azoulay and P. Ismard (eds.) Clisthène et Lycurgue d’Athènes: autour du politique dans la cité classique (Paris) 275–291 Steinbock, B. (2017) ‘The multipolarity of Athenian social memory: polis, tribes and demes as interdependent memory communities’, in K. Hofmann, R. Bernbeck, & U. Sommer (eds.) Between memory sites and memory networks: new archaeological and historical perspectives (Berlin) 97–125 Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Todd, S.C. (trans.) (2000) Lysias (Austin, TX) Todd, S.C. (2007) A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11 (Oxford) Whitehead, D. (1977) The ideology of the Athenian metic (Cambridge) Whitehead, D. (1986) The demes of Attica 508/7 – ca. 250 B.C.: a political and social study (Princeton, NJ) Whitehead, D. (2000) Hypereides: the forensic speeches (Oxford) Wilson, P. (2000) The Athenian institution of the Khoregia: the chorus, the city, and the stage (Cambridge) Wyse, W. (1904) The speeches of Isaeus (Cambridge) Yunis, H. (2001) Demosthenes, on the crown (Cambridge)

2

The two Mantitheuses in Demosthenes 39 and [Demosthenes] 40 A case of Athenian identity theft? Brenda Griffith-Williams

Introduction: personal identity in the ancient and modern worlds Many of the chapters in this book are concerned with aspects of public identity, exploring how members of social or civic groups not only identify themselves by reference to values, beliefs, or characteristics they have in common, but also distinguish themselves from outsiders or members of other groups who do not share these features. But every member of such a group also has a personal identity, including a name, which allows them to see themselves and be seen by others as unique individuals. Fundamental to the idea of personal identity is membership of a kinship group or family; while some aspects of our identity are fluid, blood relationship remains unchanged throughout our lives. Sociologists recognize the importance of kinship, and of names, in personal identity. As Richard Jenkins puts it in his classic book Social identity: Kin-group membership epitomises the collectivity of identity, locating individuals within a field that is independent of and beyond individually embodied points of view. Naming, the identification of individuals in terms of collective antecedents and contemporary affiliations, is central to kinship and is given substance by the rights and duties of kin-group membership. Kinship identity establishes relations of similarity with fellow kin in terms of descent; it differentiates the individual from non-kin and, in classificatory terms, other members of the descent group. . . . Looking at the internal-external dialectic, her individual name is among the earliest things a child learns.1 Personal identity, then, is rooted in an individual’s name and membership of a family, but it needs to be publicly established and acknowledged because its significance extends beyond the private domestic sphere. In the modern world parents are required to register the birth of a child, whose identity is confirmed by the adoption of a family name or surname in combination with one or more individual forenames. When formal proof of identity is required in later life – in relation to such matters as employment, health care, legal proceedings,

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or migration – all of us can produce documentary evidence such as a birth certificate or passport, and in disputed cases this can be supported by biometric evidence such as fingerprints. It is by no means unusual for more than one person to have the same name, and in most cases any confusion this causes is easily resolved, but in some cases one person may ‘steal’ another’s identity for criminal purposes – usually with a view to fraudulently obtaining money. Victims commonly suffer not only financial loss but also emotional effects such as stress, anxiety, or anger. The basis of an Athenian citizen’s personal identity was membership of an oikos: a household or family. Only legitimate children – that is, those whose parents were Athenian citizens legally married to each other – could be members of their father’s oikos; for a man in fourth-century Athens it was particularly important to be identified as a legitimate son because this gave him an automatic right to inherit a share of his father’s estate, as well as confirmed his status as an Athenian citizen. The process of acquiring that identity – that is, being publicly recognized as a legitimate son and a citizen – happened in stages; if there was any dispute about someone’s status he would be expected to produce witnesses who could testify that various events had taken place.2 The first was a private family celebration, called the dekatē because it was held on the tenth day after a baby’s birth, at which the father formally acknowledged and named his son. Next, at the annual autumn festival of Aplaturia, the young boy was introduced to his father’s phratry, a kinship group which admitted only legitimate sons of its members. Then, when the young man reached the age of 18, he was introduced to the phratry for a second time, and finally he was registered as a member of his father’s deme, one of the districts of Attica created by the reforms of Cleisthenes in the sixth century. His full name had three components: the personal name given to him by his father, a patronymic, and a demotic,3 a combination which in normal circumstances would have created a unique identity for every living Athenian, enabling him to be distinguished from other members of his family and of the wider community.

Mantitheus and Boeotus: a crisis of identity? The speaker of Dem. 39 and [Dem.] 40 identifies himself as Mantitheus, son of Mantias of Thoricus. His father, Mantias, who died several years before the speeches were delivered, was a well-known politician with a record of public service: he had served as treasurer of the shipyards and as a trierarch, and he may have been the Mantias who was a general in 359 BCE. Mantitheus says that his mother was Mantias’ legally married wife, a daughter of the wealthy Polyaratus of Thoricus, and she had previously been married to Cleomedon, whose father was the fifth-century demagogue Cleon. Mantitheus was born around 380 BCE. His parents also had a younger son, who died in infancy, and Mantitheus was still a child when his mother died. Mantitheus calls witnesses to confirm that Mantias celebrated the dekatē for him after his birth, introduced him to his phratry as a child, and enrolled him in his deme when

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he came of age. In accordance with Athenian custom, he says, Mantias gave him his paternal grandfather’s name, Mantitheus, because he was Mantias’ firstborn son.4 So Mantitheus seems to have grown up, at least for the first few years of his life, with a secure identity as a member of a prominent Athenian family – and, as an only son, in the expectation that he would inherit the whole of his father’s estate. But then he encountered a problem. His opponent in the litigation, whom he calls Boeotus, also identifies himself as Mantitheus, son of Mantias of Thoricus, although by a different mother: Plangon, a daughter of the disgraced general Pamphilus. (For the sake of clarity I shall follow the usual scholarly convention, referring to the speaker as Mantitheus and his opponent as Boeotus.) Boeotus says that Mantias celebrated the dekatē for him, but Mantitheus denies this, claiming that Boeotus’ witnesses are not reliable. What is agreed between them is that Mantias did not acknowledge Plangon’s sons, Boeotus and Pamphilus, while they were children, and refused to introduce them to his phratry as his legitimate sons, so when Boeotus became an adult he took legal action against Mantias to force him to acknowledge him. Mantias did, eventually, introduce both Boeotus and Pamphilus to his phratry, but according to Mantitheus he did not do so willingly. Wanting to avoid the embarrassment of a public trial, he made a private arrangement with Plangon: he would challenge her to confirm on oath that Boeotus was his son, and she (for a payment of 30 minae) would refuse to take the oath, so putting an end to Boeotus’ claim. But Plangon tricked him: when the case came before the arbitrator,5 she broke her promise by accepting the challenge and swearing that Boeotus and Pamphilus were Mantias’ legitimate sons.6 So Mantias was forced to acknowledge them by introducing them to his phratry, but he died before he could complete the formalities of recognition by enrolling them in his deme. Boeotus then had himself enrolled under the name Mantitheus – apparently claiming that Mantias had named him Boeotus, after a brother of Plangon, as an insult, and that he, as Mantias’ oldest legitimate son, was entitled to take the name of his paternal grandfather, Mantitheus. The structure of ancient Greek families and inheritance systems encouraged disputes between half-brothers of different mothers.7 On the one hand, remarriage after divorce or the death of a spouse was common, and if a man had legitimate sons by more than one wife they were all entitled to an equal share in his estate after his death – an obvious source of rivalry and disputes if an estate had to be divided into several small shares. On the other hand, Athenian men (but not women) enjoyed considerable freedom to engage in more informal sexual unions before, during, and after marriage – and some of these non-marital relationships inevitably resulted in the birth of illegitimate children (nothoi), but illegitimate offspring had no right to inherit anything more than a very limited amount.8 It is not surprising, then, to find disputes between halfbrothers, in which one party typically identifies his opponent as the illegitimate child of his father’s concubine or mistress, not the son of a lawfully married Athenian wife.9

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The litigation between Mantitheus and Boeotus was apparently not typical of disputes between half-siblings, because the question of inheritance had already been decided, at least in principle: once Mantias had publicly acknowledged Plangon’s sons, Mantitheus had no choice but to recognize them as his legitimate half-brothers and share his father’s estate with them. But it is clear that he never really accepted the situation, and disagreements about the disposition of Mantias’ estate dragged on for many years. The two surviving speeches, both prosecution speeches delivered by Mantitheus against Boeotus, give us some insight into the nature of their dispute, but they need to be seen in the context of the long-running litigation between the two men.10 In or around the year 358, probably not long after Mantias had died, Mantitheus prosecuted Boeotus and Pamphilus for the restitution of his mother’s dowry from Mantias’ estate. Boeotus and Pamphilus retaliated with a demand for the dowry of their mother, Plangon, evidently asserting that it was Mantitheus’ mother who was not a legitimate wife of Mantias. By agreement, the case was submitted to a private arbitrator, Solon of Erchia, but he died, after long delays, without reaching a decision. Boeotus and Pamphilus then prosecuted Mantitheus again, and he responded with another prosecution against Boeotus, whom he named in the official documentation as ‘Boeotus’ because, as he says, ‘that was the name my father gave him’ (40.16). The prosecution by Boeotus and Pamphilus against Mantitheus was referred to a public arbitrator, who found in favour of Mantitheus, and the two prosecutors accepted that decision without referring the case to court. Then Mantitheus’ prosecution against Boeotus also went to public arbitration, but Boeotus did not attend the hearing and the arbitrator decided against him in absentia. Boeotus ignored the decision and refused to hand over the dowry, claiming that the case had nothing to do with him because the defendant had been named as Boeotus but his name was Mantitheus. So Mantitheus prosecuted him again, this time for wrongly using the name Mantitheus, and Dem. 39 is the speech he delivered at the trial, probably in 348 BCE. Mantitheus lost this case and started yet another prosecution against Boeotus – this time under the name Mantitheus – for the restitution of his mother’s dowry (40.18). [Dem.] 40 is the speech he delivered in that case in the year 347, 11 years after the death of Mantias.11 We do not know the result of this case, but it may not have been the final stage in the dispute about Mantias’ estate, and it almost certainly did not put an end to the personal enmity between Mantitheus and Boeotus. In Dem. 39, the speech about the name, Mantitheus’ aim is clearly to stop Boeotus from calling himself Mantitheus, but the legal basis of the action is more obscure. It was apparently not illegal for an Athenian to give the same name to two of his sons, although it must surely have been very unusual; Mantitheus’ rhetorical challenge, ‘Show me one Athenian who has ever given the same name to two of his children’ (39.32), was probably a reflection of normal practice. Formally, it seems, the prosecution was a dikē blabēs, or action for damages, so in order to win the case Mantitheus would have to prove that he had suffered some harm from Boeotus’ use of his name. In fact, he uses the

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verb blaptein, ‘to harm’, twice (39.5, 13) in claiming that Boeotus has harmed both him and the polis by having himself registered in the deme under the name Mantitheus. He begins by describing the potential harm to the polis: what will happen, he asks rhetorically, if the state decides to assign a liturgy to Mantitheus, son of Mantias of Thoricus? How will anyone know which of the two half-brothers is intended? What if the generals are enrolling members of a syndicate, or appointing a trierarch, or making an appointment to some other office? Perhaps, he suggests sarcastically, Boeotus could be identified as ‘Mantitheus, son of Plangon’, and Mantitheus himself as the son of his own mother, but that would be unprecedented; the only legal way of distinguishing two men with the same first name is by adding their patronymics and demotics. What if a lottery is being held to select members of the Boulē or the Board of Thesmothetes? Perhaps one of their two ballots could have a distinguishing mark, but even that would not help because no one else would know which ballot belonged to which Mantitheus. In short, ‘the result will be complete chaos’ (πολλὴ ταραχὴ συμβαίνει, 36.10). Moving on to the harm (actual or potential) to him personally, Mantitheus first complains that Boeotus has associated with some disreputable people, including Mnesicles and Menecles, whom Mantitheus describes as sykophants, and his activities could incur a fine from the state. If that happened, how would anyone know which Mantitheus was liable for payment? Moreover, Boeotus might be prosecuted in a dikē exoulēs (an action for ejectment), or he might default on his property taxes or be involved in some other kind of litigation or scandal. If any of these things happened, how would it be possible to distinguish between two men called Mantitheus who had the same father? In fact, Boeotus has already caused problems when he was summoned for desertion from the army, and Mantitheus had to accept the summons in his own name. What is more, Boeotus has already been a defendant in litigation which brought discredit to Mantitheus because they have the same name, and he has claimed to be entitled to an office to which Mantitheus was elected. We may wonder how significant all this ‘harm’ really was. Even in the Athenian context, where the coincidence of names would have been more unusual than it is in the modern world, much of the confusion described by Mantitheus was hypothetical. When there was genuine ambiguity, there must in practice have been ways of resolving it, even without bureaucratic record systems or modern scientific evidence; for example, an Athenian might have been identified by his trade,12 or place of residence, or perhaps by some physical characteristic. Was there, then, something more behind the dispute about the name than what Mantitheus explicitly mentions in the speech? Douglas MacDowell conjectures that there may have been a financial motive for the quarrel: Why was Boeotus so keen to be called Mantitheus, and why was Mantitheus so keen to prevent him? We should not necessarily dismiss the motives given in the speech. . . . It was not unreasonable for Mantitheus to feel that he ought not to be subjected to such embarrassments. On

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the other hand, we cannot discount the possibility that something else was at stake besides the name. It is possible that some money or property was owed to ‘Mantitheus son of Mantias of Thoricus’, and Boeotus and Mantitheus both wanted to claim it. But, if so, Mantitheus carefully avoids mention of that in his speeches and we cannot identify the advantage which he hoped to obtain.13 While MacDowell’s suggestion cannot be ruled out, it seems to me unlikely that, if there had been such a motive for the litigation, Mantitheus would have omitted to mention it. On the other hand there does appear, as Chris Carey suggests, to be an emotional as well as a practical basis for the dispute: ‘Mantitheus bases his argument on the potential for confusion and the consequent practical problems for both of them and for the city, but it is difficult not to detect more emotional rivalries and family bitterness at work as well’.14 If (and this is of course still no more than conjecture) Mantitheus really had been brought up to think of himself as Mantias’ oldest son, then found that identity threatened by someone he had not even regarded as a relative, the psychological impact on him might well have been profound. His claim that Boeotus has ‘robbed’ him of the name given to him by his father (39.20) is, if taken literally, an exaggeration, and there is no hard evidence of criminal intent on the part of Boeotus, such as would be expected in a modern case of identity theft. The strength of feeling expressed by Mantitheus suggests, nevertheless, that he sees Boeotus’ assumption of his name as a threat to his own sense of identity.

Mantitheus and Boeotus: political rivals? As Mantitheus observes, Boeotus, when Mantias finally acknowledged him, acquired not only the identity of a legitimate son entitled to a share of Mantias’ estate, but also that of an Athenian citizen, entitled to participate in the public affairs of the polis (εἰ τῆς μὲν πόλεως καὶ τῶν ὑπ᾿ ἐκείνου καταλειφθέντων διὰ τοὔνομα τοῦτο μέτεστί σοι, 39.31). Josine Blok, who devotes a chapter of her recent book on Athenian citizenship to the parallels between citizenship and inheritance, comments on Dem. 39 and [Dem.] 40: ‘In Mantitheus’ case the focus is primarily the family but with it also the polis’.15 Blok is clearly right that the primary motive for the litigation between Mantitheus and Boeotus was a private dispute about family matters, but the political dimension of these speeches, which has received little attention from scholars, deserves further consideration. According to Mantitheus, Boeotus complained that Mantias’ refusal to acknowledge him deprived him of Athenian citizenship (tēs patridos apostereisthai, 39.3). In the second speech he says that Plangon wanted to have Boeotus and Pamphilus adopted by her brothers (if Mantias would not acknowledge them) so that they would not be deprived of citizenship (aposterēsesthai tēs poleōs, 40.10).16 Mantitheus himself says that Boeotus ‘became a citizen’ (politēs gegenēmenos, 40.42) through the decision of an arbitrator – not (it is

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clearly implied) through birth as the legitimate son of two Athenian citizens. Moreover, he urges Boeotus to stop making trouble and be content that he has acquired citizenship, as well as a father and an inheritance, adding disingenously: ‘No-one – least of all me – is trying to deprive you of these’ (39.34). In Dem. 39, where Mantitheus emphasizes the harmful effect of Boeotus’ behaviour on the polis as well as on himself, he addresses the judges eight times as ‘men of Athens’ (andres Athēnaioi) – a form of address more commonly found in public speeches – and only twice as ‘judges’ (andres dikastai), which is the more usual form in private speeches.17 Perhaps he is simply exaggerating the importance of a purely personal dispute, but this – taken together with the repeated references to Boeotus’ citizenship – could be an indication that political rivalry was also part of the background to the litigation. Daniel Brown raises the question in his book Das Geschäft mit dem Staat, the overall theme of which is the overlap between the political and the private spheres in the Demosthenic corpus.18 Brown argues that Demosthenes, who was certainly the author of the speech on the name, was at the height of his own political career at the time of the trial and would have had little time to spare for logographic speeches; so it seems unlikely that he would have wanted to involve himself in a purely private dispute between members of a family with which he had no connection. There is no conclusive proof that Demosthenes had a political interest in the dispute between Mantitheus and Boeotus, but one of the witnesses who testified that Mantias held a dekatē for Boeotus is named as Timocrates, and this may perhaps have been the same Timocrates who was the defendant, probably in the year 353, in a graphē paranomōn in which Demosthenes wrote the speech for one of the prosecutors. So, as Brown conjectures, it is possible that Boeotus belonged to a political faction including Mnesicles, Menecles, Timocrates, Androtion, and others, perhaps also Eubulus. Mantitheus, on the other hand, would have been associated with Demosthenes’ own faction, including Apollodorus, Euctemon, Diodorus, and others.19 This, as Brown acknowledges, can be no more than conjecture, but it is plausible that Mantitheus might have wanted to damage Boeotus politically by undermining his identity as an Athenian citizen. Defeat for Boeotus in either of these cases (and we know, in any event, that he won the case about the name) would have had no direct effect on his status either as a legitimate son of Mantias or as an Athenian citizen. But by rhetorically deconstructing this dual identity, Mantitheus could certainly cause public embarrassment for Boeotus – and perhaps even open up the possibility of a legal challenge to his citizenship at a later date. How, then, did Mantitheus go about this rhetorical deconstruction? He never directly claims that Boeotus is illegitimate – the word nothos (‘bastard’) does not occur in either of the speeches – but this is strongly implied in the alternative identity that he constructs for Boeotus as an outsider who has inveigled his way through fraud both into Mantias’ oikos and into the citizen body. In the first speech Mantitheus’ main focus is on Mantias’ reluctant acknowledgement of Boeotus and Pamphilus as his legitimate sons, while in the second speech he concentrates on the nature of the relationship between Mantias and Plangon.

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Deconstructing the identity of Boeotus, (a): Mantias’ acknowledgement of paternity Mantitheus wants the dicasts to believe that he is older than Boeotus. His assertion of seniority, in the normal chronological sense, is not entirely convincing,20 but his claim to be Mantias’ oldest legitimate son is linked with the ingenious argument that Boeotus and Pamphilus should be considered sons of Mantias only from the date when he acknowledged them (39.29), underlining the point that they were not members of the family from birth. Mantitheus’ own reluctance to accept Boeotus as his brother is clearly expressed in the words ὅτ’ οὔπω συγγενὴς ἦν ἐμοί, literally ‘when he was not yet related to me’ – an expression that would make no sense at all with reference to a blood relation. Mantitheus cannot deny that Mantias acknowledged Boeotus and Pamphilus as his legitimate sons, but he consistently seeks to underplay the significance of the acknowledgement through his assertion that Mantias was tricked into it by Plangon. In the speech about the name he repeatedly makes the point that Mantias did not acknowledge Boeotus and Pamphilus willingly, but was ‘forced’ or ‘compelled’ to do so, first claiming ‘the way in which my father was compelled (ἠναγκάσθη) to acknowledge [Boeotus] is no secret’ (39.18). Then, in a highly tendentious passage, he complains that it is unfair for Boeotus to have a share of the property that rightly belongs to him (Mantitheus) while Mantitheus himself has been robbed of his name: You see, men of Athens, the unpleasant consequences of the whole business. Well then, even if no unpleasantness emerged from this situation and if it wasn’t wholly impossible for us to have the same name, still it isn’t fair for Boeotus to have a share of my property because my father was forced to acknowledge him (κατὰ τὴν ποιήσιν, ἣν ὁ πατὴρ αὐτὸν ἀναγκασθεὶς ἐποιήσατο), and for me to be robbed of the name my father gave me of his own free will and without being forced by anyone. (39.20) Finally, in the concluding sections of Dem. 39 the identity he wants to create for Boeotus is neatly encapsulated in an imaginary dialogue in which Boeotus is identified as ‘the Mantitheus whom Mantias was forced to acknowledge’ (ὃν ἠναγκάσθη ποιήσασθαι, 39.36).21 The nature of the procedure by which Mantias ‘acknowledged’ or ‘recognized’ Boeotus and Pamphilus has long been a topic of scholarly debate. In the first place, the idea that there was a formal procedure to legitimize illegitimate children in Athens has been rightly discredited. As Harrison puts it: There has been some controversy as to whether a father was permitted to legitimate a bastard child. The alleged instances of this do not stand up to examination. When Mantias is finally driven to introduce Boeotus and his brother into his phratry . . . he is not being compelled to legitimate

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acknowledged bastards. On the contrary by Plangon’s acceptance of the oath that he was the father of the children he is being compelled to acknowledge that they had all along been legitimate.22 The language used to refer to Mantias’ ‘acknowledgement’ or ‘recognition’ of Boeotus and Pamphilus has contributed to the confusion about the procedure because the Greek verb poieisthai (the middle voice of poiein, ‘to make’) and the cognate noun poiēsis may also be used with the meaning ‘adopt’ and ‘adoption’. It is clear that Mantias did not literally ‘adopt’ Boeotus and Pamphilus in the sense of the modern English word, which can only refer to the legal relationship between a parent and child who are not related by blood. Mantias could not ‘adopt’ someone he had acknowledged as his own son; in any event, since he already had a legitimate son in Mantitheus, he would not have been permitted under Athenian law to adopt another. According to Gernet,23 nevertheless, Mantias’ eventual recognition of Boeotus took the form of an adoption. Gernet’s explanation is that Mantias had already held the dekatē for Plangon’s sons, and probably introduced them to his phratry, before he became suspicious about their paternity. So he renounced them by apokēruxis (as suggested by the reference to this procedure at Dem. 39.39), and the only way in which he could reinstate them as his legitimate sons was by adopting them. The flaws in this argument have been exposed by Rudhardt. First, the evidence for apokēruxis is very scant, and there is no indication from other sources that it could be used simply as a formal denial of paternity rather than a penal sanction in cases of serious wrongdoing.24 In any event, there was no need for such a formal procedure because an Athenian could deny paternity just by refusing to carry out the normal formalities of acknowledgement.25 Second, although the procedure carried out by Mantias was like that of adoption, the verb used (poieisthai) does not always mean ‘adopt’.26 Other scholars, while accepting that the procedure followed by Mantias was not strictly that of adoption, have still suggested that Mantitheus was using the language of adoption. According to Wyse, ‘Mantitheus, the speaker of Dem. 39 and [Dem.] 40, always uses the insulting word poieisthai, “adopt”, to describe the “recognition” of Boeotus and Pamphilus by his father Mantias . . . because he denies that Mantias ever believed them to be his sons’.27 Harrison concludes: ‘the word [poieisthai] may have been deliberately chosen by Mantitheus to suggest that [Mantias’] action was more like an adoption than a straightforward enrolment’.28 The ambiguity is reflected in the three English translations I have consulted: by Waterfield (Dem. 39), Murray (both speeches), and Scafuro (both speeches). All three translators render poieisthai as either ‘acknowledge’/‘recognize’ or ‘adopt’, according to context – but their choices in specific contexts rarely coincide. Scafuro, who usually translates the verb as ‘adopt’ but occasionally as ‘acknowledge’, discusses the problem at some length in the introduction to her translation of Dem. 39. Accepting Gernet’s explanation that ‘Mantias’

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recognition of Boeotus was carried out by the procedure of adoption’, she concludes: ‘Only the context indicates the special nature of “adoption” as the acknowledgement of a natural son whose pathway to adoption has been rocky rather than that of a natural son whose pathway has been clear’.29 It should be obvious that this translation strategy is unsatisfactory because it introduces a distinction that would have been meaningless to a panel of fourthcentury Athenian judges. So it is worth looking more closely at the speeches to discover what meaning Mantitheus actually intended to convey by poieisthai and poiēsis. He uses this terminology 14 times in the first speech, and three times in the second speech, with reference to Mantias’ acknowledgement of Boeotus and Pamphilus.30 It might be tempting to conclude that he is playing on the literal meaning of poiein to underline the point that Boeotus was not born a member of Mantias’ oikos but was artificially (and deceitfully) made one. But in the second speech Mantitheus also refers to Mantias’ acknowledgement of him31 in the course of his argument that his mother was legally married to Mantias, with a dowry, while Plangon was not: And besides this, just consider why on earth, if my mother had not been a lawfully espoused wife, and had brought no dowry, while the mother of these men did, should my father have denied that they were his sons, and have acknowledged (epoieito) me, and brought me up? ([Dem.] 40.26) Mantias, then, when he epoieito Mantitheus, apparently ‘made him his son’ in exactly the same way as he later made Boeotus and Pamphilus his sons. The difference is that, while he freely acknowledged Mantitheus as his legitimate son,32 he acknowledged Boeotus and Pamphilus only because he had no choice. So, when Mantitheus identifies Boeotus as ὃν ἠναγκάσθη ποιήσασθαι (cited above, 39) it would be misleading to translate this as ‘the son whom Mantias was forced to adopt’ rather than ‘. . . to acknowledge’.33 As Rudhardt points out, Mantitheus does not discredit Boeotus by using the verb poieisthai, but by his repeated assertions that Mantias was ‘forced’ to acknowledge him.34 There is only one unambiguous reference in Mantitheus’ speeches to what we would now call ‘adoption’, referring to Plangon’s scheme to have Boeotus and Pamphilus adopted by her brothers if Mantias refused to recognize them: She agreed, for the price of thirty minas, to give her sons to her brothers for adoption (τοῖς αὑτῆς ἀδελφοῖς εἰσποιήσειν υἱεῖς) and then, if my father were to challenge her before the arbitrator to swear an oath that they were indeed his sons, to refuse the challenge. ([Dem.] 40.10) The verb used here is the compound eispoiein,35 which, unlike the simple poiein, is used exclusively of adoption.36 The only satisfactory solution, given this

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pattern of usage, is that poieisthai and poiēsis, in Dem. 39 and [Dem. 40], should be consistently translated as ‘acknowledge’ or ‘recognize’ and ‘acknowledgement’ or ‘recognition’, never as ‘adopt’ and ‘adoption’. When poieisthai and poiēsis are used, in other sources, as synonyms for eispoieisthai and eispoiēsis, that reflects the fact that the Athenian procedure for adopting a son was essentially the same as for acknowledging a natural, legitimate son: both required the son to be introduced to his (natural or adoptive) father’s phratry and enrolled in his deme, although there was of course no equivalent of the dekatē in the case of an adoption. The underlying idea is that the father, natural or adoptive, somehow creates an identity for his son – or, more literally, makes a son for himself – by observing these formalities.

Deconstructing the identity of Boeotus, (b): the status of Boeotus’ mother, Plangon Boeotus’ identity is inextricably linked with that of his mother, Plangon: if she was not formally married to Mantias at the time of Boeotus’ birth, then he is neither an Athenian citizen nor Mantias’ legitimate son. So Mantitheus’ portrayal of Plangon, in [Dem.] 40, while primarily intended to undermine Boeotus’ claim that she was married to Mantias with a dowry, also contributes to the deconstruction of Boeotus’ own identity. Mantitheus gives her, in contrast to his own mother, an active role in the dispute, as a supporter of her sons in their efforts to secure recognition by Mantias. Modern scholars have written extensively about the ‘facts’ of Mantias’ relationships and the family’s history, typically suggesting that Plangon was married to Mantias as his first wife, whom he divorced before marrying the mother of Mantitheus, but that he continued to have a relationship with her both during his second marriage and after his second wife had died. I think it makes good sense to assume that Plangon was indeed Mantias’ first wife – in which case it is impossible to know whether Boeotus was really Mantias’ oldest legitimate son, as he himself claimed to be, or not Mantias’ son at all but Plangon’s illegitimate child from an adulterous relationship, as Mantias presumably suspected when he refused to acknowledge Boeotus and Pamphilus.37 But my main concern is not with the factual or chronological details, but with the alternative identity that Mantitheus constructs for Boeotus as an outsider: someone who was not a member of Mantias’ family at birth but has acquired that identity through fraud. In terms of rhetorical strategy, if it is true that Plangon was married to Mantias when Boeotus was born, then Mantitheus’ options were limited. He could not claim that such a marriage was illegal on the ground that Plangon was not a citizen since it was common knowledge that she belonged to a prominent Athenian family. He chooses instead to pretend that the marriage never existed; although he does not directly say so, his account of Mantias’ relationship with Plangon, and his description of her lifestyle, is calculated to create the impression that she was not a legally married wife but a hetaira.38 In the speech about

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the dowry ([Dem. 40) he establishes a clear and deliberate contrast between Plangon’s identity and that of his own mother: My mother, judges, was the daughter of Polyaratus of Cholargus and the sister of Menexenus, Bathyllus and Periander. Her father gave her in marriage to Cleomedon the son of Cleon, with a talent as her dowry. This was her first marriage. After the birth of three daughters and a son named Cleon, her husband died, and she left that household, taking the dowry with her. Her brothers Menexenus and Bathyllus (Periander, you see, was still a child) then gave her away in marriage once again and dowered her with the same talent. And so she was married to my father (συνῴκησε τῷ ἐμῷ πατρί). I was born to them and so, too, was my younger brother who died in childhood. . . . My father, then, married (gēmas) my mother in this way, and he maintained her as his wife (gunaika) in his house, and he brought me up and loved me just as you, too, love your own children. As for Plangon, the mother of these men, well, my father did have some sort of relationship (eplēsiazen) with her; . . . but it’s none of my business to discuss that. ([Dem.] 40.6–8, trans. Scafuro adapted) Simply by mentioning her name, he implies that Plangon was in some way disreputable because, by convention, respectable Athenian women were not named in forensic speeches but identified only as the daughter, sister, wife, or mother of a named man.39 So of course he does not name his own mother, identifying her only as the daughter of Polyaratus or the sister of Menexenus and Bathyllus. According to the story he tells, Plangon and her sons never lived in the same house as Mantias, as a proper wife would have done, but he maintained them in a separate household; and the young Boeotus, who had a good voice, sang in the boys’ chorus of his mother’s tribe, not his father’s as a legitimate son would have done. And when Mantitheus says that Mantias ‘associated’ or ‘had some sort of relationship’ with Plangon, the Greek verb is plēsiazein, which is used elsewhere in the Attic orators with reference to relations between a hetaira and her clients.40 In contrast, the verb he uses for his own mother’s relationship with his father is sunoikein, literally meaning ‘live together’ but regularly used of the conjugal relation between a husband and wife.41

Conclusion Whatever the true facts of the dispute between Mantitheus and Boeotus, Mantitheus presents himself in these two speeches as someone whose personal identity is under threat from a half-brother who has inveigled his way into the family and ‘stolen’ his name. He had already conceded in principle, however reluctantly, that Boeotus and Pamphilus were Mantias’ legitimate sons, so what did he have to gain by identifying Boeotus as ‘the son whom Mantias was forced to acknowledge’? His deconstruction of Boeotus’ official identity appears to go

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beyond what would have been strictly necessary to prove his two claims: in the first speech, that he had been harmed by Boeotus’ use of his name, and in the second, that the value of his mother’s dowry was owed to him from Mantias’ estate. Perhaps his lingering sense of grievance over the division of his father’s estate, coupled with the perceived threat to his personal identity, was enough to make him want to discredit Boeotus more generally, but, as we have seen, it is also possible that there was a more specific political motive for his attack on Boeotus’ civic status. So these two speeches, undoubtedly a highly important source of information on naming and personal identity in classical Athens, also illustrate the close connection between personal and political identity in the Athenian democracy.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

6

7

8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17

Jenkins (2014) 88. Scafuro (1994) provides a useful overview of this system. On the significance of demotics, see Brock in this volume, chapter 1. On Greek naming customs, cf. Kapparis in this volume, 65. The Athenian legal system included two forms of arbitration as a means of settling a case without a full trial. Some types of cases could be referred by the authorities to a public arbitrator, while litigants in any case could, by agreement, appoint a private arbitrator to settle their dispute. For a succinct description of arbitration (private and public) in Athens, see MacDowell (1978) 203–211. An Athenian litigant could challenge his opponent, or a third party, to swear an oath about a factual issue in the case. Such challenges were routinely refused, and this case, which gained some notoriety in antiquity (cf. Arist. Rh. 1398b), is the only example in the Attic orators of a challenge that resulted in an oath being actually sworn. For discussion of ‘rhetorical’ challenges, see, e.g., Gagarin (2007). Cf. Ogden (1996) 189: ‘The structure that above all sowed discord in Greek families was the amphimetric one, i.e. that in which a man kept two women (ideally, but not necessarily, in tandem) and fathered lines of children from both. Inevitably, both women competed to be regarded as the “legitimate” wife, and their respective lines of children competed for succession’. On the inheritance rights of nothoi, see Harrison (1968) 67. Cf. Isae. 6, where two young men claim to be legitimate sons of Euctemon of Cephisia by a second wife, but their status is disputed by his descendants through his first wife. The following summary relies largely on the chronology suggested by MacDowell (2009) 71–74. ‘The “eleven years” mentioned in Dem. 40.3 probably comprise the interval since Mantias’ death and the beginning of the feuding over the estate (i.e. counter-demands, not necessarily lawsuits, for a dowry et al.) rather than the distance from the first (inconclusive) suit against Boeotus (similarly: Gernet (1957) 32)’. Scafuro (2011) 38 n.2. Cf. Brock in this volume, 16. MacDowell (2009) 70. Carey, in Waterfield and Carey (2014) 400. Blok (2017) 105. The language of ‘depriving’ or ‘robbing’ (aposterein) someone of Athenian citizenship or its privileges is similarly used at [Dem.] 45.79 and [Dem.] 59.28. (I am grateful to Jakub Filonik for bringing these parallels to my attention.) This pattern is in marked contrast to [Dem.] 40, where andres dikastai occurs 20 times while the civic address, andres Athēnaioi, is not used at all – perhaps an indication of the more strictly private nature of the dispute about the dowry. Cf. Martin (2006) 78: ‘In

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18

19 20

21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37

45

[Demosthenes’] public speeches we find 83 instances of ō andres dikastai against 348 of ō andres Athēnaioi, while in the private speeches the overall ratio is 405:121’. Brown (1974) 183: ‘Was für eine Rolle in der Politik spielten jedoch Mantitheus und Boeotus selbst? Waren sie vielleicht auch politische Gegner, und nicht nur streitende Halbbrüder? Versteckt sich nicht unter der dünnen Decke privater Streitigkeiten politische Hader? Wie aber wäre dann Demosthenes darein verwickelt worden?’ Brown (1974) 183–184. According to the scholarly consensus Boeotus was born c. 382 (while Mantias was married to Plangon) and Mantitheus c. 380 (after Mantias had divorced Plangon and married Mantitheus’ mother). In the alternative chronology suggested by Humphreys (1989), both Boeotus and Mantitheus were born c. 378, with Boeotus being the older. Cf. [Dem.] 40.2, where Mantitheus says that Plangon ‘compelled my father to bring himself to acknowledge them’ (ἠνάγκασεν αὐτὸν ὑπομεῖναι τούτους ποιήσασθαι); 40.28: ‘Boeotus . . . forced my father against his will to acknowledge him’ (ἠνάγκασε ποιήσασθαι αὑτόν); and 40.54: ‘although all of you know how my father was compelled to acknowledge them’ (πάντων ὑμῶν εἰδότων ὃν τρόπον ἀναγκασθεὶς ὁ πατήρ μου ἐποιήσατο τούτους). These are the only references to Mantias’ acknowledgement of Plangon’s sons in the speech about the dowry. Harrison (1968) 68–69. Gernet (1957) 8–10. On apokēruxis, see Harrison (1968) 75–76. Rudhardt (1962) 52: ‘Mantias n’a donc pas répudié son fils par un acte solennel et public, il a simplement négligé d’achever les formalités et les rites constitutifs de sa reconnaissance’. Rudhardt (1962) 53: ‘nous soulignerons comme [Gernet] la ressemblance de la reconnaissance de Boiôtos et de l’adoption, mais nous lui donnerons un sens différent, et, en nuançant sa pensée, nous serons entraîné[s] à rejeter sa conclusion’. Wyse (1904) 718. Harrison (1968) 84 n.2, where he adds: ‘The other ambiguity, in this case perhaps played upon by the speaker . . . , is that poieisthai (passive) can be used of being made a citizen’. On the parallels between adopted sons and naturalized citizens in Athens, cf. Barbato in this volume, 85. Scafuro (2011) 42. Dem. 39.4, 6, 18 (x2), 20, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35 (x3), 36; [Dem.] 40.2, 28, 54. This point is overlooked by Wyse (1904) 718, who includes [Dem.] 40.26 in his list of references without noting that the object of epoieito is here Mantitheus, not Boeotus or Pamphilus. Cf. Rudhardt (1962) 54: ‘Il nous faut admettre que ce verbe n’a aucune valeur dépréciative et qu’il ne signifie pas exactement une adoption, puisque Mantithée est incontestablement un fils de par le sang’. In fact the three translators (Murray [1936], Scafuro [2011], and Waterfield in Waterfield and Carey [2014]) all use ‘adopt’ in this passage. ‘Ce n’est pas le verbe poieisthai que l’avocat emploie pour déconsidérer son adversaire, ce sont les verbes biazesthai et anangkazesthai . . . qu’il répète avec complaisance’. Rudhardt (1962) 54. ‘When eispoiein, “to adopt”, is used in the active voice, the subject is not the adoptive father but someone (usually the prospective adoptee’s natural father or kurios) arranging an adoption or conducting the formalities’. Griffith-Williams (2013) 159. As Gernet (1957) 8 n.2, tacitly concedes: ‘C’est le verbe poieisthai (non, il est vrai, eispoieisthai) qui est employé près de vingt fois à ce sujet’. Cf. Rudhardt (1962) 53: ‘Gernet relève pourtant avec pertinence que [le plaideur] n’emploie jamais le composé eispoieisthai, or, c’est ce mot seul qui désigne l’adoption sans trop d’équivoque’. Athenian anxiety about adultery as a threat to the integrity of the oikos is most famously expressed by Euphiletus, the speaker of Lys. 1, in his justification for the killing of

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Brenda Griffith-Williams Eratosthenes, his wife’s seducer: ‘The victim’s whole household becomes the adulterer’s, and as for the children, it is unclear whose children they are, the husband’s or the seducer’s (Lys. 1.33, trans. Todd). Lysias’ claim, in this context, that Athenian law treated adultery more harshly than rape has been much debated by modern scholars. Edward Harris, while rightly discrediting Lysias’ legal argument, nevertheless concludes that it would have resonated with the dicasts hearing the case: ‘They, like Euphiletus, were the masters of their respective households and were concerned with maintaining control over their wives and children. From their point of view, Euphiletus had a point of sorts: the moichos did in a way pose a greater threat to their authority in the household and thereby to their honour, than did a rapist. While the rapist exercised power over a woman’s body for just a short time, the moichos could win a long-lasting mastery over her soul. To the men who heard Euphiletus’ case, this argument may have been quite seductive’. Harris (1990) 375. On the construction of Plangon’s identity as a hetaira, see Kapparis in this volume, 64–69. Cf. Schaps (1977); and on the particular significance of the name Plangon, see Kapparis in this volume, 66–67. [Dem.] 59.19, 20, 41, 67, Isae. 3.10. Cf. Isae. 6.14, 8.8; [Dem.] 59.122, discussed by Harrison (1968) 2.

Bibliography Blok, J.H. (2017) Citizenship in classical Athens (Cambridge) Brown, D. (1974) Das Geschäft mit dem Staat: die Überschneidung des Politischen und des Privaten im Corpus Demosthenicum (Hildesheim and New York) Gagarin, M. (2007) ‘Litigants’ oaths in Athenian law’, in A.H. Sommerstein and J. Fletcher (eds.) Horkos: the oath in Greek society (Liverpool) 39–47 Gernet, L. (ed. and trans.) (1957) Démosthène: plaidoyers civils, tome 2 (Paris) Griffith-Williams, B. (2013) A commentary on selected speeches of Isaios, Mnemosyne Supp. 364 (Leiden) Harris, E.M. (1990) ‘Did the Athenians regard seduction as a worse crime than rape?’, CQ 40, 370–377 Harrison, A.R.W. (1968) The law of Athens, volume 1: the family and property (Oxford) Humphreys, S.C. (1989) ‘Family quarrels’, JHS 109, 182–185 Jenkins, R. (2014) Social identity, 4th edn (London) MacDowell, D.M. (1978) The law in classical Athens (Ithaca, NY) MacDowell, D.M. (2009) Demosthenes the orator (Oxford) Martin, G. (2006) ‘Forms of address in Athenian courts’, MH 63, 75–88 Murray, A.T. (ed and trans.) (1936) Demosthenes: Orations XXVII-XL, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, MA) Ogden, D. (1996) Greek bastardy (Oxford) Rudhardt, J. (1962) ‘La reconnaissance de la paternité, sa nature et sa portée dans la société athénienne’, MH 19, 39–64 Scafuro, A.C. (1994) ‘Witnessing and false witnessing: proving citizenship and kin identity in fourth-century Athens’, in A.L. Boegehold and A.C. Scafuro (eds.) Athenian identity and civic ideology (Baltimore, MD) 156–198 Scafuro, A.C. (trans.) (2011) Demosthenes, speeches 39–49 (Austin, TX) Schaps, D. (1977) ‘The woman least mentioned: etiquette and women’s names’, CQ 27, 323–330 Todd, S.C. (2007) A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11 (Oxford) Waterfield, R. and Carey, C. (2014) Demosthenes: selected speeches, translated by Robin Waterfield with introduction and notes by Chris Carey (Oxford) Wyse, W. (ed.) (1904) The speeches of Isaeus (Cambridge)

3

Constructing the identity of Timarchus in Aeschines 1 Rosalia Hatzilambrou

Introduction1 Since 1978, when K. Dover published the seminal Greek Homosexuality with its longest chapter focused on the Against Timarchus, this speech has attracted much scholarly interest, mainly because of its illustration of aspects of the sexual life of Athenian men. The factual background of the speech is well-known. Timarchus and Demosthenes charged Aeschines with treason for partiality towards Philip on the occasion of the second Athenian Embassy to Pella in 346 BCE to ratify the peace agreed by the same envoys in the preceding year. Aeschines’ response was retaliation against Timarchus later in the same year in court.2 The process started with a proclamation (epangelia, §§32, 81) that the Athenian laws forbade Timarchus to speak in front of the people as an active citizen because he had previously lived disgracefully (aischrōs bebiōkōs).3 The proclamation led to a trial. Aeschines calls the whole procedure the ‘scrutiny of the public speakers’ (dokimasia rhētorōn, §28).4 This was not an easy task for Aeschines to undertake, and it could have put his own career in jeopardy.5 The political setting was, at the very least, shaky and unpredictable after the settling of the Sacred War and the harsh punishment inflicted on Phocis.6 Additionally, Timarchus enjoyed the support of Demosthenes, of two prominent politicians, the brothers Hegesander and Hegesippus,7 and of the unnamed general whom Aeschines attacks in §§132‒140.8 However, the dicasts convicted Timarchus and imposed on him permanent and total disfranchisement (atimia).9 According to pseudo-Plutarch and the first hypothesis to the speech, after the trial Timarchus hanged himself.10 However, this information may be a dramatic exaggeration of what Demosthenes asserted in 19.2, 285, simply claiming that ‘Aeschines destroyed him’.11 Four grounds of disgraceful living are listed by Aeschines in §§28‒30. According to them, addressing the people is not permitted in law for anyone who (a) beats his father or his mother, or fails to support them, or fails to provide a home for them, or (b) did not go on the campaigns for which he was called up, or has thrown away his shield, or (c) has prostituted himself or acted as an escort, or (d) has ‘eaten up’12 his ancestral goods or whatever else he was heir to.13 Aeschines based his charge against Timarchus on the third and fourth

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headings in the aforementioned list, namely he claimed that his opponent must be excluded from the public life of Athens because he had prostituted himself and also because he had dissipated his inherited property. Additionally, in his account he made allegations against Timarchus which approximate to the first heading, namely the maltreatment of one’s parents, while he made no reference to Timarchus’ military record, presumably because he had not found anything there to reproach. To show that Timarchus violated the law on only one of these grounds would have sufficed to expel him from the public life of Athens. However, Aeschines risked the success of his action, and perhaps his own career, by prosecuting Timarchus for both prostitution and squandering his paternal estate. There is certainly fairly easily accessible evidence about the fate of one’s property, consisting of witnesses and relevant documents. What about the charge of self-prostitution? It was certainly a fatal, embarrassing offence for a public speaker. But how can one plausibly argue and prove that a wealthy young man14 like Timarchus, who had inherited his late father’s estate at an early age, would have needed to support himself through prostitution? Apparently, Aeschines was sufficiently confident that he could argue persuasively to this effect. This is perhaps the main reason behind his choice to attack Timarchus and not Demosthenes, the younger of his two prosecutors, who could have appeared a more vulnerable target.15 Timarchus, admittedly unusually handsome when a youth, had certainly attracted many admirers and lovers. At the time of the speech Timarchus’ sexual past was the subject of gossip, and there was probably still a memory of some sexual scandal attached to his name.16 Aeschines was aware that scandals tactically presented could take on a life of their own, and sometimes they could function as evidence.17 After a substantial gap in time between the events described and the trial itself, room was left for fabrication. Titillating details and short anecdotes could be safely appended to the events narrated by a clever and experienced man like Aeschines and render the actual facts of the matter of little importance. Additionally, Timarchus had been active in politics for the last 15 years, perhaps long enough to have earned ‘an unsavoury reputation’.18 Even if Timarchus’ life offered Aeschines some pretext to prosecute him for prostitution, Aeschines had to address in the trial the lack of concrete evidence regarding this claim. Indeed, most of the actual evidence Aeschines provided concerns Timarchus’ squandering of his patrimony while, fairly embarrassingly, he presented none to support his claim that Timarchus had been a male prostitute. There were no witnesses to any exchange of money, and no former lovers were persuaded to come forward and testify. Apart from offering the expected justification for the absence of evidence with respect to private acts, Aeschines tried to convert gossip, rumour, insinuations, and laughter into factual evidence. Could this possibly be considered a secure way of pleading, even by the standards of Athenian jurisprudence? Why did Aeschines risk the success of his action by including the charge of prostitution since he totally lacked evidence about it?

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In this chapter I argue that Aeschines decided to include the charge of prostitution in his indictment against Timarchus because it helped him add coherence to his construction of a certain rhetorical identity for him. Moreover, I show how the skilled construction of the rhetorical identity of his opponent, which emerges as a primary rhetorical strategy of Aeschines’ prosecution, secured or at least contributed, in my view, to the success of the action that Aeschines brought against Timarchus.

Constructing the rhetorical identity of Timarchus The rhetorical identity of Timarchus is principally constructed in the narrative section of the speech, which occupies 80 paragraphs (§§37‒116), that is, slightly less than half of the speech. The narrative can be roughly divided into three parts: (a) Timarchus’ period of prostitution (§§37‒93), (b) Timarchus’ dissipation of his paternal property (§§94‒105), and (c) Timarchus’ public career (§§106‒116). The longest part, amounting to almost 60 paragraphs, is the first one which is devoted to the charge of prostitution and the absence of testimony to it, while the other two amount to almost 10 paragraphs each. Because of its length, scholarship normally asserts that Aeschines considered the first part to be the most significant rhetorically. Of course, the first part had to be long because Aeschines had to compensate for the lack of concrete relevant evidence. However, the second part of the narrative, placed in the middle of the speech, is also rhetorically very effective. It supports the charge launched by Aeschines that Timarchus ‘ate up’ his inheritance by listing Timarchus’ estates that had been liquidated and by providing evidence for it which appears plausible and retrospectively adds persuasive power to the first part of the narrative on the prostitution of Timarchus. At the same time, this section prepares the audience to accept the serious allegations expressed in the important third part concerning the defendant’s public career. The importance of the solid second section is underlined by Aeschines himself, when in the epilogue (§194) he imagines the kind of men who would come forward to support Timarchus. There, he mentions not only the male prostitutes and their clients, but also the sons who have eaten up their properties. He actually lists them first. A careful hearer could possibly observe Aeschines’ failure to provide dates regarding the alleged sales of Timarchus’ properties, details that could undermine the reasons put forward by Aeschines for the property’s dissolution. Nevertheless, I would expect that Timarchus and Demosthenes had great difficulty in justifying the sale of the estates. The properties, or at least some of them, may not have been ‘eaten up’ and ‘drunk down’ by Timarchus, as Aeschines wanted the dicasts to believe,19 but perhaps Timarchus liquidated them in order to avoid paying for liturgies or to assist his political career in dubious ways. However, these are reasons that could not be voiced in Timarchus’ defence in the public court, and Aeschines was entirely aware of it. The latter had indeed mentioned that Timarchus’ father, Arizelus, had sold some of his properties and kept his wealth invisible in order to avoid performing any liturgies (§101).

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Additionally, Aeschines had made allegations of bribery against Timarchus, namely that in defiance of the laws, he bought his way into all the public offices he held by bribing people (§106). In the long narrative of this speech Aeschines relates Timarchus’ biography since he was a meirakion, a youth of about 18 to 21 years old, until the day of the delivery of the speech. The deeds of which Timarchus’ biography is composed designate his identity, which could be defined as addiction, in the sense of psychological dependence on sex, gambling, and overeating, and not of chemical addiction (e.g., to alcohol and drugs), which perhaps the Greeks did not much recognize. Additionally, they do not seem to have had a special term to define addiction, but they rather used metaphorically the language of slavery and enslavement to describe an addict. The metaphorical extra-legal usage of the language of slavery to express the dependence on passions and desires stresses the asymmetrical power and the element of domination which are inherent in such a property relationship concerned with personal status. And although ‘addict’ is a strong term nowadays, the ancient collocation ‘slave to passions’, which invokes the asymmetrical power relationship par excellence, sounds much stronger. Such metaphorical usage of the language of slavery and freedom is also encountered in the philosophical discourse20 and seems to have generated the terminology the Greeks needed to conceptualize what is now called ‘psychological addiction’. As far as the first speech of Aeschines is concerned, Timarchus has been referred to more or less explicitly as an addict before in the biography.21 However, my aim in this chapter is to show two interwoven tactics which Aeschines uses in order to present addiction as the main trait of Timarchus’ rhetorical identity: on the one hand, he constructs Timarchus’ identity as that of a man addicted to shameful desires, while on the other hand, he gradually deconstructs elements of Timarchus’ seeming identity, such as name, oikos/family, gender, ideology,22 status, and friends. Thus, in this chapter I call attention to certain passages of the Against Timarchus where the closely linked tactics of the construction of the opponent’s rhetorical identity and the deconstruction of elements of his apparent identity are employed. Timarchus is expressly described as an addict in §42: He did these things because he was a slave (δουλεύων) to the most shameful pleasures, fish-eating, extravagant dining, girl-pipers and escort girls, dicing, and the other activities none of which ought to get the better of any man who is well-born and free (ὑφ’ ὧν οὐδενὸς χρὴ κρατεῖσθαι τὸν γενναῖον καὶ ἐλεύθερον).23 The metaphorical use of the language of slavery stresses the fact that an addict like Timarchus was not free, but his whole life and existence was necessarily controlled (krateisthai) by the most shameful of masters, his desires. Reference to Timarchus’ specific addictions since his youth is made again four times in the speech (§§53, 75, 95, and 115). His intemperate lifestyle (tropos or tropoi) reveals

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his true identity, which is attributed to his ‘nature’ (phusis) in §§11, 57, 95 and to his ‘condition of soul’ (hexis tēs psuchēs) in §189.24 The innate disposition of a man could be formed by education (paideia), as Aeschines acknowledges in §11, and for this reason he discusses in §§9‒18 laws regulating orderly conduct (eukosmia) with regard to Athenian children and youths. However, Timarchus’ nature appears to have been ‘revolting and unholy’ (bdelura kai anosios, §95), while he had been subjected at the very outset to vicious training (ponēran tēn archēn tēs paideias lambanein, §11). The attribution of Timarchus’ lifestyle to his natural disposition and condition of soul, which are stable elements of personality,25 suggests that they would constantly manifest themselves in every area of a person’s life and perhaps become part of his identity. Timarchus is no exception. His natural disposition became evident in his lifestyle (tropoi), which was contrary to all the established laws of the democratic city (enantiōs hapasi tois nomois, §8) and to Solon himself, the great legislator and traditional founder of democracy (§25), as are the tropoi of those in power in tyrannies and oligarchies (§4, cf. also §§20, 37) and of the acknowledged prostitutes (§§74, 158). One can be certain that Timarchus and ‘those who share his ways’ (homotropoi) displayed total lack of ‘self-control’ or ‘restraint’ (sōphrosunē) in all aspects of their life, their sexual life included. Sōphrosunē was a primary quality of male democratic citizenry and the essence of Solonian legislation, which could be seen to concern the control of moral behaviour in relation to boys, youths, and adults.26 Not unexpectedly, the term sōphrosunē and its cognates appear 28 times in the speech.27 On the other hand, Timarchus and his self-assessment group, called summoria in §159, were incontinent (akrateis in §§95, 141)28 and hubristai (repeated seven times in the speech in §§108, 116, 138, 141, 163, 185, and 188). The psychological explanation of Timarchus’ immoral tropoi offered by Aeschines may suggest a philosophical and intellectual debate, current at the time of the trial, about the formation of character. Such discussions would facilitate Aeschines’ task; his reasoning would be more easily accepted by his audience and would allow him to argue that Timarchus, as an addict to all shameful and expensive pleasures, and driven by internal psychological forces, would do (and actually had done according to Aeschines) absolutely everything by his own consent in order to be able to satisfy his desires. Having established the ‘hero’ as an addict, the story Aeschines narrates seems coherent and plausible. The sequence of ‘facts’ is clearly illustrated by the orator himself (§§95‒96, 106). First, while Timarchus was still handsome and young, he wasted his own body through prostitution. Then, once his youthful beauty had faded and no one was any longer willing to pay him, while on the other hand he kept on desiring the same things without the slightest restraint, he turned to eating up his patrimony. The paternal estate did not supply enough to feed his appetites, so he turned to the city and started consuming the common property through acts of political corruption. The provisions which established the legal framework for the ‘scrutiny of the orators’ (dokimasia rhētorōn) anticipated the engagement of people like Timarchus in acts

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of political corruption, for they clearly viewed personal behaviour as a reliable indication of public behaviour. In Aeschines’ words (§§29‒30) the man ‘who had sold his own body in hubris would readily sell the common interests of the city as well’, and ‘the man who had managed his own household badly would deal with the common affairs of the city in a similar way’. Indeed, allegations over scandals in Timarchus’ political career confirmed this expectation. Timarchus’ acts of political corruption emerge in Aeschines’ story as the outcome of the deviant conduct of an addict that had prevailed since Timarchus’ early youth. In the first section of the narrative, namely the account of Timarchus’ life as a prostitute, he is presented as a youth over 18 years old, that is, certainly over the age of consent, of possessing understanding and knowledge of the laws, and of acquiring citizenship, and as having inherited his late father’s substantial property, which rendered him ‘not in need of the requirements of a reasonable life’ (oudenos ōn tōn metriōs endeēs, §42). Despite his wealth he established himself as a common prostitute (ekathēto, which is an appropriate verb for a prostitute) available to merchants, foreigners, and citizens alike, at the surgery of a physician in the port of Piraeus, who presumably acted as his pimp on the pretext that he was teaching Timarchus the art of medicine (§40). Then, a succession of lovers followed. First Misgolas (§§41‒50), the rich lover with no restraint (akolastos), possessed by his desire to pursue youths (daimoniōs espoudakōs),29 followed by Cedonides, Autocleides, and Thersander (§52), who are cursorily referred to as ‘wild men’ (agrioi), an epithet used in Attic comedy for some notorious pederasts.30 Next, Anticles took Timarchus up, before leaving for Samos as an Athenian cleruch (§53). Then, at the gambling place, Timarchus met Pittalacus (a wealthy public slave according to Aeschines), became his kept man, and tolerated the abuse (hubris) of his body by him (§§54‒55). His last and most important lover was Hegesander, an aggressive politician, with a nature similar to Timarchus’, and with an equally disreputable past (§§56‒70). Timarchus is portrayed as having no hesitation in deserting one lover for another who could better satisfy his desires and assist him in his political ambitions. Crucially, Aeschines attempts to show that Timarchus had lived off all his lovers.31 At some point Misgolas dismissed Timarchus because he found him too expensive (§53). When Timarchus deserted Pittalacus, the latter was enraged because he had spent so much money on him (§58). Timarchus is said to have enjoyed costly dinners ‘without paying for them’ (asumbolos), kept the most expensive flute-girls and hetairai, and gambled without paying anything (§75). Provision of cash is always explicitly mentioned with reference to a new lover, or, rather, a client. At the surgery of the physician in Piraeus Timarchus was selling himself (pōlein, §40); Misgolas paid him a sum of money in advance (argurion ti proanalōsas) to persuade him to move into his own home (§41). The receipt of payment in cash (misthos) by Timarchus from his clients is repeated four times in this section about Timarchus’ lovers (§§39‒70) and many more times in the rest of the speech.32 Provision of money was the most important element that distinguished hetairēsis (‘being an escort’) from prostitution.

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Hetairēsis was also a punishable offence for a public speaker, but Aeschines wished to argue for the more shocking one, namely, that Timarchus had been a prostitute. Hetairēsis sounded a ‘more decent’ offence (metriōtera, §51), but more importantly there was a thin line between hetairēsis and the honourable love of a lover and his beloved, which Aeschines had to discuss in anticipation of the opponents’ counterarguments (§§132ff.). Additionally, by deploying the language of sale,33 Aeschines turned Timarchus into a personalized object, a body, consenting to whatever sexual act his unrestrained clients demanded.34 In this way, Timarchus consented to acts of hubris against his person by his clients, which was a top antidemocratic offence, while he is also repeatedly declared to have committed hubris against his own body, for he allowed other men to treat his body abusively and in a manner unworthy of a citizen.35 To sum up, what was most astonishing in Timarchus’ youthful activity, as described by Aeschines, was that he was eager to accept shameful, hubristic, and enslaving acts being performed on his body by a succession of men for material rewards because they would enable him to satisfy his appetites. By opting to live in this way, Timarchus allowed an unacceptable crossover in status roles. He himself, a free Athenian, engaged in activities appropriate to foreigners, women, and slaves, that is, subordinate groups of people, whose bodies were receptive to the pleasure-seeking of the male citizens of Athens. The part of the speech devoted to Timarchus’ association with Pittalacus is revealing. The public slave is called ‘choregus of Timarchus’ disgusting lusts’ (§54), whereas Timarchus himself had the economic capacity, as demonstrated later on through the listing of his properties, to perform liturgies himself for his city (§97). The image of Hegesander requesting permission from the public slave, Pittalacus, to take Timarchus to his own house must have made a strong and unpleasant impression on the dicasts (§57). Equally effective must have been Aeschines’ report of the scene of the supplication (§§60‒61).36 While the angry Pittalacus was sitting at the altar of the Mother of the Gods in the crowded Agora, after he had been ruthlessly attacked by Hegesander and Timarchus within his own house, Timarchus begged him to leave the altar by touching Pittalacus’ chin37 and by saying that he would do anything Pittalacus pleased. Instead of attending to his duties as the kurios of the oikos he had inherited from his father, who died when he was a boy, Timarchus totally abandoned the paternal house and is presented as living at the houses of his lovers, as if he was their possession.38 He is described as staying at the surgery of a physician who prostituted him (§40), then spending his day at the gambling place (diēmereuen en tōi kubeiōi, §53) or at disreputable lodgings (en sunoikiai) meeting foreigners during the festival of the Great Dionysia (§43). All the houses he had lived in with his lovers/clients were thus converted into brothels, Aeschines asserts (§124). I have already briefly discussed the second part of the narrative, in which Aeschines presented and supported with some evidence the dissipation of Timarchus’ paternal property (§§94‒105). At the same time, Aeschines managed to reinforce the identity of Timarchus as an addict who failed to fulfil his

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filial obligations. The sketching of Timarchus’ identity in this section culminates in §§95‒96: he turned to the eating up of his inherited property. In fact he did not only eat it up; if one may put it this way, he drank it down as well. For he sold each item of his property not for what it was worth, since he could not wait for a higher offer, or even for a suitable offer, but sold it for what it fetched on the spot. Such was his very pressing need for pleasure (οὕτως ἠπείγετο σφόδρα πρὸς τὰς ἡδονάς). Thus, Timarchus cashed in all his property as he cashed in his body. First, he liquidated a house within the city, and an estate at Sphettos, which was Timarchus’ own deme, and possibly for this reason some detail is provided concerning the utter neglect of this property. Then, he sold some land at Alopece, all his slaves, and even some furniture. He also collected money from loans owed to his late father. By wasting his fortune Timarchus deprived his widowed mother of her place of burial, although she had pleaded with him to leave her the plot of ground at Alopece. The rhetorical effect of his mother pleading in vain for her burial plot is undoubtedly strengthened by the language of supplication (hiketeuousēs kai antibolousēs §99) and could be compared to the other supplication scene of the speech, mentioned previously to the detriment of Timarchus, where Timarchus was allegedly witnessed by a group of Athenians begging the public slave Pittalacus. Furthermore, Timarchus is also accused of mistreating his closest male relative, his old, infirm, and blind uncle, Arignotus, the brother of his father. Arignotus was first looked after by epitropoi (‘guardians’), when Timarchus was still a minor, but was then neglected by Timarchus, his closest kin, when the latter came of age. Timarchus ran through his uncle’s estate, control of which he had inherited from his father, and let him live on the pension given by the state. It is important that Arignotus himself gave written testimony (§104), although, as Fisher notes, how much of this he confirmed is not clear.39 Allegations of shameful treatment of his mother and his paternal uncle come close to claiming that Timarchus was liable under the first charge stipulated for disgraceful living, namely failing to support one’s parents. And although in Demosthenes’ embassy speech (19.283) it is mentioned that in the trial Timarchus appealed to his old mother and his children, Aeschines understandably omitted any reference to Timarchus’ family. The latter is consistently portrayed as a man who had deliberately decided to concern himself only with the satisfaction of his costly desires and to neglect his oikos. In any case, Aeschines added that the only resources left to Timarchus which he could have bequeathed to his descendants, if he had any, were his vices. With these he had become the ‘worst and the least beneficial of citizens’ (kakistos kai alusitelestatos politēs, §105). The rest of the narrative is devoted to Timarchus’ staggering political career (§§106‒116). He had been a logistēs, an inspector of troops, a bouleutēs, a proposer of allegedly more than 100 decrees. ‘There is no public office which

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he has not held at some time, though he was never properly appointed by lot or election, but he bought his way into them all contrary to the laws’, Aeschines hastened to add (§106). Timarchus’ excessive political activity is another example of his unrestrained character. Aeschines decided to mention four of Timarchus’ public offices, two of them conveniently held abroad, at Andros and Euboea. With reference to them there were perhaps rumours of incidents which allowed Aeschines to accuse Timarchus of resorting to abuse of his power. Allegations of bribery,40 sykophancy, adultery with the wives of free men in the allied city of Andros, theft of money that belonged to the Parthenon temple fund in cooperation with his lover Hegesander, of convictions for stealing public money at Eretria, of illegally gathering money through sykophancy during the revision of the lists (diapsēphisis) which he immediately spent on an expensive hetaira, reveal Timarchus’ addiction to his desires, and his contempt for the democratic city and his fellow citizens, and paint him in the colours of a tyrant.41 Timarchus’ fondness for an intemperate lifestyle is dangerous to the city since it will lead him, as if being driven by a Fury in Aeschines’ metaphorical language, to support tyrants and to help in destroying democracy, Aeschines claims in his epilogue (§191). For all these serious allegations Aeschines provided evidence only for the diapsēphisis episode (§115). In order to support his accusation that Timarchus stole money from the city in cooperation with Hegesander, he narrates how a reputable man revealed the offence by announcing in the Assembly that ‘a man and a woman are stealing from you’ and by further explaining that the man was Hegesander, who used himself to be the ‘woman’ of another politician, Leodamas, and the ‘woman’ was Timarchus (§§110‒111). Certainly, this utterance implies a deficiency in Timarchus’ masculinity, and its quotation hints at gender reversal.42 The second explicit reference to gender change for Timarchus is found towards the end of the speech in §185. There, Timarchus is accused of having committed womanish offences, since he had committed hubris against himself ‘contrary to nature’ (para phusin), whereas a woman ‘offends’ in accordance with nature. The implication here seems to be that insatiability regarding sex and lack of self-control are typical of women and contrary to men’s nature. Thus, since the laws punish adulterous women (§183) who are urged by their nature to defile themselves, the Athenians should not allow Timarchus to act as an adviser to their city, for he consciously and against his male nature opted to abuse his body and indulge in the satisfaction of his desires.43 Timarchus’ involvement in the diapsēphisis as a sykophant in Aeschines’ account also reveals his lack of respect towards the religion of the city. He is shown first to have performed the complete ritual of the solemn oath, making the essential physical contact with the sacred objects of the sacrifice, and then to have been immediately convicted of perjury (§115). Much of the prosecution is devoted to attacking Timarchus’ eminent friends and supporters, most importantly Hegesander and Demosthenes. Hegesander, one of Timarchus’ alleged lovers, is presented as his alter ego, a man of similar nature (phusis): being the treasurer to a general in the Hellespont, he stole

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money from the troops’ pay and then left the general to face banishment for the failure (§56). He had the same unacceptable form of relationship with Leodamas as Timarchus had with his lovers (§§69, 70, 111). He ate up the property of the epiklēros daughter he had married (§95), and he wasted his resources in luxurious dinners and gambling (§§57, 65). Last, he teamed up with Timarchus to steal 1,000 drachmas from the Parthenon temple fund (§110). As Demosthenes is different, but equally dangerous, he should be banished from the public life of Athens as well. Aeschines draws a vivid picture of him as a logographer44 and sophist (§§117, 125, 175),45 a man who uses his law-court performances as lessons for his pupils (§§173‒174). He further depicts him in §173 as an undemocratic man who takes vengeance on ‘private citizens’ (idiōtai) and ‘friends of the people’ (dēmotikoi) for their ‘equality in public speaking’ (isēgoria), who targets and victimizes rich but vulnerable young men under the pretext of teaching them rhetoric (§170), who allegedly abetted one of them in murdering one of his enemies (§§171‒172),46 whose lack of masculinity (kinaidia)47 in appearance, dress, and sexual behaviour is evident (§131).48 According to Aeschines’ story, Timarchus’ addiction to a lifestyle of excess, which motivated his prostitution, produced a nickname for him: pornos (‘prostitute’, §130). Aeschines plays with the dicasts through the gradual revelation that pornos as a nickname had been regularly attached to Timarchus for years.49 Nicknames were frequently attached to those who led relatively notorious lives, such as politicians, hetairai, and prostitutes. Indeed, in the Against Timarchus nicknames with certain powerful negative connotations are attached to Demosthenes (Bat[t]alos),50 to Hegesippus, the eminent politician and brother of Hegesander who is called Crobylos,51 to all the men listed towards the end of the speech who used their good looks to disgrace and prostitute themselves (§158) Reference to the commonly known nicknames of these people emphasizes the truth and significance of Timarchus’ own nickname. Nicknames are supposed to reflect an important feature of one’s character and fall within the realm of the goddess Pheme (‘Report’), whose divinity and reliability of report is built up in the speech to compensate for the lack of witnesses (§§125‒131). The attraction of a nickname somehow deprived Timarchus of his full name, which is a prime element of one’s civic identity. Timarchus of Sphettos, son of Arizelus, became ‘Timarchus the pornos’. Indeed, it is his nickname that distinguishes him from other homonymous individuals of his time (§157).52

Conclusion Athenian society had already realized who Timarchus really was, according to Aeschines. Timarchus’ nickname and the fact of being referred to in a comedy as a ‘big whore’ support Aeschines’ claims (§157). The Athenians had already shown that they did not want to see him speaking in public any more. During an assembly, when Timarchus uncovered his body by taking off his garment53 and it appeared to be in such shameful shape because of his embodied bdeluria (‘disgusting behaviour’), as Aeschines asserted, the citizens in the audience

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covered their faces in shame (§§26, 33).54 Moreover, Timarchus’ propositions could not be heard any more at the Assembly, even when they were presented by a decent member of the Areopagus Council. Aeschines reminds the dicasts of a recent incident in the Assembly, when loud laughter at obscene double entendres at Timarchus’ expense prevented his suggestions from being heard (§§80‒85).55 Aeschines seems to imply that civic silence was Timarchus’ due, since he had resorted to prostitution. Beyond that, Aeschines succeeded in persuasively arguing in this speech that such a man was not only bringing disrepute on the city but was a threat to the state. The construction of the rhetorical identity of Timarchus as an addict to certain desires was very effective in this respect. He is portrayed as having resorted to prostitution, as having allowed his free body to be sexually abused by a sequence of notorious clients, as having tolerated status and gender reversal of roles, as having alienated himself from his family, as having violated kinship solidarity, as having wasted his paternal property, as having neglected his oikos, as having no respect for established religion, as having indulged in the abuse of the political power which the democratic city entrusted him with, as having behaved like a tyrant, as having been involved in acts of political corruption, as having teamed up with a group of equally ruthless and unrestrained people, and as having attracted a really notorious nickname. Such a man, an addict desperate for a fix, one would say, was dangerous to have living in the city, let alone participating in its decision-making in the Assembly and Council. The moral pollution of Timarchus would also be offensive to the gods, with obvious dangers for the city’s policies and safety (cf. §§19, 188). Certainly Aeschines managed to persuade the dicasts by effectively employing several coexistent and interwoven rhetorical tactics. He supplemented the construction of Timarchus’ rhetorical identity with the presentation of his own personality as diametrically opposite to that of his opponent. Throughout the whole speech Aeschines emerges as a representative of the chief democratic values of ‘moderation’ (metriotēs) and ‘self-control’ (sōphrosunē). The construction of his own persona is reinforced by moral appeals to a whole package of laws regulating sexual conduct, allegedly issued by Solon (§§6‒36, also 138‒139), and thus to the Solonian ideal of a worthy citizen,56 to politicians of the past (Aristides, Themistocles, Pericles) in §25, and to moral anecdotes from Sparta and early Athens (§§180‒184). By making use of many tactics he constructs a shared cultural identity between himself (the prosecutor) and the dicasts with reference to the values associated with education and sexual relations, in contrast to Timarchus and his supporters, Demosthenes, Hegesander, and the unnamed general.57 His appeals to traditional moral values must have taken advantage of Athenian conservatism during the period of the trial, generated by the political, cultural, and moral crisis perceived in Athens in the 340s and 330s, when the city was threatened by Philip.58 At the same time, while emphasizing certain moral virtues, he avoided introducing any elite associations into the value system he was presenting, which could have annoyed the dicasts.59 Aeschines undoubtedly gained support for his case by evoking disgust

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against Timarchus, his body, and his lifestyle,60 and he certainly made excellent use of his oratorical skills and ‘sense of theatre’, that is, he successfully created a link between his opponents’ performance and physical appearance in the public space of Athens and their alleged depravity.61 These and many more rhetorical techniques assisted Aeschines in the skilled construction of the identity of Timarchus as a middle-aged man, permanently addicted to shameful desires, which was in my view a prime strategy of the speech. Even if only half of what Aeschines claimed about Timarchus’ behaviour as an addict were true, the Athenians had to expel him from the public life of the city. That is exactly what they did.

Notes 1 I am grateful to Prof. Nick Fisher for his comments on a draft of this chapter. My warm thanks are due to the editors of the present volume and the anonymous reviewer of the original book proposal sent to Routledge. I also wish to thank the S.A.R.G. of the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens for the financial support. 2 On the dating of the trial see Harris (1985) 376‒380, Fisher (2001) 6‒8. 3 The collocation is repeated five times in the speech at §§3, 28, 38, 180, 188. 4 On the dokimasia rhētorōn see MacDowell (2005) and Gagliardi (2005). 5 One may plausibly assume that the usual penalty for the prosecutor who dropped the prosecution or failed to secure one fifth of the dicastic vote also applied to a trial initiated by ‘a scrutiny of the public speakers’, see Harrison (1971) 205. 6 See Harris (1995), in particular 95‒106, who describes the political climate as unfavourable for Aeschines. Kapparis (2018) 189‒190, 205, 252‒253, on the other hand, argues that Aeschines grasped the momentum and scored an unexpected victory in court since at this particular period the political setting was favourable for Aeschines and those who advocated a peaceful accommodation with Philip. I cannot but agree that in a political trial the political climate certainly counts. However, since there is only a single reference to the political contest behind the current trial, included cursorily in the expected boasts of Demosthenes (§174), one could plausibly assume that if the political setting had been favourable to Aeschines’ policy, the latter would have referred more to current politics. The absence of such a discussion from the speech would suggest at least that the political climate was so fluid and unpredictable that Aeschines himself was not feeling confident about it and tried to avoid mentioning it. 7 On Hegesippus and Hegesander see Davies (2011). 8 On the possible identification of the ‘general’ with either of the men called Diopeithes of Sounion (see §63), both belonging to the influential genos of the Salaminians, see Fisher (2001) 200‒201. The substantial difficulties Aeschines had to face in pressing this charge are aptly presented by Fisher (forthcoming). 9 Dem. 19.257, 284. 10 [Plut.] X Orat., Mor. 840–841, Schol. Aeschin. 1 Arg. 1.5 (ed. Dilts). 11 See MacDowell (2000) 205 and Fisher (2001) 22 n.71. Also, Roisman and Worthington (2015) 188‒189. 12 ‘To eat up’ is a literal translation of the Greek verb kataphagein. 13 Of course, the list of actions which defined disgraceful living in the text of the law may not necessarily have been limited to the ones mentioned by Aeschines. The orator may have chosen to limit his reference to these four because he could direct accusations against Timarchus on three of these grounds, while the fourth, the defective military record, may have been mentioned to underline the importance of all the specified actions of wrongdoing as severe public offences. 14 See §§42, 97, 101.

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15 Additionally, Timarchus was not perhaps held to be as effective an orator. 16 See §§81‒86, 125‒131, 157. Even Demosthenes at 19.233 admits that Timarchus was a target of gossip because of his sexual past. 17 On the employment of scandalous stories as evidence in Attic oratory see Hatzilambrou (forthcoming, 2020). 18 Harris (1985) 102. 19 Repeated in §§30, 31, 42, 94, 106, 154, 195. On the frequent use of such phrases with reference to an estate, see Davidson (1997) 206‒210. In employing these Aeschines made use of a common pattern of comic ridicule, that is, he identified the dissipation of Timarchus’ property with the pleasures it satisfied; see Worman (2008) 243‒247. 20 See Pl. Symp. 183a, where Pausanias describes the humiliating ways men behave towards their boyfriends: ‘supplication and entreaty, swearing oaths, sleeping in doorways, willing to submit to forms of slavery that no slave, even, would submit to’ (trans. Rowe, 1998, slightly adjusted); additionally, Xen. Mem. 1.3.9‒11 and 1.5.6, Oec. 13‒23; see also Lewis (2018) 59‒67 (63‒64 in particular), and cf. Eur. fr. 282.5 Kannicht. 21 See Winkler (1990) 56‒57, Davidson (1997) 210, 255‒257, and Lape (2006), who underscores Timarchus’ incontinence (akrasia). 22 By this I mean his contempt for laws and democracy, amounting to his preparedness to support ‘tyrants’; see the following, 55. 23 Translation of passages from Aeschines 1 is from Fisher (2001). 24 On the psychological explanation for Timarchus’ deviance see Lape (2006) 141‒144. 25 Cf. also Carey (2014) 38‒39, on the ancient Greek concept of a person’s character as something static. 26 On the use of sōphrōn and sōphrosunē in the Attic orators, see Rademaker (2005) 233‒250, especially 235‒243 on sōphrosunē meaning ‘decency in sexual matters and social interaction and moderation in expenses’. See also North (1966) 121‒149, in particular 140‒142 on the use of sōphrosunē in the speeches of Aeschines. 27 See Fisher (2001) 125‒126, on the use of the word in the speech. 28 See Lape (2006) 144, 157‒158. 29 See Dover (1978) 73‒75, Fisher (2001) 171‒172. Aeschines probably misrepresents the age of Misgolas in order to make it suit his narrative better, see Harris (1988) 211‒214. 30 See Dover (1978) 37‒38, Fisher (2001) 183‒184. 31 Analambanein/analambanesthai (‘to take someone up’/’to be taken up’) is the verb appropriately used six times in this section of the speech (§§43, 52, 53, 54, 57, 58). 32 See §§40, 51, 52 (bis), 72, 87 (bis), 138. 33 In conformity with the etymology of the word pornos (‘prostitute’) from the verb pernēmi (‘to sell’). 34 Cf. Davidson (1997) 112‒116. Indicative is the use of the word sōma (‘body’) 28 times in the speech. See also Carey (2017) 267 with n.8. 35 On the meaning and the rhetorical use of hubris in this speech, see Fisher (2005) 67‒89; there it is argued that Aeschines wished to present the hubris of Timarchus, his abusive behaviour towards himself and others, as a fundamental threat to the democratic constitution. On hubris as an antidemocratic offence see further Halperin (1990) 88‒112. 36 On the religious and social institution of supplication see Gould (1973). 37 On this classic gesture of supplication see McNiven (1982) 90. 38 See §§41, 54, 64, where the collocation ἔσχεν αὐτὸν παρ’ἑαυτῷ (‘kept him at his house’) is used. 39 Fisher (2001) 242. 40 One bribery charge must have been true because Timarchus had admitted to it, and consequently paid a fine (§113). On this complicated episode see Fisher (2001) 251‒253. However, Aeschines did not support with any testimony either this allegedly recent offence or the rest of his allegations regarding the public career of Timarchus. 41 On the relationship between incontinence and tyranny see Meulder (1989) 317‒322, Davidson (1997) 282‒283; also Wohl (2002) 215‒269.

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42 The description of Timarchus as Hegesander’s woman has been employed by the supporters of the ‘phallocentric and penetrative theory’, founded by Dover (1978) and supported by Foucault (1985), Winkler (1990), and Halperin (1990), as a clear indication of Timarchus’ sexual passivity. This would imply that Timarchus is assimilated to a woman, who is expected to be penetrated. Criticism of this argument has been provoked mainly by Davidson (1997) 167‒182 and (2007) 55‒60. With reference to the specific passage, Davidson (1997) 270‒274 believes that Timarchus’ depiction as a woman, who truly is never claimed to be effeminate in the speech, derives from his position of dependency and his surrender of independent choice for the sake of gain. Additionally, women in Greek society were stereotypically viewed as having strong sexual desires, and their yielding to these desires is interpreted as a sign that they possessed no rational control. More balanced criticism of the ‘penetration theory’, together with a critically assessed overview of the main debates regarding ancient Greek homosexuality, has recently been offered by Kapparis (2018) 187‒209, who considers it simplistic and for this reason unable to explore same-sex relationships in all their complexity. Earlier, Fisher (2001), although he argues in the commentary on §§76, 110, and 185 that womanish openness to penetration was involved in these places, acknowledges (on pp. 42‒53) valid elements on both sides of the debate and seems to conclude (see also Fisher [2000]) that one should account for competing valuations of deviations from the norms of male sexuality within Athenian society. For an overview of the main debate see also Ormand and Blondell (2015) 1‒14. 43 On interpretations of this passage in the light of the debate on the penetration/passivity of the usually younger lover in same-sex relationships, see Fisher (2001) 338‒341. 44 On the negative connotations of ‘logographer’, i.e. a paid forensic speechwriter, see Hansen (1991) 194, Whitehead (2000) 286‒287. 45 Discussed by Hesk (1999) 211‒214. 46 On this story see Fisher (2001) 316‒317. On the parallel drawn with Socrates as a dangerous teacher of tyrants (§173), see Fisher (forthcoming) 16‒18. 47 On Demosthenes referred to as kinaidos and its interpretation see Fisher (2001) 272‒273, Worman (2004) 14. On kinaidos as a type, see Winkler (1990) 176‒186, Davidson (1997) 167‒182. 48 On Aeschines’ depiction of Demosthenes in this speech see also Carey (2017) 275‒276. 49 See §§25, 52, 157. Gottesman (2014) 70 rightly wonders about the extent to which people actually described Timarchus as ‘the whore’ before the trial and the extent to which the trial contributed to this reputation. 50 See §§126, 131, 164. Demosthenes’ nickname should be translated as ‘the Arse’ according to Aeschines, and not as ‘the Stammerer’, as Demosthenes argued that it is the meaning of his nickname. On the meaning of Demosthenes’ nickname see Dover (1978) 75, Fisher (2001) 265‒267, Worman (2004) 8. 51 Translated as ‘Hair-bun’; see §§64, 71, 110. On the negative connotations that were possibly carried by this nickname, see Fisher (2001) 203. 52 On the use of nicknames to distinguish homonymous individuals, see Brock in this volume, 18. 53 In full contrast allegedly to Solon, who is represented in a statue in Salamis totally wrapped up in his clothes. On the treatment of Solon in the orators see Farenga (2006) 329‒343, Carey (2015) and (2017) 279‒281 (in this speech). 54 On this incident as narrated by Aeschines see also Sissa (1999) 160‒162, Fisher (2001) 153‒155, O’Connell (2017) 74‒79, Spatharas (2016) 134‒135. 55 See further Davidson (1997) 262‒263, 306‒307, Spatharas (2006) 374‒387, Kamen (2018) 49‒56. 56 On the tactical employment and presentation of these irrelevant to the case laws see Ford (1999) 241‒249, Fisher (2001) 127‒128, Carey (2017) 268‒270, Kapparis (2018) 190‒197, 248. 57 This strategy is analyzed by Fisher (forthcoming).

Constructing the identity of Timarchus 58 59 60 61

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See Fisher (2001) 53‒67. See Lape (2006) on Aeschines’ tactics to this end. Thoroughly discussed by Spatharas (2016) 125‒139. Illustrated by Carey (2017).

Bibliography Carey, C. (2014) ‘Μετατοπίσεις των ορίων ανάμεσα στο δημόσιο και το ιδιωτικό στους Αττικούς ρήτορες’, in L. Athanassaki, T. Nikolaidis, and D. Spatharas (eds.) Ιδιωτικός Βίος και Δημόσιος Λόγος στην Ελληνική Αρχαιότητα και στον Διαφωτισμό (Herakleio) 3‒43 Carey, C. (2015) ‘Solon in the Orators’, Trends in Classics 7, 110‒128 Carey, C. (2017) ‘Style, persona and performance in Aeschines’ prosecution of Timarchus’, in S. Papaioannou, A. Serafim, and B. da Vela (eds.) The theatre of justice: aspects of performance in Greco-Roman oratory and rhetoric (Leiden) 275‒282 Davidson, J.N. (1997) Courtesans and fishcakes: the consuming passions of classical Athens (London) Davidson, J.N. (2007) The Greeks and Greek love: a radical reappraisal of homosexuality in ancient Greece (London) Davies, J.K. (2011) ‘Hegesippos of Sounion: an underrated politician’, in S.D. Lambert (ed.) Sociable man: essays on ancient Greek social behaviour in honour of Nick Fisher (Swansea) 11‒24 Dilts, M.R. (ed.) (1992) Scholia in Aeschinem (Stuttgart and Leipzig) Dover, K.J. (1978) Greek homosexuality (London) Farenga, V. (2006) Citizen and self in ancient Greece: individuals performing justice and the law (Cambridge) Fisher, N. (2000) Review of Davidson (1997), CR 50, 507‒508 Fisher, N. (2001) Aeschines, against Timarchus (Oxford) Fisher, N. (2005) ‘Body-abuse: the rhetoric of hybris in Aeschines’ Against Timarchos’, in J.-M. Bertrand (ed.) La violence dans les mondes grec et romain (Paris) 67‒89 Fisher, N. (forthcoming) ‘Creating a cultural community: Aeschines, Timarchus and Demosthenes’, in A Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, F. Beneventano della Corte, and A. Vatri (eds.) The rhetoric of unity and division in ancient literature (Berlin and Boston) Ford, A. (1999) ‘Reading Homer from the rostrum’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.) Performance culture and Athenian democracy (Cambridge) 231‒256 Foucault, M. (1985) The history of sexuality, volume II: The use of pleasure, translated by R. Hurley (New York) Gagliardi, L. (2005) ‘The Athenian procedure of dokimasia of orators. A response to Douglas M. MacDowell’, in R.W. Wallace and M. Gagarin (eds.) Symposion 2001: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 89‒97 Gottesman, A. (2014) Politics and the street in democratic Athens (Cambridge) Gould, J. (1973) ‘Hiketeia’, JHS 93, 74‒103 Halperin, D.M. (1990) One hundred years of homosexuality: and other essays on Greek love (New York) Hansen, M.H. (1991) The Athenian democracy in the age of Demosthenes: structure, principles and ideology, translated by J.A. Crook (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (1985) ‘The date of the trial of Timarchus’, Hermes 113, 376‒380 Harris, E.M. (1988) ‘When was Aeschines born?’, CPh 83, 211‒214 Harris, E.M. (1995) Aeschines and Athenian politics (Oxford) Harrison, A.R.W. (1971) The law of Athens, volume II: the family and property (Oxford)

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Hatzilambrou, R. (forthcoming, 2020) ‘Scandals as evidence in attic forensic oratory’, in A. Markantonatos (ed.) Witnesses and evidence: information and decision in drama and oratory from antiquity to Byzantium (Berlin and New York) Hesk, J. (1999) ‘The rhetoric of anti-rhetoric in Athenian oratory’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.) Performance culture and Athenian democracy (Cambridge) 201‒230 Kamen, D. (2018) ‘The consequences of laughter in Aeschines’ Against Timarchos’, Archimède 5, 49‒56 Kannicht, R. (ed.) (2004) Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, volume 5: Euripides (Göttingen) Kapparis, K. (2018) Prostitution in the ancient Greek world (Berlin and Boston) Lape, S. (2006) ‘The psychology of prostitution in Aeschines’ speech against Timarchus’, in C.A. Faraone and L.K. McClure (eds.) Prostitutes and courtesans in the ancient world (Madison) 139‒160 Lewis, D.M. (2018) Greek slave systems in their Mediterranean context c. 800‒146 B.C. (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (2000) Demosthenes, on the false embassy (Oration 19) (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (2005) ‘The Athenian procedure of dokimasia of orators’, in R.W. Wallace and M. Gagarin (eds.) Symposion 2001: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 80‒87 McNiven, T.J. (1982) Gestures in Attic vase painting: use and meaning, 550–450 B.C., diss. University of Michigan (Michigan) Meulder, M. (1989) ‘Timarque, un être tyrannique dépeint par Éschine’, Les Études Classiques 57, 317‒322 North, H. (1966) Sophrosyne: self-knowledge and self-restraint in Greek literature (Ithaca, NY and New York) O’Connell, P.A. (2017) The rhetoric of seeing in Attic forensic oratory (Austin, TX) Ormand, K. and Blondell, R. (2015) ‘Introduction: one hundred and twenty-five years of homosexuality’, in R. Blondell and K. Ormand (eds.) Ancient sex: new essays, classical memories/modern identities (Columbus, OH) 1‒22 Rademaker, A. (2005) Sophrosyne and the rhetoric of self-restraint: polysemy and persuasive use of an ancient Greek value term (Leiden and Boston) Roisman, J. and Worthington, I. (2015) Lives of the Attic orators: texts from Pseudo-Plutarch, Photius, and the Suda (Oxford) Rowe, C.J. (1998) Plato, symposium (Warmister) Sissa, G. (1999) ‘Sexual bodybuilding: Aeschines against Timarchus’, in J.I. Porter (ed.) Constructions of the classical body (Ann Arbor, MI) 147–168 Spatharas, D. (2006) ‘Persuasive ΓΕΛΩΣ: public speaking and the use of laughter’, Mnemosyne 59, 374‒387 Spatharas, D. (2016) ‘Sex, politics, and disgust in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus’, in D. Lateiner and D. Spatharas (eds.) The ancient emotion of disgust (Oxford) 125‒139 Whitehead, D. (2000) Hypereides: the forensic speeches (Oxford) Winkler, J.J. (1990) The constraints of desire: the anthropology of sex and gender in ancient Greece (New York and London) Wohl, V. (2002) Love among the ruins: the erotics of democracy in classical Athens (Princeton, NJ) Worman, N. (2004) ‘Insult and oral excess in the disputes between Aeschines and Demosthenes’, AJPh 125, 1‒25 Worman, N. (2008) Abusive mouths in classical Athens (Cambridge)

4

Constructing gender identity Women in Athenian trials Konstantinos Kapparis

Introduction The traditional view that women were excluded from access to the courts of the Athenian democracy was formed on the basis that women did not speak in person either as litigants for the prosecution or the defence, or as witnesses, and has been widely accepted in the literature since the 1980s.1 As far as we can tell, this was not dictated by a specific law, but by custom and traditional social norms of respectability. While the ancient world was prepared to accept and admire the rhetorical prowess of a few exceptional women, like Aspasia or the Epicurean Themista,2 it seems that for a woman appearing and speaking before 200 strange men was beyond what society could tolerate. Appearing before an arbitrator in a less intimidating and more intimate and relaxed setting was acceptable, and we know of several instances where women appeared in person before an arbitrator to give evidence about matters of immediate concern to them or swear oaths.3 This suggests that the Athenians in principle did not consider the testimony of women to be unreliable or untrustworthy; simply, public life, of which the courts were an important part in the classical period, was identified as the privileged and exclusive domain of men, and women did not belong to it. It is not difficult to answer the question: how could women have access to the legal system if they did not speak in court? As we would not appear in court to speak in person, but we do so through an advocate, a legal professional speaking and acting on our behalf, Athenian women needed to access the legal system through an advocate, usually a male relative who acted as their representative,4 but sometimes through a professional too, who was hired to see through the case, supposedly not for profit, but out of friendship, and we know of several speeches delivered by professional advocates representing women.5 Women’s access level to the legal system was more limited compared to male litigants, but access limitations do not amount to complete exclusion, or as Lin Foxfall puts it, the entire issue is more nuanced and more complicated than simply full inclusion or exclusion.6 The orators customarily built the identities of male litigants as dutiful, lawabiding citizens, adhering closely to the ideals of the democratic constitution, performing their liturgies, military service, and public service to the city, and

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also as benevolent family men caring for those in their charge, or the opposite of this, when it was desired to present a man as a bad citizen and a bad father, son, brother, or husband. None of these topics or building blocks would be of any use in the creation of the identity of female litigants. An entirely different set of tools was needed, whether speaking in praise of a woman or building the identity of a villain, a dangerous and deceptive female who poses grave danger for men falling under her spell. In the following sections I have chosen three cases for the study of the litigation tools employed for the construction of feminine identity, each presenting its own challenges and coming from different angles. One is the portrayal of a centrally important female character in a case for which we have two extant speeches. The construction of the identity of Plangon, an Athenian woman from a good but impoverished family, as a dangerous seductress, no different from a perilous hetaira capable of leading an infatuated man to his doom and vanquishing his oikos, is the backbone upon which the second speech, Against Boeotus, on the dowry, has been built. The second case is about the identity of a legend, that of the hetaira Phryne. I argue that this identity is on trial more than the actual woman herself or any actions she allegedly took to break the law. The third case is a challenging reconstruction of the case against the hetaira Aristagora. Here, again, it seems that the constructed identity of the hetaira, skilled in poisons and love philtres, lewd and dangerously seductive, who had acted with blatant disregard for the immigration laws of the city, went on trial. In all three instances, the entire case rests almost completely upon the constructed identity of the woman at the centre of the dispute, and this is why its generation has been done with extraordinary skill and precision. These cases are particularly significant for our understanding of the processes and mechanisms in the construction of female identity in the Attic orators.

Plangon: how to call a woman a ‘whore’ without saying the word7 Two speeches survive in the Corpus Demosthenicum delivered by Mantitheus, the son of Mantias from the deme of Thoricus, in trials against his reputed halfbrothers, Mantitheus (whom he calls Boeotus, and in order to avoid confusion I will also call Boeotus hereafter) and Pamphilus. This was not a loving family. The bitterness and ill-feeling in the relationships among the men and their parents went back a generation, and it is difficult to decide what to believe from the pile of accusations the one side from whom we have two speeches is heaping upon the other. These accusations are not random; they come in certain patterns with specific objectives, the purpose of which is to appeal to specific prejudices and fears of the jury. Morality, economics, and socio-cultural stereotypes are put to work in order to establish a narrative according to which the property and family name of the affluent legitimate son of Mantias are targeted by impoverished men and their shady mother. How closely this narrative matches the facts of the case is a more complicated matter.

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The two speeches delivered by Mantitheus against his half-brothers differ quite substantially in terms of technique and objectives. The first appears to be about identities, and only indirectly about property matters, but we should be under no illusion that the real contest in this speech too is about property. It is widely accepted as a genuine Demosthenic text, and beyond reasonable doubt it was unsuccessful in court.8 Although it is a more subtle and sophisticated speech than the second, it did not succeed probably because what the half-brother of Mantitheus was doing, namely going by the name of Mantitheus too, was not illegal. Mantitheus argues that his brother had been named Boeotus, after his maternal uncle, and that he only later usurped the name of the father of Mantias. Boeotus argues that, since he was the eldest son, he was named Mantitheus after the father of Mantias, according to the Greek custom of naming the eldest son after his paternal grandfather. Our speaker disputes this by arguing that Boeotus was actually younger, the offspring of an extramarital affair between Mantias and Plangon, the mother of Boeotus, and quite possibly not even the son of Mantias at all. The two men seemingly were of similar age, so one could not tell for sure who was older from their appearance.9 A third possibility suggests itself, if my understanding of the case is correct. I am inclined to believe that Mantias married Plangon, but then divorced her after a bitter and ruthlessly angry quarrel. Could it be the case that he suspected infidelity, and in response, not only cast her out, but even refused to recognize the two sons born during their marriage, seemingly because he doubted their paternity?10 Under such circumstances, it is not unlikely that both sons had actually been named Mantitheus, the name of the father of Mantias. Before the divorce Mantias named his first son Mantitheus after his father and his second son Pamphilus after his wife’s father.11 After the divorce, he cast out Plangon and her sons, and did not want anything to do with them, and he even refused to recognize and legitimize them until they were adults because he wasn’t sure any more that they were his sons; he married again and named the son from his second wife Mantitheus too because he wanted to give his father’s name to the one son about whose paternity he was sure. Thus, when he was arm-twisted into formally recognizing his two sons by Plangon, the family ended up with the strange situation where two men named ‘Mantitheus, the son of Mantias of Thoricus’ were around. The argumentation of the first speech revolves around the men of the family and their quarrels. Plangon, the woman who seems to have been at the heart of the acrimony, is only mentioned in passing, and in the one instance where she is mentioned by name, we can see a purpose to this reference, even though there is still a hint of disrespect to it.12 Clearly the failure of this approach led Mantitheus to change tactics in the second speech. First, he hired another logographer, one that had less compunction about insulting the opponent and his mother and portraying the entire family as a gang of crooks, pushed to desperation by poverty and social rejection. The ethopoeia carries much more weight in the second speech. The gloves are off, and the speaker’s line of argumentation is to prove that Plangon did not come into the house of Mantias

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with a dowry, simply because she was not a wife, not even a concubine; she was nothing more than a paramour, a passionate love affair of the kind that an Athenian man could have with a hetaira. Plangon here is turned into the main villain behind all the ills that have befallen Mantias and his sons. Her portrayal as an immoral, manipulative woman is remarkably vivid and rich, and the orator skilfully builds an identity which would rather match a hetaira than a respectable Athenian woman from a good family. Much depends on the success of this identity building. If Mantitheus succeeds in persuading the jury that Plangon was nothing more than a hetaira, then he has a higher chance of winning this case, but if he fails, there is no hard proof to counter the claim of his opponent that Plangon had been a lawful wife and had entered the house of Mantias with a substantial dowry. The actual merits of the case are outside the scope of our study to discuss in considerable detail. Here it is my purpose to explore the portrayal of Plangon and to discuss briefly how the orator builds the identity of an Athenian hetaira in his attempt to argue that the mother of his opponent had not been a legitimate wife on account of this. This approach is familiar to us because it is largely the line of argumentation which Isaeus adopted in speech 3 On the estate of Pyrrhus, where he is attempting to disqualify from the line of inheritance a woman named Phile, at the time of the trial married to an Athenian man, which would have been illegal in the fourth century if the woman were not Athenian.13 The unknown author of the second speech against Boeotus uses even more elaborate techniques, to the point that the reader would have good reasons to believe that Plangon at some point of her life had indeed been a hetaira. First, Plangon is mentioned by name eight times in the second speech. The orators did not customarily speak about their womenfolk by their first names, and this included the womenfolk of the opponent.14 A strong social convention required some decorum when respectable Athenian women were mentioned in court. Mentioning a woman by her first name would be a sign of excessive familiarity and was deemed inappropriate, and this is why women are typically mentioned by the name of their husbands, fathers, brothers, or other male relatives. This is why, when we come across a woman being mentioned by name in the Attic orators, we are to understand that she is not respectable, at least in the perception of the litigant who mentioned her by her first name. Therefore, to mention Plangon by name eight times was a deliberate act of disrespect and undoubtedly implied that she did not deserve the courtesy typically extended to reputable Athenian matrons. But perhaps there is even more to it than meets the eye. A famous woman with the same name, Plangon of Miletus, lived in Athens around that time, a true celebrity who provided inspiration for comic poets and fictional characters for centuries after her lifetime.15 It may not be an accident that Mantitheus keeps repeating the name of Plangon. In all probability he is intentionally trying to suggest, at least to those members of the jury who knew the notorious hetaira only by reputation, that it is the same woman as the former wife of Mantias, or at least to create an association between the two

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women at a subconscious level. A sustained volley of innuendoes and carefully crafted remarks throughout the speech is intended to create the impression that Plangon was a seductive hetaira before, during, and after her cohabitation with Mantias. A deliberate and subtle confusion of identities would serve his purposes well at this point. While he did not go so far as to say the word hetaira, probably because he was worried that it might backfire to call his opponent’s mother a ‘whore’, he certainly uses every means available to him to say the same thing without the use of scandalously offensive language. First, he uses vocabulary which would imply an association with a hetaira to describe the relationship between Mantias and Plangon. The verb plēsiazein (‘to associate with’) certainly implied the type of relationship an Athenian man would have with a prostitute, but not with a wife, as is confirmed by its repeated employment in the speech Against Neaira, to indicate the relationships of the famous hetaira with her various lovers, and also in Isaeus to imply the relationships between the alleged hetaira of Pyrrhus and various unnamed lovers. The orator’s comment that Plangon was exquisitely attractive (euprepēs tēn opsin ousa) is not said in praise. Comments about someone’s good physique and beautiful looks in the Attic orators typically imply improper use of nature’s gifts for immoral purposes.16 The repeated references to his father’s desire for Plangon and the passionate relationship between the two which she meticulously cultivated and manipulated are not benign either. While in private life men in Athens could feel passion and intense desire for their wives, in public discourse they were expected to speak of respectable Athenian women with restraint and gentle affection, occasionally extolling their virtues and good character, but certainly not the steamy details of how desirable and inspiring they were in the bedroom. The discourse of unbridled hedonism was reserved for prostitutes or adulterous liaisons.17 Passionate love affairs, accompanied by epic quarrels, like those of Mantias with Plangon,18 again do not fit into the pattern of a respectable Athenian household. Apollodorus used the same theme in order to imply that Phrastor was frequently quarrelling with his wife before he divorced her, after suspecting that she was a hetaira of foreign birth, and not the Athenian woman whom he thought he had married.19 Brawls might be a frequent occurrence in brothels and in the houses of hetairai, but not in proper Athenian homes. The repeated references to the extravagance of Plangon serve the same purpose. Respectable Athenian women were expected to be prudent and frugal managers of their households.20 Prostitutes, on the other hand, were notorious as money traps which could lead a man to financial ruin, and as I have argued before, this was the prevailing anxiety in the ancient world about affairs with prostitutes. Mantitheus keeps telling the jury that Plangon was extravagant and, in images which remind us of the Socratic Theodote, that she was surrounded by many servants and that she demanded that Mantias should finance her whims blinded by his desire: Their mother Plangon had to pay for their maintenance, and she kept many servants, and lived extravagantly herself, and expected my father to

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pay for all these because she had him under her spell, and was forcing him to spend a great deal of money on her. ([Dem.] 40.51) His description of the attitude and behaviour of Plangon, her extravagance, and the demands which she was making upon Mantias are themes very familiar from the narrative of Apollodorus about Neaira and numerous other sources outlining the dangers for the finances of the household if a man was careless enough to get too deeply involved with pricy hetairai.21 At some point, when it suits his purposes, he stretches the argument in the opposite direction, arguing that if Mantias had continued to pay for two households, there would have been no inheritance left for Mantitheus and his half-brothers. Although the argument may seem contradictory, because it would imply that Mantias actually did not finance the lavish lifestyle of Plangon, it serves the same purpose of expounding the dangers of men getting involved with extravagant hetairai and unmistakably suggests to the jury that Plangon’s conduct was that of the hetaira. Mantitheus is carefully crafting the identity of an Athenian hetaira, and even though he does not use the actual word, perhaps worried about the reaction of the jury to such dramatic allegations, he certainly invites them to perceive the mother of his opponents as a paramour, an improper liaison of his father forged by unbridled passions. Plangon’s identity is that of a dangerous seductress, a Circe or a Siren, who has led Mantias to insidious mistakes. We are assured that Mantias eventually became aware of the quality of the woman with whom he had been involved and for many years tried to atone for his mistakes by taking a lawful wife, having a respectable family and a legitimately born child from her, and cutting off the seductress and her brood until he was tricked and cornered into accepting her offspring into his family again, only because of his naivety and good nature. We are therefore invited to be sympathetic with Mantias and to forgive the mistakes he made under the influence of the dangerous seductress. Mantitheus had no proof that Plangon had not brought a dowry into the house of Mantias. In fact, it would be most unlikely that the daughter of a prosperous Athenian man, like Pamphilus the father of Plangon before his ruin, was given in marriage without a dowry. And it is possible that his half-brothers were able to provide witnesses present at the betrothal (enguē) of Plangon to Mantias, even though a great deal of time certainly had passed, perhaps even more than a quarter of a century. Although it is not clearly stated, it seems that Plangon was probably alive at the time of this trial, otherwise with all the insults that Mantitheus is piling up upon her, he would be risking breaking the law against speaking ill of the dead.22 If indeed this was the case, it is very likely that Plangon knew people who could testify about her marriage to Mantias and the dowry she brought into his oikos. Conceivably, if the divorce happened after the ruin of Pamphilus, both families had decided that it would be best if the dowry were not returned at once because then it would go along with the rest of the property of Pamphilus to the public treasury. Perhaps an arrangement had been made so that the children of Plangon and Mantias could be provided from the

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interest of the dowry, which would be beneficial for everyone: Mantias would not have to pay for the boys out of his own purse, the family of Plangon would not lose the dowry, and one day the boys could claim it for themselves. Such an arrangement would have been reasonable for all, but of course we should never expect Mantitheus to mention such a possibility. So when his half-brothers, with good reason, asked for their mother’s dowry, his best chance of evading repayment was not a straight fight on the merits of the case, but a fabricated identity for Plangon as an Athenian hetaira. Should we, on account of this, exclude the possibility that she had truly been a hetaira at some point? My instinct is to take a cautious approach to this matter. An exquisitely attractive woman from a family which had been reduced to destitution with no foreseeable prospect of financial recovery, and who, by the looks of it, had the well-being of her entire natal family and her children on her shoulders, would be a prime candidate for taking up prostitution23 and using her good looks to provide for her family in desperate circumstances.24 So, it is possible that Mantitheus and his speechwriter did not invent Plangon the hetaira out of thin air, but nonetheless we should be in no doubt that if she ever took lovers in order to make ends meet, this would have happened in the desperate times after her divorce and the ruin of her father and brothers, and not before or during her marriage to Mantias. The identity of the Athenian hetaira, lover of Mantias, whom the author of the speech has created, was a carefully crafted literary construct, designed to meet the needs of this case and to win indirectly a fight which might be difficult to win otherwise by suggesting to the jury that Plangon could not have brought a dowry because she had not been the wife of Mantias, but his hetaira.

Phryne: constructing the identity of a legend The trial of the hetaira Phryne for impiety around the middle of the fourth century has captivated artists and scholars throughout the millennia, to the point that some scholars dispute that it even happened. There is no need for scepticism at this basic level because we actually have extracts from both the prosecution and the defence speeches, which seemingly had survived into the Byzantine era. Especially, the defence speech of Hypereides was a much admired specimen of Attic forensic oratory and had been translated into Latin by Messala. Quintilian, who quotes the opening words of the Latin translation (bene fecit Euthia), admired the urbanitas of the speech, with the remark that it was a virtue rarely attained by Roman orators.25 From the prosecution speech of Euthias we have an important citation which summarizes the prosecution of Phryne as follows (Anonymus Seg. Ars Rhet. 215 Hammer): Phryne is on trial for impiety, because she was carousing in the Lycaeum and introduced a new god, and put together groups (thiasoi) 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

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together illicit groups of men and women.’ At this point he is only providing the mere facts of the case. As previously argued, these charges deliberately mirror the successful prosecution of Socrates for impiety. Like Socrates, Phryne was accused of introducing new deities, being contemptuous of traditional religious rites, and having a corrupting influence upon the young men of Athens. Harpocration informs us that the deity whom Phryne was accused of introducing to Athens was Isodaites, probably a sympotic deity identified with Dionysus by Plutarch, with Pluto or a son of Pluto by Hesychius, and with the Sun by the Lexica Segueriana.26 The reference in the Lexica Segueriana is very helpful for clearing up the confusion. The sun is called isodaites (with small iota) because death is equal for all, we are told; the same surely applies to Pluto. This means that Isodaites as a deity (and not an adjective applied to the god) was indeed some exotic deity, identified with Dionysus and the sympotic space, unrelated to Pluto or the Sun. Perhaps he was a minor deity overseeing fair portions for the guests and seemingly worshipped by prostitutes, the women who belonged to the sympotic space (Harp. s.v.: ξενικός τις δαίμων, ᾧ τὰ δημώδη γύναια καὶ μὴ πάνυ σπουδαῖα ἐτέλει). Beyond this point it is difficult to assess the rest of the charges. It appears that Phryne was accused of hosting parties (ekōmasen) in an educational establishment, which could be perceived as an attempt to corrupt the young students of the Lycaeum. She was also accused of putting together illicit religious associations (thiasoi) of men and women; this last charge was perhaps the most serious as it could be seen as a mockery of traditional religious groups. Several people had already been put to death in Athens after similar accusations. Phryne was one of several women prosecuted for impiety around the middle of the fourth century. This concentration of impiety cases against women has puzzled scholars and has been the subject of a recent monograph by Esther Eidinow. She argues for a complex web of reasons, among which emotions like envy played a role. Jakub Filonik in his excellent article on impiety in the Athenian legal system offers a compelling explanation that these cases are located at a turning-point of Athenian history when the old city-state and its ideals were about to give ground to a new world with radically different geopolitical, ethnic, and cultural identities. I am convinced that at this turning-point women like Phryne, Theoris of Lemnos, and Ninos the priestess, who were challenging boundaries, traditional gender roles, and long-established socio-cultural stereotypes, were seen as a serious threat to the established order, just as this world order was starting to collapse under the weight of an unstoppable threat from the north. While a comprehensive account of these cases is beyond the scope of this study, the construction of the identity of Phryne in the context of this trial has much to teach us about the strategies which Athenian advocates and logographers employed in the trials involving women litigants.27 Later antiquity probably found the actual charges against Phryne too pedestrian and obscure; something more dramatic was needed to match her fame.

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Thus a story went into circulation according to which Phryne disrobed during the festival of Poseidon at Eleusis and went into the water nude. When she came out, people believed that they were seeing Aphrodite. Athenaeus, with good reason, counters this story by telling us that Phryne never appeared nude in public, not even in the baths, because she was saving her exquisite physique for those who paid dearly to see her naked. Craig Cooper in a high impact study of the mythology surrounding Phryne has effectively disproved much of the narrative about her from later antiquity.28 In all probability this part of the story, which has been a source of inspiration for numerous artists, is a tale from later antiquity with no truth in it. The charges as we have them from the citation from the speech of Euthias do not mention anything about nudity in a public temple, as they should have if this were the primary accusation. In this tale we should see nothing more than a salacious, erotic fiction. Cooper, and almost every other study in recent years, have also disputed the veracity of the story of her disrobement in court. The story does not appear in any contemporary or near contemporary source, but it really should, considering how striking and unconventional such an act would have been in an Athenian court-room. Hypereides, her advocate, supposedly lost confidence in his ability to extricate her from the danger of execution because he felt that the judges had made up their minds and were not listening to his words any more, and in a shocking move he pulled off her garment and showed the court her naked body, begging them not to kill the beautiful servant of Aphrodite.29 It was a sensational gesture which changed the outcome of the trial and led to Phryne’s acquittal. Previous scholarship for the most part has rejected this tale as yet another sensational story belonging to Phryne’s mythology. However, recently Peter O’Connell, in his monograph on visual evidence in Athenian courts, raises the possibility that Hypereides might have actually tried such a visual stunt.30 Bold and provocative as it might have been, a daring visual stunt would not be unprecedented in an Athenian court.31 It is impossible to know whether this was yet another inspirational legend or a hard to believe true story. Eleonora Cavallini has convincingly argued that Phryne was the creator of her own myth. Like several other wealthy hetairai of her time, she was spending part of her wealth on dedications and monuments of self-aggrandizement, with one difference: she did this on a much larger scale than anyone before her and with much more splendour and good taste.32 The famous statues of herself, Aphrodite, and Eros which she commissioned stood among the images of kings in Delphi.33 The connotation was obvious: Phryne the hetaira, who started life very humbly, as a poor Thespian girl from a dispossessed immigrant community that had taken refuge in Athens, had reached a status equal to that of kings and heroes. Surely this should have had an effect on any Athenian visiting Delphi, a mix of admiration, envy, and indignation for such insolence. In such actions we can very clearly see Phryne as the creator of her own myth. These statues were greatly admired in the coming centuries, copies were made in the Roman period, for some time they were even hosted in the imperial palaces of

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Rome, and along with their fame the legend of the woman who commissioned them and posed for them grew accordingly. It is difficult to separate the legend from the facts of the trial, but in a sense it may not be necessary because we should be in no doubt that it was not Phryne the woman who sat in the dock on that day, but Phryne the legend. Phryne was prosecuted because she had pushed boundaries and provoked a reaction among more conservative circles in Athenian society with her ostentatious self-aggrandizement, and it stands to reason that this persona, and not the real woman, was put on trial. Euthias, her prosecutor, perhaps quite successfully built the identity of a provocative, impious, hedonistic hetaira, a true danger to the young people of Athens and to the religious institutions of the city. He could have succeeded, as the prosecutors of Socrates did, when they piled up similar charges on the philosopher, but he was thwarted by the brilliant defence of Hypereides. Whether it was his splendid and urbane speech, or perhaps some unconventional visual stunts, we will never know for sure, and as I have suggested before, perhaps it is better this way. It is difficult to know the extent to which the prosecution and defence speeches from this trial, which had survived into the Byzantine era, forged the legend of Phryne in later antiquity. But one thing is certain: this unconventional trial captured the public imagination to an extent that no other Athenian trial has, perhaps with the exception of the trial of Socrates. In both cases it seems that we are fascinated by the injustice and mesmerized by the magic of these inspirational figures.

The vendetta against Aristagora Among the fragments of Hypereides two prosecution speeches are attested as having been delivered against the hetaira Aristagora, accused of immigration violations. Aristagora was prosecuted for not having a prostatēs (namely an Athenian sponsor). If our information that the only role of the prostatēs was to sponsor a metic at the initial process of registration is correct, this effectively meant that Aristagora was accused of not being registered as a metic at all, even though she was an alien woman living independently and working in Athens. In a previous publication I have argued that women who were living as concubines of Athenian men did not need to register as independent metics since they were part of an Athenian oikos.34 If this is correct, it could help us explain how Aristagora, and several other alien hetairai of her time got into trouble with the immigration laws of Athens. We are informed that Aristagora was for some time the concubine of Hypereides, but the relationship seems to have broken down at some point. While Aristagora was a concubine in an Athenian oikos, she was part of that household and as such not obligated to register as an independent metic woman. However, when the relationship broke down and Aristagora was no longer a member of an Athenian oikos, she needed to take a prostates and register as a metic, paying the six drachmas a year metic tax due for independent metic women. It seems that Aristagora, like other women in her position mentioned in the Attic orators, was not quick enough to register as a

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metic, perhaps because she was hoping to find another lover in the meantime and join his household as a concubine. Hypereides here seems to be acting as a vengeful former lover, and, taking advantage of her failure to register as a metic, he prosecuted his former mistress for being an illegal immigrant. Idomeneus attests that Aristagora was one of three women kept as concubines by the orator Hypereides.35 Such an arrangement would not be illegal, but it would be very costly since each woman needed to be kept in a separate residence, and it had in-built potential for endless quarrels, jealousy, hurt feelings, and back-stabbing. In the light of this we should not be surprised to see that the relationship with Aristagora fell apart, and a protracted, acrimonious battle followed before the courts, the sole purpose of which seems to be revenge. Among the three women the super-costly (polutelestatē) Myrrhine was the favourite concubine, if we can judge by the fact that she was established in the main residence in Athens. Idomeneus informs us that for her sake Hypereides had a fight with his son and expelled him from the family home. Phila, the woman established in the residence at Eleusis, eventually ended up being the housekeeper of that residence. It seems that in this case, when the erotic passions subsided, the relationship of Hypereides with the ageing hetaira was able to transition into a friendship and a business arrangement beneficial for both. Aristagora on the other hand seems to have been a wild card who would never be content with second place or a housekeeper’s assignment. A letter of Philostratus, which enumerates famous accessories of the hetairai of classical Athens, mentions that Aristagora was renowned for her pharmaka. The word pharmakon means medicine, poison, or philtre; it was used for any cocktail or concoction which truly or allegedly had exceptional powers, natural or supernatural. It is not difficult for us to reconcile ourselves with the idea that in those early days of pharmacology the difference between a medicinal potion, a poison, or a love philtre was one of intent, and the beneficial or deleterious effects of such substances were simply the result of dosage and mode of administration. It is no wonder that such substances were often mistrusted, and those who traded in them were feared and believed to possess powers far beyond the actual effects of their concoctions, often apocryphal powers which had the ability to insidiously harm someone without his knowledge. Theoris of Lemnos was prosecuted for impiety and executed as a pharmakis, while the unfortunate concubine of Philoneus in Antiphon 1, who poisoned and unwittingly killed her partner and his friend, the father of the prosecutor, believing that she was administering them a love philtre, was also sentenced to death. In fictional literature those apocryphal powers of women, often with deleterious effects, were celebrated in heroines like Medea, the tragic Deianira, or the love-struck witch performing a magic ritual with abundant humour in the Pharmakeutria of Theocritus (Idylls 2). Hypereides seemingly made references to these apocryphal powers of Aristagora as a pharmakis in order to prejudice the jury against her. Harpocration informs us that Hypereides mentioned spiders in the trial, with the additional comment that they are poisonous (tōn daketōn). It is likely that spiders were mentioned as part of the arsenal of a poisoner.

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These references, however meagre, build up the identity of a formidable and intimidating woman and help us understand how Hypereides planned his angle of assault against his former mistress. The actual procedure followed in her prosecution seems to be strange. The graphē aprostasiou was a public lawsuit, and as such we should have only one speech Against Aristagora.36 The fact that we have clear references to two speeches implies two different trials. However, two different lawsuits for the same offence, as our sources seem to imply, were not permitted in Athenian law. The answer is probably provided by Harpocration (s.v. δωροξενία) which hints that the second was a dōroxenias case. The unhappy prosecutor, who believed that the defendant in a case of xenia been acquitted in the first trial through bribery (dōrōn), could reopen the case under the dōroxenias provisions. However, strictly speaking the case against Aristagora was not a graphē xenias,37 but a graphē aprostasiou. Her prosecutor did not dispute her citizen status; he took it for granted that she was an alien hetaira and only disputed whether she had failed to register as a metic. Procedurally this might be a problem because he gave the graphē dōroxenias a much wider definition than what its name and primary intent were meant to include. Yet the problem may not be insurmountable because at the end of the day the prosecution of an alien who had broken immigration law and escaped punishment through bribery could be considered to be within the spirit if not the letter of the law and good enough for an Athenian jury if convinced of the guilt of Aristagora. We know very little about the actual differences between the two speeches. Several sources suggest that repeated favourable references to hetairai of the past, as opposed to unfavourable references to contemporary hetairai, come from the second speech. These references were so extensive that Theon perceived the speech to be a polemic against hetairai. On the other hand there are several references to immigration law and the specifics of the case in Harpocration (s.v.) and the other lexicographers borrowing from him.38 Tentative as such a conclusion might be, it would be tempting to suggest that the first speech was a straightforward case of an immigration lawsuit, but as it failed to exact the desired vengeance from the former mistress (slavery, if she had been convicted), the second speech came from a different angle of assault. It weaponized Aristagora’s past as a hetaira and her reputation as a pharmakis, and under the thin veil of a dōroxenia lawsuit, it put on trial not so much Aristagora, the negligent alien woman, as Aristagora the prostitute, the poisoner, and the keeper of dark secrets and dark arts. Her prosecutor constructed an identity which he was confident that the members of the jury would find alarming.

Conclusions Persuasive oratory requires simplicity. As Mathieu de Bakker has correctly pointed out when discussing characterization in Lysias, this great master of ethopoeia successfully built the personae of the characters featuring in his speeches by concentrating on two or three important features in each case.39

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Abstraction and focus are essential qualities in the successful building of a persuasive identity, which may not be truthful, but it would be a more believable character than the actual person. Real human beings tend to be nuanced with textured character, chequered backgrounds, and frequently inconsistent views and beliefs. This would not play well before a jury, as it could introduce doubt and raise unwelcome questions and red flags. In this respect, the dividing line between identity and ēthopoeia is much more hazy in the orators than it would be in real life. Identities are built, rebuilt, altered, fused, and confused under the single objective of creating believable characters whom a jury can accept as real persons. The masters of oratory from its early days were well aware of the fact that one needs consistency of patterns and clarity of purpose in the establishment of the identities of characters featuring in a speech. Their portrayal of women litigants or central figures abundantly demonstrates this awareness. Plangon in the speeches against Boeotus is consistently portrayed as desperate, and as a result manipulative, but also provocative with light morals. And while the members of the jury might even empathize with a desperate woman, they were expected to feel hostility towards the provocative mistress who had influenced a respectable Athenian man to make a number of unpalatable choices. Thus, although her portrayal is far from monolithic, the identity of an Athenian hetaira which the orator successfully builds in the second speech ([Dem.] 40) is characterized by an alarming consistency. All actions of Plangon seem to be leading to the same end: how to manipulate Mantias and take advantage of him in order to secure a better life for her children and destitute family. Although this does not necessarily portray her in a bad light, the way she went about it most certainly does. The build-up of this identity has a very clear purpose. If Mantitheus succeeds in portraying Plangon as a hetaira, then she could not be a wife, since in the minds of most jurors these roles were incompatible, even if the law placed no impediment on it. Thus Mantitheus could have succeeded in his ultimate objective, which was to convince the jury that such a woman could not have brought any dowry into the affluent house of Mantias, and therefore the claims of Boeotus and Pamphilus, and even their legitimate birth and claim to citizenship, were fraudulent. It is much more difficult to see the patterns in the construction of the identities of Phryne and Aristagora from the scant fragments that have reached us, but nonetheless the same clarity of purpose and consistency seem to be present. Phryne’s prosecution could only have succeeded if the legend and not the woman herself were put on trial, just as, in the case of Socrates, the prosecution succeeded because the person who went on trial was not a poor, somewhat annoying 70-year-old man with a knack for deeply probing conversation, but the theatrical persona which Aristophanes had created a quarter of a century before the time of the trial. The man whom the jury convicted as a subversive force that threatened traditional institutions and the gods themselves had the power to turn rectitude and morality upside down and was a terrible influence upon the young men of Athens, surely as some of his most inglorious students like Critias and Alcibiades had proved. This man was not the real person

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standing before the jury, but a fictitious persona made up by a comic poet with deep awareness of the intellectual currents of his time and endless creative talent. Likewise, in this case Phryne the ostentatious hetaira, the alien woman who thought herself to be the equal of kings and heroes, and whose bad behaviour and corrupting influence were also endangering the young people of Athens and its traditional institutions, was the one who went to trial. Perhaps with a lesser advocate she would have been convicted. However, we will never know for sure whether it was the masterful speech of Hypereides, or a bold, unconventional stunt before the eyes of the court, which got her off the hook that day. The relentless prosecutor of Aristagora apparently created for her the identity of a dangerous woman, an alien hetaira with apocryphal skills as a poisoner and possibly a witch, someone who had the capability to seduce men and make them do her bidding not only with her charms, but more importantly with her potions and philtres. There is the same clarity of purpose in this portrayal and the same consistency and clarity of purpose as in the other cases. Whoever the real Aristagora may have been, it is certain that the woman who went on trial was not the vulnerable hetaira past her prime who had just fallen out with her partner and might even be in danger of losing an illegitimately born child, alluded to by Harpocration.40 Although the cards were stacked against women in such situations, still an assault from such an angle would not be guaranteed to be successful. A persona was needed, a new persuasive identity which was going to generate dicastic anger. Scaremongering against the poisoner witch has been a successful tactic many a time in history, and it seems that the theme is as old as trials by jury. Hypereides, I believe, in the second speech on the dōroxenias case, created a new identity, a character which he was convinced his fellow citizens would find sufficiently threatening to impose the severe punishment of slavery against his former mistress. Despite the limited evidence in our hands, we can consider the possibility that this woman, the poisoner, the witch, and the dangerous prostitute, who unlike the glorious beauties of the past, like Lais, Okimon, or Metaneira, did not attract men with grace and charm, but with the apocryphal powers that poisons and philtres gave her, was really on trial on that day, and probably that persona represented a much more credible threat than a middle-aged former mistress. In conclusion, the construction of women’s personae in the Attic orators was not monolithic or two-dimensional. The identities of women litigants and persons of interest in the extant speeches are constructed in response to the needs of the case with much attention to detail and what might work well in court. While gender is a major factor in the construction of these cases, their build-up is not a mere assembly of gender stereotypes; it is an imaginative array of topics which help create those images of female villains in a way that each villain is unique, believable, and memorable. The orators have constructed the identities of these women in vivid colours; they are very different from each other, and even though probably their constructed identity in court might bear little resemblance to the real person, they still appear to be truthful, real, and persuasive.

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Notes 1 See the important study of Michael Gagarin (1998) 39–51, who has collected much of the evidence on women in the Athenian court system. Gagarin still defends the traditional view that women were excluded because they could not appear in court as prosecutors or witnesses or speak for themselves. Further insights on the trials of women in fourth-century Athens can be found in Eidinow (2015); cf. Gagarin (2001), Tetlow (2004). 2 On Aspasia see the excellent monograph of Madeleine Henry (1995). The exceptional rhetorical prowess of Themista seemingly upset Cicero and Pliny the Elder because an insignificant prostitute (meretricula) had dared to compose a response against an orator as illustrious as Theophrastus (Cic. Nat. D. 1.93, Plin. HN, Praefatio 29). 3 E.g., [Dem.] 40.10–11, 59.46. 4 For example, the daughter of Diogeiton in Lys. 32 is suing her own father for the mismanagement of the property left to her children by their dead father Diodotus, who also happened to be the brother of Diogeiton, through her son-in-law. 5 For example, Hypereides delivered his famous defence of Phryne as her advocate, undoubtedly for a high fee, and Lysias spoke as an advocate for Lais the Athenian (fr. 208 Carey). The speech may actually not be Lysianic, but this is beside the point: whoever delivered it was probably compensated handsomely. 6 Foxhall (1996) 133–152. 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) 177–186 on Just; Jameson (1997) 95–107, Osborne (1997) 3–33, Patterson (2007) 153–178 and (1991) 48–72, Schaps (1975) 53–57 and (1998) 161–188, Sealey (1990), Walters (1993) 194–214. 7 Cf. Griffith-Williams in this volume, 38, on Mantitheus’ attempt to portray Boeotus as illegitimate without using the word nothos. 8 See, for example, [Dem.] 40.17–18, and an inscription where the name Manthitheus, son of Mantias of Thoricus, appears twice, next to the name of the third brother Pamphilus, the son of Mantias of Thoricus (IG ii2 1622, c. 342/341 BCE). 9 Dem. 39.27–30, and also Humphreys (1989). 10 In such a case we would not expect Mantitheus to acknowledge something which would essentially confirm the marriage of his father to Plangon. See the discussion in Leduc (2001) 97–118, Miles (1951) 38–46, Yamauchi (2005) 59–67. 11 This has been the customary way of naming children in Greek culture through the millennia. The first son is named after the father’s father, the second after the mother’s father. The first daughter is named after the father’s mother and the second daughter after the mother’s mother. Many variants are adopted by parents, but this is the traditional pattern. 12 The speaker is making the argument that if the two men have indistinguishable names, how could anyone know who is summoned for military service or for a court case, and wonders whether in addition to their father’s name their mother’s name is also to be used. But while he mentions Plangon at this point, he tactfully avoids mentioning the name of his own mother. 13 On the law prohibiting marriages between Athenians and foreigners see [Dem.] 59.16 and 52, and my previous discussion in Kapparis (1999) 198–206. On Isaeus 3, On the estate of Pyrrhus, see the excellent commentary of Rosalia Hatzilambrou (2018), and cf. Hatzilambrou (2010). 14 There are some cases where respectable women are mentioned by name in court (see, e.g., Isae. 3.30, Andoc. 1.16, Dem. 57.68). However, it must be noted that in these instances mentioning the woman’s name was strongly indicated by the circumstances, and this was the reason why the convention was sidelined. See Schaps (1997) 323–330. 15 Kapparis (2017) 432–433. 16 See, e.g., Aeschin. 1.41, Hyp. Lyc. 10, Lys. 1.16, [Dem.] 59.39.

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17 Like, for example, the comments on the wife of Pyrrhus, who, according to the speaker in Isae. 3, was a hetaira, or Chrysilla in Andoc. 1.124–127, who is presented as a lustful, immoral, and shameless old woman (even though she was still of child-bearing age and probably in her 30s or early 40s). 18 Epic quarrels are a part of the love affair between Callias and his mistress Chrysilla (Andoc. 1.124–127). 19 [Dem.] 59.50. 20 See, for example, the description of Euphiletus of his wife before she started the alleged affair with Eratosthenes (Lys. 1.7). This ability of women to run households efficiently is pivotal for the plot of the Ecclesiazusae of Aristophanes (233–238), and it is one of the main reasons why they need to be entrusted with the administration of the city. 21 See, for example, [Dem.] 59.29, 30, 36, Plaut. Bacch. 5.2, Athen. 13.567d–569f, and also my discussion in Kapparis (2017) chapter 5, about the economics of ancient prostitution and how prostitutes could be detrimental to the household. 22 On this law see [Dem.] 40.49, and also Dem. 20.104 and Lys. 9.5–16. See also Osborne (2008) 46–58. 23 See, for example, Machon’s narrative about Mania, the Attic hetaira (13.174–15.257), or the dialogue of Lucian (Dial. meret. 6) between Corinna and her mother, undoubtedly based on classical sources, like Eubulus and Xenophon’s Symposion. 24 Even if the brothers of Plangon succeeded in reviving their fortunes, any new property which they painstakingly acquired would still have to go to the public treasury in order to pay off the huge outstanding debt of their father, and until they did so they would remain disfranchised themselves, so there was no good way out of this predicament. 25 Quint. 2.15.9 and 10.15.2, M. Valerius Messalla Corvinus fr. 22 Malcovati. 26 Plut. Mor. 389a, Hsch. s.v. Ἰσοδαίτης, Lex. Seg. s.v. Ἰσοδαίτης. 27 Eidinow (2015), Filonik (2013). My forthcoming book under contract with Edinburgh University Press explores these cases in greater detail. 28 Cooper (1995) 303–318. 29 No nudity is mentioned in Poseidippus fr. 12 (see also Casanova [1962], who accepts this version as closer to the facts of the trial). Partial nudity is mentioned in most Greek authors, like, for example, Athen. 13.59, where Hypereides tears her dress to reveal only her breasts. In Quintilian’s version (2.15.9) she stands before the jury completely naked. For further discussion see Kapparis (2017) 255–259. 30 O’Connell (2017) 1–3. 31 See O’Connell (2017). 32 Cavallini (2010) and (2004) 231–238. 33 See the discussion in Kapparis (2017) 319–323. 34 Kapparis (2018) 101–115. 35 Idomeneus FGrHist 338 F 14 = Athen. 13.58: The orator Hypereides ejected his son Glaucippus from the family home and took in Myrrhine, a most luxurious hetaira. He kept her in the city, while he had Aristagora in Piraeus and Phila in Eleusis, whom he had liberated for a lot of money. Then he made her his housekeeper, as Idomeneus the historian narrates. 36 In public lawsuits only one lengthy speech was delivered from each side. In private lawsuits, by contrast, two sets of speeches were delivered in the order prosecution-defenceprosecution-defence. 37 A graphē xenias would be brought against an alien who was living as a citizen, and in all cases known to us it was brought against men, naturally because among men there would be much stronger motives to pretend to citizen status, such as voting and participating in offices and the public life of the city on an equal footing with citizens. 38 e.g., references to the graphē aprostasiou, diamarturia, poletai, dōroxenia, aphairesis eis eleutherian, and metoikion. 39 De Bakker (2017). 40 Harp. s.v. νοθεῖα = Hyp. fr. 17 Jensen.

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Bibliography Carey, C. (2007) Lysiae orationes cum fragmentis, Oxford Classical Text (Oxford) Casanova, A. (1962) Nel mondo delle etere: il processo di Frine (Tortona) Cavallini, E. (2004) ‘Il processo contro Frine: l’accusa e la difesa’, Labeo 50, 231–238 Cavallini, E. (2010) Phryne in modern art, cinema and cartoon, online publication: www. 24grammata.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Cavallini-Phryne-24grammata.com_. pdf (accessed 24 August 2019) Cooper, C. (1995) ‘Hyperides and the trial of Phryne’, Phoenix 49, 303–318 Cox, C.A. (1992) ‘Review of Just (1989)’, AHB 6, 177–186 De Bakker (2017) ‘Lysias’, in K. de Temmerman and E. van Emde Boas (eds.) Characterization in ancient Greek literature, Mnemosyne Supp. 411 (Leiden and Boston) 409–427 Eidinow, E. (2010) ‘Patterns of persecution: “witchcraft” trials in classical Athens’, P&P 208, 9–35 Eidinow, E. (2015) Envy, poison, and death: women on trial in classical Athens (Oxford) Filonik, J. (2013) ‘Athenian impiety trials: a reappraisal’, Dike 16, 11–96 Foxhall, L. (1996) ‘The law and the lady: women and legal proceedings in classical Athens’, in L. Foxhall and A.D.E. Lewis (eds.) Greek law in its political setting: justifications not justice (Oxford) 133–152 Gagarin, M. (1998) ‘Women in Athenian courts’, Dike 1, 39–51 Gagarin, M. (2001) ‘Women’s voices in Attic oratory’, in A.P.M.H. Lardinois and L. McClure (eds.) Making silence speak: women’s voices in Greek literature and society (Princeton, NJ) 161–176 Hammer, C. (ed.) (1894) Ars rhetorica, Rhetores Graeci, vol. 1 (Leipzig) Hatzilambrou, R. (2010) ‘Isaeus’ art of persuasion: the case of his third speech’, WS 123, 19–35 Hatzilambrou, R. (2018) Isaeus’ on the estate of Pyrrhus (Oration 3) (Cambridge) Henry, M.M. (1995) Prisoner of history: Aspasia of Miletus and her biographical tradition (Oxford) Humphreys, S. (1989) ‘Family quarrels’, JHS 109, 182–185 Jameson, M.H. (1997) ‘Women and democracy in fourth-century Athens’, in P. Brulé and J. Oulhen (eds.) Esclavage, guerre, économie en Grèce ancienne: hommages à Yvon Garlan (Rennes) 95–107 Just, R. (1989) Women in Athenian law and life (London) Kapparis, K.A. (1999) Apollodoros: ‘Against Neaira’ [D. 59] (Berlin) Kapparis, K.A. (2017) Prostitution in the ancient Greek world (Berlin) Kapparis, K.A. (2018) Athenian law and society (London) Leduc, C. (2001) ‘Mère et fils dans la cité démocratique des Athéniens’, Ítaca 16–17, 97–118 Malcovati, H. (1976) Oratorum Romanorum fragmenta, 4th edn (Turin) Miles, J. (1951) ‘The marriage of Plangon (Dolly)’, Hermathena 77, 38–46 O’Connell, P.A. (2017) The rhetoric of seeing in Attic forensic oratory (Austin, TX) Osborne, R. (1997) ‘Law, the democratic citizen and the representation of women in classical Athens’, P&P 155, 3–33 Osborne, R. (2008) ‘Law and religion in classical Athens: the case of the dead’, in C. Langenfeld and I. Schneider (eds.) Recht und Religion in Europa (Göttingen) 46–58 Patterson, C.B. (1991) ‘Marriage and the married woman in Athenian law’, in S.B. Pomeroy (ed.) Women’s history and ancient history (Chapel Hill, NC) 48–72 Patterson, C.B (2007) ‘Other sorts: slaves, foreigners, and women in Periclean Athens’, in L.J. Samons II (ed.) The Cambridge companion to the age of Pericles (Cambridge and New York) 153–178

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Schaps, D.M. (1975) ‘Women in Greek inheritance law’, CQ 25, 53–57 Schaps, D.M. (1997) ‘The woman least mentioned: etiquette and women’s names’, CQ 27, 323–330 Schaps, D.M. (1998) ‘What was free about a free Athenian woman?’ TAPA 128, 161–188 Sealey, R. (1990) Women and law in classical Greece (Chapel Hill, NC) Tetlow, E.M. (2004) Women, crime, and punishment in ancient law and society, volume 2: Ancient Greece (London) Walters, K.R. (1993) ‘Women and power in classical Athens’, in J.K. King and M. DeForest (eds.) Women’s power, man’s game: essays on classical antiquity in honor of Joy J. King (Wauconda, IL) 194–214 Yamauchi, A. (2005) ‘Oaths and disputes in fourth-century Athenian society’, JCS 53, 59–67

Part II

The rhetorical construction of civic identities

5

Athenian identity and the ideology of autochthony An institutionalist approach Matteo Barbato

The myth of autochthony was one of the cornerstones of Athenian identity. The Athenians believed themselves to be indigenous inhabitants of Attica, born from the very soil of their land. Athenian autochthony was often set in opposition to the origins of the other Greeks, who were thought to have settled in their lands as immigrants, and allowed the Athenians to construct a strong sense of identity and build civic cohesion.1 Scholars once assumed that the myth of autochthony had been created at an early stage and that the Athenians had always pictured themselves collectively as both indigenous and born from the earth.2 This view has been successfully challenged by Vincent Rosivach. In a seminal article, Rosivach has convincingly shown that the complete notion of autochthony only originated around the middle of the fifth century from the combination of two separate traditions: the early myth of Erechtheus/Erichthonius’ birth from the earth and the Athenians’ belief that they had always inhabited Attica.3 The conflation of these two traditions implied a potential disruption of the unity of the Athenian citizen body, and scholars have recently stressed some of the resulting contradictions within the notion of autochthony. Vincent Azoulay, for example, has highlighted how those Athenians who, like the members of the Attic genos of the Eteoboutadae, could claim direct descent from Erechtheus were ideally more autochthonous than their fellow citizens.4 Josine Blok has similarly noted how the traditions that attested the naturalization of immigrants in Athens in ancient times implied the existence of different degrees of autochthony within the Athenian citizenry, with a core group of properly indigenous Athenians who guaranteed the continuity of citizen identity.5 This chapter aims to go one step further and explore how the Athenians managed to construct a coherent ideology of autochthony despite these contradictions.6 I shall address this issue from the perspective of discursive institutionalism. This trend in political science stresses the mutual influences between ideas and institutions and suggests that ideology and discourse should be analyzed within their institutional setting.7 Accordingly, I argue that Athenian democratic institutions were each characterized by specific discursive parameters that conditioned the behaviour of the Athenians acting within them.8 I shall thus compare accounts of Athenian autochthony produced in different

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institutional settings of the democracy and show how the discursive parameters of each institution helped the Athenians mediate the potential contradictions in the complete notion of autochthony. As I will prove, this process allowed the Athenians to develop a dynamic ideology of autochthony and construct more or less inclusive, yet compatible views about their civic identity. First, I shall introduce the discursive parameters of the state funeral and analyze their influence upon the accounts of autochthony in the extant funeral speeches. I will then investigate the impact of the dramatic festivals upon the picture of autochthony in Euripides’ Ion. Finally, I shall outline the discursive parameters of the law-courts and explore how they conditioned Apollodorus’ treatment of autochthony in his speech Against Neaera.

An inclusive view of autochthony: the state funeral for the war dead The state funeral for the war dead was an important locus for the construction of Athenian identity and provided the context for several discussions of autochthony. The ceremony started with the exposition of the bones of the dead, which were displayed in a tent for three days and received offerings from the mourners. The bones were then arranged by tribes and placed into coffins, and a procession open to both Athenians (including women) and foreigners brought them to the public burial ground (dēmosion sēma). This was located in the Ceramicus, along the road that connected the Dipylon Gate with the Academy, and hosted the memorials of the fallen, which included inscribed casualty lists, funerary epigrams, and reliefs. The ceremony concluded with the burial of the bones and a funeral speech (epitaphios logos) delivered by an orator chosen by the city.9 The epitaphios logos (and the state funeral more generally) has been traditionally seen as instrumental in hiding Athens’ internal divisions and imperialism.10 However, if one investigates the surviving funeral speeches within their physical setting, it is clear that the main purpose of the ceremony was rather the creation of what Benedict Anderson termed an ‘imagined community’.11 A complex discursive strategy allowed the Athenians to turn a potentially divisive occasion such as the death of one’s relatives for the sake of the community into a source of civic cohesion. The casualty lists recorded the names of the dead without their patronymics or demotics.12 Military titles were sometimes included (IG I3 1147.5, 1162.4, 1166.2, 1186.108), but the names were always arranged by tribe. In doing so, the lists acknowledged and honoured the individual contribution of the fallen but incorporated them into the institutional structure of the democracy and invited the survivors to perceive the dead first and foremost as members of the Athenian community.13 The casualty lists were sometimes accompanied by epigrams (IG I3 503/504, 1162.45–48, 1163.34–41, 1179.10–13, II2 5225) and reliefs celebrating the valour of the fallen but also displaying their sacrifice and the dangers of battle.14 Such sacrifices had to be justified to the relatives of the dead, and this was

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achieved through the funeral speech. The orators painted an idealized image of the democracy and illustrated its advantages, such as freedom and equality before the law, to give the Athenians a reason to fight for the city (Thuc. 2.37.1–38.1, Lys. 2.18, Dem. 60.26, Pl. Menex. 238b–239a). The speeches also provided a selective and equally idealized account of Athenian history. The Athenian ancestors were described as the selfless champions of justice and Greek freedom.15 Their glorious deeds exemplified the values that were expected to guide Athenian actions, and the Athenians were often invited to imitate them.16 The discursive parameters of the state funeral were thus designed to help the Athenians construct an imagined community and strengthen their collective identity. The myth of autochthony clearly participated in this process. The epitaphios logos deployed a fixed set of images to characterize Athenian autochthony. These included the collective nobility of birth (eugeneia) of the Athenians, the contrast between individual and collective, and the metaphor of the Athenian community as a family, and often set the Athenians in opposition to the other nations. This rhetorical strategy allowed the orators of funeral speeches to dispel any contradictions within autochthony by removing the earth-born kings from the picture and adopting the complete notion of autochthony.17 The aforementioned images are especially evident in Demosthenes’ Funeral speech.18 Demosthenes immediately praises the Athenians for being nobly born (gegenēsthai kalōs, Dem. 60.3) and introduces autochthony as the proof: From the dawn of time, everyone has acknowledged the nobility of these men’s birth. For they and each of their ancestors before them can trace their heritage not only to a human father individually but also to this entire land, which they all share in common and in which they are recognized as autochthonous (hēs autochthones homologountai einai). For they alone of all people lived in this land from which they were born and handed it on to their descendants. Thus, it would be right to think that those who arrive in cities as migrants and are called citizens of these cities are like adopted children (eispoiētois) but that these men are legitimate citizens (gnēsious) of their land by birth. (Dem. 60.4; trans. Worthington, adapted) Demosthenes envisages autochthony as a collective quality that grants nobility of birth (eugeneia) to all Athenians. Each citizen’s individual ancestry coexists with and is assimilated into their collective descent from the land they still inhabit, and autochthony portrays the Athenian community as a family.19 The orator exploits the similarities between the languages of naturalization and adoption to develop the metaphor of the family.20 The Athenians are described as legitimate children (gnēsious) and therefore legitimate citizens of their fatherland, whereas the other nations are made up of immigrants (epēludas) and are similar to adopted children (eispoiētois).21

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The other extant funeral speeches adopt the same rhetorical strategy.22 Hypereides’ Funeral speech constructs the praise of Athenian autochthony on the opposition between individual and collective. The orator argues that it would be pointless to relate the ancestry of the Athenians individually because their common origin due to their autochthony grants them unsurpassed nobility of birth, and contrasts Athenian purity with the mixed origins of the other nations (Hyp. Epit. 7).23 In Plato’s Menexenus, Socrates delivers a parodic version of a funeral oration where he exploits the metaphor of the family to praise the Athenians’ nobility of birth.24 He recalls the non-immigrant origin of their ancestors as the cause of the nobility (eugeneias) of the war dead, who are described as indigenous (autochthonas) inhabitants of their fatherland as opposed to foreign residents (metoikountas) (Pl. Menex. 237b). Socrates then represents the Athenians literally as children of their land.25 He states that they are the only ones who have not been raised by a stepmother (mētruias), but by their very motherland (mētros tēs chōras), who gave birth to them (tekousēs), reared them, and received them again upon their death (237c). The metaphor of the family is reprised again later in the speech, where autochthony provides an aetiology of Athenian isonomia. Socrates argues that the mixed origins of the other nations are the cause of their tyrannical and oligarchic regimes and contrasts them with the origins and constitution of the Athenians. The latter are all brothers born of the same mother, and their equality of birth (isogonia) according to nature (kata phusin) results in their equality of rights (isonomian) according to law (kata nomon) (238e–239a). The treatment of autochthony in Lysias’ Funeral oration is particularly interesting.26 The orator recalls autochthony as an aetiology of the Athenians’ devotion to justice: There were many reasons for our ancestors to be of one mind and to fight for justice, because the origin of their life was just. They were not, like the majority of peoples, assembled together from all sorts of places, casting out their predecessors and living on land which was not originally their own. Instead, being autochthonous, they had the same land both as mother and as fatherland. They were the first people, and at that time the only ones, to have driven out those who held autocratic power among them, and to have established democracy, in the belief that freedom for all is the greatest source of concord. They made the hopes that arise out of danger common to one another, and governed themselves with freedom of spirit. (Lys. 2.17–18; trans. Todd, adapted) Just like the other orators of funeral speeches, Lysias overlooks the earth-born kings and focuses on the Athenians’ collective autochthony. The autochthonous and righteous Athenians are set in opposition to the unjust and ethnically diverse majority of nations. The typical epitaphic motifs about autochthony, however, are at first sight less prominent. The Athenians’ nobility of birth is praised in the narrative on the Persian Wars (Lys. 2.20), but is never mentioned

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in connection with autochthony. The metaphor of the family is exploited very briefly in order to reinforce the argument of the Athenians’ innate devotion to justice.27 This is expressed through the opposition between autochthonous and immigrants, as Lysias characterizes the other nations as illegitimate inhabitants of the lands of others. Despite not exploiting the full range of epitaphic images of autochthony, Lysias’ Funeral oration uses autochthony to produce an idealized image of Athens as socially and politically cohesive in accordance with the discursive parameters of the state funeral. Set in the political climate of the Amnesty after the democratic restoration,28 the speech achieves this goal by relying on the concept of concord (homonoia). This notion originated with the civil strife in Athens towards the end of the fifth century and became central in Athenian public discourse.29 Lysias introduces the theme of homonoia in connection with those of justice and autochthony, as he states that the ancestors acted with one mind (mia gnōmē chrōmenois) in fighting for justice thanks to their autochthonous origins (autochthones ontes).30 The orator then describes the synoecism and the foundation of the democracy as the result of the ancestors’ belief in the identity between freedom and concord (homonoian) and adds that the Athenians made the hopes deriving from their dangers common (koinas) to one another. The passage thus reprises the traditional contrast between individual and communal. More importantly, Lysias makes homonoia one of the founding principles of the democracy and exploits it to strengthen the bonds within Athens’ imagined community.31 As shown by this brief survey, funeral speeches relied on a common rhetorical strategy and set of motifs to conceptualize autochthony. They obscured the earth-born kings and resolved the potential contradictions within the notion of autochthony by unequivocally portraying autochthony as a quality shared by all the Athenians. This picture was produced through the praise of the Athenians’ collective eugeneia, the contrast between individual and collective, and the metaphor of the Athenian community as a family and was often reinforced by a strategy of identity-making that opposed the autochthonous Athens to the other, ethnically diverse cities. Even Lysias’ Funeral oration, which incorporates the notion of homonoia into the traditional epitaphic picture of autochthony, shares the same approach. In accordance with the discursive parameters of the state funeral, orators of funeral speeches therefore contributed to creating an imagined community and produced an unproblematic picture of autochthony that characterized Athens as a socially and politically cohesive community.

Autochthony deconstructed: the dramatic festivals and Euripides’ Ion The potential contradictions of autochthony are exploited in Euripides’ Ion, where the traditions of the Athenians’ collective autochthony and the earthborn kings of Attica coexist on the tragic stage. This was possible thanks to the discursive parameters of the dramatic festivals. Every year, the Great Dionysia

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and the Lenaea, as well as the Rural Dionysia held in the Attic demes, hosted dramatic contests that included the performance of tragedy, comedy, satyr drama, and dithyramb.32 Tragedy, in particular, according to an influential view most notably proposed by Simon Goldhill, has long been seen as a transgressive genre which subverted and questioned Athenian ideology.33 This approach has attracted several criticisms and has been successfully challenged by William Allan and Adrian Kelly in a recent essay.34 Allan and Kelly have shown that, due to the competitive nature of the festivals, the playwrights were unlikely to openly challenge the values of the community but rather posed questions on and reaffirmed those values. To win first prize, in other words, tragedians needed to please their mass audience and ten randomly selected judges.35 The institutional context of the dramatic festivals therefore led them to endorse values that could be shared by their audience at large.36 In Antigone, for instance, Sophocles exploited the Athenians’ generalized aversion from tyranny and provided an unsympathetic characterization of Creon as a tyrant (Soph. Ant. 567– 581, 640–680, 734–739).37 At the same time, if tragedians could not directly challenge the core values of the community, they could stimulate constructive reflection about them by engaging with the audience’s experience with democratic institutions and discourse. A significant example is in Euripides’ Children of Heracles, where Iolaus employs the discourse of reciprocity typical of Athenian honorific and deliberative practice in order to ask the Athenian king Demophon to help the Heraclidae against Eurystheus (Eur. Heracl. 215–222).38 Finally, the playwrights could pose questions about the core values of the city or manipulate Athenian democratic discourse, but they needed to reaffirm the validity of those values through dramatic devices such as heroic distancing or the intervention of a deus ex machina.39 The discursive parameters of the dramatic festivals are at work in Euripides’ Ion, where the poet is able to pose questions and provide reassuring answers on the ideology of autochthony. The play tells the story of Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus and last surviving member of Athens’ earth-born royal family. Creusa and her husband, the non-Athenian Xuthus, are in Delphi to consult the oracle about their childlessness. Creusa, however, secretly aims to inquire about the son she had once conceived by Apollo and then exposed. The boy is now a servant in the temple of Apollo, where mother and son, unaware of their respective identities, meet and engage in conversation. Xuthus is led by the oracle into mistaking the young servant for his own son. He therefore names him Ion and persuades him to follow him to Athens as the heir to the throne. Feeling betrayed, Creusa plots to kill Ion with the help of her Old Servant, but she eventually recognizes Ion as her own son and two are finally reunited. The play ends with the appearance of Athena, who invites Creusa to set Ion on Athens’ royal throne as Xuthus’ son.40 Euripides’ Ion portrays Creusa as facing both a personal and a political tragedy. On the one hand, she suffers because she is ignorant of the fate of the son she had to abandon. On the other, she feels the pressure of having to perpetuate the earth-born line of the Erechtheids and grant a suitable king to the

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autochthonous people of Athens. The theme of autochthony is omnipresent throughout the play, and the poet deconstructs its ideal picture traditionally produced at the state funeral.41 Euripides reinterprets and manipulates some of the epitaphic motifs about autochthony: the exclusion of the earth-born kings, the Athenians’ collective eugeneia, and the metaphor of the Athenian community as family. In doing so, he plays with autochthony’s ambiguous relationship with individual and collective ancestry, legitimacy of birth, and ethnic purity,42 but finally reinstates the ideology of autochthony through the ex machina intervention of Athena. While the surviving funeral speeches all ignore the earth-born kings in their discussion of autochthony, Euripides puts Creusa and the Erechtheid family right at the centre of it. In the prologue, Hermes describes Creusa as a direct descendant of the earth-born Erichthonius (gēgenous Erichthoniou) (Eur. Ion 20–21). Ion asks Creusa if Erichthonius had really been born from the earth (267–274). The earth-born nature of the Erechtheid family is evoked in a dialogue between Creusa and the Old Servant (999–1000) and again by Creusa, who rejoices for the luminous future of the earth-born house (gēgenetas domos) after her recognition of Ion (1466–1467). At the same time, however, Creusa’s earth-born legacy coexists with the broader claim of Athenian autochthony, as Hermes recalls how he was once sent to the autochthonous people of Athens (laon eis autochthona kleinōn Athēnōn) to save the baby of Apollo and Creusa (29–30). Creusa’s individual tragedy also allows Euripides to reverse the treatment of the epitaphic theme of Athenian eugeneia. Nobility of birth is often praised throughout the play, but is always employed as an individual feature. Ion immediately recognizes Creusa’s noble status (gennaiotēs) and maintains that it is usually possible to understand from one’s appearance whether one is nobly born (eugenēs) (237–240). Ion then asks Creusa about her husband and assumes that he too must be nobly born (eugenē) (289–292). Xuthus tries to persuade Ion to follow him to Athens by promising that instead of ill-born (dusgenēs) and poor he will be called well-born (eugenēs) and rich (579–580). The Chorus wishes that nobody from another family will ever rule the city in place of the noble Erechtheidae (tōn eugenetan Erechtheidan) (1058–1060). Creusa praises Apollo for giving Ion to Xuthus as his son and establishing him in a noble house (eugenē domon) (1540–1541), and the same sentiment is reiterated by Athena (oikon eugenestaton) (1561–1562). On the other hand, Euripides never uses the vocabulary of eugeneia to refer to the Athenians as a whole.43 This contrasts with the collective eugeneia that the extant funeral speeches typically attribute to the Athenian community. Euripides focuses on nobility of birth as a characteristic of Creusa and her earth-born family. He thus implicitly problematizes the view of autochthony as the source of the Athenians’ equality of birth and isonomia44 and ignores the epitaphic image of civic cohesion deriving from collective eugeneia. The metaphor of the Athenian community as a family is similarly absorbed into Creusa and Ion’s family drama. The Athenians’ claim to autochthony is mostly seen from the perspective of foreign characters, who highlight

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autochthony’s intolerant aspects or challenge the very concept of birth from the land. When Ion, still unaware of his real identity, wonders whether he may have been born from the earth, Xuthus sarcastically answers that the ground does not produce children (542).45 Ion later expresses doubts over following Xuthus to Athens because he is aware that he would be treated as an outsider.46 He knows that, among the autochthonous people of Athens, he will be regarded as suffering from two ‘illnesses’: having a foreign father and being of bastard birth (nothagenēs) (589–592).47 The theme of legitimacy of birth, which in funeral speeches is employed metaphorically to praise the Athenians as legitimate children of their land, is thus a concrete and painful issue for Ion. Rather than as a united family, Athens appears as a closed community which refrains from welcoming outsiders to such an extent that it even risks turning against its own members. Such an extreme and paradoxical interpretation of the oppositional strategy of the epitaphioi, which usually claim Athens’ superiority over the other nations,48 comes to the fore when Creusa tries to kill Ion. Unlike Creusa, the audience is aware that Ion is both her son and an earth-born Athenian. The conflict between mother and son therefore endangers not only Creusa’s family, but also the metaphorical family of the autochthonous Athenians. The recognition between Ion and Creusa and the appearance of Athena at the end of the play resolve this tension. Creusa rejoices at the thought that her newly found son will restore the earth-born house of Erechtheus (1463– 1467). The issue of Ion’s bastardy is circumvented thanks to Xuthus’ unwitting adoption of the boy (1601–1603). This deception, sanctioned by Athena herself, would have been more acceptable to an Athenian audience than the solution planned by Xuthus, who wanted to gradually introduce a foreigner into the Athenian citizen body and make him the next king. Ion is proved to be a member of the earth-born Erechtheidae and a suitable citizen of Athens’ autochthonous community. Enabled by the discursive parameters of the dramatic festivals, Euripides therefore manipulated the idealized image of autochthony commonly produced at the state funeral. He rephrased the Athenians’ collective eugeneia as individual nobility of the Erechteid house and absorbed the metaphor of the city as a family into Creusa’s private oikos. Although only for a moment, the conflict between Creusa and her son even raised the spectre of slaughter within the earth-born family of Erechtheus and, figuratively, discord within Athens’ autochthonous community. Yet the recognition between Ion and Creusa and the intervention of Athena allowed Euripides finally to reconcile the double tradition of the indigenous Athenians and the earth-born kings and reinstate the ideology of autochthony.

A restrictive view of autochthony: the law-courts and Apollodorus’ Against Neaera Autochthony is briefly alluded to in Apollodorus’ Against Neaera,49 where the orator shifts the focus onto the earth-born kings. Apollodorus’ solution to the

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potential contradictions in the notion of autochthony reflects the discursive parameters of the law-courts. The best illustration of such parameters is provided by Aristotle. In the Rhetoric, the philosopher maintains that the objective of the forensic orator is the just (to dikaion) and the unjust (to adikon), while all other considerations can be added as accessory (Arist. Rh. 1358b21–28). Aristotle’s definition is confirmed by the speeches of the orators and can be further qualified. Athenian judges were bound by the Heliastic Oath to vote in accordance with the laws and decrees of the Athenian people (Aeschin. 3.6, Andoc. 1.2, Dem. 18.121, Lys. 15.9). The same oath also compelled the judges to cast their votes only on issues included in the written plaint produced by the accuser in order to start a lawsuit (Aeschin. 1.154, Dem. 45.50).50 In addition to this, the litigants too had to swear an oath. This bound them to keep to the point and not to speak outside the subject (Ath. Pol. 67.1).51 The oaths indicate that forensic orators were expected to deal with issues of justice and discuss whether the defendant had broken a specific law, and Edward Harris and P. J. Rhodes have demonstrated that extant forensic speeches accordingly show a high degree of relevance to the legal issues at stake.52 In accordance with the discursive parameters of the law-courts, forensic orators therefore usually couched their arguments in terms of justice and lawfulness.53 This applied also to the orators’ use of historical and mythical allusions (potentially including the myth of autochthony), which needed to be appropriate and functional to the legal issues at stake. In Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates, for example, a series of mythical and historical examples illustrating cases of patriotism, such as the self-sacrifice of the Athenian king Codrus, emphasize by contrast Leocrates’ crime of treason and are followed by examples illustrating the harshness of the Athenians’ ancestors towards traitors (Lycurg. 1.83–130). When prosecuting Ctesiphon’s honorific decree for Demosthenes in Against Ctesiphon, Aeschines praises the moderation of the honours once conferred by the Athenians on Themistocles, Miltiades, and Aristides, as opposed to Ctesiphon’s illegal proposal to honour Demosthenes with a crown (Aeschin. 3.177–182). The speaker of Dinarchus’ Against Demosthenes similarly invites the Athenians to punish Demosthenes, who is guilty of accepting money from Harpalus, just as they had rightly punished Timotheus for taking bribes from the Chians and the Rhodians (Din. 1.14–115). The forensic focus on justice and legal charges similarly conditions the treatment of autochthony in Against Neaera. In the speech, Apollodorus prosecutes the former courtesan Neaera. The woman was the non-Athenian concubine of Stephanus, an Athenian citizen with a history of legal disputes with Apollodorus.54 The orator accuses Neaera and Stephanus of living as a married couple in violation of a law forbidding marriages between Athenians and nonAthenians.55 Apollodorus has to show that Neaera is an alien and has been living with Stephanus as his wife. To address the second point, he questions the citizen status of Stephanus’ children: Apollodorus argues that they were in fact Neaera’s children, whom Stephanus had enrolled as citizens and passed off as his own children from a previous marriage with an Athenian woman.

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Apollodorus focuses on Phano, who, he argues, was Neaera’s daughter and therefore an alien herself. Stephanus had given her in marriage first to Phrastor and then to Theogenes, both Athenian citizens and allegedly unaware of Phano’s real identity.56 The account of Phano’s marriage to Theogenes is particularly interesting. Apollodorus stresses the fact that Theogenes had just been elected archōn basileus at the moment of the marriage. Giving an alien woman in marriage to an Athenian citizen was itself a crime,57 but the fact that Theogenes was the archōn basileus made the issue appear even more serious. Apollodorus points out that Phano, who was a foreign prostitute, in her role as the basilinna performed the sacred rituals of the festival of the Anthesteria.58 These rites were forbidden even to the average Athenian citizen, and the orator uses them to build a powerful argument. Apollodorus emphasizes the exclusivity of the rituals, which he characterizes as ‘many, holy and secret’, as well as the inappropriateness of Phano’s participation in them.59 The woman has seen things that no foreigner was allowed to see and entered a place that was forbidden to all Athenian citizens except for the basilinna ([Dem.] 59.73). Apollodorus even stresses the exclusive location of the stele of the law that established the criteria that the basilinna was expected to fulfil. The stone was stored in the shrine of Dionysus in the Marshes, a place that was open only once a year so that only a few people would be able to read the inscription ([Dem.] 59.76). To support his claims against Phano, Apollodorus introduces a digression on the history of the magistracy of the archōn basileus which includes an interesting allusion to autochthony: In ancient times, men of Athens, there was monarchy in the city, and the kingship (basileia) belonged to those with a lasting claim to superiority, because they were autochthonous (dia to autochthonas einai); and the basileus used to make all the sacrifices, while some very solemn and secret ones were performed by his wife, naturally because she was the basilinna. However, when Theseus united them and established the democracy and the population of the city grew larger, the people nonetheless elected the basileus on merit, from preselected candidates, and they introduced a law laying down that his wife should be a citizen woman (astēn) who had not had intercourse with another man; she should be a virgin when he married her. ([Dem.] 59.74–75; trans. Kapparis) In a trial revolving around citizenship rights, it is no surprise that Apollodorus chose to introduce an allusion to autochthony. His account, however, strikingly differs from those found in funeral speeches in that it indirectly presents autochthony as a factor of inequality within the citizen body. While funeral speeches portray autochthony as a sign of Athenian superiority over the rest of humanity, Apollodorus creates a different kind of opposition. His phrasing implies that the kingship was transmitted by virtue of the unique autochthonous nature

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of the royal family. The genitive tōn aei huperechontōn in the predicative position indicates that the ancient kings of Athens were the exclusive custodians of autochthony, which made them superior compared to the majority of the population.60 In other words, the orator is alluding to the myth of the earthborn kings of Attica, which at the time of the trial had already been incorporated into the complete notion of autochthony.61 The rest of the passage, however, raises the possibility of an alternative interpretation. Apollodorus argues that the move from a hereditary system based on autochthony to an elective system for the selection of the archōn basileus coincided not only with the birth of democracy but also with the enlargement of Athens, which became populous (poluanthrōpos) as a result of the synoecism.62 Is the adjective poluanthrōpos to be understood not merely as indicating an increase in the number of inhabitants but also an inflow of population of disparate origins? The hypothesis is supported by Aristotle. In the Politics, the philosopher argues that a great state is not the same as a populous (poluanthrōpos) state and correlates the adjective with the multitude inhabiting a city, which includes slaves, metics, and aliens (Arist. Pol. 1326a17–25). Thucydides similarly mentions the participation of Corinthian colonists and other Dorians in the foundation of Epidamnus and states that the city then became great and populous (poluanthrōpos, Thuc. 1.24.3). The historian presents the foundation and demographic growth of Epidamnus as the result of the contribution of people coming from disparate places. Based on this evidence, one may argue that Apollodorus contrasted the time of the monarchy, when Athens was a community of autochthonous people and the king was an expression of such a community, with the time of the synoecism, when Athens became ethnically heterogeneous and began to elect the archōn basileus on the basis of valour. Despite its compatibility with Apollodorus’ complex identity as a ‘new’ Athenian citizen,63 this second hypothesis is overall less convincing. Not only would it pose an implicit challenge to Athens’ ethnic purity and thus potentially face the opposition of the audience, but it would also contradict the logic of Apollodorus’ argument, which rather highlights the continuity between the ancient basilinna and the wife of the archōn basileus to emphasize the seriousness of Phano’s usurpation of this title.64 Both interpretations, however, are compatible with the discursive parameters of the law-courts because they couch the theme of autochthony in terms compatible with the legal charges against Neaera. Whether Apollodorus alludes to the earth-born nature of the mythical kings as opposed to the rest of the Athenians or to their belonging to an autochthonous core of Athens’ population as opposed to the ethnically diverse population of the democratic city, he portrays autochthony as an exclusive feature of a limited part of the citizen body. This contrasts significantly with the picture provided at the state funeral, where autochthony was envisaged as a collective quality that united all the Athenians and distinguished them from the rest of the Greeks. Apollodorus exploits the contradictions in the complete notion of autochthony and provides the opposite solution. He makes the case that, by illegally giving Phano in marriage to the archōn basileus, Neaera and Stephanus had caused

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a foreigner to misappropriate a role that was once the exclusive prerogative of the more authentically autochthonous part of the Athenian community. From a cause of social and political cohesion, autochthony has become an implicit factor of disparity among the citizen body. In accordance with the discursive parameters of the law-courts, Apollodorus pushes the exclusiveness of autochthony to an extreme to make Neaera’s infringement of Athens’ citizenship laws plain and clear to the judges.

Conclusion The complete notion of autochthony resulted from the combination of the independent traditions of the earth-born kings of Attica and the indigenous Athenians. Despite being the founding myth of Athenian identity and cohesion, the notion was potentially ambiguous and problematic. The mythical figures of the earth-born kings could be perceived as in some sense more autochthonous than the rest of the Athenians and had the potential to threaten the ideal unity of the citizen body. This chapter has shown that Athenian democratic institutions allowed the Athenians to resolve these contradictions by shifting the focus away from or onto the earth-born kings and in doing so helped them construct a coherent ideology of autochthony. At the state funeral, the orators were expected to provide an idealized image of the city which was functional in the construction of an imagined community. Accordingly, they conceptualized autochthony as a collective quality shared by the entire Athenian community and as the cause of the Athenians’ civic cohesion. Although with some variants (most notably Lysias’ implementation of the notion of homonoia), they achieved this goal through a standard set of images, which included the Athenians’ collective eugeneia, the contrast between individual and collective, and the metaphor of the community as a family. These motifs must have been already well-established during the fifth century, to the extent that Euripides, in Ion, could manipulate them in order to spur reflection on the ideology of autochthony. Empowered by the discursive parameters of the dramatic festivals, the poet could play with and then reconcile potentially conflicting components of autochthony. In the play, individual nobility thus replaces the Athenians’ collective eugeneia, and the metaphor of the community as a family is endangered by the struggle between Creusa and her son, Ion, until their reconciliation and the intervention of Athena reinstate the ideology of autochthony. Finally, the focus on justice and the laws which was typical of the law-courts could enable forensic orators to move the focus onto the earth-born kings and even attribute the status of autochthonous to a limited section of the Athenian population. This is what happens in Apollodorus’ Against Neaera, where the orator exploits the autochthony of the earth-born kings of Attica to emphasize Stephanus and Neaera’s abuse of citizenship rights. What has emerged from this study is therefore a dynamic and flexible ideology of autochthony. Far from being a monolithic and fixed set of ideas, the ideology of autochthony tended to adapt to the discursive parameters of

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Athenian democratic institutions. Yet, despite individual variants, the myth of autochthony always resulted in a discourse of exclusiveness and opposition. The difference rested in the designation of the groups who shared in the prerogatives of autochthony and those who were excluded from them. The focus and range of autochthony could be stretched between two extremes – either narrowed down to isolate a limited subset of Athens’ population or extended to construct and illustrate the identity of the whole Athenian citizen body in contrast to the rest of humanity – but these different views about their civic identity were only acceptable to the Athenians as long as they belonged in the appropriate institutional settings of the democracy.

Notes 1 Gotteland (2001) 319. 2 See, e.g., Loraux (1979), Parker (1987) 194–195. 3 Rosivach (1987). Most scholars now follow Rosivach’s view: see, e.g., Bearzot (2007) 9, Blok (2009), Leão (2012), Morgan (2015). Shapiro (1998) accepts Rosivach’s arguments but dates the complete notion of autochthony to the Persian Wars. Cohen (2000) 71–93 similarly follows Rosivach but doubts that many Athenians actually believed in the complete notion of autochthony. Whether or not Erechtheus and Erichthonius were thought of as two distinct individuals (see Kron [1976] 37–39, Parker [1987] 200–201, Fowler [2013] 449) is not relevant to my argument. Erechtheus’ birth from the earth and his connection to Athens are first attested in the Homeric poems (Hom. Il. 2.546–51, Od. 7.77–81). The earliest occurrences of the tradition of the Athenians’ indigenous nature are in Hdt. (1.56.2, 7.161.3); cf. Thuc. 1.2.5–6, 2.36.1; Pelling (2009). 4 Azoulay (2009) 171–172. 5 Blok (2009) 263–264. The inclusion of immigrants in the Athenian citizen body at an early stage is famously attested in Thucydides’ ‘Archaeology’ (Thuc. 1.2.6). 6 I do not use ‘ideology’ as a derogatory term implying a sense of illusion or cover-up of conflict within the community (see notably Loraux [1981]), but rather as a neutral term denoting the shared values and ideas guiding the political life of the community (see notably Ober [1989a]). However, while Ober pictures these values and ideas as a fixed set adopted by the elite to appeal to the dēmos, I take them as a fluid set that both the mass and the elite produced through discourse within Athenian democratic institutions. 7 See Schmidt (2008) and (2010). Discursive institutionalism is one of several variants of a larger trend known as ‘New Institutionalism’, on which see March and Olsen (1984). In advocating a synergistic approach to ideas and institutions, discursive institutionalism overcomes a long-established divide within the scholarship on Athenian democracy, which has traditionally conceived ideology and institutions as alternative and incompatible tools for the study of Athenian politics: compare Ober (1989b) with Hansen (1989). 8 See Barbato (2017). 9 Thuc. 2.34.2–6. On the dēmosion sēma, see Patterson (2006) 53–56, Low (2012) 23–32, Arrington (2014) 55–90. On the epitaphios logos, see Loraux (1981), Thomas (1989) 196–237, Herrman (2009) 14–20, Shear (2013), Steinbock (2013a) 49–58. 10 See Loraux (1981), esp. 340–349. 11 According to B. Anderson (2006) 5–7, any community larger than face-to-face is an imagined community. The act of imagining keeps the members together and enables them to act as a community and even die for their country. Scholars now tend to agree that Athens was not a face-to-face society (R. Osborne [1985] 64–65, Ober [1989a] 31–33) but rather an imagined community (G. Anderson [2003], Shear [2011] 10–11). 12 On the rhetorical use of demotics, cf. Brock in this volume, chapter 1.

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13 Arrington (2011) and (2014) 91–108, Low (2012) 14–15. 14 On funerary epigrams, see Low (2010) 346–347 and Arrington (2014) 99, 105–107. On funerary reliefs, see Arrington (2011) 196–202. 15 Gorg. F 6 Diels-Kranz, Lys. 2.20, 22, Dem. 60.7, 10, Pl. Menex. 240e, 244e–245a, Hyp. Epit. 5. 16 See Thuc. 2.43.1, Lys. 2.3, Pl. Menex. 246b–c, 248e, Hyp. Epit. 32. See also Grethlein (2010) 119–121, Shear (2013) 518–521, and Steinbock (2013b) 77, who rightly emphasize the educative value of the epitaphios logos. On the ancestors in Athenian public discourse, see Barbato (2017). 17 Gotteland (2001) 325–326. 18 Despite the doubts of Dionysus of Halicarnassus (Dion. Hal. Dem. 44), the speech is now generally regarded as authentic: see Worthington (2003), Herrman (2008), MacDowell (2009) 376–377. 19 As noted by Loraux (1993) 51. 20 Naturalized citizens could be referred to as poiētoi politai (cf. Arist. Pol. 1275a6, [Dem.] 45.78) or dēmopoiētoi (cf. Plut. Sol. 24.2): see M. J. Osborne (1983) 139. Adopted children could be referred to as eispoiētoi huioi (cf. [Dem.] 44.34, Isae. 3.61) or poiētoi huioi (cf. [Dem.] 44.39, Isae. 5.6). 21 The metaphor of the family is reprised at Dem. 60.5, where the fact that the fruits of the earth first arose in Attica is taken as evidence that the land was the mother of the Athenian ancestors. 22 I shall not analyze Pericles’ funeral speech in Thucydides, which does not elaborate the topic of autochthony and only states that the Athenian ancestors have always inhabited Attica (Thuc. 2.36.1). Autochthony is also absent from the extant fragments of Gorgias’ funeral speech (F 5a–6 Diels-Kranz). 23 Herrman (2009) 73. 24 The parodic nature of Plato’s Menexenus is acknowledged by most scholars: see, e.g., Loraux (1981) 321–337, Coventry (1989), Trivigno (2009). Pappas and Zelcer (2015) 77–93 have recently questioned this view and suggested that Plato’s Menexenus was a serious dialogue that aimed to improve the genre of the epitaphios logos. Monoson (1998) sees Socrates’ speech generically as critical towards Pericles’ funeral speech. Whatever the case, however, Socrates’ speech reflects and highlights the topoi and discursive strategies of a typical funeral oration. 25 Cf. also Pl. Menex. 237e. See Tsitsiridis (1998) 201–202. 26 On the authenticity of the speech, see Todd (2007) 157–164. 27 But Lysias adopts the language of family law in connection with autochthony when commenting on the battle of Salamis: ‘[the Athenians] showed to the barbarians of Asia that their own valour was of legitimate birth and autochthonous (gnēsia de kai autochthona)’ (Lys. 2.43). 28 Scholars usually date the speech to the 390s, but disagree on whether it was actually delivered by Lysias: see Todd (2007) 163–164, Piovan (2011) 291–294. On the democratic restoration and the Amnesty, see Loraux (2002), Wolpert (2002), and Shear (2011). 29 On homonoia, see Romilly (1972), Thériault (1996) 6–13, Cuniberti (2007), Daverio Rocchi (2007). The notion is first attested in Thucydides in connection with the oligarchic coup in 411 BCE (Thuc. 8.75.2, 93.3). For its use in the orators, see Cobetto Ghiggia (2012). 30 Todd (2007) 227. 31 See Piovan (2011) 302–304, who rightly emphasizes the centrality of homonoia in Lysias’ picture of the democracy. Lysias also refers to homonoia several other times throughout the speech: cf. Lys. 2.20, 24, 63, 65; see Todd (2007) 229. In one instance, he praises the men of Piraeus because they showed that the city enjoyed concord and was not divided in factions (Lys. 2.63). Through a sort of thematic ring composition connecting Athens’ autochthonous origins to the democratic restoration, Lysias stresses the centrality of homonoia throughout the entire history of the city.

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32 For an overview of these festivals and their respective dramatic contests (not all of which involved all the aforementioned genres), see Csapo and Slater (1994) 103–185. 33 Goldhill (1990). 34 For other scholars who have expressed criticism towards Goldhill’s approach, see Griffin (1998) 46–50 and Rhodes (2003). 35 On the procedure for the selection of the judges, see Pickard-Cambridge (1953) 95–99, Csapo and Slater (1994) 157–165, Wilson (2000) 98–102. 36 Allan and Kelly (2013). 37 Allan and Kelly (2013) 92, 99, Cairns (2016) 42–56. 38 On reciprocity in Athenian democratic discourse, see, e.g., Liddel (2007) 167–170 and Luraghi (2010) 250–252. 39 Allan and Kelly (2013) 99–101; see also Sourvinou-Inwood (2003) 15–50 on ‘distancing devices’ (as well as ‘zooming devices’) in tragedy, and Zeitlin (1990), esp. 144–150, who suggests that tragedians used Thebes as a distant, other space to which to displace conflicts that potentially existed in Athens. 40 For a survey of the themes of the play, see Lee (1997) 30–38. 41 Most scholars interpret the play as somewhat critical of the ideology of autochthony: see, e.g., Loraux (1993) 184–236, Lape (2010) 95–136, Leão (2012). But Lee (1997) 36 rightly notes that Euripides’ treatment of autochthony is ambiguous and the play cannot be taken as either unequivocally nationalistic or markedly subversive. Saxonhouse (1986) 254 similarly notes that Xuthus, not Euripides, denies the notion of autochthony as birth from the earth (Eur. Ion 542), but the poet nevertheless invites the audience to reflect about autochthony and its implications. See also Martin (2018) 6–12. 42 Leão (2012) 150–151. 43 Pace Walsh (1978) 313, the play does not portray the Athenians ‘as sharing a common εὐγένεια’. 44 Cf., e.g., Pl. Menex. 238e–239a. 45 Loraux (1993) 206–207. 46 See Walsh (1978) 301–302, Loraux (1993) 205–206. 47 On Ion’s bastardy, see Loraux (1993) 204, Lape (2010) 128–136, Leão (2012) 148–149. 48 Cf., e.g., Hyp. Epit. 7 with Herrman (2009) 73. For an interesting forensic parallel, cf. Lycurg. 1. 41. 49 The speech has been transmitted in the Demosthenic corpus, but scholars agree in attributing it to Apollodorus: see Trevett (1992) 50–76, Carey (1992) 17, Kapparis (1999) 48–51, MacDowell (2009) 99–100, 121–126. 50 Harris (2013a) 101–137. On the plaint, see Harris (2013b). On the procedure to initiate a lawsuit and on the structure of court hearings, see Boegehold (1995) 21–42, Hansen (1999) [1991] 196–203, Thür (2008). 51 This oath applied to the litigants in private cases, but a similar one was sworn by the litigants in the Council of the Areopagus (Arist. Rh. 1354a22–23): see Rhodes (2004) 137. Harris (2013a) 114 n.33 plausibly concludes that litigants in public cases also took a similar oath. 52 Rhodes (2004), Harris (2013a) 101–137 and (2013b). 53 See Harris (2013c), who shows that the Athenians were aware of the kind of arguments that were appropriate to the law-courts as opposed to the Assembly. 54 On Apollodorus’ enmity with Stephanus and the context of the speech, see Carey (1992) 4–8 and Kapparis (1999) 29–31. 55 The text of the law is quoted at [Dem.] 59.16, but its authenticity has been rightly questioned by Canevaro (2013) 183–187. 56 For an outline of the case, see Kapparis (1999) 31–43, who rightly questions the trustworthiness of Apollodorus’ allegations. 57 The law that forbade giving alien women in marriage to Athenian men is quoted at [Dem.] 59.52–53, but the document has been shown to be a later forgery: see Canevaro (2013) 187–190.

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58 On the rites of the Anthesteria, see Kapparis (1999) 324–326, 328, 330–331, 335, 338, 349–350, 353. 59 Blok (2017) 216–217. 60 Carey (1992) 123. 61 Citizenship and social status were sensitive issues for Apollodorus. As the son of a naturalized freedman, he was very eager to display (and self-conscious in pointing out) his dedication to the community with lavish performances of liturgies (Dem. 45.78; [Dem.] 50.21, 24–26) and was particularly disdainful towards former slaves (cf. especially his attitude towards Phormio in Dem. 45.71–86): see Trevett (1992) 160, Kamen (2013) 85–86. Such a need to overcompensate for his own servile, non-citizen origins may be a further reason for Apollodorus’ overly exclusive picture of autochthony. 62 See Trevett (1990) 418. 63 See n.61, above. 64 As rightly noted by Kapparis (1999) 334–335, the same logic induces Apollodorus to compress the transition from a hereditary to an elected basileus in two stages.

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Low, P. (2010) ‘Commemoration of the war dead in classical Athens: remembering defeat and victory’, in D.M. Pritchard (ed.) War, democracy and culture in classical Athens (Cambridge) 341–358 Low, P. (2012) ‘The monuments to the war dead in classical Athens: form, contexts, meanings’, in P. Low, G.J. Oliver and P.J. Rhodes (eds.) Cultures of commemoration: war memorials, ancient and modern (Oxford and New York) 13–39 Luraghi, N. (2010) ‘The demos as narrator: public honors and the construction of future and past’, in L. Foxhall, H.-J. Gehrke, and N. Luraghi (eds.) Intentional history: spinning time (Stuttgart) 247–263 MacDowell, D.M. (2009) Demosthenes the orator (Oxford and New York) March, J.G. and Olsen, J.P. (1984) ‘The new institutionalism: organizational factors in political life’, The American Political Science Review 78, 734–749 Martin, G. (2018) Euripides, Ion (Berlin) Monoson, S.S. (1998) ‘Remembering Pericles: the political and theoretical import of Plato’s Menexenus’, Political Theory 26, 489–513 Morgan, K.A. (2015) ‘Autochthony and identity in Greek myth’, in D. Hammer (ed.) A companion to Greek democracy and the Roman republic (Chichester) 67–82 Ober, J. (1989a) Mass and elite in democratic Athens: rhetoric, ideology, and the power of the people (Princeton, NJ) Ober, J. (1989b) ‘Review of M.H. Hansen (1987) The Athenian Assembly in the age of Demosthenes (Oxford)’, CPh 84, 322–334 Osborne, M.J. (1983) Naturalization in Athens, vol. III and IV (Brussels) Osborne, R. (1985) Demos: the discovery of classical Attika (Cambridge) Pappas, N. and Zelcer, M. (2015) Politics and philosophy in Plato’s Menexenus: education and rhetoric, myth and history (London and New York) Parker, R.C.T. (1987) ‘Myths of early Athens’, in J. Bremmer (ed.) Interpretations of Greek mythology (London) 187–214 Patterson, C. (2006) ‘“Citizen cemeteries” in classical Athens?’, CQ 56, 48–56 Pelling, C. (2009) ‘Bringing autochthony up-to-date: Herodotus and Thucydides’, CW 102, 471–483 Pickard-Cambridge, A.W. (1953) The dramatic festivals at Athens, 2nd edn, revised by J. Gould and D.M. Lewis (Oxford) Piovan, D. (2011) Memoria e oblio della guerra civile: strategie giudiziarie e racconto del passato in Lisia (Pisa) Rhodes, P.J. (2003) ‘Nothing to do with democracy: Athenian drama and the polis’, JHS 123, 104–119 Rhodes, P.J. (2004) ‘Keeping to the point’, in E.M. Harris and L. Rubinstein (eds.) The law and the courts in ancient Greece (London) 137–158 Rosivach, V.J. (1987) ‘Autochthony and the Athenians’, CQ 37, 294–306 Saxonhouse, A.W. (1986) ‘Myths and the origins of cities: reflections on the autochthony theme in Euripides’ Ion’, in J.P. Euben (ed.) Greek tragedy and political theory (Berkeley and Los Angeles) 252–273 Schmidt, V.A. (2008) ‘Discursive institutionalism: the explanatory power of ideas and discourse’, Annual Review of Political Science 11, 303–326 Schmidt, V.A. (2010) ‘Taking ideas and discourse seriously: explaining change through discursive institutionalism as the fourth “New Institutionalism”’, European Political Science Review 2, 1–25 Shapiro, H.A. (1998) ‘Autochthony and the visual arts in fifth-century Athens’, in D. Boedeker and K.A. Raaflaub (eds.) Democracy, empire and the arts in fifth-century Athens (Cambridge, MA and London) 127–152

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Shear, J.L. (2011) Polis and revolution: responding to oligarchy in classical Athens (Cambridge) Shear, J.L. (2013) ‘Their memories will never grow old: the politics of remembrance in the Athenian funeral orations’, CQ 63, 511–536 Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2003) Tragedy and Athenian religion (Lanham, MD) Steinbock, B. (2013a) Social memory in Athenian public discourse: uses and meanings of the past (Ann Arbor, MI) Steinbock, B. (2013b) ‘Contesting the lessons from the past: Aeschines’ use of social memory’, TAPA 143, 65–103 Thériault, G. (1996) Le culte d’Homonoia dans les cités grecques (Lyon) Thomas, R. (1989) Oral tradition and written record in classical Athens (Cambridge) Thür, G. (2008) ‘The principle of fairness in Athenian legal procedure: thoughts on the echinos and enklema’, Dike 11, 51–74 Todd, S.C. (2007) A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11 (Oxford and New York) Trevett, J. (1990) ‘History in [Demosthenes] 59’, CQ 40, 407–420 Trevett, J. (1992) Apollodoros, the son of Pasion (Oxford) Trivigno, F.V. (2009) ‘The rhetoric of parody in Plato’s Menexenus’, Ph&Rh 42, 29–58 Tsitsiridis, S. (1998) Platons Menexenos. Einleitung, Text und Kommentar (Stuttgart) Walsh, G.B. (1978) ‘The rhetoric of birthright and race in Euripides’ Ion’, Hermes 106, 301–315 Wilson, P.J. (2000) The Athenian institution of the khoregia (Cambridge) Wolpert, A. (2002) Remembering defeat: civil war and civic memory in ancient Athens (Baltimore, MD) Worthington, I. (2003) ‘The authorship of the Demosthenic Epitaphios’, MH 60, 152–157 Worthington, I. (2006) Demosthenes, speeches 60 and 61, prologues, letters (Austin, TX) Zeitlin, F.I. (1990) ‘Thebes: theater of self and society in Athenian drama’, in J.J. Winkler and F.I. Zeitlin (eds.) Nothing to do with Dionysos? Athenian drama in its social context (Princeton, NJ) 130–167

6

Lysias and the rhetoric of citizen honour Benjamin Keim

ἄνδρες γὰρ πόλις

Thuc. 7.77.7

Recorded as the closing exhortation of Nicias’ final address to the Athenian troops in Sicily, this stark Thucydidean identification of andres and their polis – the claim that it is men who truly make the city, rather than walls or ships or other infrastructure – reminds us that the qualities of politai and polis, of citizens and their community, are closely and reflexively related. For this reason the lives of classical Athenian citizens were regularly marked by dokimasiai, formal scrutinies at which an individual’s worthiness, first for the basic honour of citizenship and thereafter for diverse supplementary privileges, might be assessed by his compatriots. Rather than merely pro forma proceedings to be endured by demesmen and dicasts, these scrutinies were crucial to the maintenance and flourishing of the Athenian democracy. Thus one Lysianic speaker (26.9), arguing vigorously against a candidate allotted for eponymous archon, warned: It would be wrong to take the dokimasia lightly or to think the issue is a small one and not to pay attention to the dokimasia. Instead, you should guard it, because the constitution and the rest of your democracy owes its security to each person holding office legitimately.1 In this chapter I examine the four surviving political dokimasia speeches by Lysias and explore how the claims and negotiations of honour shape the creation of forensic identities and the forging of ties between Athenian citizens and their community.

Scrutinizing citizens’ honour Because Athenian citizenship was conceived in terms of honour (timē), it is unsurprising that the scrutinies governing both a young man’s admission into the Athenian citizen body and his subsequent candidacies for public office were themselves concerned with diverse negotiations of honour. Before turning to the dokimasia speeches I consider three preliminary points comprising

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the backdrop against which we will read Lysias’ rhetoric: first, the significance of honour (timē) for citizenship (politeia); second, the political dokimasia as one part of the collective scrutiny characterizing the democratic Athenian experience; and third, the manner in which the upheavals of 411–403 BCE were marked by Athenian negotiations of citizen honour. The honour(s) of citizenship The basic Greek terminology for the enfranchised (epitimos) and disfranchised (atimos) citizen is rooted in the vocabulary of honour (timē), with the locus classicus for this robust connection of timē and citizenship found in Book Three of Aristotle’s Politics.2 After considering two preliminary definitions – the first describes the citizen as he who ‘shares in the administration of justice, and in offices’ (metechein kriseōs kai archēs, Pol. 1275a23), the second as he who ‘has the power to take part in the deliberative or judicial administration’ (hōi gar exousia koinōnein archēs bouleutikēs kai kritikēs, Pol. 1275b18–19) – we are finally introduced to the Aristotelian citizen in the ‘fullest sense’ (Pol. 1278a34–38, trans. Everson adapted): Hence, as is evident, there are different kinds of citizens; and he is a citizen in the fullest sense who shares in the honours of the state (malista politēs ho metechōn tōn timōn). Compare Homer’s words ‘like some dishonoured wanderer’; he who is excluded from the honours of the state is no better than a metic. While the civic timai in which citizens share include public offices, we should not limit our understanding of the ‘shared honours’ to offices, but rather embrace a wider vision of citizens constantly negotiating diverse individual and institutional claims to honour. Recalling the discussions of whether citizenship is better conceived in terms of ‘membership’ or ‘participation’,3 I would emphasize that citizenship for the Athenians was a matter of honour simultaneously negotiated along horizontal/egalitarian and vertical/hierarchical axes. Thus, on the egalitarian side, we may affirm that ‘Athenian citizenship in its various legal aspects can be described as a formally instituted status group’.4 Being admitted as a citizen meant the individual entered into a reflexive relationship with a collective honour group of fellow citizens, through which his own individual honour was inextricably linked with that of all other citizens and the overall community. On the hierarchical side, and in a manner resembling (but distinct from) the prizes offered by the dēmos to non-citizen benefactors, there were timai – notably but not exclusively offices – that were available for citizens and offered opportunities for confirming or even celebrating a citizen’s good standing. As Josine Blok rightly suggests: A citizen’s primary time entailed his or her recognition as a member by the polis for being of legitimate birth .  .  . and that recognition created

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particular expectations and enabled performance of particular roles. . . . This elementary recognition of citizen status with concomitant participation I call the baseline of time.5 Simply maintaining one’s honorific position as a citizen required adherence to various cultural norms: as the rhetorical figure of the ‘Quiet Athenian’ (apragmōn) reminds us,6 some degree of under-performance might be acceptable, but active and flagrant violation of community norms left the transgressor liable to various punishments, culminating in the social death of civic dishonour (atimia) or even execution and physical death.7 Thus an individual’s acceptance into the community of honour had ramifications and was not irrevocable. Duplouy has elegantly suggested that ‘to be accepted as a citizen, one had to behave as a citizen’; to this we might add that, to be accepted as a public official and representative of the community, one had to behave as a good citizen.8 How the Athenians scrutinized themselves Thanks to the wide-ranging literary and epigraphic studies of Christophe Feyel we now have a much firmer grasp of dokimasiai across the Greek world, those diverse scrutinies that he arranges into two broad technical/financial and political categories.9 But what exactly was the point of the political dokimasia at Athens? As summarized by Hansen, this procedure ‘gave the courts the chance to offset the more unfortunate consequences of selection by lot and to control, and if necessary overturn, an election made by the Assembly. It was, however, not an examination of the candidate’s competence, but only of his formal qualifications, conduct, and political convictions’.10 Hansen later acknowledges the ‘surprising contrast between the time-consuming nature of the dokimasia and its limited political significance’: there are only eight known instances of contested scrutinies, against the roughly 1,200 examinations conducted each year. Perhaps, as he suggests with a final aporetic shrug, the Athenians simply enjoyed such procedures.11 But what positive function, institutionally or ideologically, might these scrutinies have served? Were concerned citizens merely checking the legal standing of their would-be representatives or more broadly considering their compatriots’ morality and worthiness for office? Catalyzed by Feyel’s findings, Todd and Gagliardi recently reconsidered these Athenian dokimasiai.12 As Gabriel Adeleye emphasized many years ago, the key ancient text encouraging a broader reading of the political dokimasia is Mantitheus’ claim of gratitude for the opportunity to hold forth publicly on his entire life (Lys. 16.9).13 Is this claim merely rhetorical posturing by a desperate speaker or an authentic invitation towards a more expansive vision of Athenian political scrutinies? Reaffirming Todd’s position through his own response, Gagliardi discounts both Lys. 16.9 and Din. 2.17 – with its query ‘What sort of person is he?’ (tis esti ton idion tropon) – as rhetorically charged passages that should not be read as programmatic statements on the dokimasia. While there is no doubting their rhetorical qualities, nonetheless I find myself

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harking back to Adeleye’s claims for a more comprehensive, holistic perspective of the Athenian dokimasiai, and perhaps in more company than Todd and Gagliardi might suggest. For there has been increased recognition of the constant ways in which Athenians scrutinized one another. Thus Virginia Hunter in her studies of the ‘politics of gossip and reputation’ heralds – with reference to David Whitehead’s work on the Attic demes – the dokimasia as an exemplary instance of the ‘“collective scrutiny” . . . that characterized Athenian life’.14 Susan Lape devotes an entire chapter of her monograph on Athenian civic identity to ‘trials of citizen identity’, to the regular dokimasia, and to the occasional diapsēphisis, and argues that Athenian citizenship should be conceived not as a ‘fixed status’ but rather as continually evaluated and subject to negotiation.15 Adriaan Lanni has recently argued – with prominent citation of Lysias 16.9 – that the surviving dokimasia speeches ‘indicate that these procedures typically went far beyond establishing the formal requirements of office’; moreover, the fact that most Athenians would eventually be allotted some public office (and thus scrutinized) suggests that there were strong incentives for adherence to extra-statutory norms.16 The reason these political dokimasiai offer such interesting texts for the study of Athenian forensic identity stems from the existence of formal and informal scrutinies, during which Athenians were constantly assessing others’ claims for informal as well as formal honour. These political scrutinies were not simply pro forma events, but procedures revealing and reiterating Athenian values of citizenship and honour. To secure the honour (timē) of citizenship and any subsequent timai, an individual Athenian had to prove to the satisfaction of his (would-be) peers that he was appropriately honouring others, both positively (by honouring as he should) and negatively (doing nothing incurring atimia). Consider the questions included in the Aristotelian Constitution of the Athenians (55.3–4). To the candidate for public office Who is your father, and what is your deme? Who was your father’s father? Who is your mother? Who was her father and his deme? Are you enrolled in (civic) cults of Apollo Patroos and Zeus Herkeios, and where are their shrines? Do you have family tombs, and, if so, where are they? Do you treat your parents well? Do you pay your taxes? Do you go out on campaign? To the audience Does anyone wish to bring a charge against this man?

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Although the author assigned them specifically to the archons, today these questions are thought to have been asked of citizens selected for all sorts of political office. Moreover, as Gagliardi helpfully confirms, the range of questions asked of would-be officials varied over time and by office,17 with the final open-ended query to the audience encouraging even more scrutiny.18 What I would like to tease out of this script from the heart of the scrutiny process is the emphasis on rightly negotiating honour. From demonstrating proper deference to gods and parents to paying debts and thereby avoiding atimia, failure to attend to these more basic matters, fundamental to life as a ‘good’ citizen, would rule one out of additional (and, if the violations were gross enough, even basic) citizen honours. Consider the classical catechesis contained in Eur. fr. 853 Kannicht (trans. Collard and Cropp): There are three virtues you should practice, child: to honour the gods, the parents who begot you, and the common laws of Greece. If you do these things, you will always have good repute, the fairest of crowns. This tragic text reminds us that properly honouring – that is to say, rightly acknowledging and reacting towards others’ claims to honour, be they gods or parents or citizens or magistrates – was fundamental to living and acting well. Moreover, by properly living within the community and acknowledging others’ honour, one may well garner additional honour, be it non-material esteem (eukleia) or, as the underlying metaphor suggests, a material honour crowning one’s rightful living with proof of virtue (kalliston . . . stephanon). Athenian citizen honour, ca. 411–403 BCE Although their exact dates may remain uncertain, each of the Lysianic dokimasia speeches was written to persuade Athenian audiences living through the aftermath of the Peloponnesian War, after the oligarchic revolutions of the Four Hundred and the Thirty Tyrants and the eventual restoration of the democracy in 403. Here I briefly consider four significant, honour-related features of the late fifth-century historical landscape. First, the oligarchic revolution and democratic restoration of 411 BCE were catalyzed and then commemorated by the interplay of individual and community honour(s). Readers of Thucydides will find this unsurprising, given his concerns about self-interested ambitions (idia philotimia) expressed in programmatic passages such as the eulogy for Pericles (2.65.7) and stasis at Corcyra (3.82.3); years later the Four Hundred would be undone by that particular brand of idia philotimia common to oligarchies rooted in democratic soil (8.89.3). The leading Athenian of this era, Alcibiades, embodied the tensions of philotimia, alternating between civic-minded (dēmosia) and self-interested (idia).19 If wrongly oriented honour misled the Athenians and convulsed the community, the subsequent restoration of their democracy was marked by the dēmos properly deploying the civic economies of honour: thus such spectacles

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as the Athenians swearing the Oath of Demophantos and honouring Phrynichus’ assassins were intentionally staged as means of restoring the community by clarifying its shared identity and values.20 Second, the strategic difficulties faced by the Athenians towards the end of the war led them to reconsider the status of formerly disfranchised citizens. While Andocides’ repeated efforts to restore his citizenship offer early glimpses of Athenian strategies for recruiting benefactors through the award of honours,21 more significant was the decree of Patrocleides re-enfranchising the atimoi;22 represented as the successor of a similar action that had proven beneficial during the Persian War,23 this decree stands as yet another indication that, amidst wars and revolutions, the bounds of Athenian citizenship were open to negotiation. Third, historiographic and oratorical accounts of this era are marked by frequent conversations denoting honour as a key political characteristic. On the one hand, the actions of the Thirty were often portrayed as transgressing claims to honour. According to Xenophon the initial falling out between Critias and Theramenes arose over the former’s proposal to execute some individuals who had not harmed the Athenian elites but had simply been honoured (etimato) by the democracy (Hell. 2.3.15). One Lysianic speaker argued that the Thirty murdered not the most wicked citizens, but rather those ‘who were especially deserving of honour on account of their birth, their wealth, and their general excellence’ (18.10–12); Isocrates emphasizes their depravity by inverting the most fundamental Greek norms and suggesting that they ‘honoured the assassins and murderers of their fellow citizens more than their own parents’ (4.111). On the other hand, both Critias and Lysias could argue that the slippery Theramenes was worthy of punishment for failing to uphold the political honours he had been granted. Thus when Critias hauled Theramenes before the reconstituted Council and charged him with treason, he cited the defendant’s willingness – despite having long been honoured by the Athenian people – to join and even lead the oligarchy of the Four Hundred (Xen. Hell. 2.3.30). Lysias later attacked Theramenes on similar grounds, for remaining loyal to the Four Hundred only as long as he was honoured, then turning against the oligarchy when he sensed his place deteriorating; jumping midsentence from 411 to 404, Lysias then complains that ‘although [Theramenes] received honours and was very highly valued, when instructed to save the city he destroyed it all by himself ’ (12.62–66). These portrayals of Theramenes and the Thirty show how various honour claims might feature within persuasive appeals, open to negotiation as part of a multi-party calculus of an individual’s standing. Fourth, the democratic restoration of 403 was marked by intense negotiations over civic honours. Prior to the battle for Munichia Thrasybulus encouraged his fighters with the cry that ‘victory will restore to us our country, our homes, our freedom, our honours, and our children (if we have them) and wives’ (Xen. Hell. 2.4.17). Although Athenians disfranchised by the Thirty would merely reclaim their citizenship, many non-citizens (as Thrasybulus

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surely intended) signed up in hopes of earning new privileges (such as isoteleia, Xen. Hell. 2.4.25) and perhaps even citizenship. Although the Aristotelian Constitution of the Athenians (40.2) suggests that Thrasybulus’ subsequent efforts to reward non-Athenians with citizenship were thwarted by Archinus’ graphē paranomōn, contemporary inscriptions confirm that some allies – a diverse mixture of Greeks and non-Greeks – were eventually granted some honours by the grateful dēmos.24 This legal and political wrangling suggests that even after the brutal disruptions of 404/403 the Athenians were wary of extending the honour of citizenship too liberally.

Identities and the rhetoric of honour in Lysias I turn now to the four surviving Lysianic political dokimasia speeches.25 In the order that I will consider them they are: (a) Lysias 31 Against Philon (ca. 400 BCE), (b) jointly Lysias 25 On a charge of subverting the democracy (ca. 400 BCE) and Lysias 26 Against Evandrus (382 BCE), and (c) Lysias 16 For Mantitheus (later 390s BCE). Delivered at particular times and for – or against – particular candidates, each of these dokimasia speeches engages in its own constructive way with the history and ideology of Athenian citizen honour. Read together through the lenses of honour, they may augment our understanding of the Athenian political dokimasiai and establish the importance, rather than benign irrelevance, of these procedures for the maintenance of Athenian citizenship and democracy. Honour and Athenian public office With Against Philon we find ourselves in the arena of the Council.26 Although we can discern very little about the litigants, the stakes are clear enough: Philon has been selected as one of the councillors from Acharnae, only to find his candidacy opposed by Lysias’ client, a current councillor. Whether his arguments worked is beyond us,27 but we may nonetheless explore how Lysias not merely attacks Philon’s character but also, in the proofs section, extends his honourcentred attack for the supposed good of the community. Carey rightly notes that the speaker’s objection ‘is based not on any legal disability to which Philon is subject but on his character’ as manifest by his actions in 404/403.28 Throughout the narrative, as the speaker describes the defendant’s absence during the end of the war and the regime of the Thirty, four common tropes are brought to bear against Philon. First, he is emphatically separated from his fellow Athenians – not only did he do ‘the opposite of all the other citizens’ (§8), but he was said to be hated by both sides, democrats and oligarchs alike, for his abandonment of the city (§13); indeed, the speaker continues, what Philon did might not have been technically illegal, because the lawgiver could not have imagined any Athenian ever acting in this fashion (§27). Second, Philon has not (and thus should not) share in the affairs of the polis – indeed, as the tide turned and Thrasybulus’ forces heralded the

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restoration of the democracy, this absent Athenian could not even share in the city’s successes (§9). This argument is then reversed, with Lysias hypothetically musing that, if Philon’s sort of men ever come to power, then he should be allowed to serve as a councillor for them (§14). Third, there is a brief series of suggestive remarks casting aspersions on Philon for his undue interest in profitmaking. Lysias develops this strand immediately after eliciting testimony that Philon had failed to support the Athenian democratic cause both bodily and monetarily and then (§18) suggests that Philon used his residence in Oropus as an opportunity for raiding poor, unprotected rural Athenians in order to turn a small profit. Finally, Lysias’ elaboration of Philon’s abandonment of his mother – and her deathbed request that another man carry out the post mortem responsibilities – is artfully done (§§20–23). This section stands as the rare moment when one of the formal grounds for rejection at a political scrutiny is mentioned. While a more charitable listener might suggest that Philon was merely away from home and his dying mother’s choice was a practical and necessary one, this seeming abandonment will have reflected poorly on the candidate, and in his account of the mother’s refusal Lysias is able to stage for the listening councillors an earlier – and he hopes telling – moment of refusal. Contrasted with the defendant we find not so much the speaker, as we might expect in the law-courts, but instead the entire Council. With Philon’s candidacy under review, alongside that of 499 others, the serving councillors were already thinking in theoretical as well as practical terms: ‘Who is worthy to serve on the Council?’ Early on our speaker suggests that merely being an Athenian is insufficient since those who would advise the community must be ‘enthusiastic about their citizenship’ as well (31.5; cf. §33 Philon’s too eager pursuit of his candidacy). Moreover, while Philon has failed to share in the affairs of the polis, so these current councillors have been suitably connected to the polis, whether with their property (§§5–6) or more figuratively. Finally, in a fine piece of doubly self-serving rhetoric, the speaker ultimately concludes that the measuring-stick for Council service is nothing more than the current councillors, who, having passed their own dokimasiai and served successfully through almost all of their own term, should judge Philon against their own standard (§34). This closing gambit simultaneously confers a collective identity on the current Council and also creates a group from which Philon should ‘rightly’ be excluded. Returning to the question of ‘Who is worthy?’ we find that the Council as an honour group – together as a board, and on behalf of their shared community – are responsible for assessing this issue. Thus with his closing words Lysias’ speaker summons the councillors to take stock of themselves – by definition, good democrats who had passed their scrutinies and then spent the past year guiding the polis – and to reject Philon’s candidacy and thereby protect the democracy. After excoriating Philon’s character and occasionally opining about the Council, Lysias’ speaker uses the proofs section (§§24–33) to construct an honour-centred argument upon this foundation. Rather than receive the honour of serving as councillor, the speaker urges, Philon ought to be dishonoured

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and even punished. Lysias deploys the carrot-and-cudgel vocabulary of timē and timōria throughout – whether his suggestion of the possibility of rehabilitation is correct (§24), with Philon establishing a track record of serving the community before leaping ahead to represent it, ‘it seems strange to me if he is never to be punished (timōrēthēsetai) for offences he has already committed but is now to be honoured (tetimēsetai) for the good he intends to do in the future’ (§24); a similar wordplay has been commonly restored at §26, amidst the speaker’s surprise that while petty traitors are regularly punished with death, Philon – who, having abandoned the entire city, a fortiori deserves even worse – will escape any punishment. Furthermore, Lysias’ speaker reminds his fellow councillors that their decision over Philon’s candidacy is not a discrete, one-off affair. On the one hand, there is the precedent of how the city has reacted to others’ service (§29): Everybody would have reason to criticize you, if you honored the metics in a manner worthy of the city for having assisted the democracy beyond their duty, but are not going to punish my opponent – at least with the present atimia, if not more severely – for having betrayed the city in contravention of his duty. On the other hand, given his failings and his inability to face danger with the community, Lysias’ speaker asks: ‘How can it be reasonable (eikos) for him to be honoured (timēthēnai) in this way ahead of those who completed the task?’ (§31). Besides examining Philon’s status in comparison with other earlier examples, Lysias also advances arguments based on fears of precedent-setting and future decline. What will that future look like in light of this current verdict? To this end the councillors are first urged to remember why you honour those who behave well towards the city and dishonour those who are evil: both honour and dishonour have been conferred not for the sake of previous citizens but for future ones, so that they will deliberately want to become good and will try not to be bad in any respect. (§30) Some indication of how this might transpire appears on the previous page, when the audience is asked to consider what will happen if Philon is accepted and if then good men (chrēstoi) discern that they are liable to being honoured in the same ways as wicked (ponēroi, §24–25). Learning this, we are told, they will refrain from their good behaviour because of concerns that they will no longer be honoured appropriately. Although such slippery slope arguments are not without their detractors, these sorts of concerns become more sensible and understandable in light of the collective scrutiny and constant reassessment (by fellow citizens) of citizens’ honour that I have suggested above. Ultimately, Lysias’ speaker argues that his fellow councillors should ‘refuse’ Philon (§31) and, if they had any qualms, take solace in the fact that they are

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merely confirming what the candidate has already done to himself: ‘for it is not you who dishonour (atimazete) him today, but he who deprived himself [of this honour] in the past’ (§33). Here we may consider the consequences of being refused at one’s scrutiny for office. While scholars have tended to downplay the repercussions of such a refusal, two passages from Attic oratory suggest such a public failing might reflect rather poorly on an individual. As noted above, Lys. 31.29 urges that at the very least Philon be punished with atimia; while Todd suggests that Lysias ‘probably means that rejection at the dokimasia would have the same result as atimia (i.e. disqualification from office)’, I would amend this effective atimia and suggest serious consideration of the social consequences that such a rejection might have.29 A passage from the Demosthenic Against Aristogeiton I indicates the potential ramifications of falling foul of one’s opponents in a dokimasia: Yet any one of these proposals is less dangerous than if it were proposed that speakers should belong to one of the classes to which the defendant belongs – law-breakers, jail-birds, sons of criminals put to death by the people, citizens disqualified after obtaining office by lot, public debtors, men totally disfranchised, or men who by repute and in fact are utter rascals. (25.30, trans. Vince) If we view these political dokimasiai as integral parts of the broader and continuous collective scrutiny under which Athenian citizens were living, then these formal procedures become not merely a check to confirm legal status but a key part of a dynamic, constant contestation for honour and standing of various sorts, across institutional and extra-institutional arenas. How – and by whom – an individual has been (dis)honoured may serve as strong building blocks for the future construction of character. How (not) to remain With Lysias 25 On a charge of overthrowing the democracy and Lysias 26 Against Evandrus we encounter complementary sets of contrasting arguments concerning the worthiness for office of two Athenians citizens who remained in the city during the regime of the Thirty. Here I examine each speech in turn, focusing particularly on how the speakers’ contrasting goals led them to engage rhetorically with the politics of honour. Despite the rather sensational title transmitted with the manuscripts, Lysias 25 represents a defence speech composed for delivery at the candidate’s dokimasia for an unknown office a few years after the democratic restoration. We remain as uncertain about the actual identity of the speaker as we are about the allotted office, although Usher has reasonably suggested that the speaker was probably an Athenian of some standing, someone who might well have been expected to take up public office under the Thirty.30 As the speaker had

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remained in Athens and yet is now arguing for his own worthiness to hold public office under the democracy, two central tenets of his apologia are his distancing himself from those tyrannical figures and, as much as possible, assimilating himself with the ‘good’ Athenians who remained in Athens during the regime of the Thirty. Thus he asserts that ‘I behaved just as the most honourable (beltistos) of those at Piraeus would have done, if he had remained in the town’ (§2), while also arguing that, if his accusers had been able to marshal any real charges against him, they would not have resorted to broad claims about his sympathies for the Thirty (§5). As someone who had neither committed any crimes nor forsaken traditional democratic values, Lysias’ speaker asks the dicasts to grant him ‘an equal share in public life (politeia)’ (§3). His arguments are simultaneously self-interested and community-interested, inasmuch as his construction of his own identity advances alongside his related advice on the broader ramifications of the citizens’ decisions. (Compare the similar remarks made by the enraged councillor arguing against Philon, above.) He is keen to expound on his liturgies, first noting that he had ‘performed many services for the city both in person and with [his] money’ (§4) and later elaborating that he had ‘served as trierarch on five occasions, fought in four sea battles, contributed to many war taxes during the war, and performed the other liturgies as well as any of the citizens’ (§12). The sudden appearance of the oligarchic regime, however, deprived him (apesteroumēn) of any benefit (§13) – a development that was difficult to bear at the time, but now, he hopes, redounds to his credit. (Compare his later [§30] complaints about the malfeasance of his opponents, ultimately no different from the Thirty.) Mindful of his wealth and standing, the speaker devotes much of his argument to an exploration of this ‘interest’ theme, that because he was celebrated by the democracy and disadvantaged by the oligarchy he should not be held liable for the excesses of the latter. Waxing philosophical, he suggests (§8): In the first place, it is important to remember that no human being is by nature either oligarchic or democratic: instead, he wants that constitution (politeia) to be established which would most benefit himself. So you have no small responsibility to ensure that as many people as possible prefer the system that now exists.31 Next he suggests that the dokimasia consider whether there was any advantage for those individuals being scrutinized to prefer oligarchy over democracy; if not, then they would not defect and should be allowed the privilege of holding public office (§10). For ‘if I was unwilling to hold office when I could have done so, it is right that I should now be honoured by you’ (timasthai dikaios eimi, §14). Towards the end Lysias’ speaker increasingly emphasizes unanimity, both in its own right as a positive good for the community and as a means of contrasting the well-intentioned speaker with the political machinations of his opponents. Unanimity is described (§23) as the mark of those ‘best’ democrats

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who keep to the Amnesty and other arrangements, while those who have been forced into exile are against unanimity, of course, and instead wish for ‘as many as possible of the remaining citizens to be slandered and deprived of citizen rights’ (§24). This somewhat curious threat dovetails with the speaker’s other argument: don’t levy atimia on me for misperceived loyalties, he says, because that’s just what those in exile (our mutual enemies and opponents of the civic unanimity and security I have encouraged) want you to do. Instead he invokes the democrats from Piraeus, those with ‘the finest reputation’, to champion the Amnesty and prevent any tampering with the democracy. Indeed, the speaker is increasingly fervent in his support for the agreements, which offer him immunity for any misdoings while in the Thirty’s Athens and the opportunity to continue living and serving within his community (§§23, 28, 34). Ultimately the speaker of Lysias 25 wishes to establish his democratic bona fides and be accepted for service in democratic office. Inasmuch as he remained in Athens, he is keen to establish the worthiness of the ‘good’ remainers while acknowledging and lamenting the destructiveness of the Thirty. While he enumerates his liturgies and hints at his military service (§4), he strives to associate with, and as necessary rehabilitate, the ‘good’ remainers, who would have remained a significant portion of the citizen population of the restored democracy. Returning to his initial line of argumentation above, this Lysianic speaker had no reason (neither to escape atimia, nor to get payout for his liturgical services, nor to serve with them in their regime) to foment antidemocratic regime change and tyrannical depredations, and as a result of any such contamination he now wishes to enjoy this honour of serving in office. Whichever office he had been allotted, the foundation of his persuasive appeals was being a citizen in good standing, not a citizen particularly adept at some skill set or body of knowledge. Lysias’ Against Evandrus was delivered in 382 in an unsuccessful effort to block the defendant’s selection as eponymous archon for 382/381 BCE. It appears that the initial candidate, Leodamas, was rejected at his dokimasia, and so, with the end of the year rapidly approaching, the allotted substitute, Evandrus, was scrutinized in light of attacks by aggrieved associates of Leodamas. Here, as in Against Philon, we encounter arguments based on the particular office in play. While Philon was to be judged by the current councillors and found wanting by their own embodied standard, the speaker of Against Evandrus insists – since there would be special privileges and no collegial restraints for the eponymous archon – ‘that you make the dokimasia for this office more detailed than for the other offices’ (§12). Although separated chronologically by two decades, Lysias 25 and 26 share common themes that are handled differently because of their contrasting aims. When the speaker anticipates Evandrus’ defence, the common appeal of successful liturgies performed ambitiously (philotimōs) becomes not a marker of good citizenship but a devious means of winning good will and ultimately undermining the democracy (§§3–4). Whereas the speaker of Lysias 25 wished to assimilate himself to the ‘good’ remainers, the antagonistic speaker of Lysias

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26 wishes to connect Evandrus with the ‘bad’ remainers, the sympathizers of the Thirty. He employs the metaphor of ‘sharing’ repeatedly: while the bad men ‘did not even see fit to share collective slavery with you [citizens] but actually drove you out of the city’, the dēmos graciously (if rather naïvely) ‘shared with them not only your freedom but also the right of sitting in justice and in assembly on matters of common concern’ (§2). Yet Evandrus ‘is not content if somebody allows him to share in those activities, but also claims the right to hold public office again, before paying the penalty for his crimes’ (§3). Later the speaker raises the issue of how to consider and address all those who remained in the city, since Evandrus will inevitably mention the ‘oaths and the agreements’ by which the Amnesty was brokered (§§16–20). Although the speaker acknowledges two categories of remainers, the distinctions are made clear: in order to condemn Evandrus as one of the ‘bad’ remainers who had aided and abetted the Tyrants, Lysias’ speaker works both to defame his character and build up the identity of those who were ‘good’ remainers and were subsequently validated as such by public honours. This part of the argument closes with a masterpiece of democratic persuasion (§20): the dēmos features prominently at start and finish, first by bestowing honours on the good remainers and then, appropriated by Lysias’ speaker, seemingly endorsing his own confirmatory remarks as being on behalf of the dēmos. Taking up the role of adviser, the speaker reminds the councillors that they have sworn ‘to conduct a dokimasia first and then to garland the person who is worthy of office’ (§8). After noting again this recurrent emphasis on ‘worthiness’ and the need for collective deliberation on that point, we may consider the bigger picture: since all citizens are potentially eligible for public offices, these scrutinies offered another opportunity for the Athenians to remind one another (albeit in terms that may well have changed, over time and by office) of the core values of the Athenian democracy. We regularly consider the annual funeral oration or the daily law-court debates as venues for constantly (re)negotiating Athenian values – so, in their own way, we might profitably view the dokimasia of officials. Just as citizenship was an honour, so holding office was an honour, and thus it was in the interests of the Athenians to scrutinize their colleagues before endowing them with additional recognition and (representative) authority. The philotimos as a young man Lysias’ Mantitheus has finally received some good press in recent years and remains one of the speechwriter’s most intriguing characters.32 Some time in the later 390s he was selected to serve on the following year’s Council, and this speech was commissioned for delivery on the occasion of his subsequent dokimasia. What we know about Mantitheus derives entirely from Lysias.33 We learn that he was young, in his early 30s and only recently eligible for Council service; he was relatively wealthy, able to support his own and others’ endeavours; he maintained, with his hair and his clothes, a decidedly aristocratic

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appearance; and he was in a tight spot. Chosen by lot to serve on the Council, he was now being undermined by insinuations that he had collaborated with and served in the cavalry under the Thirty. Legally, the Amnesty ensured that such actions had no bearing on his eligibility, but in the court of public opinion such entanglements could – as in the candidacy of Leodamas in 382 – easily lead to candidates being disqualified. Although not as well-known as the younger Alcibiades targeted by Lysias 14 and 15, Mantitheus would have been liable to many of the same avenues of attack; thus it is unsurprising to see him, perhaps most notably with his remarks contrasting infantry and cavalry service, address many of these concerns head-on and work to establish his identity not as a bad philotimos, but as a good – which is to say, patriotic and democratic – philotimos. Thus Mantitheus begins his defence by invoking his ‘orderly life’ and distancing himself from the Thirty: ‘I shall demonstrate first that I did not serve in the cavalry, and was not even present in Athens, under the Thirty, nor did I have a share in the constitution that existed at that time’ (§3). Unable, like the fallen cavalryman Dexileus,34 to argue that he was too young to have served, unable to effectively maintain the pretence that he had been entirely absent from Athens, Mantitheus launches into an unpersuasive aside about the fungibility and untrustworthiness of the cavalry records (§4–8). He was thus, at this stage, perhaps even worse off than when he began. He was, by immediate appearances, guilty by association, and his attempts (however necessary) at warding off these charges were less than convincing. As he had already indicated, however, there was more to say: ‘While it seems to me,’ he says, ‘that in other trials it is appropriate to defend oneself simply on the charges, in dokimasiai it is fair to give an account of one’s whole life’ (§9). And that is what, in two distinct stages, he proceeds to do, before concluding with a call to judge actions and not appearances. Mantitheus initially supports his claims to eunoia and to orderly living (§3) by elaborating his identity through democratically acceptable standards. First, and no doubt composed with an eye on the formal responsibility would-be officials had for familial affairs, he portrays himself as kurios. After subtly interweaving the misfortunes of his father and his polis, the young man describes his care for his family: he married his sisters off with sizeable dowries and allowed his brother to take more than the half of the estate to which he was entitled (§10). Second, there is what he considers the greatest proof of his propriety, the reality that he is persona non grata among those wealthy youths ‘who spend their time playing dice, drinking, and participating in that sort of unruliness’ (§11). Their stated actions clearly express their opinion of Mantitheus and allow the young man to separate himself from – and set himself in opposition to – those who, like the younger Alcibiades, might appear to be his natural allies. Third, and most comprehensively, we might say that we encounter Mantitheus in these early chapters as an ideal citizen, in many ways – but not all – approximating the apragmōn. As Carter observed,35 there is a concerted effort in many fourth-century speeches by individual Athenians to emphasize their withdrawal from arenas of civic activity, as evidence of their presumed

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virtue. Never brought into law-courts as a defendant (although he may have prosecuted others), Mantitheus has kept his well-coiffed head down, his nose clean, and his (familial) affairs straight – and he now wants to be a councillor. The second stage of Mantitheus’ ēthopoeia, unfolded over the final third of his oration, builds on and nuances this basic identity with a series of carefully scripted episodes. Connected by their shared emphases on danger (kindunos, kinduneuein), misfortune (sumphora), public expenditure, and expressions of communality (with verbs such as metechein), assimilation and differentiation between the ‘democratic’ and ‘aristocratic’ poles already established allow Mantitheus to develop, in the course of four additional episodes, his democratic bona fides and Council-worthiness. When the Corinthian War broke out, Mantitheus chose to serve as a hoplite (§13). Summoned for military service, he reportedly spurned the chance to serve with the cavalry and instead mustered with the phalanx, thinking it ‘shameful to take care of my own safety on campaign, when the majority were going to face danger’. This choice, which, as Todd notes ‘is ostentatiously the opposite of that ascribed to Alcibiades’, indicates the care with which this Athenian (or at least his speechwriter) attended to matters of public opinion.36 Reporting for duty, Mantitheus found another sterling opportunity for his civic-mindedness (§14). Learning that many of his fellow demesmen lacked matériel for the upcoming campaign, Mantitheus gave money to two men and encouraged other wealthy colleagues to do likewise. Several aspects of this ideologically freighted episode stand out. First, the needy citizens are described as ‘eager’ and ‘noble’, the latter word – chrēstos – burgeoning with aristocratic resonances and now gratifyingly attached to some of the lowliest members of the dēmos. This democratization of aristocratic vocabulary emphasizes Mantitheus’ enlightened view of his fellow citizens, based around their citizenship rather than the size of their estates. Second, as with his earlier familial largesse, Mantitheus is shown giving money away to others. While there were some rhetorical disadvantages to being obviously wealthy, the best way to defuse untoward insinuations was to make regular mention of using that wealth for the good of the community.37 Third, his actions demonstrate his leadership abilities. Mantitheus is not one merely to talk: he backs up his logoi with erga and encourages others to act accordingly, in the way(s) he thinks best advance the city’s interests. Although the Council naturally experienced a good deal of amateurism, mention of this reasonable advice was intended to show the wisdom and worthiness of the young man. The third episode, which comes from the same Nemean campaign on which Dexileus was slain, serves to further burnish the image of Mantitheus’ courage: he fights hand to hand in the front ranks of the infantry, casualties falling on either side, and he makes his retreat only after Thrasybulus of Steiria had already withdrawn (§15). This battlefield encounter with the enemy, and with the greatest of the living democracy leaders, allows Mantitheus to attest to his courage and, more subtly, his democratic credentials, both by surpassing Thrasybulus’ efforts and, more basically, by undergoing dangers and putting his own

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life at risk. The fourth episode, from the subsequent Coronea campaign, shows Mantitheus volunteering his taxis for an especially dangerous assignment (§16). While we may, with Todd, wonder what the speaker’s colleagues would have thought about this admission, its intended impact on the broader Athenian audience is made clear in the following section: Mantitheus was a man who embraced dangers eagerly and rationally, recognizing them and yet choosing, for the sake of his community and his standing within that community, to endure the risks (§17). He explicitly connects the diverse dangers that threaten in the courts as well as on campaign: he acted bravely, he says, ‘so that if ever I were unjustly forced into danger, I would be better received by you because of this and would receive full justice’ (§17). After witnesses were summoned to confirm the truth of Mantitheus’ stories, the remainder of his remarks show him wrestling explicitly with the complex contemporary negotiations of the philotimos. In these closing sections Mantitheus reveals his own self-identity as a philotimos and, while he recognizes that many in his audience would view this turn suspiciously, encourages the Athenians to accept and advance those philotimoi whose efforts are centred around the public good. I have never been found wanting in any of the other campaigns and garrisons. Instead, I have always managed to begin the expeditions in the front rank and retreat with the rearguard. You ought to examine those who play an ambitious but responsible role in the city (tous philotimōs kai kosmiōs politeuomenous) on these criteria, and not dislike a person simply because he wears his hair long. Such habits harm neither individuals nor the city as a community, but you all benefit from those who are willing to face danger against the enemy. It is not right, members of the Council, to like or dislike anybody on the basis of his appearance, but you should examine his actions instead. Many who talk little and dress in an orderly (kosmiōs) fashion have been responsible for great harm, whereas others who take no interest in such things have brought you many benefits. (§§18–19) Mantitheus must, if he is to be accepted onto the Council, persuade the councillors to disregard, or at least relatively devalue, their judgment of visual attributes, and instead identify him in accordance with his actions (and tenor of life), as narrated in the earlier sections here. The final sections of his speech are one part feigned contrition for speaking publicly while rather young (an endeavour he moves, in Demosthenic fashion, to render more palatable by claiming it was for the protection of his and his family’s own interests) and one larger part manoeuvring, as he attempts to legitimate his overeagerness through the examples of his ancestors and, especially, the notion that such men are the only ones thought valuable by the state. Having encouraged the councillors to adopt his own proposed rubric, and thereby to judge actions rather than appearances, he gracefully yet emphatically closes

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by emphasizing their status, on behalf of Athens, as judges (§21). Whether his entreaties and his democratic stylings were successful, whether appearances (or rhetoric) deceived, we are unable to tell; yet Mantitheus’ interwoven remarks on danger, honour, democracy, and the philotimos serve as an excellent reminder of the complexity and, across the classical centuries, the ubiquity of these negotiations within the construction of identities.

Conclusion In the fourth-century decades after Mantitheus and Lysias’ other clients embarked on their dokimasia proceedings, Athens would far more regularly and democratically acknowledge its citizens’ desires for honour, not merely by the expansion of the instantiated honours awarded to individuals, from the distinguished historiographer and adviser Phanodemus (IG II2 223, of 342 BCE) to an increasingly wide range of otherwise unknown citizens, but by the ready explication of Athenian citizen identity and obligation in terms of honour. Rather than civic honours being extended only rarely and for military achievements, by the Lycurgan era every citizen, every would-be benefactor or patriotic public official, was openly encouraged to pursue good works on behalf of the community they in turn celebrated as most honourable.38 As I have argued elsewhere,39 Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates of 330 BCE may be read as a glittering hymn celebrating honour as the foundation of Athenian civic and citizen identity.40 The Athenians alone, Lycurgus argues, know how to honour good men (1.51, cf. §74); and if they fail to punish the treacherous Leocrates, the Athenians will betray their distinctively pious, reverent, and honour-loving ways (§15). Lycurgus’ addresses to the dicasts portray these individual citizens as lovers of honour (philotimoi): who of them, he asks, is so uninterested in honour (aphilotimos) that he would not wish to join the fifth-century Athenian crewmen for their victorious struggle at Salamis (§69), nor hear now about those achievements that won their ancestors honour (ephilotimounto, §98, cf. Dem. 20.10)? By his rhetoric Lycurgus both normalizes and co-opts such citizens, who are ‘ambitious on behalf of the community’: how could such a citizen side with Leocrates, whose patent treachery was a stumbling block for anyone seeking such fine honour (§140)? This world of citizen honour described in Against Leocrates is characteristically Lycurgan, yet merely in degree rather than in kind, its continuities far outstripping its contrasts. Delivered a half-century earlier, against their own backdrop of war-weariness and foreign oppression, the Lysianic dokimasia speeches stand as brilliant evidence of the breadth and depth of honour negotiations across the Athenian democratic experience. In their own way, each of these speeches – from the diatribes offered by the hostile speaker of Lysias 31, striving to protect the honour of the Council; to the pleadings of the ambitious Mantitheus, eager to face danger on the battlefield and within the political arena; to the careful references to earlier honours in Lysias 25 and 26, whether meant to credit or discredit – reveal the centrality of honour to the constant

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crafting and refashioning of Athenian identities, be they individual or institutional. Although inevitably concerned with the endurance of the restored democracy and the continued flourishing of the community, these works of Lysianic political rhetoric invite us not merely to explore the Athenian present and anticipate its future, but also to reckon carefully with the past – to explore these honour-laden workings of Athenian ideology and institutions across the entire democracy and beyond.

Notes * I would like to extend my warmest thanks to this volume’s editors – Brenda GriffithWilliams, Janek Kucharski, and Jakub Filonik – first for their invitation to participate in the wonderful panel at the 2017 Celtic Conference and thereafter for their patient and incisive editorial guidance. My arguments here were also advanced through conversations with colleagues in Montreal, Cambridge, and Edinburgh. All infelicities, of course, remain entirely my own. 1 On this speaker’s frustratingly obscure arguments, see Todd (1993) 285–289. All translations of Lysias follow Todd (2000), with some adaptation. 2 On the Aristotelian model, and especially its limitations for our understanding of earlier forms and evolutions of Greek citizenship, see the magisterial overview of Duplouy (2018a). The metaphor of ‘sharing’ is examined by Filonik (2017) 237–240. 3 On these discussions, see Duplouy (2018a) 1–3 and, with emphasis on participation, (2018b). 4 Manville (1990) 13. 5 Blok (2017) 202. On the scrutiny of new citizens, see Robertson (2000). 6 On the so-called ‘Quiet Athenian’, see Carter (1986), with additional bibliography and discussion of related ‘citizenship strategies’ by Christ (2006) 37–38. 7 The most significant contemporary discussion of Athenian atimia may be found at Andocides 1.73–80; see also Hansen (1976) 54–98, Manville (1990) 147–148, and Kamen (2013) 71–78. 8 Duplouy (2018b) 252. 9 For the overall synthesis of his many earlier studies on Greek scrutinies, see Feyel (2009). 10 Hansen (1999) 218. 11 Hansen (1999) 220. 12 Todd (2011) and Gagliardi (2011). 13 Adeleye (1983). Similar sentiments embracing the opportunity to ‘give an account of my life’ are expressed by the dole-seeking speaker of Lys. 24.1–3. 14 Hunter (1994) 106–109, citing Whitehead (1986) 32–33. 15 Lape (2010) 186–239. 16 Lanni (2016) 134–135. On the engagements, see Gottesman (2014) and Sobak (2015). 17 For a complete overview of the ancient testimonia for the various questions said to have been asked at Athenian political dokimasiai, see the chart at Gagliardi (2011) 108 with earlier discussion. 18 As Todd (2011) 90 notes: ‘To phrase the invitation in this way is to offer something of an open goal’. 19 Along with Critias, his fellow Socratic and the future leader of the Thirty Tyrants, Alcibiades was described by Xenophon as ‘most honour-loving (philotimotatō) of all the Athenians’ (Mem. 1.2.14). Whitehead (1983) was the first to properly emphasize the nature and significance of the classical Athenian contrast between idia and dēmosia philotimia. 20 See especially Shear (2007) on the Oath of Demophantus and Wilson (2009) on the honours awarded to Phrynichus’ assassins.

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21 Much of the surviving corpus of Andocides concerns his efforts to recover and retain the citizen rights he had originally forfeited amidst the fallout from the Herms and Mysteries scandals in 415 BCE. On his efforts to trade benefactions for restoration, see Andoc. 2. 22 Tous atimous epitimous poiēsantes, Xen. Hell. 2.2.11, cf. Andoc. 1.77–79 and Ar. Ran. 686–737. 23 As the words of the decree later inserted at Andoc. 1.77–79 rightly suggest; on their (in) authenticity, see Canevaro and Harris (2017). 24 See the texts and commentary at Rhodes and Osborne (2003) no. 4. 25 Thus I will not be considering at length the two Lysianic fragments associated with dokimasiai (on which see Todd (2011) 75 n.14) or Lys. 24 For the invalid, which concerns fitness not for office but for the dole allotment. Notable earlier considerations of these dokimasia speeches as a set are Bearzot (2007) 72–81 and Weissenberger (1987). 26 On this particular speech, see the Cambridge commentary by Carey (1989), and Whitehead’s (2006) study of the thematic similarities of this speech and Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates. 27 Whitehead (2006) 133 with n.7 argues, with reference to ancient testimonia, that Philon probably lost out on his bid to serve on the Council. 28 Carey (1989) 180. 29 Todd (2000) 316 n.22. 30 Edwards and Usher (1985) 269. 31 Compare the similar claim about interest made by Isocrates at the end of On the peace (8.133). 32 See Blanshard (2010) on Mantitheus’ military narratives, the wide-ranging rhetorical study by Kapellos (2014), and Colla’s (2015) consideration of Manitheus in light of New Comedy, which leads to him being seen either as a Theophrastan mikrophilotimos or as a miles gloriosus. 33 Todd (2000) 178–179 discusses the difficulties surrounding Mantitheus’ family tree. 34 On the public and (especially) familial inscriptions commemorating Dexileus, see Rhodes and Osborne (2003), no. 7. 35 See n.6 above. 36 Todd (2000) 182 n.10. 37 Cf. Cecchet in this volume, 155. 38 On this democratization, see especially Lambert (2017). 39 Keim (2018). 40 Whitehead (2006) carefully examines and draws out the many parallels between Lycurg. 1 and Lys. 31.

Bibliography Adeleye, G. (1983) ‘The purpose of the dokimasia’, GRBS 24, 295–306 Bearzot, C. (2007) Vivere da democratici: studi su Lisia e la democrazia ateniese (Rome) Blanshard, A.J.L. (2010) ‘War in the law-court: some Athenian discussions’, in D. Pritchard (ed.) War, democracy and culture in classical Athens (Cambridge) 203–224 Blok, J.H. (2017) Citizenship in classical Athens (Cambridge) Canevaro, M. and Harris, E. (2017) ‘The authenticity of the documents at Andocides’ On the Mysteries 77–79 and 83–84’, Dike 19, 9–49 Carey, C. (1989) Lysias, selected speeches (Cambridge) Carter, L.B. (1986) The quiet Athenian (Oxford) Christ, M.R. (2006) The bad citizen in classical Athens (Cambridge) Colla, E. (2015) ‘Tipi da commedia? Personaggi e trame nel Corpus Lysiacum’, Rhetorica 33, 109–133 Collard, C. and Cropp, M. (eds and trans.) (2008) Euripides, volume 8: Fragments, OedipusChrysippus, Loeb Classical Library 504 (Cambridge, MA)

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Duplouy, A. (2018a) ‘Pathways to archaic citizenship’, in A. Duplouy and R. Brock (eds.) Defining citizenship in archaic Greece (Oxford) 1–50 Duplouy, A. (2018b) ‘Citizenship as performance’, in A. Duplouy and R. Brock (eds.) Defining citizenship in archaic Greece (Oxford) 249–274 Edwards, M. and Usher, S. (1985) Greek orators: Antiphon & Lysias (Warminster) Feyel, C. (2009) Dokimasía: la place et le rôle de l’examen préliminaire dans les institutions des cités grecques (Paris) Filonik, J. (2017) ‘Metaphorical appeals to civic ethos in Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates’, in L. Cecchet and A. Busetto (eds.) Citizens in the Graeco-Roman world (Leiden) 223–258 Gagliardi, L. (2011) ‘Athenian dokimasiai: a response to Stephen Todd’, in G. Thür (ed.) Symposion 2009: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 99–108 Gottesman, A. (2014) Politics and the street in democratic Athens (Cambridge) Hansen, M.H. (1976) Apagoge, endeixis, and ephegesis against kakourgoi, atimoi and pheugontes: a study in the Athenian administration of justice in the fourth century BC (Odense) Hansen, M.H. (1999) The Athenian democracy in the age of Demosthenes (London) Hunter, V. (1994) Policing Athens: social control in the Attic lawsuits, c. 420–320 BC (Princeton, NJ) Kamen, D. (2013) Status in classical Athens (Princeton, NJ) Kannicht, R. (ed.) (2004) Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, volume 5: Euripides (Göttingen) Kapellos, A. (2014) ‘In defence of Mantitheus: structure, strategy, and argumentation in Lysias 16’, BICS 57, 22–46 Keim, B. (2018) ‘Xenophon’s Hipparchikos and the Athenian embrace of citizen philotimia’, Polis 35, 499–522 Lambert, S.D. (2017) ‘Proposers of inscribed laws and decrees and the distribution of political influence in late classical Athens’, in S.D. Lambert (ed.) Inscribed Athenian laws and decrees in the age of Demosthenes (Leiden) 171–226 Lanni, A. (2016) Law and order in ancient Athens (Cambridge) Lape, S. (2010) Race and citizen identity in the classical Athenian democracy (Cambridge) Manville, P.B. (1990) The origins of citizenship in democratic Athens (Princeton, NJ) Rhodes, P.J. and Osborne, R. (eds.) (2003) Greek historical inscriptions, 404–323 BC (Oxford) Robertson, B. (2000) ‘The scrutiny of new citizens at Athens’, in V. Hunter and J. Edmundson (eds.) Law and social status in classical Athens (Oxford) 149–174 Shear, J. (2007) ‘The oath of Demophantos and the politics of Athenian identity’, in A.H. Sommerstein and J. Fletcher (eds.) Horkos: the oath in Greek society (Nottingham) 148–160 Sobak, R. (2015) ‘Socrates among the shoemakers’, Hesperia 84, 669–712 Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Todd, S.C. (2000) Lysias (Austin, TX) Todd, S.C. (2011) ‘The Athenian procedure(s) of dokimasia’, in G. Thür (ed.) Symposion 2009: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 73–98 Weissenberger, M. (1987) Die Dokimasiereden des Lysias (orr. 16, 25, 26,31) (Frankfurt) Whitehead, D. (1983) ‘Competitive outlay and community profit: φιλοτιμία in democratic Athens’, C&M 34, 55–74 Whitehead, D. (1986) The demes of Attica, 508/7-ca. 250 BC: a political and social study (Princeton, NJ) Whitehead, D. (2006) ‘Absentee Athenians: Lysias Against Philon and Lycurgus Against Leocrates’, MH 63, 132–151 Wilson, P.J. (2009) ‘Tragic honours and democracy: neglected evidence for the politics of the Athenian Dionysia’, CQ 59, 8–29

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Archaism, performance, and civic status in Lysias 10 Against Theomnestus Alex Petkas

Classical Athenians were very proud of their legal system, but popular opinion tended to be uneasy about experts. Citizens were keenly aware of the fact that people who studied the laws’ modes of operation could exploit them unscrupulously to their own advantage. The well-known paradigm of the sykophant summed up these anxieties concisely, and litigants in the Athenian courts frequently cast their opponents in that mould. But even beyond that, a litigant who spent too much time arguing over legal technicalities risked being perceived as a patronizing elitist by his generally more lower-class audience and could quickly lose the all-important good will of the jurors. In Aristotelian terms, we might say that whatever persuasive advantage close legal argumentation could gain under the heading of logos (reason), it stood to lose more under the heading of ēthos (character), which, according to him, was more important for success.1 In this chapter, however, I examine an unusual extended demonstration of legal argumentation, in Lysias 10, Against Theomnestus, and argue that it was primarily in order to obtain the advantage in ēthos that Lysias had his client undertake such arguments. In that speech the speaker quotes a series of archaic laws in the course of a rather technical refutation of his opponent. This apparent display of learning has been considered a major explanandum for many commentators, in view of the well-known biases of jurors against expertise.2 This would, presumably, be especially relevant if the litigant is a prosecutor like the speaker in Against Theomnestus. A key point of interest for this discussion is the way that the speaker draws attention to the archaic language of the laws. I will examine how linguistic archaism and civic identity are related in the speech by drawing on Aristotle’s stylistic theory as evidenced in both the Rhetoric and the Poetics. It is also important to consider the dynamics of how this speech might have been performed and, I propose, the way that literally performing the laws is constitutive of this metaphorical performance of civic identity.

The case, its personalities, and the legal framework Before I move on to my main argument, it may be useful to present some details of the case. The legal and interpersonal facts of the quarrel between the

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litigants, as far as we can discern them, suggest that the real prize at stake in this trial was the community’s evaluation of the character of the parties involved. Lysias 10 is a prosecution speech in a case of defamation or slander (a dikē kakēgorias) which the speaker lodged against his enemy Theomnestus (§2).3 The case is in fact the culmination of an extended feud – the fourth in a series of related trials involving not just the two litigants but also other friends or associates of the speaker and possibly of Theomnestus as well, although there is no explicit indication of this. Since no external evidence exists, we must reconstruct the basic events from references within the speech.4 The first event in the quarrel had occurred when Theomnestus arose to speak in the Assembly and a man named Lysitheus formally challenged his right to address the people on the grounds that Theomnestus had thrown away (apobeblēkenai) his arms in battle (§1). The exact procedure Lysitheus used to do this has been debated, but the most likely candidate is the dokimasia rhētorōn, a procedure familiar from Aeschines’ Against Timarchus.5 If Theomnestus had lost this case, he very probably would have been punished with disfranchisement, debarring him from participating actively in Athenian public life.6 But Theomnestus seems to have been acquitted.7 Theomnestus then went on the offensive, prosecuting one of the witnesses against him from that dokimasia trial for bearing false witness (a dikē pseudomarturiōn)8 – and he won. The speaker names him as Dionysius (§30).9 Theomnestus also seems to have successfully prosecuted his original accuser, Lysitheus, for defamation, kakēgoria – the same accusation the speaker is now making against Theomnestus.10 We do not know the speaker’s name, but he had been a witness against Theomnestus in the original dokimasia trial (§30). Part of his motivation in prosecuting Theomnestus might be to pre-empt his opponent before Theomnestus lodges another dikē pseudomarturiōn against him  – Theomnestus would have been armed with very convincing precedent.11 The speaker’s stated ground for prosecuting Theomnestus for kakēgoria is that Theomnestus had slandered him in that original dokimasia trial by saying that the speaker had killed his own father (§1). Theomnestus’ aim in doing this had presumably been to impugn the speaker’s credibility as a witness in order to pass his dokimasia. Both litigants seem to have been ambitious upper-class Athenians at a relatively early stage in their political careers. Although addressing the Assembly was open to all, it was in practice most often undertaken by the more wealthy, leisured, and ambitious upper classes.12 Thus Theomnestus’ rising to speak suggests he belongs in this bracket of citizens.13 The speaker (who tells us he is 32 [§4]) claims towards the end of the speech that as soon as he came of age,14 he prosecuted the Thirty in the Areopagus court for the murder of his father (a fact which he claims the jury is familiar with). This murder, he says, happened when he was 13 (§4). He also tells the jurors that his father served as general many times (§27). The speech can be dated rather precisely to 384/383, towards the end of Lysias’ career: besides the fact that the speaker tells us his current age and his

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age during the reign of the Thirty, he states that it is the 20th year since the fall of that regime and the return of the exiles (10.4). As Todd points out, this is not a year in which Athens is recorded as having been at war, so the alleged shield-throwing incident probably occurred several years earlier in the context of the Corinthian War (395–387).15 Since Theomnestus had not been challenged before, this may have been his first time addressing the Assembly; public offices were only available to citizens aged 30 and above, and if he was around the same age as the speaker, he may have thought it was now an apt time to make his debut in the ekklēsia. The speech was thus delivered in the context of an escalating clash between ambitious young Athenians looking ahead to the prime of their political careers. All of the men involved in this series of trials were on that military campaign together. Comparison with the account of roughhousing and bullying among young Athenian soldiers familiar from Demosthenes 54, Against Conon, reminds us of how personal animosities could grow and consolidate in such contexts, spilling over into peacetime life. When Lysitheus made his dokimasia speech against Theomnestus, he may have fortified his case with attacks on his opponent’s alleged character based on claims of personal observation. Dionysius and the speaker, who were witnesses in that trial, would have done the same. It is important to keep the stakes in mind when reading this speech. We have seen how Theomnestus’ risk in the original trial was in theory a career-ending atimia.16 When he was acquitted, however, he successfully convicted his accuser Lysitheus of kakēgoria, for which the penalty was 500 drachmas (§12). This is presumably what Theomnestus will have to pay if he loses the current case – probably not a totally crippling sum for a man of his status (as the speaker suggests at §22), although not a small one either. The other party to the quarrel, Dionysius, who was convicted of bearing false witness, suffered severely. We hear that for his perjury Theomnestus had him disfranchised (ētimōsen, §22).17 The penalty in the dikē pseudomartyriōn procedure was not fixed as atimia in all cases; there is a well-attested rule that the third time a man was convicted of bearing false witness he was automatically disfranchised.18 This is probably what happened to Dionysius. Thus, since Lysias’ client testified to the same thing at that trial as Dionysius did, he was probably anxious to avoid being convicted of the same offence – the penalty would either be a financial one or, if he had been convicted of perjury twice already, atimia.19 A detailed presentation of Athenian kakēgoria law (or laws) is beyond my scope, but a few details of the legal framework show the importance of questions of civic status for this procedure.20 Plutarch reports that Solon specifically outlawed kakēgoria of living persons in temples, courts and official buildings and at games – that is, the sort of high visibility public venues where citizen status was most consequentially performed.21 The slander laws thus constitute, inter alia, a class of exceptions to the general freedom which litigants were granted to abuse each other mercilessly in Athenian courts. As Against Theomnestus records, the law outlined actionable slander in the form of a list of ‘forbidden expressions’ – ta aporrhēta. These included androphonos

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(‘murderer’), apobeblēkenai tēn aspida (‘to have thrown away one’s shield’), patraloias (’father-beater’), and mētroloias (‘mother-beater’). Lipsius observed that all of the attested aporrhēta refer to actions which, if prosecuted, would be punishable by death or atimia – thus, epithets which questioned one’s rightful status as a citizen.22 Wallace pointed out the close overlap between the attested aporrhēta and the criteria specific to a dokimasia rhētorōn. He argued on this basis that the law’s primary purpose was to allow legal recourse to Athenians in order to retaliate for dishonours incurred in such a formal challenge to their reputation.23 Without such a recourse as the kakēgoria procedure, a prosecutor in a dokimasia rhētorōn would face little risk in making frivolous accusations which could ruin the status of the accused.24 For even if a citizen were acquitted in his dokimasia rhētorōn, as Theomnestus was, he might face significant moral stigma if the slanders heaped upon him seemed credible to some of the jurors. Thus both the specific circumstances of the case and the legal framework turn on the question of who belongs fully to the citizen community and how people can be effectively forced out of that community. It is worth noting here as well that Demosthenes (20.104) and Plutarch (Solon 21) also attribute a law to Solon which forbade ‘speaking ill (kakōs legein) of the dead’. This may have been a circumstantial reason for Lysias to highlight the speaker’s relationship with his father. The speaker in several places frames his case as a defence of his father as much as a defence of himself (§3, §27) – his father’s good reputation is thus on the line as well. Thus, when our young gentleman came to request the services of the now aged Lysias (who was perhaps in his 60s), the venerable logographer might have sensed, from interviewing him, that his client’s motivation in this case was not just to convict Theomnestus of the moderate misdemeanour of kakēgoria and receive his share of a cash fine. The convictions of Lysitheus and Dionysius had already left the speaker’s good character open to challenges and suspicion. What was really at stake for him was formally vindicating his own reputation (timē) in front of the Athenian citizenry and, in accordance with the zero-sum game of much Athenian litigation, wreaking the opposite effect upon Theomnestus.25 The real aim of this contest, for the litigants, was to call the ‘people of Athens’, embodied in the courts, to serve as umpires in a public measuring of moral character and civic honour. Whose words could be trusted? Who was fit to address the Assembly? Who had respect for the values of Athenian society such as honouring one’s fellow soldiers, one’s parents, and the dead? Both litigants probably had dreams of a future filled with wealthy friends, political clubs, prestigious liturgies, and generalships. The winner of this trial could gain an advantage for that competition worth much more than 500 drachmas.

Character and the law Let us turn to the text itself. Lysias begins with a customarily subtle prooimion setting up his portrayal of the character of both litigants. The speaker opens by saying that he recognizes many jurors who were present at the first trial, ‘when

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Lysitheus accused Theomnestus of addressing the people, though it wasn’t licit for him, having thrown away his arms’ (§1).26 The appeal to dikastai who ‘were there themselves’ is a typical way of invoking the testimonial weight of previous cases. Here, the verdict in that case would logically count against his own cause, so he of course omits the fact that Theomnestus was acquitted. The point here is to insinuate from the very start that Theomnestus is indeed a shield-thrower (regardless of what the man obtained from earlier juries). The speaker neither qualifies nor explicitly affirms Lysitheus’ accusation, thus preserving deniability. He employs this kind of careful innuendo several times in the speech, treading the fine line between insinuation and statements which might themselves be considered outright kakēgoria. The speaker adopts a tone of indignant contempt from the very beginning. He describes his charge: ‘he said I killed my own father!’ (§1). He then explains why he is not being litigious even though it might seem like it and simultaneously belittles his opponent in the process: if Theomnestus had said that I killed his father, I could have let it go, since he is a worthless man anyway. Kakēgoria lawsuits are the stuff of illiberal and litigious people (§2) – another ironic slight against Theomnestus. But since my father was such a worthy man and did so much for the city, I thought it shameful not to exact punishment on his behalf (§3). The speaker, in acting on his revered father’s behalf, thus displays the sort of filial piety Theomnestus’ remark had impugned. His statement that he was only 13 years old when his father was put to death by the Thirty (§4) is intended to dispel any suspicion that Theomnestus’ accusation could have been true. But it also subtly identifies the speaker as someone loyal to the current political order, who has already suffered greatly for its sake. Also, his older brother served as his legal guardian and deprived him of his inheritance, so he had many good reasons to wish his father were still alive. Thus Lysias injects a bit of sympathy into the speaker’s ēthos to balance and even explain the harsh attitude he ends up taking towards his opponent. After calling up witnesses to affirm the preceding facts, the speaker begins the pistis section, the legal argument which occupies the majority of the speech (§6–20). This is largely taken up with a detailed refutation of Theomnestus’ attempt at a legal argument for why he should not be prosecuted for kakēgoria on the basis of the agreed facts of what he said. The speaker tells us that at the arbitration stage, in front of the diaitētēs,27 Theomnestus claimed that, whereas the law specifies the word androphonos as an aporrhēton, he had only said ton patera apektonenai (‘I didn’t say you’re a murderer, just that you killed your father’, §6). The essence of Lysias’ legal argument against this is that when the law makes an injunction about ‘X’ it also intends that injunction to apply to synonyms of ‘X’. He expresses this in terms of the distinction between names (onomata) and their meaning (dianoia).28 But in my view, gentlemen of the jury, we are not interested in words but in their meaning (ou peri tōn onomatēn diapheresthai alla tēs toutōn dianoias), and everybody recognizes that all those who are androphonoi have also killed

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people. It would have been a considerable task for the lawgiver to mention all the words (onomata) which have the same meaning (dunamin). Instead, by talking about one of them, he made clear his views about them all. (Lysias 10.7)29 Lysias’ framing of the issue is seductively simple, and it has persuaded many modern readers. It is worth considering, however, that Theomnestus’ argument might have seemed more plausible to an Athenian audience than the speaker makes it out to be. Gernet and Bizos argued that the aporrhēta possessed a quasi-religious power and that uttering them is likely to have produced in hearers the sense of transgressing some sort of taboo.30 It has also been suggested by Todd that Theomnestus might not actually have intended to label the speaker a murderer, but merely to suggest that he was somehow at least partly responsible for his father’s death.31 Did the speaker, as a 13-year-old, betray his father, unwittingly or otherwise, to agents of the Thirty? Might his brother have used this excuse to deprive him of his inheritance? There is no direct evidence for this in the speech. But there are ways to imagine how what Theomnestus said might have been an exaggeration (to cutting effect) of something much more plausible. Lysias goes on to support his client’s argument with a few more examples. Addressing Theomnestus with a biting apostrophe, he says that his opponent would not have hesitated to prosecute someone for uttering one of the aporrhēta if, intending to call Theomnestus a ‘father-beater’ or a ‘mother-beater’ (patraloias or mētraloias), that person claimed ‘I only said tēn tekousan ē ton phusanta etuptes, that is, ‘I only said you struck your bearer or begetter’. Mētraloias and patraloias are included among the aporrhēta explicitly listed by law, as we have seen, whereas the other phrases he offers are not. The speaker continues the address to Theomnestus with another question aimed closer to home. (In the following quotation as well as subsequent ones, I put in bold those words purporting to represent the actual text of laws): I would gladly learn from you (for you are skilled and experienced in this matter, both in action and in speech): if somebody claimed that you had ‘tossed’ your shield (it says in the law ‘if anybody says that a person has thrown away, let him be liable to prosecution’) would you not prosecute him? Would it instead be satisfactory for you to have ‘tossed’ your shield, saying that this was no concern of yours, for tossing and throwing away are not the same thing? (10.9)32 The speaker thus himself quotes a section of the law on kakēgoria which Theomnestus had probably used in his retaliatory slander prosecution of Lysitheus. Further on, he surprisingly claims that Theomnestus prosecuted Lysitheus on the grounds of the aporrheton apobeblēkenai when the man had actually said Theomnestus ‘had tossed’ (errithenai) rather than ‘had thrown’. And ‘tossed’

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(ripsai) is not the actual forbidden word in the law (§12). Theomnestus has thus run roughshod over the law, violating the principles of his own arguments. It is difficult to determine what role Theomnestus’ argument was intended to play – whether it was essential to his defence or just a more casual remark. Either way, Lysias has fastened onto it and made it the centrepiece of his attack. The speaker gives two more examples which, although they expand the legal argument, actually are more aimed at Theomnestus’ character since they are designed pointedly to undermine his credibility as a citizen able to fully participate in politics. First, if Theomnestus were one of the Eleven, he would not let off someone who was brought in by means of apagōgē (citizen’s arrest) on the grounds that the man had ‘stripped a shirt’ (chitōniskon ekdedusthai). For, regardless of what the person who brought him might say, the perpetrator would in fact be a ‘clothes-snatcher’ – lōpydytēs – which is the charge specified in the law of apagōgē.33 Thus the speaker asks the jurors to imagine Theomnestus serving in an important office and then failing at it if he were to apply the same reasoning he has in his defence. Second, according to the speaker, because of his lazy disposition, Theomnestus has probably never visited the Areopagus court. For ‘you [jurors] all know’ that in this court which tries cases of phonos (homicide), the oaths which the accuser and accused are required to swear run simply, ‘I swear that so and so killed’ (ekteine) or ‘I did not kill’ (ouk ekteina, §11). Thus this most important homicide court – and conspicuous symbol of legal continuity with the archaic period – equates these two terms which Theomnestus is trying to distinguish. Here, the defendant is portrayed as not bothering to have learned some of the basics of Athenian law and legal culture, and the speaker assumes this should count against him. He implies here that a working familiarity with the legal institutions is a mark of good citizenship, one which the jurors have of course all acquired. Later on in the speech, as observed above, we learn that the speaker has been to the Areopagus not just as a spectator but in order to prosecute his father’s murderers. Thus, once again, rather than apologizing for his legal knowledge, he makes it a mark of good citizenship – and characterizes it as something won not by private study but through active participation in democratic institutions. Sharing in the benefits reserved for Athenian citizens brought many normative expectations such as military service and, for the wealthier, liturgies. Lysias’ rhetorical gambit in this speech is to extend the category of things expected of the ‘good citizen’ to include knowledge of the laws. In such a way, while he does present a coherent legal argument, this argument is framed not just as a refutation of Theomnestus’ attempt at technical evasion, but perhaps more pointedly as a criticism of his character as well. In other contexts, a defendant might be able to counter such a move by claiming he is a ‘Quiet Athenian’ who keeps to his own affairs, preferring apragmosunē to the ugly drudgery of the courts.34 But the history of legal quarrels between the men – and especially the fact that Theomnestus was, it seemed, in the midst of a sustained and successful offensive against his enemies in the courts, would have made countermoves like these very difficult and highly implausible if he tried them. It was Theomnestus

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who had opened himself up to Lysias’ rhetorical checkmate move when he used his clever but debatable legal argument about the kakēgoria law before the arbitrator. Lysias drives the point home with an apostrophe: ‘Are you so skilful (deinos) that you can manipulate the laws in whatever fashion you choose, or are you so powerful (dynasai) that you think those who are wronged by you will never achieve redress?’ (§13) Theomnestus must either be a skilled sykophant or a man powerful enough to think he is invulnerable to the laws. It is only after first laying out this careful interpretative framework that the speaker finally invites the secretary to read the actual law on kakēgoria, or at least some relevant sections of it. He asks him to do so using a typical formula, kai moi anagnōthi ton nomon (‘and please read the law’), which is not attributed to any lawgiver specifically.35 It is worth noting, in light of what follows, that the manuscripts do not preserve the text of the law here.

Performing archaism With this ethical groundwork laid, the speaker moves on to what are perhaps the most memorable sections of the speech, in which he adduces and quotes a few laws which he attributes to Solon (§15–20). These laws are not obviously relevant to the case at hand, but are brought in because they feature some archaic words which have apparently been replaced in contemporary usage with synonyms. The speaker begins by affirming his confidence that the jurors are completely following everything he is saying as though it is common sense, but that Theomnestus is so thick-headed that he does not get what is going on. He proposes to teach his opponent (didaxai), in order that ‘now upon the bēma he may be educated (paideuthē)’. Then he calls upon the secretary: ‘Read me those laws of Solon, the ancient ones’ (toutous tous nomous tous Solōnos tous palaious, §15). The word order emphasizes the laws’ antiquity; although palaious in this context could mean ‘former’, in order for the argument to make sense, these laws must presumably still be in force.36 Then the secretary presumably reads the archaic law, which, it seems, is also preserved in our texts of the speech. This passage is the only one in the Lysianic corpus where the manuscript tradition actually preserves texts purporting to be the law read by the secretary. As I will discuss more fully in the following, I propose that the speaker, in performance, was intended by Lysias to repeat in his own voice the law which the secretary had just read.37 (I have again used bold type for everything purporting to be the original ‘laws of Solon’ and then underlined the particular words that Lysias singles out as having an archaic force. My translation attempts, with varying results, to capture in English the strangeness of the words in the original Greek.) LAW ‘Let him be confined by his foot for ten days in the catchfoot,38 if the Heliaia shall impose this penalty’ – this ‘catchfoot’, Theomnestus,

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is what is now called ‘being confined in the stocks’. If somebody who had been confined were after his release to accuse the Eleven at their euthunai on the grounds that they had confined him not in the ‘catchfoot’ but in the ‘stocks’, wouldn’t they regard him as an idiot? (10.15–16)39 The secretary is then instructed to please read another law, and the manuscript similarly offers a quote from it too: LAW ‘.  .  . After ‘enoathing ’ by Apollo, let him give security. If he is afraid on account of justice, let him abscond.’ This word ‘enoathing’ means ‘swearing’ and ‘abscond’ is what we call ‘to run away’. (10.17)40 The next two laws quoted are not preceded by commands to the secretary: ‘Whoever secrets by means of the door while the thief is inside . . .’ This word ‘secrets’ is interpreted as ‘lock away’, so please do not disagree about that.41 ‘Money is placeable on the basis of whatever amount the lender wishes . . .’ This word ‘placeable’, my good man, does not mean ‘to put on a balance’, but to lend out as interest, at whatever rate one wishes. (10.17–18)42 That he says one of the words (‘secrets’ – apillei) is ‘interpreted as’ or ‘held to mean’ (nomizetai) ‘lock away’ may in fact hint at some public uncertainty about the meaning of the term. Although it ostensibly ‘teaches’ Theomnestus, this passage suggests that the meaning may not otherwise be obvious to the jurors – except perhaps for a particular oral tradition of interpreting the law. This is perhaps the clearest indication in the speech that the speaker’s common-sense tone, as though he is presenting facts well-known to the jurors, is a dubious construction. The law is introduced again by an explicit command to the secretary: Please read also the final part of this law: ‘All those women who go abroad apparently . . .’ and ‘let it be permitted to owe the damage of a houseman and of a female slave . . .’ Now pay attention: ‘apparently’ is ‘in public’, ‘go abroad’ is ‘walk around’, and a ‘houseman’ is a domestic slave. There are many other examples of this type, gentlemen of the jury. If he is not made of iron, I suspect that he has begun to realize that objects are the same now as in the past, but that we do not use some of the same names now as previously. (10.18–20)43

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While there is a divergence of onomata (names) over time, there is an identity of pragmata (actions) between the archaic, Solonian legal situation and that of the present day. Theomnestus, the jurors are now expected to realize, has questioned this important link with his frivolous pettifoggery. The defendant himself might have been surprised to see his act of philological precision taken so far. But before discussing the import of these laws for Lysias 10’s character case, let us examine the performance scenario I have proposed, which will make Lysias’ purpose in citing these laws in the first place more clear. It is not until rather recently that the topic of performance in Athenian oratory has drawn widespread attention. In a recent discussion of the relationship of preserved texts to the oratorical performances they purport to represent, Worthington argues that legal clients who consulted logographers (such as the prosecutor of Theomnestus) were more likely to have stuck to the script than, say, an accomplished orator would have done in addressing the Assembly (e.g., Demosthenes’ political speeches). The context of the law-court was much more restrictive with regard to the time limit, the arguments were often detailed, the speakers less experienced, and a successful trial probably depended heavily on a persuasive performance.44 All traditionally distinguished parts of a forensic speech (prooimion, pistis, diēgēma, and epilogos) had to be executed well in the agōn itself if a man was going to get his money’s worth from having a speech written for his case. There is thus a good prima facie reason to pay close attention to the way the speech is worded, for clues to what a likely performance would have been like and meant. Thus I propose that Lysias instructed his client to have the secretary read the laws and then himself repeat them, or at least the key sections of them preserved in our manuscripts, verbatim. This might be one explanation for the irregular way our text uniquely preserves here the laws dealt with by the speech.45 The sections of the law preserved in our text – that is, the sections I have highlighted above in bold – actually would have been the cue for Lysias’ client to re-recite the laws himself after they were read.46 Why might Lysias want his client to do such a thing? In such a high stakes situation as laid out above, a motivated client would not want to leave any advantage unexploited, and the unusualness, even boldness, of the speech’s citation of archaic laws suggests this was a key moment. These antiquated ‘Solonian’ statutes are not just novelties illustrating the importance of looking to the spirit rather than simply the letter of the law. They also subtly channel the authority of the antiquated lawgiver and the constitution of Athens onto the side of the speaker. By echoing the secretary, the speaker could appropriate their revered status to buttress his own identity as a respectable, model citizen, contrasted with his lazy, scoffing opponent. It might have been a particularly effective performative strategy to pronounce them slowly with the correct diction in order to bring out the striking key terms therein. In the actual trial, a disinterested secretary might speak in a monotone, trip over unfamiliar words, and so on – he simply could not be relied upon to utter the sacred words of the law in the most advantageous way.

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What would be the effect on the audience of the speaker himself ‘performing’ the laws? In attempting to answer this question, it is helpful to consult Greek stylistic theory, especially in relation to rare and archaic words. Aristotle’s terminology of style as expressed in the Poetics may give some perspective on the socio-linguistics of archaism in classical Greek culture, not least since he was an acute observer of Greek cultural ‘common sense’.47 Although writing several decades after Lysias, Aristotle was speaking about patterns of diction in a poetic tradition to which most citizens would have been regularly exposed at civic festivals, especially the Great Dionysia.48 In his discussion of diction (lexis, i.e. word choice) in the Poetics, he makes many observations about the effects of good taste, such as the following: The virtue of [poetic] style is to be clear and not low. The clearest style is that which consists of words in common usage, but such style is low. . . . The style that is impressive and transcends the everyday is that which uses ‘strange’ words. By ‘strange’ I mean borrowed words (xenikon glōttan), metaphors, lengthenings, and everything that diverges from common usage. (Poetics 22: 1458a18–24, my translation) Thus Aristotle advises poets to use a measured mixture of language divergent from common usage in order to elevate the style of poetry. One of the key terms here for our purposes is glōtta, often translated as ‘loan word’. Aristotle is primarily interested in the effect of the strangeness of such words here, but glōtta frequently (and perhaps here too) means ‘obsolete word’ (Ar. fr. 233 PCG).49 Poetic language from Homer onwards differentiated itself from the everyday by many such strange features, including dialectal forms from different city-states but also archaisms (as well as pseudo-archaisms based on analogy, which further underline the effectiveness of this poetic strategy). The thing that makes the strangeness of archaism in Greek poetry an elevation device is not simply its oldness, but its implicit association with an authoritative tradition, on the level of lexis. This is an important point of connection with the ‘Solonian’ laws quoted in Against Theomnestus: the very strangeness of diction in such statutes heightens the later reader or hearer’s impression that he is encountering the wise voice of an authorized founder. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle observes that the stylistic virtue of prose (logos) is different from that of poetry (poiēsis).50 But many of the same principles as in poetry apply: orators, for instance, should still make the effort to give their language a strange air: dei poiein xenēn tēn dialekton (3.2.3, 1404b). For people admire (thaumazein) what is remote, and that which excites admiration is pleasant.51 One of the main factors limiting the orator is that he must take much more care to conceal his art: dei lanthanein poiountas (Rhet 1404b, III.2.4). For this reason, there are fewer opportunities for elevated diction in private suits, which tend to be more focused on everyday matters. In such situations, disproportionate stylistic grandness is unlikely to win the sympathy of the jurors or stir their emotions in one’s favour.

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This, I propose, is the socio-linguistic dynamic that Lysias hoped to exploit with his daringly detailed scrutiny of archaic laws. In order to help his client avoid social stigma and possible legal retribution from his witnessing against Theomnestus, he chose the ‘high’ road, but in a way which characteristically conceals his art.52 By bringing to life the actual words of the dead lawgiver, he identified the cause of the speaker with the principles which underlay the Athenian democracy. The grandness or ‘highness’ of strange laws is present, but it is to some extent displaced onto Solon, who becomes thus a grand ally of the more humble, dutiful citizen. Stirring up resentment about Theomnestus’ dishonouring of the speaker’s dead father, although it is achieved with different means, is nonetheless a parallel move. This identification between the speaker’s father and patria politeia is suggested by the final, summarizing sentence: ‘Remembering these things, help me, and my father, and the established laws and the oaths which you swore’ (§32). In conclusion, it is worth emphasizing that Lysias did not have to bring in any of the ‘Solonian’ laws which he cites – legally speaking they are not particularly relevant to the case. As has often been pointed out, the speaker softens the blow of his apparent display of legal expertise by addressing all of his didacticism specifically to Theomnestus. But Lysias here was not simply trying to manage the danger of treating a necessary technical issue – he actively courted that danger. Athenian private lawsuits provided few opportunities for elevation of the sort which Aristotle speaks about, preoccupied as they often were with interpersonal grudges or sordid affairs. But citing an archaic law with obsolete synonyms would give the speaker the opportunity to associate himself – even identify himself – with the elevated oddness of archaic laws, while showing a ‘common sense’ respect for their enduring relevance. The lawgiver speaks strangely, but it is a strangeness that can be incorporated into the citizen’s identity by such performances of respect and understanding of the laws. He thus invites the Athenian jurors to penalize Theomnestus by suggesting to them that in doing so they will affirm their belief in the august historical continuity of their own politeia: that is, both their venerable constitution as well as their right of citizenship.

Notes 1 Carey 1996 (36), Arist, Rh. 1.2.4, 1356a. 2 Carey 1996 (38), Todd (2007) 636. Hyp. Ath. 13 apologizes for legal knowledge; similarly Dem. 57.5, Euboulides as eidōs tous nomous mallon ē prosēken. See also Lys. 30. 3 MacDowell (1978) 126–129 for basic discussion of slander laws; also Todd (1993) 258– 262. Both treat this speech extensively since it is one of our most important pieces of evidence for Athenian treatment of slander. 4 I follow Todd (2007) 625–637 in reconstructing most details. 5 Todd (1993) 258. 6 Todd (1993) 116 on this specific type of dokimasia. Although our evidence for atimia as the penalty for failing the dokimasia rhētorōn is later, from the days of Demosthenes and Aeschines, there is no strong reason to doubt that this was the case earlier (MacDowell

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[1978] 174, Harrison [1971] 204–205, Aeschin. 1.27–32, Dem 19.283–287). On the dokimasia rhētorōn, see also MacDowell (2005), Feyel (2007). Suggested by §3; also the speaker probably would not have failed to mention a guilty verdict if he had been convicted (Todd (2007) 628); although see Hillgruber (1988) 1–4. On witnesses in Athenian law, Todd (1990) 27–31, Scafuro (1994), Lipsius (1905–1915) 778–780. Dionysius is probably to be identified with the unnamed person in §22. This does requires adopting Frohberger’s palaeographically difficult emendation of the text from Θέωνι to Λυσιθέῳ at §12 (accepted by Lamb (1930), rejected by Carey and Wallace (1994) 121, discussed by Todd (2007) 629). Neither this point nor the identification of Dionysius with the unnamed man at §22 is essential to my argument. I.e. an advantageous circumstantial argument – for in the Athenian legal system precedent did not play a formal role as in modern legal systems. See Harris (2013) 250–266 on precedent in Athenian law. Ober (1989) 112–118. This is also perhaps suggested by §23. Lit, ‘when I passed my dokimasia’ (§31), referring here rather to the process of coming of age and being enrolled in a deme at the age of 18. Hansen (1991) 96; Ath. Pol. 42.1. Todd (2007) 690. Harris (2006) 408–418 criticizes the view of earlier scholars (esp. Hansen [1976] 63–65) that a blind eye was often turned towards atimoi participating in Athenian public life. A standard way of expressing punitive agency, not necessarily implying a timēsis process. On false witness cases: MacDowell (1978) 244–245; on fourth-century atimia: 74. Pseudomartyria cases may have resulted in a fine or compensation: Todd (1990) vs Scafuro (1994). We do not possess a full copy of the text of that law, and some of its specifics and its intent remain uncertain and debated. Wallace (1994) focuses on the topic. Plut. Sol. §21. On performance in Athens generally, Goldhill (1999). Lipsius (1905–1915) 651 n.56. Wallace (1994) 119–120. Some of the aporrhēta were also linked to the category of aischrōs bebiōkotes, a set of actions which in some cases were subject to a loss of public rights (atimia) even without conviction; Wallace (1998). Cohen (1995) 61–118 on the Athenian legal system’s way of giving recourse to extended honour feuds between citizens (72–73 on Lysias 10); see also, as a corrective, Harris (2006) 405–422, on the Athenians’ efforts to limit the use of the justice system for private vendettas.

26 ὅτε Λυσίθεος Θεόμνηστον εἰσήγγειλε τὰ ὅπλα ἀποβεβληκότα, οὐκ ἐξὸν αὐτῷ δημηγορεῖν 27 This was presumably the public arbitrator, rather than a private one: Todd (2007) 630. On this stage of procedure, Todd (1993) 128–129. 28 For dianoia as the ‘meaning’ of onomata, Pl. Criti. 113a7–8, Crat. 418a7. 29 The text used in this chapter is Carey (2007), and translations are drawn from Todd (2007), occasionally modified slightly. 30 Gernet and Bizos (1955) 142. Followed by Montiglio (2000) 135–137, Todd (2007) 635. 31 Todd (1993) 260, cf. (2007) 637–640, 660–661; it has been argued (McCoy [1975]) that the speaker’s father is Leon, whom Socrates refused to arrest, disobeying the Thirty (Pl. Ap. 32c4–9). 32 ἡδέως γὰρ ἄν σου πυθοίμην (περὶ τοῦτο γὰρ δεινὸς εἶ καὶ μεμελέτηκας καὶ ποιεῖν καὶ λέγειν)· εἴ τις σε εἴποι ῥῖψαι τὴν ἀσπίδα (ἐν δὲ τῷ νόμῳ εἴρηται, ‘ἐάν τις φάσκῃ ἀποβεβληκέναι, ὑπόδικον εἶναι’), οὐκ ἂν ἐδικάζου αὐτῷ ἀλλ’ ἐξήρκει ἂν σοι ἐρριφέναι τὴν ἀσπίδα λέγοντι ὅτι οὐδέν σοι μέλει; οὐδὲ γὰρ τὸ αὐτό ἐστι ῥῖψαι καὶ ἀποβεβληκέναι.

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33 Apagōgē was a term for summary arrest, in which the perpetrator could for instance be brought directly before the Eleven. There were several forms; for that dealing with theft, MacDowell (1978) 148. The text of the law does not survive. See Hansen (1976) on apagōgē; on theft in Athenian law, see Cohen (1983). 34 See Carter’s (1986) classic study. 35 Cf. Lys. 1.28, 31. 36 Cf. Hillgruber (1988) 65–66, and see Lys. 10.15–16, cited here. 37 On the details of the relationship between client and speechwriter, there is not very much evidence, but Usher (1976) assembles it. Ancient authorities generally assume the client will memorize the speech. 38 Ancient lexicographers propose that podokakkē is a shortening of podokatochē: LSJ s.v. ποδοκάκκη. Others suggest a connection with kakalon (Chantraine 1968 s.v. ποδοκάκκη). 39 ΝΟΜΟΣ ‘δεδέσθαι δ’ ἐν τῇ ποδοκάκκῃ ἡμέρας δέκα τὸν πόδα, ἐὰν [μὴ] προστιμήσῃ ἡ ἡλιαία’.

40

41 42 43

ἡ ποδοκάκκη αὕτη ἐστίν, ὦ Θεόμνηστε, ὃ νῦν καλεῖται ἐν τῷ ξύλῳ δεδέσθαι. εἰ οὖν ὁ δεθεὶς ἐξελθὼν ἐν ταῖς εὐθύναις τῶν ἕνδεκα κατηγοροίη ὅτι οὐκ ἐν τῇ ποδοκάκκῃ ἐδέδετο ἀλλ’ ἐν τῷ ξύλῳ, οὐκ ἂν ἠλίθιον αὐτὸν νομίζοιεν. ΝΟΜΟΣ ‘ἐπεγγυᾶν δ’ ἐπιορκήσαντα τὸν Ἀπόλλω. δεδιότα δὲ δίκης ἕνεκα δρασκάζειν’. τοῦτο τὸ ἐπιορκήσαντα ὀμόσαντά ἐστι, τό τε δρασκάζειν, ὃ νῦν ἀποδιδράσκειν ὀνομάζομεν. ‘ὅστις δὲ ἀπίλλει τῇ θύρᾳ, ἔνδον τοῦ κλέπτου ὄντος’. τὸ ἀπίλλειν τοῦτο ἀποκλῄειν νομίζεται, καὶ μηδὲν διὰ τοῦτο διαφέρου. ‘τὸ ἀργύριον στάσιμον εἶναι ἐφ’ ὁπόσῳ ἂν βούληται ὁ δανείζων’. τὸ στάσιμον τοῦτο ἐστιν, ὦ βέλτιστε, οὐ ζυγῷ ἱστάναι ἀλλὰ τόκον πράττεσθαι ὁπόσον ἂν βούληται. ἐπανάγνωθι τουτουὶ τοῦ νόμου τὸ τελευταῖον. ‘ὅσαι δὲ πεφασμένως πωλοῦνται’, καὶ ‘οἰκῆος καὶ δουλῆς τὴν βλάβην εἶναι ὀφείλειν’. πρόσεχε τὸν νοῦν. τὸ μέν πεφασμένως ἐστὶ φανερῶς. πωλεῖσθαι δὲ βαδίζειν, τὸ δὲ οἰκῆος θεράποντος. πολλὰ δὲ τοιαῦτα καὶ ἄλλα ἐστίν, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί. ἀλλ’ εἰ μὴ σιδηροῦς ἐστιν, οἴομαι αὐτὸν ἔννουν γεγονέναι ὅτι τὰ μὲν πράγματα ταὐτά ἐστι νῦν τε καὶ πάλαι, τῶν δὲ ὀνομάτων ἐνίοις οὐ τοῖς αὐτοῖς χρώμεθα νῦν καὶ πρότερον.

44 Worthington (2017). 45 MSS of Lysias 3–31 are all derived from a single archetype which survives, Palatinus Graecus 88 (Carey [2007] xi–xviii). 46 If the principle of treating the text like a close court-room script is followed, this would admittedly have the secretary reading three separate laws all together after the speaker says ‘read another law’ in §16, i.e. at the laws beginning with hostis de apillei (law #4) and to argurion stasimon (law #5), he would have been resuming things that the secretary had read all together after the initial lege heteron nomon. But even this does not seem implausible, i.e. that nomos might be used loosely or metonymically here, to refer to a block of text the secretary was supposed to read which actually happened to be composed of several laws. 47 For the use of formal rhetorical texts as sources for aspects of register, Willi (2010) 304. 48 Silk (2010) 431–435 argues that the discussion of diction, i.e. word choice, in the Poetics makes explicit the logic behind patterns of ‘high’ and ‘low’ language that are evident from the earliest attested stages of Greek poetry. 49 See Silk (2010) (esp. 435), to whom I am indebted in this discussion. 50 hetera logou kai poiēseōs lexis estin (Rhet. III.1.9, 1404a). 51 thaumastai gar tōn apontōn eisin, hēdu de to thaumaston. 52 Compare Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ discussion of Lysias’ unique talent of characterization (Dion. Hal., Lys. 8–9).

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Bibliography Carey, C. (1996) ‘Nomos in Attic rhetoric and oratory’, JHS 116, 33–46 Carey, C. (2007) Lysiae orationes cum fragmentis, Oxford Classical Text (Oxford) Carter, L.B. (1986) The quiet Athenian (Cambridge) Chantraine, P. (1968) Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque : histoire des mots (Paris) Cohen, D. (1983) Theft in Athenian law (Munich) Cohen, D. (1995) Law, violence and community in classical Athens (Cambridge) Feyel, C. (2007) ‘La dokimasia des nouveaux citoyens dans les cités grecques’, REG 120–121, 19–49 Gernet, L. and Bizos, M. (1955) Lysias, Discours, Budé edn, vol.1, 3rd edn (Paris) Goldhill, S. (1999) ‘Programme notes’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.) Performance culture and Athenian democracy (Oxford) 1–29 Hansen, M.H. (1976) Apagoge, endeixis and ephegesis against kakourgoi, atimoi and pheugontes: a study in the Athenian administration of justice in the fourth century BC (Odense) Hansen, M.H. (1991) The Athenian democracy in the age of Demosthenes (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (2006) ‘The penalty for frivolous prosecution in Athenian law’, in id. Democracy and the rule of law in classical Athens: essays on law, society, and politics (Cambridge) 405–422 Harris, E.M. (2013) The rule of law in action in democratic Athens (Oxford) Harrison, A.R.W. (1971) The law of Athens, volume 2: procedure (Oxford) Hillgruber, M. (1988) Die zehnte Rede des Lysias: Einleitung, Text und Kommentar mit einem Anhang über die Gesetzesinterpretationen bei den attischen Rednern (Berlin and New York) Lamb, W.R.M. (ed. and trans.) (1930) Lysias, with an English translation, Loeb Classical Library 244 (Cambridge, MA and London) Lipsius, J.H. (1905–1915) Das attische Recht und Rechtsverfahren, 3 vols. (Leipzig) MacDowell, D.M. (1978) The law in classical Athens (London) MacDowell, D.M. (2005) ‘The Athenian procedure of dokimasia of orators’, in R.W. Wallace and M. Gagarin (eds.) Symposion 2001: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 79–87 McCoy, W.J. (1975) ‘The identity of Leon’, AJP 96, 187–199 Montiglio, S. (2000) Silence in the land of logos (Princeton, NJ) Ober, J. (1989) Mass and elite in democratic Athens: rhetoric, ideology and the power of the people (Princeton, NJ) Scafuro, A. (1994) ‘Witnessing and false witnessing: proving citizenship and kin identity in fourth-century Athens’, in A.L. Boegehold and A. Scafuro (eds.) Athenian identity and civic ideology (Baltimore, MD) 156–198 Silk, M. (2010) ‘The language of Greek lyric poetry’, in E.J. Bakker (ed.) A companion to the ancient Greek language (Malden, MA and Oxford) 424–440 Todd, S.C. (1990) ‘The purpose of evidence in Athenian courts’, in P. Cartledge, P. Millett, and S.C. Todd (eds.) Nomos: essays in Athenian law, politics, and society (Cambridge) 19–39 Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Todd, S.C. (2007) A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11 (Oxford) Usher, S. (1976) ‘Lysias and his clients’, GRBS 17, 31–40 Wallace, R.W. (1994) ‘The Athenian laws against slander’, in G. Thür (ed.) Symposion 1993: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Cologne) 109–124 Wallace, R.W. (1998) ‘Unconvicted or potential “atimoi” in ancient Athens’, Dike 1, 63–78 Willi, A. (2010) ‘Register variation’, in E.J. Bakker (ed.) A companion to the ancient Greek language (Malden, MA and Oxford) 297–310 Worthington, I. (2017) ‘Audience reaction, performance, and the exploitation of delivery in the courts and the assembly’, in S. Papaioannou, A. Serafim, and B. da Vela (eds.) The theatre of justice: aspects of performance in Greco-Roman oratory and rhetoric (Leiden)

8

Seeing others as Athenians in Demosthenes’ third Philippic Judson Herrman

Demosthenes’ third Philippic was delivered in 341, a decade after the first Philippic, his first Assembly speech calling for military action against the Macedonian king.1 This chapter begins with a brief overview of Philip’s activities and Athenian responses during this decade from 351 to 341, intended to explain how the political setting for the third Philippic was different from that of Demosthenes’ earlier Assembly speeches. The following argument considers Demosthenes’ presentation in the third Philippic of Philip’s role in the fall of Olynthus and the revolutions on Euboea, and so it will be useful now to start with an outline of those events.

Philip and Athens, 351–341 Demosthenes’ earliest speeches against Philip appear to have had little effect; the Athenian dēmos was unwilling or unable to follow his calls for all-out war. Demosthenes’ Olynthiacs insisted on a concerted effort to aid the Chalcidian League during Philip’s siege of Olynthus in 349/348. Although the Athenians did eventually send out forces, they were smaller than those proposed by Demosthenes, and it was too late. Philip destroyed the city and enslaved its inhabitants in 348.2 Over the next few years, Philip’s involvement in the third Sacred War increased, and he played a vital role in its settlement in 346. The changed situation in central Greece prompted the Athenians to agree to a peace treaty and alliance with Philip, the so-called Peace of Philocrates, that same year. By then Philip had extended his influence into various regions of central Greece. He assumed a seat on the Amphictyonic Council, and at their behest he sent a deputy to preside at the Pythian Games in 346. He was also given special privileges in consulting the oracle at Delphi, which was a mark of his increasing influence in central Greece. More significantly, he now had control of Thermopylae, which made the threat he posed to the Greeks much more serious and immediate. He demonstrated his control of central Greece by reorganizing the political system and installing military garrisons in Thessaly some time before 344.3 Philip also took an interest in the Peloponnese, where he sought to diminish the power of Sparta by supporting Argos and Messene. Demosthenes himself

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went on a diplomatic mission that seems only to have prompted Argos, Messene, and Philip to complain to the Assembly about Athenian meddling and collusion with Sparta.4 On that occasion Demosthenes delivered the second Philippic, in which he decried Philip’s plans to isolate Athens and complained that the peace had helped Philip greatly and was a hindrance to Athens.5 In the aftermath of this debate there was increasing disagreement about maintaining the Athenian commitment to the peace. Philip proposed modifications to the terms that were rejected in Athens, where the politicians responsible for the peace blamed one another for recent developments: Philocrates was prosecuted as a traitor in 343, and in the same year Demosthenes accused his political opponent Aeschines of corruption during the peace negotiations.6 However, this Athenian discontent did not hinder Philip’s efforts in Greece. Demosthenes reports that in 343 Philip installed his partisans in the Peloponnesian city of Elis, and closer to Athens, at Megara, and he was also presented as the éminence grise behind political revolutions in Euboea that began at this time.7 Meanwhile, Philip was also turning his attention to Thrace, and that brought him into direct conflict with the Athenians, who had sent their general Diopeithes to protect a military colony in the Chersonese in 343. Philip’s campaigning in Thrace from 342 on added greatly to the tension with Athens arising from the recent political revolutions in various Greek cities. This tension is the background to the two speeches that Demosthenes delivered in the first part of 341. In On the Chersonese, Demosthenes defends the Athenian activity in the region, and then, not much later, in the third Philippic, he insists that the Athenians should regard Philip’s activities as open warfare and that they should send diplomats around Greece and mobilize a sizeable force to join Diopeithes and fight Philip.8 Unlike his earliest speeches against Philip, with the third Philippic Demosthenes succeeded in persuading the Athenians to follow his advice. At the end of 341, by Demosthenes’ proposal, embassies were dispatched, and an alliance was made with Callias of Chalcis that removed the tyrants in Euboea.9 Direct engagement with Philip was soon to follow. The third Philippic marked a key turning-point in Demosthenes’ career. The dēmos followed his lead in abandoning the peace and fully committing to a path of war with Philip that was to culminate in the battle of Chaeronea three years later in 338. To sum up: throughout the whole series of Assembly speeches delivered by Demosthenes against Philip, starting with the first Philippic in 351, there are many constants, such as the need for the Athenians to commit fully to the war by devoting substantial financial resources and taking a personal position in the battlefield, rather than relying on mercenaries. But despite these constant themes, the third Philippic stands apart from the earlier speeches because of the change in circumstances it addresses. Philip is no longer a distant threat; he has enmeshed himself in the political and military affairs of central Greece. Unlike before, when the threat was distant and tentative, in 341 Athens was on the point of confrontation with Philip’s army in Thrace. Closer to home, the Athenians were surrounded by Philip’s dependants to the immediate east and

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west in Euboea and Megara, and not far beyond, Philip had further allies in the Peloponnese and a seat on the Amphictyonic Council. The Athenian Assembly’s positive reaction to the third Philippic was no doubt strongly motivated by these new circumstances, and although the third Philippic develops and extends long-established Demosthenic themes, it also is uniquely different from the earlier Assembly speeches in the way that it reflects the changed dynamics between Philip and Athens.

The third Philippic in context One key element that distinguishes the speeches given before the peace of Philocrates from those given in the late 340s is a growing obsession with Philip’s supporters in Athens. In the earliest speeches Demosthenes focuses on Philip as an external danger; he also points to internal factors in Athens that contribute to the danger posed by Philip, but those observations are not presented as personal attacks on identifiable agents of Philip in Athens. Thus, for example, in the Olynthiacs, Demosthenes castigates the Athenians’ general neglect of their duty and failure to recognize and respond to the danger that threatens them, without pointing any fingers at specific politicians in Athens.10 In the speeches after the peace he goes much further and attributes the Athenians’ failings to the pernicious influence of corrupt Athenian politicians who have sold themselves to Philip.11 Whereas in the first Philippic he presented Philip as an object of fear and hatred (4.8), by the time of the third Philippic he has shifted that appeal, and he urges the dēmos to hate and punish Philip’s Athenian agents: ‘you should hate those who speak on his behalf, and be mindful that you cannot overpower the city’s enemies until you punish those in the city who are subservient to these men’ (9.53). His suggestion that Athenian politicians are in service to the city’s ‘enemies’ (echthroi) marks a departure from earlier speeches; in the Olynthiacs he similarly describes Philip as an object of personal hatred (echthros: 3.16, 28; cf. 4.50), avoiding the regular diplomatic term for an enemy in war (polemios), and he does not ascribe that term to fellow Athenians, but by the time of the third Philippic he has reached the point that he categorically labels his opponents as ‘servants to the enemies of the state’, and that derogatory label became standard among the anti-Macedonians in Athens.12 This shift in blame is typical of the later Assembly speeches; in a passage of On the Chersonese that will be considered in more detail in the following, delivered just a month or two before the third Philippic, he uses some of the same wording to implore the Athenians to hate, but goes even further and shockingly calls for the crucifixion of his political opponents in Athens (8.61, 76). The third Philippic shares with other post-peace speeches this image of an Athens divided between Philip’s agents and selfless patriots such as Demosthenes, who risk their own careers and reputation to advocate for the good of Athens despite the threat of persecution and prosecution posed by traitorous political opponents. However, it goes beyond its immediate predecessors with its long view of Athenian history and its wide perspective on the Greek world.

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The other Assembly speeches of this period are more limited in perspective: the second Philippic of 344 addresses recent events in the Peloponnese; On the Chersonese, from 341, focuses on Philip’s current activities in Thrace. The third Philippic, by contrast, looks far back and situates Philip’s rise to power in a longterm analysis of hegemony in Greece, beginning with the fifth-century Athenian empire and then continuing with an overview of the period of Spartan supremacy after the Peloponnesian War.13 With this long view and historical perspective Demosthenes anticipates his great speech On the crown, in which he will explain the terrible defeat at Chaeronea and justify his entire career of opposition to Philip by likening his stance to the role played by the Athenians in the Persian Wars.14 In terms of geography, Demosthenes also has a broader view in the third Philippic than he does in other recent Assembly speeches. Demosthenes’ earlier Assembly speeches are explicitly directed towards what is good and beneficial for the Athenians, with little regard to the other Greeks.15 Thus, for example, in the Olynthiacs the call to help the allies in the Chalcidian League is presented entirely in terms of likely benefit and safety of the Athenians. They should take on the fight against Philip in the north to forestall the prospect of his invading central Greece.16 By contrast, in the third Philippic Demosthenes adopts a more Panhellenic outlook. He asserts that Philip’s campaigns in Greece threaten every single Greek city, and he decries the lack of unity among the Greek states, whom he describes as being ‘dug in’, entrenched in isolation, selfishly refusing to look at the big picture (9.20, 28 diōrorgmetha). His famous description of Philip as a barbaros contributes to this patriotic presentation of a Panhellenic cause (9.31) and anticipates the style of rhetoric that will be used to build and market the campaigns against Philip at Chaeronea and against Alexander and his generals in the decades to follow.17 The attention to a shared Greek cause goes hand in hand with the unusually long historical view in the third Philippic. In an extended passage, Demosthenes contrasts the general Greek love of freedom and hatred of foreigners during the time of the Persian Wars with their current willing subservience and selfish isolationism (9.36–45). The centrepiece of this argument is an account of an Athenian decree permitting the murder of a certain Arthmius of Zelea, who was said to have tried to bribe Peloponnesians on behalf of the Persian king in the years after the Persian Wars.18 Demosthenes presents this rather mysterious anecdote as an example of Athenian concern for the freedom of all Greeks against foreign monarchs; they took measures to stop the corrupting influence of an agent who never set foot in Attica. As he sums it up: ‘so then, those [ancestors] believed that the safety of all Greeks was their own concern’ (9.45). All this attention to the wider Greek world and the historical perspective in the third Philippic ultimately leads to the longest section of the speech, a historical account of recent events in Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus (9.53–69). This passage is designed to encapsulate Demosthenes’ overall message that Athens must live up to her historical role as the leader of the free Greek states, and at the same time, this passage provides vivid illustration and pointed warning

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about the consequences of failure to reverse the recent trend of isolationism. The chronology was outlined above: the fall of Olynthus took place in 348; the events in Euboea were more recent, also starting in 349/348, although Demosthenes focused on current developments as he delivered the third Philippic in 341. The selection of these particular examples thus subtly highlights Demosthenes’ own role as a sumboulos; he began his career a decade before by warning the Athenians about the dangers of Philip’s movement against Olynthus, and he would proudly recall his advocacy later by reminding the Athenians of the sufferings of the Olynthians in his prosecution of Aeschines in 343 (e.g., 19.166–173, 196–198). Demosthenes was similarly involved in Euboea: in the aftermath of the third Philippic he will take an active role as an ambassador to the Peloponnese and as the mover of the proposal for an alliance with Callias of Chalcis aimed at deposing Philip’s regimes on the island.19 As Athens moves towards its final engagement with Philip a few years later, in this selection of historical examples in the third Philippic Demosthenes is beginning to package the sort of career retrospective that will be so successful as a defensive rhetorical technique in the aftermath of that shockingly unsuccessful battle at Chaeronea.

Olynthus and Euboea in the third Philippic The retrospective and Panhellenic account of the fall of Olynthus and the Euboean cities is a significant element in the distinctive character and the political success of the third Philippic; this chapter turns now to a close reading of that account. Demosthenes frames his narratives of the fall of Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus as explanatory examples to show the Assembly what could happen to Athens. He adopts a rhetorical technique that conflates the identities of the peoples of these cities with that of the Athenians; he focuses in his accounts on interactions between corrupt leaders and a gullible dēmos, and he reinforces this focus by adopting specific Athenian terminology to describe the internal affairs of other Greek cities. By describing the fall of Olynthus and the stasis on Euboea in Athenian terms, Demosthenes subtly underscores his argument that the same thing could happen in Athens. He begins with the passage discussed above, in which he calls upon the Athenian dēmos to hate Philip’s agents in Athens (9.53). Next, he addresses the Athenians and asserts that they indulge Philip’s partisans and endanger those who actually represent their interests: ‘you have allowed them to advise you with more security than those who speak on your behalf ’ (9.55). That factionalism is his segue to Olynthus in 348, where he begins by observing the parallel division between those who spoke and acted as servants of Philip and those who advocated for the ‘best cause’ (to beltiston, 9.56); the formulation marks the parallel between Athens and Olynthus, with the close repetitions of hupēretein (‘to serve’) from the preceding description of Athenian politics and the repeated absolute usage of ‘the best cause’ (to beltiston) as shorthand for ‘those who give the best advice’ (hoi ta beltista legontes), his more usual label for patriotic Athenian politicians such as himself.20 As the narrative continues he gives the full

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version of that label and assigns the blame for the betrayal of the city to those who ‘harass and slander the ones who are the best advocates’.21 Like the label for patriotic speakers, the two nominative participles (sukophantountes kai diaballontes) also underline the conflation of politics in Athens and Olynthus. The verb sukophantein properly belongs to the democratic Athenian context, where politicians frequently use it to denounce their opponents’ motives as volunteer prosecutors.22 Even the generic verb diaballein has an Athenian resonance in this passage, since it echoes the start of the speech where Demosthenes uses the same verb to describe the slander characteristic of Athenian debates on Philip (9.2). As a final assertion to drive home the linkage between the political process in Olynthus in 348 and Athens in 341, Demosthenes ascribes the decision to exile the politician Apollonides (this event is not otherwise known aside from the bare statement here) not to his opponents, Philip’s partisans Lasthenes and Euthycrates, who surrendered the city to the Macedonians, but rather to the dēmos. He concludes this account by simply stating ‘the dēmos of the Olynthians was persuaded’, and thus, with the passive verb that points to the persuasive role of the advisers to the dēmos, Demosthenes draws the connection between the events in Olynthus and the threat posed by pro-Macedonian politicians in the Athenian Assembly. The next historical example makes the move to Euboea. Demosthenes begins with Eretria, and his presentation of events there smoothes the chronological transition from Olynthus in the early 340s to Euboea in the late 340s. His brief account begins with stasis in 349/348, when the Athenians intervened on behalf of a certain Plutarchus, who then had a falling out with the Athenian general Phocion, leading to the withdrawal of Athenian support.23 In his brief narrative of Eretria in the 340s Demosthenes begins with that event, but rather than focus on the rival leaders during that civil war, he picks up where he left off in Olynthus; he makes the dēmos the subject, in order to remind his Athenian listeners of the relevance to them of these digressions, and he reiterates his emphasis on the corrupting power of bad leaders by again using the verb peithein (‘to persuade’) in the passive to stress their bad decisions (9.57). There can be no doubt that Demosthenes intends this brief account to remind his listeners of the importance of their own decisions: his digressions are presented as illustrations of the consequences of failing to follow good political advisers, and he echoes his initial paraphrase (9.55) for Athenian leaders such as himself when he describes the exiled Eretrian politicians as those ‘who spoke on their behalf ’. One more sentence on Eretria explains that the stasis of 349/348 resulted in Philip installing traitorous tyrants and brings the narrative down to the late 340s (9.58), at which point Demosthenes shifts to his third and final historical example, a more detailed account of events in the city of Oreus, also on Euboea. In his narrative of the fall of Olynthus and the stasis in Eretria Demosthenes identifies the dēmos of those states with the Athenians by repeating phrases from his main narrative of Athens in his description of the events in those states, by blending the descriptions of the comparatum and the comparandum.

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Demosthenes’ third historical narrative is the most developed and evinces in more detail this same technique of identifying the people of another Greek city with the Athenians. In this account Demosthenes introduces a sympathetic hero to epitomize the link between Athens and Oreus: ‘A certain Euphraeus, who even lived here among us once, [took action] so that they would be free and slaves to no one’ (9.59). Demosthenes stresses his actual connections with Athens: other sources report that he was once a student of Plato in Athens, and from there he went to Macedon, where he spent time in the court of Perdiccas, Philip’s predecessor; he is said to have alienated Philip, while also helping him rise to the throne.24 He thus serves as the perfect touchstone for Demosthenes to draw the contrast between Athenian freedom and Macedonian despotism since he had first-hand experience with both. Demosthenes’ tautological explanation of his political policy, to fight for freedom and against slavery, connects back to the first account of Olynthus, where ‘the best politicians’ similarly fought to avoid being slaves. As he describes events in Oreus, Demosthenes again directs attention to the role of the dēmos, whom he presents as the agents of hubris and abuse: Euphraeus ‘was shamed and insulted by the dēmos’ (9.60). The verbs hubrizein and propēlakizein are vivid and colourful;25 the latter is literally ‘to spatter with mud’, and the usage illustrates the dēmos of Oreus as the willing stand-ins for Philip, since Demosthenes more regularly casts Philip as the agent of hubris and earlier in the speech gave a catalogue of the Macedonian king’s offences under that heading.26 By presenting the people of Oreus in this role he hints at his larger point, that the Athenian Assembly must not be a willing tool for Athenian politicians who have betrayed the best interests of the city by hiring themselves out to Philip. As his narrative of events in Oreus develops, Demosthenes piles on a series of technical terminology that links the identities of Oreus and Athens. It is the same technique observed above with the usage of sykophantein in the account of Olynthus, but here the usage is much more intensive, as a cluster of terms accumulates. First, Euphraeus is reported to have ‘lodged a complaint’ (enedeixen) against one of Philip’s agents (9.60). The verb is a technical term in Athenian law, rather loosely applied here, for the legal procedure of endeixis, which describes a written declaration that could be filed by any citizen against public debtors, those accused of impiety, or declared public menaces who had been punished with disenfranchisement and were barred from various public institutions, such as the courts and Assembly.27 Next, the antidemocratic conspirators in Oreus are described as prutaneuomenoi, with Philip as their chorēgos. The former term is a passive participle referring to those subject to the directives of Athenian prutaneis, the officers in charge of day-to-day affairs for the Athenian Council. The latter term colourfully refers to the Athenian liturgy of the chorēgia; an Athenian chorēgos performed his liturgy obligation by paying for the costs involved in a choral production, such as a tragedy.28 Here the more general usage of the term invokes that specific Athenian context and implies that Philip paid for

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and orchestrated the public policy of oligarchs in Oreus. As affairs come to a climax, Demosthenes reports the arrest and imprisonment of Euphraeus by the oligarchs in Oreus with the phrase ‘they lead him off to the prison’ (apagousi eis to desmōtērion), which occurs often in reference to the specific Athenian process of apagōgē, or summary arrest.29 Men against whom a complaint, an endeixis, had been lodged were subject to this type of arrest, and they would be imprisoned until a trial was held; men accused of homicide, and those caught stealing, were also liable to this procedure.30 This item illustrates the loose applicability of all the specific Athenian terminology here: just a bit above Euphraeus lodged the complaint, but then he himself was arrested. The incorrect usage of the terms not only draws the connection with Athens, but also stresses the perversion of justice and procedure in Oreus. These dire events culminate in the report of the prison suicide of Euphraeus; Demosthenes leads up to this by again switching his perspective to the role of the dēmos, whom he suggests ought to have executed the pro-Macedonian oligarchs rather than imprison Euphraeus and allow him to die (9.61–62). As a final example, Demosthenes’ word choice for ‘execute’ is the verb apotumpanizein, which also pertains specifically to Athens, referring to a method of state execution in which the condemned man was attached to a plank and exposed until he died; this is precisely the harsh penalty that Demosthenes himself wishes upon Philip’s agents in Athens, as observed above.31 To conclude this detailed reading, as Demosthenes brings this sad narrative to a close, he circles back to the Athenian context in a form of ring composition that marks the sequence of accounts of events in Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus as a single digression designed as a warning of what he fears may happen in Athens. He introduced the digression as an admonition to the Athenians if they refuse to listen to those who speak ‘on their behalf ’ (huper humōn, 9.55), and he pitifully describes Euphraeus’ suicide as his last act ‘on behalf of the citizens’ of Oreus (9.62: huper tōn politōn). To be clear, Demosthenes’ choice to use Athenian terminology in his case studies of Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus is a rhetorical technique; he does not fully equate the Athenians with these other Greeks, but rather describes events in other cities in this way so that the Athenians would see how applicable these examples are to their current situation. It is difficult to assess whether Athenian listeners would have consciously registered the specific nuance of some of the terms discussed here; for example, although the phrases ‘lodged a complaint’ (enedeixen) and ‘they lead him off to the prison’ (apagousi eis to desmōtērion) regularly refer to specific Athenian legal procedures, they were also used in a more generic everyday sense, and furthermore, there may have been specific legal procedures or regional idioms in other cities that were more or less analogous to those in Athens, which happen to be much less well attested or known, perhaps to Demosthenes’ original Athenian audience and certainly to us today. Even a term such as chorēgos, which seems more obviously Athenian in its focus, may have had some specific local applicability that is now unclear.32 On the other hand, these sorts of references are concentrated in a cluster in this

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section of the speech, and their application to three different cities in a close sequence suggests that Demosthenes intended his Athenian audience to reflect more on the commonalities that apply to their own plight than to consider the specific circumstances of each of the historical examples. Demosthenes’ third Philippic is the pinnacle of his series of Assembly speeches. It reiterates views of Philip that Demosthenes began expressing already in the first Philippic in 351, but it breaks new ground in that Demosthenes succeeded in convincing the Athenians that they must abandon the peace of Philocrates and commit to an imminent and unavoidable war with Philip. It is distinct from earlier speeches in its attitude towards fellow Athenian politicians as corrupt hired agents of Philip. Demosthenes develops this perspective and warns the Athenian dēmos of the danger they face by presenting a series of three historical digressions on the fall of Olynthus in 348 and stasis in Eretria and Oreus in 342. In those digressive narratives he takes great care to demonstrate the parallelism of those foreign events with the current situation in Athens. He marks the relevance of the digressions by constantly directing attention to the role the dēmos played in Euboea and Olynthus, by repeating key phrases linking Athens and these other cities, and by piling on specific terms that properly pertain to specifically Athenian institutions. To be sure, there is nothing new in seeing commonalities between the dangers facing Athens and what other cities experienced at the hands of Philip. So, for example, as Demosthenes introduces these digressions in the third Philippic he points to the ‘foolishness or madness’ (mōrias ē paranoias) among Athenians as one cause for their decisions to approve the proposals of his opponents (9.54). Earlier, in his speech On the false embassy, he specified paranoia as the cause for the success of Philip’s agents in the revolution at Elis of 343, and his earlier description of the attitudes in Olynthus in 348 makes a similar point about madness.33 But those parallels are much broader, more generic, and less concentrated than the technique that is employed in the historical digressions at the end of the third Philippic, where, in the span of just more than a page, there are repeated echoes linking his description of Athens and of these cities. The sustained accumulation of Athenian technical terms develops an association between the different actors at each location. Demosthenes’ purpose in creating these three different scenes is to show the Athenians the potential result when the dēmos serves the will of leaders who have been corrupted by Philip.

Demosthenes’ message for Athens The historical digression on events at Olynthus and on Euboea is itself the culmination of the third Philippic; Demosthenes moves from the extended account to an analytical passage explicating the applicability to Athens and then closes with specific proposals that the Athenians prepare for war and send out embassies to recruit allies. The Athenians did just that, and this successful outcome is unique among Demosthenes’ surviving deliberative speeches. In his concluding analysis Demosthenes provides confirmation of his intentions to describe these

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other Greeks in terms that will remind his Athenian audience of themselves. Near the end of the speech he sums up the reason for the fall of Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus as ‘foolishness and cowardice’ (mōria kai kakia, 9.67), echoing his reference to Athenian ‘foolishness or madness’ at the introduction to the digression (9.54). Here, in this final analysis, he asserts that ‘it is foolishness and cowardice to expect success when people are making bad decisions and unwilling to do what they ought to do, who instead, while listening to those who speak on behalf of their enemies, suppose that they live in a city so great in stature that whatever may happen it will not experience terror’.34 The Greek is difficult, and typically Demosthenic in its use of participial and infinitive constructions. As often, Demosthenes’ challenging syntax serves a larger contextual purpose. Demosthenes deliberately avoids a finite verb construction and omits the accusative pronoun with the infinitives in order to create ambiguity. His summary of these historical examples is presented in terms that apply fully to the current situation in Athens; as a referent for the participles the audience may understand: toutous (‘them’), the people of Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus, or hēmas (‘us’), the Athenians themselves. He contributes to the ambiguity by using generalizing plural expressions such as ‘those who speak on behalf of your/their enemies’, which recall the final detail in the description of events at Oreus, while on the other hand, the phrase ‘unwilling to do what you/they ought to do’ is a frequent Demosthenic shorthand for Athenian dereliction of duty.35 In this final analytical overview Demosthenes ambiguously conflates the Athenians and the other Greeks with a single identity as the past or prospective victims of Philip’s corrupt agents. The Athenians and the others are syntactically indistinguishable.

Conclusion This chapter presents Demosthenes’ rhetorical technique of identifying the people of Olynthus, Eretria, and Oreus with Athenians. By doing this, Demosthenes narrates a vivid warning for the Athenian Assembly in 341, showing them the potential consequences of bad policy decisions. As a conclusion, a brief tentative consideration of the broader ideological implications of this rhetorical technique may explicate Demosthenes’ thinking and intentions. In the third Philippic, Demosthenes adopts a long chronological perspective, and he contrasts Philip’s treatment of the Athenians and other Greeks with the Athenians’ management of their empire in the fifth century. The ideology of the Athenian empire regarded the Aegean cities that were subject to Athenian rule as part of Athenian territory. Athenian citizens living in cleruchies enjoyed the privilege of the Athenian legal process; cases involving them were tried in Athenian courts. Similarly, the residents of the other cities were forced to pay Athenian taxes and share their land-holdings with the Athenian occupiers. Fifth-century imperial ideology viewed the cleruchies as extensions of Athens, while in contrast those opposed to this sort of propaganda more realistically characterized these Athenian privileges abroad as a

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sort of forced despotism.36 After the Peloponnesian War, when the Athenians were eager to re-establish their Aegean hegemony, they specifically renounced claims on physical ownership of land in the colonies and the right to collect taxes from them, whatever the reality of their subsequent actions may have been.37 Demosthenes’ rhetorical technique in the third Philippic, by likening other Greeks to the Athenians, recalls the idealistic attitude of fifth-century imperialists. This outlook subtly extends the rosy picture of Athenian empire presented earlier in the speech, where he celebrates the Athenians’ fifth-century defence of Greeks in need and complains that Philip has committed more wrongs against the Greeks in 13 years of command than the Athenians did in 70 years of rule (9.23–25). Demosthenes’ rhetorical technique of describing other Greeks in Athenian terms adds a certain authority to his tone, recalling the position enjoyed by Athens a century before. In this regard, too, the third Philippic shows a new direction for Demosthenes, one that culminates in the analogy in On the crown in which Demosthenes likens his policy against Philip to that of the Athenians during the Persian Wars. By blurring the distinction between other Greeks and Athenians in the third Philippic Demosthenes presents a view of Athens and its allies that recalls past glories and anticipates his future defence of the policy that led to the defeat at Chaeronea.

Notes 1 For background, see Herrman (2019) 1–9 and MacDowell (2009) 349–354. 2 For details, see Cawkwell (2011) 381–387 and Sealey (1993) 137–143. 3 On all these developments, see Harris (1995) 88–89, 95–101; on Thessaly, see Dmitriev (2011) 79–80. 4 Harris (1995) 110–112. 5 On the speech, see MacDowell (2009) 329–333. 6 Harris (1995) 112–115. 7 Dem. 19.87, 260, 294–295, 9.17, 27, 57–62. 8 For an overview, see MacDowell (2009) 346–354. 9 For Demosthenes’ policy regarding Euboea, see Cawkwell (1963) 202. For details on the embassies, see Develin (1989) 334–345; on Euboea, see Philochorus FGrH 328 F 160 = Didymus On Demosthenes 1.15–18. 10 E.g., Dem. 1.6, 9–12; 2.3, 22; 3.14, 33. 11 On Demosthenes’ increasing readiness to charge Athenians with corruption, see Cawkwell (1963) 204–205. 12 Dem. 19.299: τοὺς ὑπηρετηκότας τι τοῖς ἐχθροῖς. Cf. 18.138; Aeschin. 2.37, Hyp. Eux. 29. 13 Cf. Dem. 9.21–25, 47–52. 14 See further Yunis (2000). 15 Rhetorical handbooks recommend such attention to immediate expediency in deliberative oratory: Arist. [Rh. Al.] 2.21 (1424b), Rh. 1.6.1, 1362a. See also Hunt (2010) 157–158. 16 Cf. Dem. 1.1–9, 25–27. 17 E.g., Dem. 18.99–100, 208, Hyp. Epit. 10, 11, 16, 19, 24, 40. 18 On Arthmius, see Meiggs (1972) 508–512. The decree Dem. cites is one of a handful regarding the Persian Wars that are of doubtful authenticity; these appear frequently in fourth-century sources, but their historical accounts are sometimes demonstrably inaccurate, the phrasing is often questionable, and they are not attested before the fourth century. See Habicht (1961), esp. 23–25.

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See n.9, above. E.g., Dem. 3.11–12, 6.5, 8.57, 73. Dem. 9.56: οἱ . . . τοὺς τὰ βέλτιστα λέγοντας συκοφαντοῦντες καὶ διαβάλλοντες. E.g., Dem. 18.138, 189; for a recent discussion of the topic, citing earlier treatments, see Kucharski (2012) 190–194. Cf. Kucharski in this volume, 177–179. See Harding (2006) 107, Sealey (1993) 140–141, Tritle (1988) 76–89. Harp. s.v. Εὐφραῖος, Ath. 11.506f, 508e; cf. Cawkwell (1978) 51–55. For the pairing cf. Dem. 21.7, 22.58, 23.120. Dem. 9.32–35. For the sense of propēlakizein, cf. Austin and Olson (2004) 177 on Ar. Thesm. 386. See Filonik (2013) 16 n.23, 81, MacDowell (1978) 75, Hansen (1976) 9–17. For the usage here cf. Wilson (2000) 71, 337 n.94. LSJ s.v. ἀπάγω IV 3. MacDowell (1978) 120–122, Hansen (1976) 21–24. Cf. Dem. 8.61, 10.63, 19.137; for the practice, Todd (2000). Wilson (2000) 283–284 considers the scanty evidence for ‘choral culture’ in Eretria. Dem. 19.260, 1.23, 2.20. Dem. 9.67: μωρία καὶ κακία τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐλπίζειν, καὶ κακῶς βουλευομένους καὶ μηδὲν ὧν προσήκει ποιεῖν ἐθέλοντας, ἀλλὰ τῶν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἐχθρῶν λεγόντων ἀκροωμένους, τηλικαύτην ἡγεῖσθαι πόλιν οἰκεῖν τὸ μέγεθος ὥστε μηδ᾽ ἂν ὁτιοῦν ἦι, δεινὸν πείσεσθαι.

35 E.g., Dem. 2.22, 4.13, 50. 36 For a range of discussions see the essays in Low (2008). 37 See IG II2 43.15–46 with Rhodes and Osborne (2003) no. 101–102.

Bibliography Austin, C. and Olson, S.D. (2004) Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazusae (Oxford) Cawkwell, G.L. (1963) ‘Demosthenes’ policy after the Peace of Philocrates II’, CQ 13, 200–213 Cawkwell, G.L. (1978) Philip of Macedon (London) Cawkwell, G.L. (2011) Cyrene to Chaeronea: selected essays on ancient Greek history (Oxford) Develin, R. (1989) Athenian officials 684–321 BC (Cambridge) Dmitriev, S. (2011) The Greek slogan of freedom and early Roman politics in Greece (Oxford) Filonik, J. (2013) ‘Athenian impiety trials: a reappraisal’, Dike 16, 11–96 Habicht, C. (1961) ‘Falsche Urkunden zur Geschichte Athens im Zeitalter der Perserkriege’, Hermes 89, 1–35 Hansen, M.H. (1976) Apagoge, endeixis and ephegesis against kakourgoi, atimoi and pheugontes: a study in the Athenian administration of justice in the fourth century BC (Odense) Harding, P. (2006) Didymos: on Demosthenes (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (1995) Aeschines and Athenian politics (New York and Oxford) Herrman, J. (2019) Demosthenes, selected political speeches (Cambridge) Hunt, P. (2010) War, peace, and alliance in Demosthenes’ Athens (Cambridge) Kucharski, J. (2012) ‘Vindictive prosecution in classical Athens: on some recent theories’ GRBS 52, 167–197 Low, P. (ed.) (2008) The Athenian empire (Edinburgh) MacDowell, D.M. (1978) The law in classical Athens (London) MacDowell, D.M. (2009) Demosthenes the orator (Oxford) Meiggs, R. (1972) The Athenian empire (Oxford) Rhodes, P.J. and Osborne, R. (2003) Greek historical inscriptions 404–323 BC (Oxford) Sealey, R. (1993) Demosthenes and his time: a study in defeat (New York and Oxford)

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Todd, S.C. (2000) ‘How to execute people in fourth-century Athens’, in V. Hunter and J. Edmondson (eds.) Law and social status in classical Athens (Oxford) 53–74 Tritle, L.A. (1988) Phocion the good (New York and Sydney) Wilson, P. (2000) The Athenian institution of the khoregia (Cambridge) Yunis, H. (2000) ‘Politics as literature: Demosthenes and the burden of the Athenian past’, Arion 8, 97–118

Part III

Social and material dimensions of Athenian identities

9

The rich and the poor, conflicts and alliances Socio-economic identities and their uses in the Demosthenic corpus Lucia Cecchet

One aspect that strikes the modern reader of Attic forensic speeches is the frequency of references to individual wealth and poverty as a feature defining the character of the speaker and of his opponent(s). A recurring rhetorical practice, in fact, is that of including oneself or the others in the group of ‘the rich’ or in that of ‘the poor’. This polarization of Athenian society into two macro-groups, mitigated by occasional references to a middle class, is clearly a simplification of socio-economic reality. Yet, the discursive use of such polarization is telling. How is individual identity as a rich or a poor individual constructed in Attic rhetoric? Economic and quantitative criteria play only a marginal role. Economic condition cuts across boundaries of status and gender: one can be a rich female or male citizen or metic or a poor female or male citizen or metic. Socio-economic identity in Attic oratory is a flexible construct that varies its characteristics depending on aspects such as civic/non-civic status, profession, and gender. It is the interplay of such factors that contributes to the shaping of individual socio-economic identities within the classes or groups of ‘the rich’ and ‘the poor’. At the same time, this makes these groups not monolithic but flexible and internally diverse. Taking some speeches of the Demosthenic corpus as case studies, this chapter will show that there is a sophisticated dialectic between individual socio-economic identity – as a result of the interplay of several factors – and group identity. In particular, I argue that court speakers tend to define individual socio-economic identity by relating it to group socio-economic identity, in terms of either opposition or confirmation of the common assumptions that the community held about each group.

The city divided: group identities and the binary opposition between rich and poor There is much evidence – including drama, political writing, and, not least, oratory – that Athenians thought of the civic body as internally divided into socio-economic groups. This division does not simply reflect economic differences; it implies a broader divide. In Euripides’ Suppliants King Theseus, replying to Adrastus, makes a general reflection on the fact that the citizens are

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divided into three groups (Supp. 238: treis gar politōn merides): ‘the rich’, ‘the poor’, and ‘the category in between’. The rich always crave for more wealth and fame, the poor are characterized by fear and envy of the rich and are easily misguided by demagogues. To the third part, which in economic terms resembles a middle class, Theseus attributes the role of saviours of the city.1 Theseus describes groups as entities defined by typical features and mindsets, that is, he maintains that economic capacity determines social and political behaviour. Neither the rich nor the poor are good citizens; the only hope for justice in the polis lies in the group in between.2 This assumption reveals a perception of the polis as an environment in which internal strife is a latent threat. Indeed, the paradigm of the clash between rich and poor does not explain the complex and diverse historical reality of stasis in the Greek poleis.3 What interests us here, however, is not the historical phenomenon of stasis, but rather the ancient perception of the city as a universe divided into groups. This perception occurs frequently in the literary records: Thucydides interprets stasis in Corcyra in 427 in terms of strife between the dēmos and the oligoi, with a brief reference to the party in between that maintained itself distant from both. He does not describe the two groups as penētes and plousioi, but in the closing lines of his description of stasis throughout the Greek world he mentions escaping penia as one of the causes of strife.4 Plato clearly points to the clash between socio-economic groups as the reason for political instability and the motor of constitutional change. The anthropological history of constitutions that he draws in the Republic is, in part, a history of the clash between rich and poor. Oligarchy is the regime in which the rich hold offices while the poor are excluded from the government of the city (Resp. 550c–e). The result is that two poleis, that of the rich and that of the poor, coexist within the same one and are always plotting against each other (Resp. 551d). In the Laws, the solution to prevent strife is reaching a sort of economic ‘middle ground’: a law regulates the maximal level of individual wealth and poverty (Lg. 744 d–e).5 Aristotle, in the Politics, asserts that best constitution is that in which the citizens from the middle classes (mesoi) exercise power (Pol. 1295b 1–20 and 1296a 7–9).6 In his articulated discussion of stasis (Pol. 1301a–1307b) the tension between the plousioi and the dēmos, and the absence of a middle class, is one of the factors triggering internal conflict in the city (Pol. 1304b 1–5).7 The idea that the polis is divided between rich and poor and that these groups are in constant or potential conflict with each other is at the base of recurring strategies in court speeches. As mentioned above, the definition of such groups in economic terms, however implied, is never clarified. Not infrequently, court speakers mention the value of their estate or of that of their opponents or, in inheritance litigation, the value of the property they inherited or claim. But we find no clear-cut and absolute definitions of who ‘the rich’ or ‘the poor’ are in absolute economic terms. J.K. Davies has placed ‘the rich’ of fourth-century Athens in the range of those possessing at least three talents’ worth of property.8 More problematic is the identification of ‘the poor’. Literary sources, delivering an elite perspective, explain the identity of the penētes as ‘those who need

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to work’, but this category obviously includes a wide range of economic positions.9 And yet, however vague the definition of economic identity was, there are numerous references to group and individual socio-economic identity in orators’ speeches. This happened not because all lawsuits were concerned with financial matters, but rather because it was commonly acknowledged that to be rich or poor strongly influenced the way one lived, behaved, and treated others. As is clear, the characteristics that public opinion ascribed to each group were to a large extent stereotypical. Theseus’ words imply that all of the rich crave for more and all of the poor are envious of them, a view that clearly does not reflect the complexity of human nature or that of socio-economic reality. But it was the assumption itself that each group had typical characteristics that enabled public speakers to define their own, their friends’, and their opponents’ individual socio-economic identity in relation to group identity.

Violating the rules of behaviour: the arrogant rich At Athens the wealthiest citizens were expected to contribute to the funding of military activities and festivals. This is shown by the institution of liturgies itself, a practice in which private initiative, intra-elite competition, public expectations, and polis coercion were narrowly intertwined. As clearly shown by P. Liddel, the degree of individual liberty of the rich with regard to the obligation to perform liturgies was a delicate matter of negotiation between private aims and public duties.10 And while the ‘good rich’ put their wealth at the service of the polis, Athenians were prompt to acknowledge that the ‘bad rich’ evaded public duties and concealed their wealth. These were ‘the bad citizens of classical Athens’, to borrow an expression of M. Christ.11 Demosthenes’ speech Against Meidias offers a vivid example of the construction of individual socio-economic identity through the juxtaposition of two contrasting models of rich, i.e. Demosthenes himself and his opponent Meidias.12 In the background to the dispute there is a long set of events starting with the procedure of antidosis (leading to an exchange of one’s property with another citizen) initiated by Meidias and his brother against Demosthenes;13 additionally there were a physical assault by Meidias on Demosthenes at the City Dionysia of 348, Meidias’ accusation of desertion – through Euctemon – against Demosthenes during the campaign in Euboea, and the attempt to persuade some citizens to accuse Demosthenes of homicide. The speech delivers a charge of hubris against Meidias. Interestingly, Demosthenes does not elaborate on the plausible reasons for his rival’s hatred against him, probably with the purpose of depicting the conflict more as a clash between two opposing modi vivendi than as a matter of personal rivalry. Demosthenes makes it clear that Meidias is well aware of his identity as member of a socio-economic group. So, he says, in ‘every Assembly meeting’ (21.153) he repeats that ‘we are those who perform the liturgies, we are those who pay you the eisphora-tax in advance, we are the rich’ (21.153). The emphatic use of the personal pronouns ‘we’ (hēmeis) emphasizes that Meidias is

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keen to stress his membership and to present himself as the spokesperson of his group. Meidias’ words – as Demosthenes reports them – refer to a specific subsection of the group, i.e. that of the proeispherontes, the 300 wealthiest citizens who paid the full amount of the eisphora (a tax levied for military purposes) in advance.14 And there is a yet narrower membership unit, which Demosthenes recalls at 21.139: this is Meidias’ hetaireia, i.e. the group of his friends and supporters. This unit presumably does not overlap entirely with hoi proeispherontes, but only with a smaller fragment of it. By underlining his belonging, Meidias implicitly draws a clear boundary between his group and ‘the others’, that is, ordinary and poor citizens. Following Demosthenes’ definition of hubris as the crime of treating free men like slaves (21.80),15 the clear proof of Meidias’s hubris is the fact that he treats others as ‘beggars, as scum, as worthless’ (21.185 cf. 21.198). The interesting aspect is that, although Meidias shows arrogant behaviour towards ‘everyone’ (21.135), those he treats specifically as ‘beggars’ are the members of the other group – the dēmos. And, in the context of this distinction between groups, Demosthenes is eager to find a place for the jurors as well. Coming close to the end of the speech he says: ‘Nothing terrible or pitiful will happen to Meidias if he retains an amount of property equal to what most of you have, men whom he now abuses and calls beggars’ (21.211, trans. Harris). He clearly points to the fact that the jurors are in the ‘you-the-poor’ group.16 As always in court speeches, it is difficult to say to what extent Demosthenes’ portrayal of his opponent reflects the truth. We can presume, however, that not everything is Demosthenes’ invention or exaggeration. It is not unlikely that Meidias proudly referred to his own wealth on public occasions, probably with the aim of recalling his good services to the polis. It is not by chance, in fact, that Demosthenes devotes a good part of the speech to an attempt to diminish and delegitimize Meidias’ liturgies and public offices (21.152–174). So he makes a long list of the tricks his opponent played in order to avoid liturgies, starting with the fact that he undertook the trierarchy only after the system was reformed with the introduction of the board of 1,200 sunteleis17 and that, by collecting one talent from all of the other contributors, he managed to avoid paying his own contribution (21.155). Further tricks include undertaking a trierarchy in order to avoid cavalry service (21.162),18 using the trireme equipped in the trierarchic service as a private cargo vessel (21.167), and even riding a friend’s horse instead of buying one when he was cavalry leader (21.174). And, despite deserting the cavalry twice and serving as a trierarch once (21.160–66), Meidias is ‘on the front line’ when it comes to showing his own private wealth (21.158). Demosthenes, in sum, constructs Meidias’ socio-economic identity with a set of features that systematically violate not only the expected code of righteous behaviour of the rich, but also, more broadly, that of the good citizen. This contributes to making Meidias appear not simply as a private enemy but as an enemy of the whole polis (21.227). Demosthenes has basically two – complementary and not conflicting – ways of further stressing Meidias’ total

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violation of the correct rules of behaviour: one is to propose an alternative model of individual behaviour for a rich citizen, while the other is to offer a portrayal of individual behaviour from the other group, that of the poor. He deploys them both.

Meeting the community’s expectations: the generous rich As is apparent, in Against Meidias Demosthenes is eager to side with the dēmos against his rival. At one point he goes so far as to present himself as one of the ordinary citizens: ‘I do see the abusive treatment that these items (i.e. the items Meidias has purchased for himself) encourage him to dole out on many of us ordinary people’ (21.159, trans. Harris, italics mine), but he obviously has to deal with the fact that he belongs to the group of ‘the rich’, like Meidias. As shown by J. Ober, Demosthenes ‘must work with a set of assumptions about the category to which both he and Meidias belonged. At the same time he must confound assumptions about the homogeneity of the category’.19 In other words, he has to show that the rich are an internally diverse group. Earlier, at 21.143–147, he introduces a positive portrayal of Alcibiades, whose insolence and arrogant behaviour, however, he does not hide (21.147). But the real contrast between wealthy Athenians emerges when Demosthenes puts himself as a term of comparison (21.154). After making it clear that he wants to show ‘what it truly is to perform liturgies’, he proceeds with a selection of his own services to the polis, claiming that, despite the fact that he is younger than Meidias, his liturgies are equal in number to his (21.154–157). The orator has to guide the jurors to detect significant differences in what, at first glance, might seem to be two similar and, in their nature equivalent, public roles.20 By showing his engagement in performing public duties, Demosthenes thus aims to show himself as someone close to the dēmos, sharing with the ordinary citizens his interest in the well-being of the city, and as distant as possible from people like Meidias. In this way he constructs a complex – and yet straightforward – structure of oppositions and alliances that cuts across groups and challenges common assumptions about their binary opposition. He differentiates among individual behaviours within the group of the rich, he shows that different behaviours can lead to conflicts within the group, and, eventually, he suggests that the members of different groups – the rich and the poor – can be close to each other in terms of mentality and values and even can share common ‘enemies’ in the polis. He both breaks the supposed monolithic nature of groups as internally homogeneous entities and, at the same time, bridges the gap between individuals from different groups. In Attic oratory we have one famous case in which the discourse of wealth and the construction of socio-economic identity is linked to that of non-Athenian ancestry: this is the case of Apollodorus. Apollodorus’ father, Pasion, was a freedman who became rich by running the bank of his former master – later on, his own – and acquired Athenian citizenship after acting as a benefactor of the polis.21 Apollodorus, hence, is Athenian but not by birth. This, as notably

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shown by J. Trevett, made him a sort of second-class citizen in the public perception. It is against such a perception that Apollodorus has to fight in order to construct his socio-economic identity as a rich Athenian.22 Like many metics and naturalized citizens, in fact, Apollodorus was rich.23 He was famous in Athens for the generosity of his donations, as was his father, Pasion. But in Apollodorus’ construction of socio-economic identity there is one additional and different feature, as compared to the case of Demosthenes. He must highlight and defend his civic identity in view of possible prejudice and distrust. In his speeches, arguments about economic standing and civic status are closely intertwined. So, in Against Stephanus I he says:24 Whatever services concern the city, however, and all those that concern you, I carry out, as you know, with as much splendour as I can. For I am not unaware that for you who are citizens by birth it’s sufficient to carry out your public duties as the laws enjoin, but for those of us who are made citizens by decree it’s appropriate to be seen carrying out these duties as men who are returning a favour. (45.78, trans. Scafuro) In Trevett’s words, in order to gain respect and appreciation, Apollodorus has to show that he is ‘more Athenian than the Athenians’.25 S. Lape has emblematically described Apollodorus’ performance of civic status as driven by the ‘status anxiety of the naturalized citizen’.26 Apollodorus is eager to show that he fully embraces the Athenian civic ethos by even outdoing other rich citizens in being generous with donations and liturgies. Acting in contrary terms to Meidias, Apollodorus highlights that he is moderate in private expenses (metrios), but generous towards the polis (45.77).27 In constructing his identity as a rich citizen of non-Athenian origin, Apollodorus has to deal also with another important fact, beyond his ‘acquired’ citizenship. Differently from those Athenians owing ancestral wealth from land ownership, he, just like most rich metics, derives his wealth from sources other than land, in his case his father’s bank. This is another aspect that needs to be carefully presented to the audience. Despite the fact that in the fourth century a good number of Athenians worked outside the agricultural sector,28 public discourse mainly promoted the idea that only inherited ancestral wealth (from land) was ‘good wealth’. Wealth acquired from crafts, trade, or banking was regarded with suspicion and contempt, which explains why we do not find speakers boasting about these activities before the court.29 The only way in which Apollodorus can lead the jurors to sympathize with him is thus to stress how often and how generously he has used his wealth for the city, and not to refer to his activity as a banker. As well as civic or non-civic status, gender also had an impact on the rhetorical construction of socio-economic identity. The underlying assumption in the presentation of women in court speeches, in fact, is that a divide exists between ‘respectable women’ (mostly wives, daughters, and other female relatives) and

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‘the others’.30 The ‘respectability factor’ was closely related to sexual morals, but not exclusively: it also overlaps to a large extent with the question of civic/ non-civic status and of professional activity. In Against Neaera, Apollodorus delivers the prosecution speech (as a sunēgoros) against Neaera, a resident alien. The charge is that of acting as the wife of a citizen, Stephanus, despite the fact that the law prohibited marriages between citizens and non-citizens.31 Apollodorus attempts to prove his claim by saying that Stephanus introduced to the phratry and, later on, to the deme, the children Neaera had born to him.32 A large part of the speech is a detailed account of Neaera’s life, her youth as a courtesan in Corinth, her manumission, and her life in Athens and Megara before meeting the Athenian Stephanus and joining his household. The speech is of great interest in a number of aspects, such as citizenship laws, the rules regulating marriages and non-marital relations, and the position and perception of metic women; but what interests us here is an aspect that Apollodorus does not openly mention: Neaera is wealthy.33 This emerges from hints about her eccentric taste in clothes and jewellery and her extravagant lifestyle, parties, and travels, as well as from her wide network of influential friends. What is more, Neaera has (almost) always earned the money she owns. Apollodorus refers to this fact with the obvious purpose of highlighting the despicable source of her money: that is, prostitution. But not all of Neaera’s wealth comes from prostitution. In order to pay for her manumission, she manages to collect an eranos (59.31), a loan without interest, that she never paid off .34 After being set free, she lived for some time in the house of Phrynion, where she received jewellery, clothes, and servant-girls – all of which she took with her to Megara and, later on, to Athens. Apollodorus describes Stephanus as a poor man who earns little money as a sykophant. This, however, changes when he meets Neaera. With her earnings as a courtesan, Stephanus’ household improves its finances considerably. The dowry that Stephanus gives to their (or only his?) daughter Phano on her first marriage was 3,000 drachmae. Apollodorus, whose previous legal disputes and political rivalry with Stephanus were well-known to the audience (59.3–8), is obviously eager to present Stephanus as an unscrupulous money-grubber.35 We do not have to accept this portrayal as historically reliable, but certainly Apollodorus tells the truth when he describes the current financial condition of his rival as good: his daughter Phano’s second husband is none less than the archōn basileus. Hence, it is clear that the milieu in which Neaera finds herself, either as the wife or as the concubine of Stephanus, is that of the leisured class. But in the eyes of the ‘common Athenian’, Neaera’s wealth is not respectable, good wealth. Apollodorus’ final words bluntly remind the jurors of this: ‘Where has she not worked with her body? Where has she not gone for her daily pay?’ (59.108, trans. Kapparis).36 Unlike Apollodorus, Neaera has no opportunity to make her wealth ‘acceptable’ in the eyes of the public by performing liturgies. Her socio-economic identity is implicitly contrasted with that of the jurors’ unnamed wives, mothers, and daughters, to whom (as Apollodorus reminds them) the jurors will have to give an account of the trial after they go back home (59.111).

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Challenging the stereotype: the virtuous poor Let us return to Against Meidias. As we saw, Demosthenes constructs his own socio-economic identity as a good rich citizen by opposing Meidias’ antithetical model. But at the same time, he needs to avoid the risk that the jurors will believe the case to be simply a quarrel between two ‘rich guys’.37 Demosthenes thus needs also to involve members of the other socio-economic group in the clash. He then presents to the court one of ‘the poor’, a victim of Meidias: Strato. Strato was a common citizen who had previously been appointed to serve as an arbitrator for one year.38 Demosthenes presents him to the court as penēs (poor, but, more properly, ‘one of those who work’, 21.83), apragmōn (inexperienced in political life), but otherwise not a bad person (ou ponēros),39 in fact, panu chrēstos (quite an honest man). Later in the speech, he points out that in his youth he regularly performed military services, a fact that marks an obvious contrast with Meidias’ desertions and evasions of public duties (21.95).40 Interestingly, the orator says that it is for these reasons that Strato was ‘ruined’ by Meidias (21.84). Demosthenes depicts Strato as sui generis: his atypical behaviour is shown by the fact that, when Meidias tried to make him change his verdict, Strato refused to accept bribes, a fact that, according to Demosthenes, is all the more remarkable since it comes from a poor man (anthrōpos penēs, 21.96–97).41 Classical authors voice different and often conflicting views on the poor. In public discourse, as well as being credited with simplicity and modesty, they are often depicted as prone to evil deeds and criminality and blamed for their tendency to be easily manipulated, as emblematically shown by the words of Theseus in Euripides’ Suppliants.42 But Strato’s reaction to Meidias shows that he does not line up with these characteristics. In revenge, Meidias brought an eisangelia against him, successfully obtaining a conviction which led to disenfranchisement. Strato stands now in silence before the court, as disenfranchised citizens could not speak in public contexts (21.95).43 In describing his ‘defeat’, Demosthenes refers to his social isolation (erēmia, 21.96), another common view on the life of the poor and a characteristic well-suited to evoke pity on the part of the dicasts.44 It is clear that, within the universe of conflicting beliefs about the poor, Demosthenes here chooses the positive ones, assuming a ‘poor-friendly’ point of view that in a way goes against the interests of his own group.45 Coming close to the conclusion of the speech, he reinforces his point about the clash of socio-economic groups by involving the jurors yet again, this time with a warning: the dicasts, he says, often deliver milder verdicts on the rich and harsher ones on the poor (21.183). He claims that, if an ordinary citizen (tōn metriōn tina kai dēmotikōn) is found guilty, the dicasts do not take pity and let him go, but rather put him to death or deprive him of his rights, while later being indulgent towards the rich (an de plousios ōn tis hubrizē, sungnōmēn hexete).46 Demosthenes substantiates this claim with the example of some other

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victims of the dicasts’ bias against ‘the poor’: one of them is a certain Pyrrhus, of the genos Eteobutadae (21.182) – although this was the famous genos from which the priestess of Athena Polias and the priest of Poseidon Erechtheus were selected, and it is unlikely that its members were poor. The other two are Smicros and Sciton – all of them presumably well-known to the audience but not to us.47 Whether or not the description of these citizens as poor men matches the reality, this is a clear attempt to involve the jurors in the ‘clash of the groups’, portraying them as guilty of supporting the strongest and of perpetrating further injustice against the weakest – a paradox since earlier in the speech Demosthenes portrays them as belonging in the group of ‘the poor’. The description of Strato’s socio-economic identity acquires meaning in combination with a further characteristic, which is not openly mentioned: Strato is an old man. The function of arbitrator, in fact, was reserved to Athenians aged at least 60. The military service that Strato performed is pinpointed in a remote past during his youth.48 Old age is a recurring feature in the theatrical and discursive representation of the poor, and it occurs in association with other elements such as poor clothing and – as we can understand from our texts – a cringing posture. In some cases textual references can help us form an idea of these characteristics since it is the speaker himself who hints at the fact that the jurors are able to see them.49 In the pseudo-Demosthenic speech Against Leochares, for example, the speaker brings his father, Aristodemus, to the court (44.3–4). In this speech, we have a case of inheritance litigation. The speaker points out immediately the socio-economic identity of the victims: they are poor and vulnerable (penētas anthrōpous kai astheneis) while, unsurprisingly, the opposing party is rich. Aristodemus, whom the jurors can see standing in the court, is a poor man, a fact that according to his son is evident in his own person.50 It is hard to tell whether this was a reference to poor clothing or a cringing stance, but it is certainly a hint that Aristodemus’ poverty is visible.51 The rhetorical construction of individual socio-economic identity could thus be achieved also by confirming and even ‘playing out’ the stereotypical characteristics of each group, and this happened in particular when such characteristics could help the speaker evoke the sympathy or pity of the jurors. In other cases, however, poverty is not ‘visible’ to the jurors; it must be explained by the speaker. In Demosthenes 57, Euxitheus has to defend himself and his family against the accusation of not being an Athenian citizen, advanced by Eubulides in the context of the scrutiny of the civic lists of 346. The evidence provided by Eubulides for doubting Euxitheus’ civic status is the fact that his mother, Nicarete, had been working during the Peloponnesian War as a wet nurse and, more recently, as a ribbon-seller in the Agora. The underlying assumption is that an Athenian woman would never perform these activities, which are appropriate for slaves and metics.52 But Eubulides has apparently disregarded a simple truth: Nicarete is poor, and poor female citizens do such jobs. During the Peloponnesian War, in the absence of her husband who had been captured and sold into slavery (57.18), Nicarete worked for her living. Euxitheus’ defence of the civic identity and dignity of his mother is based on

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stressing her socio-economic identity as a poor citizen and, indirectly, that of many other Athenian women.

Confounding boundaries between socio-economic identities: the ‘poor rich’ How clear was the boundary between the rich and the poor in discursive practice? We have some cases of speakers deliberately confounding socio-economic identities. In Demosthenes’ Against Androtion, Diodorus delivers a speech as a sunēgoros of Euctemon, who had prosecuted Androtion in a graphē paranomōn – a public action for proposing an illegal decree – for having made the proposal to give the bouleutai a reward for completing their office, notwithstanding the fact that the decree violated the laws in many ways.53 What interests us here is the way Diodorus attacks Androtion, referring to his conduct about two years earlier, when he was appointed to collect the outstanding payments from an earlier eisphora.54 Diodorus argues that Androtion failed to collect the tax properly and that he wrongfully accused many citizens and metics of insolvency and sent them to prison. The speaker takes up the defence of the defaulting eisphora payers, voicing their reasons for not paying the tax. The default, he claims, happened because these people were unable to pay their taxes and Androtion neglected the procedure of verifying individual wealth for the purpose of levying the tax (22.53–54). In Diodorus’ account, Androtion went so far as to break into private houses and use physical violence against free men (22.53).55 At 22.65–66, the speaker notes that Androtion had never prosecuted anyone who embezzled or squandered public money. In spite of this, to the question whether greater harm is done to the polis by those who farm land or by those who embezzle and squander public money and the tribute from allies, Androtion would not dare to answer the former. In the way he frames this hypothetical question to Androtion, Diodorus (22.66) indirectly suggests that the eisphora payers are ordinary citizens who live frugally and, because of the cost of raising their children, their household expenses, and the other liturgies, are behind with the eisphora. This resembles the kind of agrarian middle class that Theseus, in the passage of the Suppliants mentioned above, praises as the saviours of the polis. Scholars have estimated the lower property threshold for liability to the eisphora at approximately 2,500 drachmae, which suggests that the lower section of this group included also people of the middle classes.56 Diodorus’ words might thus contain some truth along with a fair degree of exaggeration. But the eisphora payers also included wealthy liturgists, and in fact Diodorus points to liturgies as further reasons causing financial distress to these people. The speaker is here deliberately blurring the socio-economic identity of wealthy eisphora payers by identifying them with subsistence farmers. From other speeches of Demosthenes we have evidence that the wealthy often claimed to be left without sufficient money for their liturgical duties. In his second speech Against Aphobus, Demosthenes says he mortgaged his

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house and all his possessions to perform a liturgy, after he was deprived of his inheritance by his fraudulent tutors (Dem. 27.18). In the pseudo-Demosthenic speech Against Evergus and Mnesibulus, the anonymous speaker says that only after gaining access to his house within the procedure of antidosis did his opponents discover that he was much poorer than they had thought. And this was because he had to sell off many of his properties in order to hold the trierarchy ([Dem.] 47.54). Apollodorus, in his Against Polycles, shows that he is proud of the fact that he equipped a ship with the best crew without borrowing public money, but by mortgaging his own house and taking private loans ([Dem.] 50.7–13).57 Are the orators telling the truth? Perhaps they are, but this does not mean they were impoverished. As shown by V. Gabrielsen, it was a common practice for rich Athenians to conceal their wealth by the acquisition of land and non-movable properties (thus getting rid of cash).58 Against this background, it comes as no surprise that those who were, nonetheless, compelled to undertake liturgies would complain about their ‘poverty’ and stress the enormous sacrifices they made in order to satisfy the polis. In some cases, rich Athenians are referred to as ‘poor’ in relation to the richest stratum of the liturgical census, in a sense similar to what Diodorus says about the eisphora payers. In Against Leptines, Demosthenes cites Leptines’ arguments for proposing to abolish all exemptions from liturgies for benefactors of the polis. In Leptines’ view, as reported by Demosthenes, liturgies fell at that time on ‘poor people’ (Dem. 20.18). But Leptines – provided that he framed his argument as Demosthenes reports it – is here referring to liturgists.59 A similar rhetoric is deployed, to a completely different end, in Demosthenes’ On the crown (102–108), where the speaker evokes the image of ‘the poor’ to explain the reasons why he passed a law to reform the trierarchy in 340. He claims that the wealthy were left ‘practically untaxed’ (ateleis apo mikrōn analōmatōn, 18.102), while citizens of moderate and small means were ‘losing their property’ – a reference to mortgage and sale. He proudly remarks that his law put an end to the unjust treatment of ‘the poor’. In the previous system, he explains, the money was collected in groups of sunteleis, which made it possible ‘to ruin the needy citizens’ while the wealthy managed to pay ‘little or nothing’ (18.104). The ‘trick’ he holds the wealthy responsible for is similar to the one he attributed to Meidias with reference to the eisphora. In order to show how unfair the previous system was, and how fair the one enacted by his law proved to be, he asks the clerks to bring to the court the two trierarch registers, the one prior to his law and the one after his reform (18.105–106), and he then addresses the jury by saying: Does it seem that I helped the poor citizens among you only a little, or that the wealthy would have spent little to avoid doing what was right? I take pride not only in not compromising and being acquitted after I was indicted, but also in passing a law that was beneficial, as experience proved. During the entire war the naval forces were organized on the basis of my law, yet not a single trierarch laid a suppliant’s branch at your feet because he was treated

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unfairly; none occupied the temple in Munichia; none was imprisoned by the naval magistrates; no trireme was abandoned abroad and lost to the city, none was left behind here, unable to put to see. But all these things did happen under the previous laws, because the obligations to fund the ships fell on the poor, which led to many impossible situations. I transferred the trierarchies from the poor to the rich; then everything that was necessary followed. (18.107–108, trans. Yunis, emphasis added) Demosthenes here not only uses the binary opposition ‘rich/poor’ to describe an internal division within the liturgical class, but he also ‘drags’ the jurors into the group of ‘the poor’, creating an obvious ambiguity with the expression ‘the poor citizens among you’. He is either suggesting an identification between the jurors and the lower stratum of the liturgical census, that is, those ‘needy’ citizens who were oppressed by a disproportionate financial burden in the previous trierarchy system; or, more generally, he is referring to the ordinary citizens who do not contribute to the trierarchy, but whom he nonetheless benefited through his law that created a strong and efficient fleet. Most probably, Demosthenes intends to remain vague here, in the hope that most of the jurors – whether ordinary citizens or contributors to the trierarchy – would identify themselves with ‘the poor’ in this context. By blurring boundaries between ordinary citizens and the rich, and depicting them all as members of the same socio-economic group, he ably casts aside the distance between the jurors and the citizens he aims at defending.

Conclusions Demosthenes and Apollodorus construct the individual socio-economic identities of the protagonists of their speeches by exploiting to a great extent the widespread belief in the binary opposition between rich and poor and the common assumptions about the members of each group. But they do not simply juxtapose stereotypes. While reinstating or challenging common beliefs about the typical characteristics and behaviours of ‘the rich’ and ‘the poor’, at the same time they allow for the impact that factors such as status, gender, and profession have on individual identity. Being well aware that the members of the audience would not necessarily share in the same socio-economic group as the speaker, and that they might not even identify themselves as a single, cohesive group, they seek to highlight similarities and reasons for bridging together different groups (i.e. the generous rich and the virtuous poor) or rather stress their incompatibility (the arrogant rich versus the generous rich) or even blurry boundaries (the poor and the ‘poor rich’). Identity is, after all, a flexible construct.

Notes 1 Eur. Supp. 238–245; cf. 177–178 and 234–237 on the behaviour of each group; see also Michelini (1994) 227–228.

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2 Cf. Eur. Or. 917–922 for a praise of the autourgos, a representative of the class ‘in between’. For the sunkrasis between the rule of the penētes and that of the plousioi as the best form of rule, see Eur. fr. 21 Kannicht. On the ‘myth’ of the middle class in Euripides, see Di Benedetto (1971) 193–211; for the ‘myth’ of the middle-class army, see van Wees (2001) 45–71. 3 Notably, Gehrke (1985) 330, passim argued that stasis was caused by a power struggle between elite factions; similarly, Forsdyke (2005). For the view of stasis as ‘class struggle’, see de Ste Croix (1981) and Fuks (1984). More complex is the model of Gray (2015), esp. 197–204. 4 Thuc. 3.69–84. A reference to a group in between, not joining the clash, occurs at 3.82.8. On the role of penia in stasis, see Thuc. 3.84.1. Economic interests emerge also at 3.81.4. Against a socio-economic interpretation of the Corcyrean stasis, see Gehrke (1985) 368. 5 Rightly, Fuks (1977) 44 noted that this marks a difference from the Callipolis in Republic, in which wealth and poverty do not exist for the Rulers and the Auxiliaries. 6 However, cf. Arist. Pol. 1296a36–38: the mesoi rarely rule a city. 7 The question of wealth and poverty and the conflict between rich and poor in the classical philosophers is complex and would require a separate discussion. For an overview, I refer the reader to Knoch (2010) and the papers in Helmer (2016). 8 Davies (1971) xxiii–xxiv and (1981) 30–31. For a lower threshold, see Gabrielsen (1994) 45–53. For a new discussion of Davies’ criteria, see now Kierstead and Klapaukh (2018) 376–401. 9 The problem of defining poverty was clear already to the ancient Greeks, see Xen. Mem. 4.2.37–38. On ancient and modern definitions of poverty, see Cecchet (2015) 13–42. 10 Liddel (2007) 109–209; see esp. 196–209 for discussion of public dedications as instruments of coercion; for competitive outlay, see esp. 273–274. 11 Christ (2006). 12 Cf. the use of arguments based on poverty and wealth in Demosthenes’ attack on Aeschines in Dem. 18.256–258; see also Ober (1989) 234. 13 For discussion of the background to the action, see MacDowell (1990) 1–23 and Harris (2008) 75–77. On the antidosis procedure, see Gabrielsen (1987) 7–38 and Christ (1990) 161–164. Aeschin. 3.52 hints at the fact that the speech was never delivered. For arguments against this possibility, see Harris (1989) 117–136. 14 On the proesipherontes, see Wallace (1989) 473–490; cf. MacDowell (1990) 368–369. 15 On hubris, see Fisher (1992), Cairns (1996), and now Canevaro (2018). 16 For a new discussion of the question of the social composition of the Athenian juries, see Carugati and Weingast (2018) 163–166. 17 On Periander’s law of 357 (Dem. 47.21), see Rhodes (1982) 5–11, MacDowell (1986) 438–449 and (1990) 372, Gabrielsen (1994) 182–193, and Liddel (2007) 271. 18 For the view that exemption from military service for trierarchs was legitimate, see Christ (2006) 151 n.21. 19 Ober (1994) 93–94. On Meidias’ isolation and the alliance between Demosthenes and the audience, see also Christ (2010) 222–226. 20 Demosthenes portrays himself as younger than his real age; on this, see MacDowell (1990) 370 and Harris (2008) 141 n.224. He also claims (21.156) that the production of a dithyramb is more expensive than that of a tragedy; for legitimate doubts, see Harris (2008) 142 n.228. 21 On Pasion’s manumission and work in his former master’s bank, see Dem. 36.43; on his success as one of the leading bankers of Athens, see [Dem.] 50.56, cf. Cohen (1992) 76, 81–82. On the grant of citizenship, see Dem. 36.47, cf. Cohen (1992) 102–106. On his role as a triērarchos, see Dem. 45.85; on the loans for a naval expedition to Corcyra in 373/372, see [Dem.] 49.6–32. 22 Trevett (1992); cf. now Kasimis (2018). 23 For Apollodorus’ liturgies, see IG II2 1609.83 and 89 (trierarchy) and [Dem.] 50.54–56. Apollodorus was syntrierach in 356/355 (IG II2 1612.b110) and chorēgos in 352/351 (IG II2 3039.2). On his life and position in Athens, see Millett (1991) 68–70, Trevett (1992)

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10–14, passim, Cohen (1992) 129–136, and Ober (1989) 220. For metics performing liturgies, see Whitehead (1977) 77–82 and Liddel (2007) 264 and 314–315 (including metics paying eisphora probably at a higher rate than citizens). Cf. Lycurg. 1.48. Trevett (1992) 178. Liddel (2007) 273 defines Apollodorus’ presentations of liturgical services as ‘the most ostentatious’ in Attic oratory. On his attempt to perform citizen identity, see Lape (2010) 216–220 and Deene (2011) 159–175. Lape (2010) 216. He also claims that his own economic condition has worsened since Phormio seized Pasion’s bank and that he and his daughters are now poor (45.73–74). However, on the implausible nature of Apollodorus’ profession of poverty, see Ober (1989) 222; on dramatized fictions of poverty and wealth and their power over the jurors, see 222–224, cf. Cecchet (2013) 53–66 and (2015) 208–224. Harris (2002) 67–99; for discussion of the impact of work on the shaping of common identities between citizens and non-citizens, see Vlassopoulos (2007) 33–52. On this, see Cecchet (forthcoming). On the category of ‘the others’ among women, arguing against the traditional (ancient and modern) view of metic women confined to the ‘business of sex’, see now Kennedy (2014). On the threefold distinction between hetairai, pallakai, and gunaikes in [Dem.] 59.122, see Kapparis (1999) 422–424. The law is quoted at [Dem.] 59.16. For discussion about its content and date, see Kapparis (1999) 198–206. Against the authenticity of the text, Canevaro (2013) 183–184. Kapparis (1999) 32–33. As independent contractors, hetairai could retain part of their earnings, while this was less likely to happen for brothel prostitutes (pornai). For the fact that Neaera never actually worked in a brothel, see Kapparis (1999) 229. On the economic aspects of prostitution and the status of courtesans, see Cohen (2003) 214–236, (2005) 33–46, (2006) 95–124, and (2016) passim; cf. Hamel (2003) 3–28. Kapparis (1999) 231 has plausibly argued that this was Neaera’s implicit agreement with her eranistai, otherwise Apollodorus would have not failed to advertise Neaera’s default in paying off the debt; cf. Millett (1991) 158 for discussion of Neaera’s eranos. On the fact that the real target of Apollodorus is Stephanus, see Carey (1992) 4–8, Kapparis (1999) 29–31. However, see Lape (2010) 219 for the view that, in attacking Neaera, ‘Apollodorus seeks to perform his own belonging by insistently pointing to the one who does not and cannot belong, Neaera’. On Apollodorus’ aim of evoking disdain, see Carey (1992) 103. Kapparis (1999) 47 notes that the portrayal of Neaera may evoke sympathy rather than hostility. For discussion, see also Glazebrook (2005) 161–187 and Lape (2010) 231–235. Cf. Ober (1994) 93: ‘Demosthenes must have worried that many jurors would see the incident as a silly intra-elite spat, and one that could have been solved quickly enough if Demosthenes had just been man enough to hit back’. A board of arbitrators was drawn by lot from among Athenians at least 60 years of age and had to serve for a full year (Ath. Pol. 53). In the event that the prosecutor or the defendant appealed against the arbitrator’s verdict, the case was transferred to a jury. See Harrison (1971) 66–68 and MacDowell (1990) 206–211, 303. For the interpretation of this passage, see Ober (1994) 209–211. Cf. Ober (1989) 210– 211 pointing to the fact that Demosthenes here has in mind the previous conviction and disenfranchisement of Strato (similarly, Dover 1974, 34 n.1). However, I am more inclined to see Demosthenes challenging here the negative widespread assumptions about the poor. On perceptions of the poor, see Dover (1974) 109–112, Focardi (1988) 73–98, Rosivach (1991) 189–198, Coin-Longeray (2014) 45–64, and Cecchet (2015). Cf. the arguments of the ordinary citizen Dicaeopolis in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, depicting himself as a politēs chrēstos who always fought for the polis in contrast with the dishonest and money-grubbing general Lamachus (Aristoph. Ach. 593ff.).

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41 Cf. Eur. Or. 375. Demosthenes echoes the same claim that poverty leads men to commit evil deeds in his third Olynthiac, with reference to mercenaries (3.34). Cf. Lys. 7. 42 On the internal contradictions of public discourse on poverty, see Cecchet (2015). 43 MacDowell (1990) 318–319. Demosthenes conceivably sought to evoke pity and anger in the jurors. On anger ‘through pity’, see Rubinstein (2013) 135–165 (esp. 145–165 on the ‘cocktail’ of pity and anger; for elderly people, prisoners of war, and disenfranchised citizens presented as third-party victims, see 145–146); cf. Sanders (2012) 359–387. For the effect of ‘seeing’ the silent Strato before the court, see O’Connell (2017) 41–44. 44 Cf. Eur. El. 1131. However, the elite’s perception of the life of the poor probably did not match reality: on the integration and social networks of the poor, see now Taylor (2017) 166–172, 219–226. 45 Ober (1989) 305–306 speaks of ‘ideological compromise’. 46 For a similar claim, cf. Dem. 51.11. 47 On the Eteobutadae as the genos from which the priestess of Athena Polias was selected, see Aeschin. 2.147; for the selection of the priest of Poseidon Erechtheus, see Plut. Lyc. 47–48. Davies (1971) 353 n.2 believes that Pyrrhus should be identified with Pyrrhus of Lamptrae, a member of the liturgical class. 48 Old age and poverty are often associated. When Athena transforms Odysseus into a beggar (Od. 13.430–432), she gives him the skin and body of an old man. Lysias’ invalid says his handicap is aggravated by age (Lys. 24.8), and Aeschines points to the disastrous effects of poverty and old age combined (Aeschin. 1.88). On old age in the Greek world, see Brandt (2010) 13–56 and Wagner-Hasel (2012) 16–50. 49 Court speakers could ‘stage’ their poverty by exploiting the pre-existing dramatic repertoire; for ptōchoi in Euripides’ tragedies, see Cecchet (2015) 63–113. On the standard equipment of the ptōchos, see Ar. Ach. 418–432; on ptōchoi in the Greek cities see also Roubineau (2013) 15–36. It is highly probable that performances of poverty both on the theatrical stage and in the dikastēria featured stereotypical gestures such as cowering (cf. the etymology of ptōchos: ‘the one who cowers’). For the similarity of theatre and court performances, see Bers (1994) 176–195, Harding (1994) 196–221, Hall (1995) 39–58. On the rhetoric of seeing in court speeches, O’Connell (2017). 50 ἅμα τῆς πενίας ἧς ὑμεῖς ἅπαντες ἴστε, καὶ τοῦ ἰδιώτης εἶναι φανερὰς ἔχων τὰς μαρτυρίας. 51 Cf. the description of the invalid in Lys. 24.14 with O’Connell (2017) 48. 52 On Euxitheus’ rhetorical strategy, see also Lape (2010) 203–216 and, now, Kasimis (2018) 148–158. 53 The golden crown could not be awarded until the Council had given the officers in charge the money needed to construct ships in the dockyards; see Dem. 22.8, Ath. Pol. 46.1; cf. MacDowell (2009) 170, with n.60 and 61. The other two grounds on which the decree was defined as illegal are that Androtion did not consult with the Boulē before proposing the motion and that he was a public debtor and a former prostitute (Dem. 22.5–8, 21–24, 33–34). 54 This eisphora was probably levied between 378 and 370. For discussion of chronology, see MacDowell (2009) 177. 55 On the rhetorical effect of this description, see O’Connell (2017) 141–143. 56 See Ober (1989) 128–129, with n.59. On the impoverishment of the leisured class in the fourth century, see Davies (1981) 11–14 and 73–87. However, there is no evidence for mass impoverishment of the middle classes. For models of wealth and income distribution, see Ober (2010) and Kron (2011), with discussion by Taylor (2017) 70–114. 57 Philoctemon’s property (Isae. 6.38) is said to be large enough to allow him to undertake liturgies without selling or mortgaging his belongings. 58 Gabrielsen (1986) 99–114, Ferrucci (2005) 145–169. 59 Kremmydas (2012) 216–217 notes that this complaint on the part of the poorer liturgists was probably not totally unsubstantiated (see discussion above, with n.54), but a manipulation of the word penēs by the liturgists themselves is apparent. Cf. Cecchet (2015) 213–214 and Canevaro (2016) 218–219.

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Bibliography Bers, V. (1994) ‘Tragedy and rhetoric’, in Worthington (1994) 176–195 Bers, V. (2003) Demosthenes, Speeches 50–59 (Austin, TX) Brandt, H. (2010) Am Ende des Lebens: Alter, Tod und Suizid in der Antike, Zetemata 136 (Munich) Cairns, D.L. (1996) ‘Hybris, dishonour and thinking big’, JHS 116, 1–32 Canevaro, M. (2013) The documents in the Attic orators: laws and decrees in the public speeches of the Demosthenic corpus (Oxford) Canevaro, M. (2016) Demostene, Contro Leptine, introduzione, traduzione e commento storico (Berlin) Canevaro, M. (2018) ‘The public charge for hubris against slaves: the honour of the victim and the honour of the hubristēs’, JHS 138, 100–126 Canevaro, M., Erskine, A., Gray, B., and Ober, J. (2018) Ancient Greek history and contemporary social science (Edinburgh) Carey, C. (ed. and trans.) (1992) Apollodoros, Against Neaira [Demosthenes] 59, Greek Orators, vol. VI (Warminster) Carugati, F. and Weingast, B.R. (2018) ‘Rethinking mass and elite: decision-making in the Athenian law-courts’, in Canevaro, Erskine, Gray, and Ober (2018) 163–166 Cecchet, L. (2013) ‘Poverty as argument in Athenian forensic speeches’, Ktèma 38, 53–66 Cecchet, L. (2015) Poverty in Athenian public discourse: from the eve of the Peloponnesian War to the rise of Macedonia, Historia Einzelschriften 239 (Stuttgart) Cecchet, L. (forthcoming) ‘Do not tell anybody you are a thete! Athenian thetes: identity and visibility’, in S. Gartland and D. Tandy (eds.) Subaltern voices in Archaic and classical Greece (Oxford) Chaniotis, A. (ed.) (2012) Emotions in Greece and Rome: texts, images, material culture (Stuttgart) Christ, M.R. (1990) ‘Liturgy avoidance and antidosis in classical Athens’, TAPA 120, 147–169 Christ, M.R. (1998) The litigious Athenian (Baltimore, MD) Christ, M.R. (2006) The bad citizen in classical Athens (Cambridge) Christ, M.R. (2007) ‘The evolution of the eisphora in classical Athens’, CQ 57, 53–69 Christ, M.R. (2010) ‘Helping and community in the Athenian lawcourts’, in R.M. Rosen and I. Sluiter (eds.) Valuing others in classical Antiquity, Mnemosyne Supp. 323 (Leiden) 205–232 Cohen, E.E. (1992) Athenian economy and society: a banking perspective (Princeton, NJ) Cohen, E.E. (2003) ‘Athenian prostitution as a liberal profession’, in G.W. Bakewell and J.P. Sickinger (eds.) Gestures: essays in ancient history, literature and philosophy presented to Alan L. Boegehold: on the occasion of his retirement and his seventy-fifth birthday (Oxford) 214–236 Cohen, E.E. (2005) ‘Work ethics and the practice of prostitution at Athens’, MediterrAnt 8, 39–62 Cohen, E.E. (2006) ‘Free and unfree sexual work: an economic anlaysis of Athenian prostitution’, in C.A. Faraone and L.K. McClure (eds.) Prostitutes and courtesans in the ancient world (Madison, WI) 95–124 Cohen, E.E. (2016) Athenian prostitution: the business of sex (Oxford) Coin-Longeray, S. (2014) ‘Pénès et Ptôchos: le pauvre et le mendiant. Deux figures de la pauvreté dans la poésie grecque ancienne’, in E. Galbois and S. Rougier-Blanc (eds.) La pauvreté en grèce ancienne: formes, représentations, enjeux (Bordeaux) 45–65 Davies, J.K. (1971) Athenian propertied families 600–300 B.C. (Oxford) Davies, J.K. (1981) Wealth and the power of wealth in classical Athens (New York)Deene, M. (2011) ‘Naturalized citizens and social mobility in classical Athens: the case of Apollodorus’, G&R 58, 159–175

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de Ste Croix, G.E.M. (1981) The class struggle in the ancient Greek world from the archaic age to the Arab conquests (London) Di Benedetto, V. (1971) Euripide: teatro e società (Torino) Dover, K.J. (1974) Greek popular morality in the time of Plato and Aristotle (Berkeley, CA) Ferrucci, S. (2005) ‘La ricchezza nascosta: osservazioni su ἀφανὴς e φανερὰ οὐσία’, MediterrAnt 8, 145–169 Fisher, N.R.E. (1992) Hybris: a study in the values of honour and shame in ancient Greece (Warminster) Focardi, G. (1988) ‘Pauperis omne nefas (Anth. Lat. I, 21, 174 Riese). Contributo per la ricostruzione di un topos’, Sileno 14, 73–98 Forsdyke, S.L. (2005) Exile, ostracism, and democracy: the politics of expulsion in ancient Greece (Princeton, NJ) Fuks, A. (1977) ‘Plato and the social question. the problem of poverty and riches in the “Republic”’, AncSoc 8, 48–83 Fuks, A. (1984) Social conflict in ancient Greece (Jerusalem) Gabrielsen, V. (1986) ‘ΦΑΝΕΡΑ and ΑΦΑΝΗΣ ΟΥΣΙΑ in classical Athens’, C&M 37, 99–114 Gabrielsen, V. (1987) ‘The antidosis procedure in classical Athens’, C&M 38, 7–38 Gabrielsen, V. (1994) Financing the Athenian fleet: public taxation and social relations (Baltimore, MD) Gehrke, H.-J. (1985) Stasis: Untersuchungen zu den inneren Kriegen in den griechischen Staaten des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Munich) Glazebrook, A. (2005) ‘The making of a prostitute: Apollodoros’s portrait of Neaira’, Arethusa 38, 161–187 Gray, B. (2015) Stasis and stability: exile, the polis, and political thought, c. 404–146 BC (Oxford) Hall, E. (1995) ‘Lawcourt dramas: the power of performance in Greek forensic oratory’, BICS 40, 39–58 Hamel, D. (2003) Trying Neaira: the true story of a courtesan’s scandalous life in ancient Greece (New Haven, CT) Harding, P. (1994) ‘Comedy and rhetoric’, in Worthington (1994) 196–221 Harris, E.M (1989): ‘Demosthenes’ speech against Meidias’, HSCP 92, 117–136 Harris, E.M (2002) ‘Workshop, marketplace and household: the nature of technical specialisation in classical Athens and its influence on economy and society’, in P. Cartledge, E.E. Cohen, and L. Foxhall (eds.) Money, labour and land: approaches to the economies of ancient Greece (London) 67–99 Harris, E.M (2008) Demosthenes, speeches 20–22 (Austin, TX) Harrison, A.R.W. (1971) The law of Athens, volume II: Procedure (Oxford) Helmer, É. (2016) Richesse et pauvreté chez les philosophes de l’antiquité (Paris) Kapparis, K.A. (1999) Apollodoros: ‘Against Neaira’ [D. 59] (Berlin) Kasimis, D. (2018) The perpetual immigrant and the limits of Athenian democracy (Cambridge) Kennedy, R.F. (2014) Immigrant women in Athens: gender, ethnicity and citizenship in the classical city (London) Kierstead, J. and Klapaukh, R. (2018) ‘The distribution of wealthy Athenians in the Attic demes’, in Canevaro, Erskine, Gray, and Ober (2018) 376–401Knoch, S. (2010) ‘Beobachtungen zur Armut und Armen bei Platon, Aristoteles, Cicero und Seneca’, Klio 92, 305–330 Kremmydas, C. (2012) A commentary on Demosthenes, ‘Against Leptines’, with introduction, text, and translation (Oxford) Kron, G. (2011) ‘The distribution of wealth in Athens in comparative perspective’, ZPE 179, 129–138 Lape, S. (2010) Race and citizen identity in classical Athenian democracy (Cambridge)

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Liddel, P. (2007) Civic obligation and individual liberty in ancient Athens (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (1986) ‘The law of Periandros about symmories’, CQ 36, 438–449 MacDowell, D.M. (1990) Demosthenes, Against Meidias (oration 21) (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (2009) Demosthenes the orator (Oxford) Michelini, A.N. (1994) ‘Political themes in Euripides’ Suppliants’, AJP 115, 219–252 Millett, P. (1991) Lending and borrowing in ancient Athens (Cambridge)Ober, J. (1989) Mass and elite in democratic Athens: rhetoric, ideology and the power of the people (Princeton, NJ) Ober, J. (1994) ‘Power and oratory in democratic Athens: Demosthenes 21, Against Meidias’, in Worthington (1994) 85–108 Ober, J. (2010) ‘Wealthy Hellas’, TAPA 140, 241–286 O’Connell, P.A. (2017) The rhetoric of seeing in Attic forensic oratory (Austin, TX) Rhodes, P.J. (1982) ‘Problems in Athenian eisphora and liturgies’, AJAH 7, 1–19 Rosivach, V.J. (1991) ‘Some Athenian presuppositions about the poor’, G&R 38, 189–198 Roubineau, J.-M. (2013) ‘Mendicité, dechéance et indignité sociale dans les cites grecques’, Ktèma 38, 15–36 Rubinstein, L. (2013) ‘Evoking anger through pity: portraits of the vulnerable and defenceless in Attic oratory’, in Chaniotis (2012) 135–165 Sanders, E. (2012) ‘“He is a Liar, a Bounder, and a Cad”: the arousal of hostile emotions in Attic forensic oratory’, in Chaniotis (2012) 359–388 Scafuro, A. (2014) Demosthenes, speeches 39–49 (Austin, TX) Serafim, A. (2017) Attic oratory and performance (London) Taylor, C. (2017) Poverty, wealth and well-being: experiencing ‘penia’ in democratic Athens (Oxford) Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Trevett, J. (1992) Apollodoros: the son of pasion (Oxford) van Wees, H. (2001) ‘The myth of the middle-class army: military and social status in ancient Athens’, in T. Bekker-Nielsen and L. Hannestad (eds.) War as a cultural and social force (Copenhagen) 45–71 Vlassopoulos, K. (2007) ‘Free spaces: identity, experience and democracy in classical Athens’, CQ 57, 33–52 Wagner-Hasel, B. (2012) Alter in der Antike: eine Kulturgeschichte (Cologne, Weimar and Vienna) Wallace, R.W. (1989) ‘The Athenian proeispherontes’, Hesperia 58, 473–490 Whitehead, D. (1977) The ideology of the Athenian metic (Cambridge) Worthington, I. (ed.) (1994) Persuasion: Greek rhetoric in action (London) Yunis, H. (2005) Demosthenes, speeches 18 and 19 (Austin, TX)

10 Prosecutorial identities and the problem of relevance Janek Kucharski

In a well-known passage describing an idealized model of justice administration in Athens, Lycurgus clearly defines the role of the prosecutor within a tripartite system, which comprises also the dicast and the laws: It is the function of the law to indicate what must be done, the task of the accuser (katēgoros) to denounce those who are subject to the penalties set forth in the laws, and the duty of the judge to punish those whom both of these bring to his attention (Lycurg. 1.4; trans. Harris) Within this system the authority to punish (kolazein) seems to be placed firmly in the hands of the dicast, whereas the job of the prosecutor is merely to bring the criminal and his crime to the former’s attention.1 Lycurgus’ model seems deceptively familiar when compared to the modern, contemporary ideological underpinning of the office of the prosecutor. As a public official he has a very specific and limited set of objectives expected from him: his job is to prove the crime and secure the conviction of the accused by the jury and/or the judge. These expectations offer very little room for invention when it comes to constructing a proper personal identity for the prosecutor. Unlike the defendant, who is at liberty to assume an entire plethora of forensic identities, limited only by his (or her) lawyer’s imagination and competence, the prosecutor in a criminal case is expected to remain a transparent entity, merely representing the aggrieved party, which is the state, but without any identity of his or her own. As a result, the rhetorical persona of the prosecutor becomes irrelevant; to refer to Aristotle, in an ideal scenario it should be nothing more than pure dianoia, the noetic faculty or disposition of making plausible arguments on different issues, but without any anchoring in the character (ēthos) of the speaker itself. As a result, in contemporary criminal lawsuits allegations against the prosecutor’s integrity – while by no means absent – cannot be produced as arguments in the trial itself. They belong to the domain of meta-trial: if they are proved true, the whole business is dismissed or suspended, and if false, the lawsuit is allowed again to run its course. In other words, an argument against the persona of the prosecutor cannot be simply weighed against the arguments

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produced against the defendant (and his or her persona) and thus influence the final verdict of the court: it is a matter of procedure (mistrial), and not of legal substance.2 By contrast, the domain of civil or tort law presents us with a very different set of formal circumstances. Here the prosecutor speaks only for him- or herself; not as an official representing the state, but as a private person, and at the same time the aggrieved party. As a result, one might expect that in cases such as these, there would be much more room for a skilful construction of prosecutorial identities – be it positive or negative – and that they would influence the outcome of the trial to a considerable degree. Now the Athenians did, of course, distinguish private from public lawsuits, and indeed they conceived of the latter as cases on behalf of the entire polis (see the following), regardless of whether or not they involved actual harm to an actual individual. Since ancient Athens had no office of a public attorney,3 from the procedural point of view their public nature consisted of extending the right to prosecute to every enfranchised Athenian citizen. As functional counterparts of the state official, such volunteer prosecutors might be expected to act in a way which would conform to our normative expectations regarding the former’s forensic identity (or the lack thereof). For instance, Steven Johnstone, in his insightful study of Athenian litigation, argued that in public cases in particular ‘the emphasis on the person of the prosecutor was less likely . . . perhaps because of their own more abstract role’.4 In this chapter, I will therefore limit myself to cases precisely such as that one: where one would indeed expect the role of the prosecutor to remain ‘abstract’. These are public lawsuits with no individual victim of the indicted offence. As already noted, private cases, where the plaintiff was the aggrieved party, offered much more room for the deployment of such forensic identities. The same applies to those public trials which dealt with individual wrongs (such as hubris): since third party prosecution (i.e. on behalf of the wronged party) is virtually unheard of in Athens,5 despite the optimistic assertions of some ancient authors,6 such lawsuits might be expected to follow similar discursive patterns, at least when it comes to the rhetorical identity of the prosecutor himself. Unfortunately, with only three exceptions,7 we can hear only one side of a given trial. And while the most obvious place to look for the construction of (negative) prosecutorial identities would be the defence speeches, ample material can also be found in those for the prosecution, where the speaker either attempts to simply cast himself in a favourable light or (as he was the one to speak first) to forestall possible accusations against him by his adversary.8 First, I intend to look at the positive identities which the Athenian prosecutors vested upon themselves, after which a survey of the more varied negative rhetorical personalities will follow.

The concerned citizen For the prosecutor, the most obvious way of fashioning a positive rhetorical identity was to present himself as a champion of the city, its interests, its laws, and its gods. He seeks to ‘assist’ (boēthein) the polis upon witnessing it

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(or its laws) harmed by the defendant (Dem. 22.1, 24.8; Aeschin. 1.2); he is sometimes indignant about the alleged crime and even considers it shameful (aischron) to simply pass it over in silence (Dem. 23.5; Aeschin. 1.2). He is a ‘patriot’ (philopolis: Dem. 18.189) and a good ‘adviser’ (sumboulos: 23.190), as he is ready to willingly undertake the – otherwise considerable – risks of prosecution, both financial (1,000 drachma fine; e.g., Dem. 24.3) and social (enmity and hatred, e.g., Dem. 19.221, 23.1), only to see the criminal brought to justice. He himself disowns any suspicions of pecuniary motivation ([Dem.] 53.2). His actions are therefore seen to emerge as a form of civil service: a duty to look after the polis, the people, or even the gods (Lys. 26.15; Lycurg. 1.1), which is perhaps why some of the most notorious demagogues and litigants, such as Cleon and Aristogeiton, insisted on being called ‘the people’s watchdog’ (kuōn tou dēmou).9 The same selfless motivation is frequently denied to prosecutors by the defendants in public cases, who in turn insist that they are animated by more sinister, personal impulses (Lys. 7.21, 38; 18.20). The concerned citizen is, therefore, for all intents and purposes, the default identity of the modern state official. Only in the latter’s case, by virtue of his or her official authority, this identity is a given, and never requires an exposition. And yet the Athenian prosecutors seem curiously reluctant to parade this selfless identity on its own. By far most frequently it is coupled with an incentive nowadays effectively expurgated from court-rooms and the administration of justice in general: revenge. This is what Aeschines says in his case against Timarchus (1.2); such is also the (repeated) argument of Diodorus in the two speeches penned by Demosthenes (22.1, 24.8); such is Apollodorus’ professed objective in prosecuting Nicostratus ([Dem.] 53.2); such is finally the prosecutorial identity emerging from the accusation of Neaera (59.12, 126). Elsewhere, as in Demosthenes’ prosecution of the law of Leptines (one of the least ‘personal’ cases from which a speech has survived), the accuser bluntly states that while his main concern is the benefit of the city, he is also acting on behalf of Chabrias’ son who stands to lose his privileges if the law comes into force (20.1). The same Demosthenes in the embassy speech proclaims that his fellow ambassadors have harmed the state considerably and that his intention is to provide a deterring precedent for further such misconduct (19.207 and 232 respectively);10 at the same time he is keen to stress that his other principal motive is to dissociate himself from the accused so that they ‘won’t drag him down with them’ (19.223–224). Even in the Lysianic dokimasia speech Against Philon,11 the prosecutor, while explicitly disclaiming meddlesomeness and other personal reasons, is nonetheless keen to stress that the councillor’s oath he took demands this course of action (31.1–2). The only two extant speeches in which the prosecutors do not feel compelled to embellish the identity of the concerned citizen with supplementary motivation are Demosthenes’ Against Aristocrates and Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates. Both parade their public-spiritedness while explicitly denying all other reasons for filing the lawsuit. Euthycles (the speaker of Dem. 23) claims that he is not acting out of a personal grudge against Aristocrates, nor is he accusing him of an insignificant crime (23.1, 190). Similarly, Lycurgus asserts that he decided to prosecute

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Leocrates not because of private hostility, but out of a sense of duty towards the city (Lycurg. 1.6). Now, personal revenge obviously does not sit very well with a selfless concern for the public good. Nor does, in fact, favouritism towards one’s friends, their children, or even oneself, in an attempt to tie up some loose ends after a blunder from the past. Why then did so many Athenian prosecutors insist on injecting into their professed public-spiritedness such a seemingly less palatable and highly personal motivation? Because the forensic identity of the concerned citizen itself was not without drawbacks. A person flaunting his selfless devotion to the polis was likely to hide beneath it much more disagreeable motives. This is no cynical conjecture, but an observation firmly grounded in the ancient texts, and that as early as Aristophanes. In his Plutus, the Sykophant (for which see the following) consistently presents himself as an ‘upstanding’ (chrēstos) citizen and a ‘patriot’ (philopolis), one ‘taking care of the matters of the state’ (tōn tēs poleōs epimelētēs pragmatōn), ‘assisting the laws’ (boēthein tois nomois), and leaving no crime unpunished (Ar. Plut. 900–901, 907, 914). In other words, the comic character is seen to recycle all the motifs used by the orators (of his and later time), as they assume for themselves or their clients the identity of a concerned citizen. His interlocutor, however, the Just Man, easily sees through this verbal disguise a man who is both ‘wicked’ (ponēros) and ‘meddlesome’ (polupragmōn; Plut. 913, 920). These suspicions are also corroborated by the orators: Lycurgus (1.2) deplores the fact that a person who undertakes a public prosecution to benefit the state is not regarded as a ‘patriot’ (philopolis), but a ‘meddler’ (philopragmōn); later on he also anticipates Leocrates’ defence in which he might accuse him of sykophancy (1.31).

The quiet enemy Avoiding suspicions of hyperlitigiousness and meddlesomeness was therefore not an easy task for the volunteer prosecutor. One forensic identity which seemed to promise all this was that of the inexperienced quietist. An almost uniformly positive model, exploited just as frequently by both sides to a trial,12 it provided the litigant with excellent possibilities of soliciting the good will of the jury: not only was it the true antithesis of meddlesomeness, it also played well into the topos of humility or youthful inexperience13 and even offered the speaker a pretext to address the dicasts with a direct plea for assistance.14 The problem with this identity, however, was that it did not sit very well with volunteer prosecution. A victim of a personal offence who took the offender to court (in a private or a public case) could easily fit it into his argument, as demonstrated by Lysias: For myself, gentlemen of the jury, I have never taken part in litigation (pragmata) either on my own or anybody else’s account, but because of what happened I am now compelled (ēnankasmai) to prosecute this man (Lys. 12.3; trans. Todd, slightly modified)

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The gravity of the wrong he suffered provided a plausible explanation for launching the lawsuit, despite the protestations of non-litigiousness. But one could hardly claim the same thing when volunteering to take someone else to court on a strictly public charge. To be sure, a well-known politician like Lycurgus with an established reputation for integrity could brush them aside with relative ease. Many of his colleagues, however, enjoyed no such luxury. To successfully appeal to the topos of quietism, they needed to back it up with a different argument.15 Consider the opening of Aeschines’ prosecution of Timarchus: Never before, men of Athens, have I brought an indictment against any man or persecuted him at his final audit; no, I have in my opinion shown restraint in all such matters. But since I could see that the city was suffering serious damage from this man Timarchus . . . , and since I am personally the victim of his malicious prosecution . . . , I concluded that it would be utterly disgraceful not to intervene in defense of the city as a whole, the laws, you and myself. (Aeschin. 1.1–2; trans. Carey)16 ‘Fortunate indeed was the man who could catch his enemy in a breach of the law’ was R. Bonner’s perceptive observation.17 An old, pre-existing hostility provided the volunteer prosecutor with an excellent argument to dispel suspicions of meddlesomeness. For harming one’s enemies (and helping one’s friends) was well within the domain of ‘minding one’s own business’ (Lys. 9.19–20). Thus bringing one to court on a strictly public charge could still be plausibly constructed as an exception in an otherwise unassuming way of life, rather than a suspicious habit. In fact, some litigants were even accused of feigning enmity only to gain credibility with the dicasts (24.2). And according to Lysias (an argument, admittedly, produced in a public prosecution of an individual wrong) a firm statement of such hostility was precisely what the court expected to hear from the prosecutor: My situation seems to be the reverse of what has traditionally happened. Previously those prosecuting had to explain their enmity (echthra) towards the defendants, but in this case you should ask the defendants about their hatred towards the city. (Lys. 12.2; trans. Todd; slightly modified) This passage is ample proof that we are not dealing here with an ugly reality which existed despite statutory regulations, but with normative expectations of all those engaged in the process of justice administration.18 To be sure, an argument like this was not predicated on the merits of the case, but on the prosecutor’s credibility. It showed that he was no busybody, but not necessarily that the lawsuit is indeed a meritorious one.19 In other words vindictive prosecution could still be vexatious or frivolous (and therefore subject to the appropriate penalties), but despite the possible overlap between them, these two categories

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are by no means identical.20 One could prosecute one’s enemy on a baseless charge or on account of an actual (and not insignificant) breach of law. And only the former was actively discouraged in ancient Athens.

The benefactor This is probably the most surprising (by modern standards) forensic identity assumed by the Athenian prosecutors. As rightly observed by Johnstone, it is found chiefly in those cases where the prosecutor was himself the victim,21 and the reason for this is intuitively intelligible: the prosecutor presents himself as a victim of injustice and seeks to solicit the sympathy and pity of the judges by recounting the benefactions he or his family performed on behalf of the city. By the logic of private litigation, his failure in court was tantamount to very concrete and tangible losses: the damage (material or moral) he allegedly suffered at the hands of the defendant (for which he would be denied indemnity or satisfaction) and – in strictly private cases – also the epōbelia, that is, one sixth of the amount claimed (which in such a case went to the defendant).22 In other words, there seems to have been a direct link between assessing the gravity of the offence – allegedly – suffered by the prosecutor and his rhetorical persona. And yet, the Athenian volunteer prosecutors also paraded this rhetorical identity before the judges. Granted, not nearly as frequently as in cases involving individual wrongs, as it crops up in only four such speeches, but by the logic of prosecuting strictly public wrongs, where, as Lycurgus reminds us, the job of the prosecution would be to inform and to prove, this is still four speeches too many. In the dokimasia of Evandrus, the prosecutor briefly lists the political and financial benefits bestowed by his family on the people, while explicitly inviting the audience (here the Council) to compare his own persona with that of Thrasybulus of Collytus, who was Evandrus’ most prominent supporter and sunēgoros (Lys. 26.21–24). He concludes this juxtaposition with a revealing statement: ‘Now that you know what kind of life each one of us leads, you must decide on that basis whom to trust (pisteuein) about the dokimasia of Evandrus’ (Lys. 26.24; trans. Todd). The trial of Evandrus is thus rhetorically turned into an agōn between the prosecutor and his supporter, where the declared object of competition is not so much honour as credibility. Curiously enough, however, the rhetorical identity fashioned for the speaker and his family (never opposed to the people; never participating in the oligarchic regime; never subject to tyrants; spending much on behalf of the city) corresponds – by inversion – not to that of Thrasybulus, but that of Evandrus himself.23 This may render his bid for credibility more plausible: as a person radically different from the accused, he is more in a position to level charges against him on account of crimes and failures neither he himself nor his family ever had any part in. A similar case of the prosecutor parading his benefactions is found in Demosthenes’ embassy speech. Here too the speaker goes on a seemingly irrelevant rant on how he spent his own money, as well as the gifts bestowed on him

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by Philip, on ransoming the Athenian prisoners (19.166–172), all the while framing this narrative into an explicit comparison between his own actions and those of the accused (and his accomplices). Unlike Evandrus’ adversary, however, Demosthenes never speaks of garnering credibility in this context: his professed goal is to create an even greater divide between himself and his fellow ambassadors (he actually denies the idea of any such communion or fellowship: 19.189) so that he is not considered guilty by association. This goal he admits with disarming frankness (19.224). In the present trial, however, the only consequence Demosthenes might have feared from such guilt by association was losing the case (which he did), and perhaps a 1,000 drachma fine if his defeat were devastating (which it was not). In the end, therefore, his goal is the same as that of Evandrus’ accuser: to present himself as a credible prosecutor, this time by explicitly disowning the wrongs for which he launched the trial. Two other volunteer prosecutors are also surprisingly keen on presenting their own actions and those of their ancestors in a highly favourable light. The first is Apollodorus ([Dem.] 53), who in his prosecution of Nicostratus (an apographē) contrasts his own honourable behaviour with that of the defendant and his brother Arethusius. Not only was he a good neighbour and friend, but most importantly provided him with substantial monetary aid when Nicostratus was in dire need of it, and furthermore, some of that money he simply gave to him as a gift (53.6– 13). While at first sight this may seem comparable to Demosthenes’ benefactions, on closer inspection these two cases have very little in common. Demosthenes seeks to distance himself from the crime of which he accuses Aeschines, and thus to gain more credibility in the capacity of the prosecutor. Apollodorus by contrast simply attempts to show the defendant and his brother as vile and ungrateful creatures, who, paying no heed to his services, plotted against his property and life (53.14–17). Unlike in the embassy trial, here the prosecutor’s self-praise has nothing to do with the case at hand. Its sole objective is to cast the speaker in a favourable light and create further prejudice against the defendant. An even less relevant specimen of such prosecutorial vanity is found in the speech Against Theocrines ([Dem.] 58). The case is an indictment (endeixis) of a state-debtor exercising civic rights to which he is not entitled. Near the end of the speech the prosecutor praises the services his ancestors have done to the city, such as liberating it from the rule of the Thirty and a victory in the Olympic games (58.66–69). Again, these benefactions have no direct link to the case at hand. In fact, the speaker invokes them with the sole purpose of soliciting pity among the jurymen: the current prosecution, he argues, is his family’s last-ditch attack against Theocrines, and therefore his acquittal will spell their ultimate failure in this forensic feud.

The sykophant The sykophant is by far the most frequently deployed prosecutorial identity in the extant speeches.24 Its prevalence is not difficult to understand. Not only could it effectively undermine the prosecutor’s credibility – which, as we have

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already seen, the Athenian litigants struggled hard to establish – but also effectively cast doubt on the merits of his case. Now it was traditionally assumed that sykophancy amounted to an abuse of public prosecution for pecuniary motives. Since it was open to any enfranchised Athenian citizen, a sykophant could file a lawsuit with an eye to gaining profit from it, either through blackmail (that is, being paid off by the defendant to drop the case), hiring himself out to other parties (who weren’t interested in drawing public attention to themselves), or seeking rewards offered to successful prosecutors in certain procedures (phasis, graphē xenias, apographē).25 This view is nowadays no longer tenable: as demonstrated by Osborne, allegations (or refutations) of sykophancy abound in private speeches as well,26 which therefore renders both the assumption linking it to public prosecution only, as well as the pecuniary basis of its modus operandi, questionable.27 The larger issue underlying Osborne’s critique of the traditional assumption is, however, more problematic. His point is that the label sykophant ‘implied not that the prosecutor was acting for corrupt motives, unless that was additionally specified, but rather that the prosecutor did not have a good case, that his case depended on improbable assumptions, empty assertions or over-meticulous quibbling’.28 Sykophancy, in other words, was not so much an appraisal of the prosecutor himself or of his motives – as the traditional definitions would have it – but of the merits of his case. Now attacking the prosecutor’s case as baseless fits well the scenario of structural asymmetry between the two parties in a public trial. The prosecution is free to draw all kinds of assumptions from the rhetorical identity of the defendant which support the charges in question. The defendant on the other hand can only seek to undermine said charges as baseless, but without making any claims regarding the persona of the prosecutor. The topos of sykophancy, however, was in the Athenian courts much more than just that. While indeed it is formally predicated much more frequently on the act (sukophantein, sukophantia) than the person (sukophantēs), relating it solely to the case itself, and not the man behind it, must seem like an oversimplification. As we read in one of Lysias’ public prosecution speeches, the jury tended to suspect even those who pursue meritorious prosecutions of sykophantic behaviour: ‘even though you are sure the defendants are as guilty as it is possible to be, nevertheless you also believe that those who are delivering speeches about their case are engaging in sykophancy’ (22.1). It should be noted that the particular case he refers to is a strictly public one: a form of ‘impeachment’ (eisangelia), dealing with crimes related to the provision of grain. In yet another public speech (most likely in a dokimasia), this time for the defence, Lysias has the speaker implore the jury ‘not to share the attitude of the sykophants’; the latter, he argues, ‘incriminate also (kai) those who have not committed any crimes’ (25.3). While at first sight this seems to corroborate the thesis that a sykophantic case is simply bogus, the qualifier ‘also’ (or ‘even’) makes it clear that such prosecutions are not the only ones launched by sykophants. Finally, in Demosthenes we find the sykophant contrasted with a public-spirited politician:

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the latter is said to disclose ‘his view before things develop and makes himself answerable to those who are persuaded’, while the former ‘is silent when there is need for speech, and only if anything unpleasant (duskolon) happens, then he maligns it’ (18.189).29 Here, by contrast, not a word is said about the substantive value of such accusations (in fact, the brief remark about something ‘unpleasant’ seems to suggest that they need not necessarily be baseless), and the only distinguishing factor is the timing of the prosecution. As a prosecutorial identity, therefore, the sykophant could clearly be dissociated from the legal merits of the case and attached solely to the litigant’s corrupt motivation. What are the principal features of this forensic villain? In the first place he is a meddler, who instead of minding his own business drags other people into court (Lys. 21.20, 25.1; Lycurg. 1.3; cf. Isoc. 15.230): this is why the concerned citizen seemed such a slippery identity, taken up rather cautiously by the prosecutors. Even more so, since the sykophant is habitually thought to feign his concern for the polis, hiding beneath it a more sinister motivation (Lys. 21.20; cf. 20.17). He makes his living from prosecuting (Andoc. 1.99). He is a late accuser (Dem. 18.121), one who hires himself to third parties as a litigant (Andoc. 1; Hyp. Dion. 26), whose accusations are slanders (Aeschin. 2.5, 145), and – finally – who prosecutes people with a view to material profit (Lys. 7.21, 24.2; Isae. 12.31; Dem. 19.221; Hyp. Lyc. 2).30 Launching a private lawsuit for any of these motives – and not because of suffering harm – was tantamount to producing baseless accusations (e.g., Dem. 29.41, 37.2). Public cases, by contrast, offered more room for rhetorical invention in this respect: while the prosecutor’s motives could still be corrupt, the lawsuit itself might be meritorious. To be sure, the defendants in the public trials of ancient Athens were not interested in making such fine distinctions, but the handful of scattered remarks discussed above is enough to make this point. As a prosecutorial identity, therefore, the sykophant is allowed to emerge much more clearly from such cases than from those (public or private) dealing with individual wrongs, which in turn could explain the fact that it became so prominently associated with the former.

The criminal double Another distinct strategy used by the defendants in public trials is to insist that the prosecutor is himself guilty of crimes or failings similar to those which are now on trial. Arguments of this kind are actually found more frequently in prosecution speeches, where they are anticipated and pre-emptively refuted by the speaker. Such counteraccusations tend to vary in their seriousness. A rather straightforward instance is found in the Lysianic speech For Polystratus. The defendant (possibly in an eisangelia) is charged with serving as an official during the regime of the Four Hundred; while not denying the veracity of this indictment, the defendant’s supporting speaker insists that during the oligarchy the prosecutors themselves never showed any loyalty to democracy, and only now, when it’s safe, do they pretend to do so (Lys. 20.17). Although the speaker

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has nothing to say here about Polystratus himself, he manages to insinuate that the prosecutors have a hidden sinister agenda: not only do they falsely present themselves as fervent democrats; they are also parading their concern for the polis but in reality seeking personal gain. In some cases, arguments like this are used to take apart an important point of the prosecution, without necessarily throwing any serious charges against the adversary. Dinarchus’ client, who prosecuted Demosthenes during the Harpalus trial, forestalls one such attack from the defendant: Demosthenes was planning to accuse him of ‘inconsistency’ (that is, behaviour he calls atopōtaton – a much stronger epithet, suggesting the bizarre or unnatural) in that he now extols the Areopagus, but questioned its authority earlier, when he himself was indicted by it (1.48). The speaker refutes this claim, arguing that no such thing ever happened and that at the heart of that matter lay the botched intrigue of a sykophant, whom he, along with the dicasts, later ‘punished’ (1.48–54; see the following). Yet again, the link between this counteraccusation and the matter at hand is indirect at best. Whether or not Demosthenes was bribed by Harpalus does not depend on what the speaker may have previously said about the Areopagus. But his professed reverence for this institution, on which he bases his prosecution, would indeed be exposed by this argument as a masquerade, which in turn would result in a considerable blow to the speaker’s credibility (but hardly to that of his co-prosecutors). Aeschines’ prosecution of Timarchus is based (among other things) on the allegation that in his youth the defendant prostituted himself, which is further corroborated by the scandalous reports of his homosexual affairs (1.40–62). The speaker, however, insists on pre-emptively dismantling the accusations which are to be made against him by the defendant and which concerned his own homoerotic adventures (1.135–137). Aeschines pretends to reproduce the main thrust of these arguments: He’ll ask if I’m not ashamed to subject the practice (pragma) to censure and risk, when I make a nuisance of myself in the gymnasia and have been in love with many. (Aeschin. 1.135; trans. Carey) Timarchus, we are told, will also mention Aeschines’ love poems ‘to encourage idle laughter’ (1.135) and provide evidence of his violent homoerotic rivalries. Again, we do not know what exactly were the charges produced by Timarchus and his supporters in court. As in Dinarchus, Aeschines’ version may very well be a straw-man argument in which he attempts to reduce them to insignificant trifles, since one can hardly find any serious charges among them, and even quarrels and blows are usually dismissed by the orators as matters of little importance (Lys. 3.19, 4.9; Dem. 54.13–14), while the other accusations are reduced to the question of ‘shame’ and ‘idle laughter’. Most importantly, however, they have no direct relevance to the case at hand: whether or not Timarchus was a prostitute in his youth – which among other things disqualified him

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from public speaking – does not depend in any way on the prosecutor’s love poems or his amorous adventures at the gymnasia. In fact, unlike in Dinarchus, the defendant’s argument – as it is presented by Aeschines – can hardly dismantle the latter’s rhetorical strategy, which is not focused on indignation about homoerotic ‘practice’ (pragma) in general, but on male prostitution in particular. Whereas Demosthenes’ point (according to Dinarchus) was that in the past the prosecutor did exactly what he is accusing him of now, no such symmetry can be drawn between the prosecution of Timarchus and his counterarguments. The latter – as Aeschines presents them – concern a timehonoured and socially acceptable practice, while the prosecution deals with its illegal perversion. Quite possibly Aeschines is distorting the defendant’s line of argument, but as it is presented, it can hardly cast a shadow on his credibility. Perhaps indeed Timarchus’ claims were meant as nothing more than a jibe at the prosecutor’s forensic persona, with the sole purpose of provoking ‘idle laughter’. As noted above, during the embassy trial Demosthenes was at pains to dissociate himself from Aeschines and the other ambassadors to avoid guilt by association. His fears were justified insofar as the defendant, Aeschines, consistently represents him as a willing (and pitiful) accomplice in the lengthy process of negotiating the peace of Philocrates, including the incriminated second embassy. He first insists that both the peace proposal itself and its proposer enjoyed Demosthenes’ full support (2.14–17), then goes on to narrate his adversary’s initial approval of the treaty negotiated during the first embassy (2.14, 18–20) and his embarrassing flattery of Philip during the second one (2.110–113). Demosthenes’ pre-emptive answer is a methodical comparison of his own conduct and that of the defendant (and his colleagues), which is meant to starkly contrast him with ‘the rest of them’ and thus underscore his innocence (19.157, 166–175, 229–232). To be sure, he may have expected to garner more credibility from such a strategy and hoped to achieve his professed goal (dissociating himself from his fellow envoys). However, he remains well aware that it is hardly relevant to the case at hand, a problem he voices quite explicitly (cf. also 19.213–214): With regard to the facts, a defence of this kind [i.e. accusing the prosecutor] is neither honest nor relevant, though it is one way to accuse me. For if I did what he charges, I am indeed a despicable creature, but that doesn’t make his actions any better far from it. (19.202; trans. Yunis) Demosthenes’ concession makes it quite clear that the charges against the persona of the prosecutor have no relevance whatsoever to the case at hand. Indeed, in cases where he is (counter-)accused of similar crimes to those on trial, or simply shown to be jarringly inconsistent in the arguments he is making, this does reflect negatively on his credibility and hence indirectly on the validity of his charges. But this category too has its limits, and as Aeschines tells

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us, sometimes such counterarguments seem to serve no other purpose than ‘idle laughter’.

The degenerate and the buffoon In some instances the rhetorical identity of the prosecutor seems even further detached from the heart of the matter. Although not entirely superfluous in terms of such forensic ‘economy’, as the link between it and the case at hand is still traceable, it is much less patent. Andocides, in his already quoted defence speech, having discredited almost the entire prosecution team, takes issue with the informal instigator of the trial, Callias, son of Hipponicus. Although keeping himself away from the limelight in this case, Callias is said to have hired Andocides’ accusers (1.121) in order to get rid of him since both had put up a claim (epidikasia) for an ‘heiress’ (epiklēros), an orphaned daughter of their mutual relative.31 According to Andocides, Callias claimed the girl for his son, but in reality wanted to marry her himself (1.121); to this end he bribed another lawful claimant and tried the same with the speaker himself (1.122). If the dicasts believed Andocides’ version, these facts alone would be more than enough to cripple the entire prosecution: (a) the accusers have been hired – which clearly raises the flag of sykophancy; (b) the person behind the trial was ready to sell it – which speaks volumes about its legal merits and also approximates it to the sykophantic modus operandi. And yet Andocides chooses to pursue this subject even further, casting doubt on the legitimacy of Callias’ son (the one in whose name the claim to the epiklēros was made) and even providing a lurid account of the father’s intimate relationships (he is said to have lived with the son’s mother and sister at once). Now, the question of legitimacy has little bearing on the present trial (although it would certainly be a decisive argument in the inheritance claim); even less relevant are the details of Callias’ love life, which – apart from a scandalous story – provide no proof whatsoever about the nature of the case against Andocides. Probably the most famous Athenian litigant whose carnal appetites were subject to merciless forensic scrutiny was Timarchus.32 As he was the defendant, and that in a case largely based on the examination of his sexual behaviour, the reason for the prosecutor’s peculiar interest in this subject is quite obvious. Less obvious – although perhaps still understandable – may be his focus on similar matters concerning Timarchus’ sunēgoros, Demosthenes. Like the defendant, he too is mocked for his passive homosexuality and effeminacy (1.131, 181; cf. 171). Perhaps indeed these seemingly irrelevant remarks are expected, as observed by Fisher, ‘to undermine his [i.e. Demosthenes’] claim to be able to speak with any authority on the central issues of the case, the place of legitimate same-sex relations in Athenian culture and education’.33 However, one can hardly explain along these lines the similar insults heaped upon Demosthenes in the embassy trial, where he, this time acting as the prosecutor, is again called out for his sexual effeminacy (androgunos, anandros, gunaikeios) and profligacy (2.88, 99, 127, 151, 179). Here, the details of Demosthenes’ love life

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have no bearing whatsoever on the case at hand: as a catamite (kinaidos), he would be no less qualified to speak about Aeschines’ alleged corruption. One can hardly deny that such slurs (if plausible) would successfully alienate some of the jurymen from the prosecutor, but that – again – on grounds which have nothing to do with the issue on trial. Demosthenes’ sexual appetites were not the only apparently irrelevant issue raised in the course of his forensic feud with Aeschines. We are also told of his Scythian – that is barbarian, and in any case, non-Athenian – ancestry, of his cowardice, and of his purported stage fright, which led to his abysmal rhetorical performance on the embassy to Philip. Demosthenes eagerly repays his enemy in kind, bringing up his family’s low social status, his unflattering profession as a junior clerk, and his unsuccessful career as an actor waging a total war against the spectators. Accusations such as these, although far too personal for modern sensitivities, are nonetheless quite easy to fit among the arguments for the prosecution: in the embassy case, by focusing on Aeschines’ humble origins and his menial occupations, Demosthenes clearly suggests to the jury that the defendant was never fit for such a responsible position, which in turn paves the way for allegations of corruption.34 By slandering Demosthenes about his barbarian extraction and his cowardice, as well as his eagerness for pathic pleasures (3.171–172, 174–176), Aeschines may have hoped to persuade the judges that he is indeed unworthy of the honours proposed for him by Ctesiphon. In neither instance can one deny the relevance of these otherwise unsavoury details to the matter at hand. However, the same arguments put in the reverse direction – now against the prosecutor and not the defendant – can hardly be taken as cases in point. What bearing does Demosthenes’ (Aeschin. 2.70, 180, 183) or Aeschines’ (Dem. 18.129–131) pedigree have on the latter’s alleged corruption or the former’s honours respectively? How does Aeschines’ modest theatrical career (Dem. 18.262–264) or Demosthenes’ abysmal oratorical performance at the court of Philip (Aeschin. 2.34–35) affect the validity of Ctesiphon’s decree or the sincerity of the peace embassy (respectively)? Regardless of their veracity, these arguments seem to have little or no relevance to the main issue of the trial,35 and therefore have to be understood as pertaining solely to the rhetorical persona of the prosecutor, who is thus revealed as a ‘braggart and a buffoon’36 or some other form of degenerate lowlife.

The problem of relevance By now it should be obvious that prosecutorial identities played a surprisingly prominent role in the Athenian forensic discourse, and that even within the scope of an inquiry limited strictly to public cases. Indeed, the observation that the Athenian forensic speeches are replete with arguments ad personam, based on bragging or abuse, whose relationship to the issue on trial seemed problematic, is far from novel. But in the last two decades or so, much effort has been devoted to proving that any such arguments are, despite appearances, somehow germane to the case at hand. P.J. Rhodes for instance (2004), in a

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minute analysis of the extant speeches, manages to point out substantive links between many instances of – not infrequently unsavoury – character evidence and the issue on trial. Recently V. Adamidis has attempted to flesh out these observations even further and provide them with a more sophisticated framework, one heavy on theory about the nature of character and its forensic uses (2017). Beginning on the more secure ground of the ‘plaint’ (enklēma), which contained the actual legal charges, E.M. Harris (2013a, 101–137) seeks to demonstrate that in the majority of cases the litigant’s character, his past failings or benefactions, served well to prove these principal points. Thus if a person like Aeschines is accused of treason during the embassy, it should be in the best interest of the prosecutor to present him as a vile and treacherous creature in every possible aspect of his life.37 When Ctesiphon is tried for moving an illegal decree in honour of Demosthenes, the obvious strategy for the prosecution is to present the latter (as well as the honorand) as the lowest of lowlifes.38 A modern court would perhaps object to much of such ‘character evidence’, but, as noted above, one can hardly deny its relevance to the case at hand. However, what relevance might one find in the reverse of such ‘evidence’? What bearing does Aeschines’ life and pedigree have on the legality and merits of Ctesiphon’s decree? How is Demosthenes’ virtuous and selfless conduct during the embassy to Philip germane to the question of whether or not Aeschines was corrupted by Philip? If one were to apply the letter of the law strictly and consistently, the rhetorical persona of the prosecutor should be of no importance to the Athenian courts. Yet the fact it is featured so prominently clearly suggests that its successful demolition could lead to demolishing the entire prosecution. Taking this one step further might lead us back to the symmetrical agonistic model of Athenian litigation most eloquently expounded by S.C. Todd: When a modern judge passes sentence, he or she is measuring the distance between the concrete person of the defendant and the abstract ideal of justice or the ideally just citizen. When an Athenian court passed sentence, however, its decision was a measure of the distance between two concrete individuals, the prosecutor and the defendant. This may help us understand why Athenian courts admit or even encourage character evidence, both negative and positive not only about the defendant but about both litigants.39 The arguments produced against this scenario seem far too serious to unconditionally resuscitate it. The simple agonal model cannot properly accommodate the phenomenon of team-based litigation, which, as noted by L. Rubinstein, was the standard, particularly in high-profile public lawsuits.40 And the pattern of symmetrically assessing the ‘distance’ between the two sides cannot account for the fact that the majority of character evidence in the Athenian forensic speeches still concerns the defendant.41 There remains, in other words, a discernible asymmetry between the two sides when it comes to the creation of forensic identities. And yet, in the light of the evidence produced above, it is

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impossible to assume that the Athenian prosecutors were transparent entities, like their modern counterparts, which the Lycurgan model, with which this chapter begins, seems to imply. The one issue which sharply distinguishes the Athenian volunteer prosecutor from his modern counterpart is the question of credibility. In the latter’s case it is a given, and only under special circumstances can it become subject to scrutiny, which in turn (as noted above) may result in the suspension of the trial, but not in the acquittal of the accused. No such option, however, existed in ancient Athens. There the cases were decided and settled permanently, and that in only one hearing (which lasted no longer than a day), with no right of appeal.42 And the volunteer prosecutor, since he was in principle a private citizen, was faced with the daunting task of establishing – and defending – his own credibility throughout the trial. Its indisputable association with the moral character of the speaker has been noted as early as Aristotle (Rh. 1356a, 1416a). Furthermore, unlike modern jurors, the dicasts could not be asked to disregard certain statements or slurs on account of their irrelevance. And there was no authority to discipline a litigant who went astray with his argument (apart from the time limit). Although the dicastic oath, with its stipulation that the judgment should be based only on matters relevant to the case, may have exercised some influence over the Athenian jurymen, the only way they could actively show their displeasure with any such arguments lay in the informal power of the thorubos.43 As long as they were not antagonized, however, but instead entertained by matters provoking ‘idle laughter’, the Athenian expert litigants (or their logographers) could have hoped to get away with such irrelevant, and yet severely damaging, remarks. Thus, the incentives to engage in the seemingly irrelevant character assassination of the prosecutor were indeed very strong in the courts of ancient Athens. Similarly, the need to defend oneself against any such accusations, or rather dismantle them pre-emptively, became just as urgent a matter. And while it may very well have qualified as an abuse of law, the Athenian orators were willing to take their chances with it. The prosecutors were happy to pre-emptively take on any such attacks against their integrity and credibility, but rather seldom criticized them on principle (as in Aeschin. 1.178, 3.193; cf. Dem. 19.213). Quite the contrary, they sometimes went as far as taking it for granted that both sides of a lawsuit were in fact ‘on trial’ (e.g., Andoc. 1.7; Lys. 7.42; Aeschin. 1.179). In the end, therefore, this forces us to acknowledge that factors other than the letter of the law influenced the decisions of the jurymen and therefore the entire system of justice administration in ancient Athens.

Conclusion Why is Lycurgus, then, so keen on persuading his audience to accept a model which seemed so far removed from the rhetorical practice of his fellow orators? Why does he insist on a model of prosecutorial identity reduced to informing

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and proving, despite the fact that it opened so many avenues for rhetorical invention, both positive and negative? Even in strictly public cases, the Athenian prosecutors could not afford to be mere representatives of the sovereign. Even they had to work hard to establish and defend their own credibility, and that against accusations (or slurs) which could hardly be considered as germane to the case at hand. It has been observed that Against Leocrates is a rather idiosyncratic piece of Athenian forensic rhetoric,44 although the fact that other Lycurgan speeches have perished does not provide a secure footing for such sweeping assertions. However, as a person and a prosecutor in that particular case, Lycurgus probably comes closest to our ideas of what his modern counterparts should be. A well-established politician, whose integrity was acknowledged even by his opponents, he had the necessary moral resources to establish a new prosecutorial identity for himself: that of a disinterested civil servant. He may very well be guilty of an excessive thirst for the defendant’s blood (and of a rather loose approach to matters of procedure), but for all its gravitas, his own persona is only seldom seen to weigh down on his argument. Ironically enough, however, he too had to defend this identity against accusations of sykophancy (1.31). The system therefore proved stronger than even the strongest among its detractors.

Notes 1 For a similar (passing) assessment of the prosecutor’s role cf. Din. 1.51: ‘from whom the dicasts learn of the crimes’. 2 Rubinstein (2000) 196–197 rightly points out that it is a frequent practice of defence attorneys to question the credibility and impartiality of prosecutorial officials (usually the police) at the earlier stages of collecting evidence, which may lead to dismissing crucial proofs and, as a result, to acquittal; but this does not apply to the persona of the prosecutor him- or herself. 3 In special cases such as apophasis, eisangelia to the Council, and perhaps endeixis (although the latter is based on an uncertain source), the prosecution was conducted by a team of elected prosecutors; cf. Rubinstein (2000) 111–115. 4 Johnstone (1999) 128, cf. Lanni (2006) 63–64, Rubinstein (2000) 195–196, Harris (1995) 102. 5 We have two attested instances of eisangelia launched on behalf of (allegedly) maltreated orphans: Isae. 11, Dem. 58.32; perhaps another one might be found in Hypereides, Against Timandrus, cf. Osborne (2010b) 184–185 and Whitehead (2009), but see Christ (1998) 119–129. 6 Plut. Sol. 18; Osborne (2010b) 172–174, Christ (1998) 122–126; third-party prosecution is of course a shorthand for launching a public prosecution on behalf of an aggrieved individual (as it is spoken of by Plutarch). 7 Which are: Dem. 19 – Aeschin. 2; Aeschin. 3 – Dem. 18 (sunēgoria, but functionally the main defence speech); [Lys.] 6 (sunēgoria) – Andoc. 1; on the authenticity of [Lys.] 6 (considered as a genuine forensic speech), see Todd (2007) 407–408. 8 We will never know how many such pre-emptive counterarguments were actually delivered in the speech itself and how many were inserted afterwards, when the orator prepared his speech for subsequent circulation and publication; cf. Lavency (1964) 189–194; Dover (1968) 151–154, 168–174; Worthington (1991) and (1996); Trevett (1996); Milns (2000) 207–209; MacDowell (2009) 7–9.

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9 Cleon: Ar. Eq. 1017, 1030, Vesp. 895; Aristogeiton: [Dem.] 26.40 (dubious authenticity), cf. also Plut. Dem. 23.5 (of Demosthenes). 10 Unlike in the US system, for instance, Athenian law did not recognize precedent as a valid legal argument; even then, however, its rhetorical force remained considerable, see Rubinstein (2007); Harris (2013c); cf. Lanni (2016) 47–49 on the deterrent function of punishment in Athens. 11 Dokimasia cases (Lys. 16, 24, 25, 26, 31) are usually omitted from discussion of public trials on account of the fact that they did not entail punishment, but only a refusal of a privilege or office; such refusal, however, could also be constructed as punishment (e.g., Lys. 31.29), while prosecution was still open to any volunteer who wished to do so (and enjoyed the required citizen rights). On civic identity in Lysias’ dokimasia speeches, see Keim in this volume, chapter 6. 12 For the topos of ‘minding one’s own business’ (apragmosunē) in the Athenian courts cf. Hyp. Lyc. 16, Xen. Mem. 2.9.1; see also Ehrenberg (1947) 57–61; Adkins (1976) 308–311; Lateiner (1982–1983); Carter (1986) 99–130; Bearzot (2007). 13 For which cf., e.g., Antiph. 1.1; Dem. 54.1. 14 On the significance of the prologue in securing the attention and the good will of the audience, cf. Lausberg (1998) 124–131. 15 For a more extensive treatment of this problem see Kucharski (2012); for an opposing view cf. Kurihara (2003); Herman (2006); and Harris (2013b) (an extended version of his 2005 paper). 16 For a similar combination of quietism and vindictive prosecution see Dem. 24.6; [58].1–3. 17 Bonner (1927) 62. 18 Pelloso (2017) 357–358, n.12 fails to understand this when he criticizes my 2012 paper (among others) for disregarding the difference between ‘the role “theoretically” and “teleologically” played by the law, and its concrete abuses [i.e. vindictive prosecution – JK]’. My paper, discussing the rhetoric of prosecution and not the real motivations hidden beneath it, was concerned primarily with the theory and only incidentally with the practice of justice administration in Athens; needless to add that vindictive prosecution per se was never considered a ‘concrete abuse’ of Athenian law. 19 For allegations that the prosecution is a sham launched out of personal spite see Lys. 7.30; 9.15, 22, Dem. 18.121, 279, 315, Aeschin. 2.22, 139, cf. Lys. 16.1, 3, 8; 19.2; see also Andoc. 1.1 (and 135), who does acknowledge that the enemies prosecuting him are trying to do him harm ‘be it justly or unjustly’. 20 As suggested by Harris (2006) 405–422; see Kucharski (2012) 192–193. 21 Johnstone (1999) 98–100 actually insists that this applies to inheritance disputes and cases which involved the prosecutor’s honour. 22 From the second half of the fourth century the epōbelia was payable by every unsuccessful litigant in a private case (be it prosecutor or defendant), see MacDowell (2008) and Wallace (2008). 23 As the speech is only partially preserved, Evandrus’ crimes are not listed in a systematic manner: they included participation in depredations and arrests of the Thirty (26.12, 18 respectively) and may have included charges of serving in the cavalry or on the Council and holding another unspecified office (25.9–10); cf. Todd (1993) 285–286. 24 Allegations of sykophancy thrown at the prosecutor(s) by the defendant(s): Antiph. 5.80; Andoc. 1.93, 98, 99, 104, 105; Lys. 19.9, 21.17, 24.2, 25.3; Isae. 11.4, 14, 31; Dem. 18.112, 118, 121, 212, 232; Aeschin. 2.5, 99, 145, 183; Hyp. Lyc. 2; Eux. 33; Dion. 26, 28; allegations of sykophancy pre-emptively refuted by the prosecutor: Lys. 22.1; Dem. 19.98, 221, 23.61, 53.1; Lycurg. 1.31. 25 Lofberg (1917) 32–48, 48–59, 26–32 (respectively); cf. MacDowell (1978) 62–63; for a more recent re-evaluation of these paradigms of sykophantic behaviour (taking into account the prevalence of sunēgoria in Athenian courts) see Rubinstein (2000) 201–212.

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26 For an explicit statement see Lys. 13.65; cf. Harvey (1990) 107–109 for an overview of the use of the term in the orators (and beyond); see also Osborne (2010c) 215. 27 Osborne (2010c) 213–215. 28 Osborne (2010c) 216. 29 Trans. H. Yunis, modified; as one of my fellow editors rightly points out, the antithesis here pits a forensic dispute (sykophant) against a deliberative one (sumboulos); the point, however, is that the sykophant’s accusation is still not rejected on its merits (or rather the lack thereof), but merely on its timing. 30 For more such associations in the orators and elsewhere, see Harvey (1990) 107–109; his chief characteristics of the sykophant are: monetary motivation, false charges, sophistic quibbling, abusing attacks, raking up of the past and hyperlitigiousness; cf. Christ (1998) 150–154. 31 The deceased, a certain Epilycus son of Teisander, was Andocides’ maternal uncle (1.117). His family ties to Callias are not clear; it is possible that the latter was somehow related to his father; cf. MacDowell (1962) 149–150. 32 On the forensic identity of Timarchus in Aeschin.1, cf. Hatzilambrou in this volume, 47–62. 33 Fisher (2001) 318. 34 Cf. Buckler (2000) 136, Worman (2004) 9. 35 With the exception, perhaps, of Aeschines’ insistence on Demosthenes’ cowardice: this point can be taken as suggesting that Demosthenes should be considered as partially disenfranchised; as such, it is driven home only in Aeschin. 3.175, but hinting at it in the earlier embassy speech most likely served the very same purpose; cf. Buckler (2000) 139–140. 36 Harris (1995) 58 (about Demosthenes in Aeschines 2). 37 In this respect Harris’ (2013a) 115 initial proviso ‘if a defendant is accused of taking bribes and betraying Athenian interests, the court should not decide, “is he a good citizen?” but rather, “did he take the money in return for helping the enemy?”’ blunts the force of his subsequent arguments. 38 ‘In such procedures as dokimasia or graphē paranomōn a litigant’s political career could be represented as relevant’ (Rhodes [2004] 155). 39 Todd (1993) 162. 40 Rubinstein (2000) 172–184. 41 Johnstone (1999) 93–108. 42 See Dem. 20.147; cf. Harris (2006) 406, (2013b) 72; Canevaro (2013) 138–140; the only known exceptions are: a conviction in a case of false witnessing (dikē pseudomarturiōn) and bribery in a lawsuit regarding citizenship (graphē dōroxenias); cf. Harrison (1971) 192–197 and Kapparis (2005) 97, respectively. 43 Other than the informal power of the dicastic thorubos, for which see, e.g., Hyp. Lyc. 11, fr. 2; cf. also Bers (1985), esp. 11, 13; see also Adamidis (2017) 59. 44 Allen (2000).

Bibliography Adamidis, V. (2017) Character evidence in the courts of classical Athens: rhetoric, relevance and the rule of law (London) Adkins, A.W.H. (1976) ‘Polupragmosune and “minding one’s own business”: a study in Greek social and political values’, CPh 71, 301–327 Allen, D. (2000) ‘Changing the authoritative voice. Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates’, ClAnt 19, 5–33 Bearzot, C. (2007) ‘Ἀπραγμοσύνη, identità del meteco e valori democratici in Lisia’, in C. Bearzot (ed.) Vivere da democratici: studi su Lisia e la democrazia ateniese (Roma) 121–140

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Bers, V. (1985) ‘Dicastic thorybos’, in P.A. Cartledge and F.D. Harvey (eds.) Crux: essays in Greek history presented to G.E.M. de Ste. Croix on his 75th birthday (London) 1–15 Bonner, R. (1927) Lawyers and litigants in ancient Athens (Chicago) Buckler, J. (2000) ‘Demosthenes and Aeschines’, in Worthington (2000) 114–158 Canevaro, M. (2013) The documents in the Attic orators: laws and decrees in the public speeches of the Demosthenic corpus (Oxford) Carey, C. (trans.) (2000) Aeschines (Austin, TX) Carter, L.B. The quiet Athenian (Oxford) Cartledge, P., Millett, P., and Todd, S.C. (1990) Nomos: essays in Athenian law, politics, and society (Cambridge) Christ, M.R. (1998) The litigious Athenian (Baltimore, MD) Dover, K.J. (1968) Lysias and the corpus lysiacum (Berkeley) Ehrenberg, V. (1947) ‘Polypragmosyne: a study in Greek politics’, JHS 67, 46–67 Fisher, N.R.E. (2001) Aeschines, Against Timarchos, with introduction, translation, and commentary (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (1995) Aeschines and Athenian politics (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (2006) ‘The penalties for frivolous prosecution in Athenian law’, in id. Democracy and the rule of law: essays on law, society, and politics (Cambridge) 405–422 Harris, E.M. (2013a) The rule of law in action in democratic Athens (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (2013b) ‘Feuding or the rule of law? An essay in legal sociology’, in Harris (2013a) 60–98 [originally published in M. Gagarin and R.W. Wallace (eds.) (2005) Symposion 2001: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Vienna) 125–142] Harris, E.M. (2013c) ‘Did the Athenian courts attempt to achieve consistency? The use of precedents in forensic oratory’, in Harris (2013a) 246–273 [originally published in Cooper, C, (ed.) (2007) Politics and orality (Leiden)] Harris, E.M. and Thür, G. (eds.) (2008) Symposion 2007: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Cologne) Harrison, A.R.W. (1971) The law of Athens, volume II: procedure (Oxford) Harvey, D. (1990) ‘The sykophant and sykophancy: vexatious redefinition?’, in Cartledge, Millett, and Todd (1990) 103–121 Herman, G. (2006) Morality and behaviour in democratic Athens: a social history (Cambridge) Johnstone, S. (1999) Disputes and democracy: the consequences of litigation in ancient Athens (Austin, TX) Kapparis, K. (2005) ‘Immigration and citizenship procedures in Athenian law’, RIDA 57, 71–113 Kucharski, J. (2012) ‘Vindictive prosecution in classical Athens: on some recent theories’, GRBS 52, 167–197 Kurihara, A. (2003) ‘Personal enmity as motivation in forensic speeches’, CQ 53, 463–477 Lanni, A. (2006) Law and justice in the courts of classical Athens (Cambridge) Lanni, A. (2016) Law and order in ancient Athens (Cambridge) Lateiner, D. (1982–1983) ‘“The man who does not meddle in politics”: a topos in Lysias’, CW 76, 1–12 Lausberg, H. (1998) Handbook of literary rhetoric: a foundation for literary study, translated by M.T. Bliss, A. Jansen, and D.E. Orton (Leiden) Lavency, N. (1964) Aspects de la logographie judiciare attique (Louvain) Lofberg, J.O. (1917) Sycophancy in Athens (Chicago) MacDowell, D.M. (1962) Andocides, on the Mysteries, with introduction, commentary, and appendices (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (1978) The law of classical Athens (London)

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MacDowell, D.M. (2008) ‘The Athenian penalty of epobelia’, in Harris and Thür (2008) 87–94 MacDowell, D.M. (2009) Demosthenes the orator (Oxford) Milns, S. (2000) ‘The public speeches’, in Worthington (2000) 205–223 Osborne, R. (2010a) Athens and Athenian democracy (Cambridge) Osborne, R. (2010b) ‘Law in action in classical Athens’, in Osborne (2010a) 171–204 [Originally published in JHS 105 (1985) 40–58] Osborne, R. (2010c) ‘Vexatious litigation in classical Athens: sykophancy and the sykophant’, in Osborne (2010a) 205–228 [originally pubished in Cartledge et al. (1990) 83–102] Pelloso, C. (2017) ‘Nullum crimen et nulla poena sine lege. Some remarks on fourth-century Athens’, Seminarios complutenses de derecho romano 30, 351–392 Rhodes, P.J. (1993) A commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford) Rhodes, P.J. (2004) ‘Keeping to the point’, in E.M. Harris and L. Rubinstein (eds.) The law and the courts in ancient Greece (London) 137–158 Rubinstein, L. (2000) Litigation and cooperation: supporting speakers in the courts of classical Athens (Stuttgart) Rubinstein, L. (2007) ‘Arguments from precedent in Attic oratory’, in E. Carawan (ed.) Oxford readings in the Attic orators (Oxford) 359–371 Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Todd, S.C. (trans.) (2000) Lysias (Austin, TX) Todd, S.C. (2007) A commentary on Lysias, speeches 1–11 (Oxford) Trevett, J. (1996) ‘Did Demosthenes publish his deliberative speeches?’, Hermes 124, 425–441 Wallace, R.W. (2008) ‘Response do D.M. MacDowell’, in Harris and Thür (2008) 95–98 Whitehead, D. (2009) ‘Hypereides’ Timandros: observations and suggestions’, BICS 52, 135–148 Worman, N. (2004) ‘Insult and oral excess in the disputes between Aeschines and Demosthenes’, AJP 125, 1–25 Worthington, I. (1991) ‘Greek oratory, revision of speeches, and the problem of historical reliability’, C&M 42, 55–74 Worthington, I. (1996) ‘Greek oratory and the oral/literate division’, in I. Worthington (ed.) Voice into text: orality and literacy in ancient Greece (Leiden) 165-177 Worthington, I. (ed.) (2000) Demosthenes, statesman and orator (London) Worthington, I., Cooper, C., and Harris, E.M. (trans.) (2001) Dinarchus, Hyperides, and Lycurgus (Austin, TX) Yunis, H. (trans.) (2005) Demosthenes, speeches 18–19 (Austin, TX)

11 Space, place, and identity in Antiphon On the murder of Herodes Christine Plastow

Introduction The value of spatial approaches to Greek literature has become apparent in recent years.1 This chapter presents a study in taking a spatial approach to Athenian forensic oratory.2 Attention has already begun to turn to the physical, contextual aspects of Athenian oratory, focusing on performative elements of speeches rather than simply their textual ones.3 But there is value in giving particular consideration to performance space: the forensic speeches were designed to be delivered in the courts of Athens, a public space with a limited audience of judges, and some of them were written for delivery in very specific court locations that held particular ideological power, such as the Areopagus.4 For the participants in a trial, the court-room was not necessarily an everyday space, and it would have held powerful ideological meaning, even for those regular litigants or judges who did attend more frequently. The broader spaces of the city of Athens, including both public spaces such as the Assembly and private homes, could hold similar power. Even spaces further abroad could hold particular rhetorical meaning for Athenian audiences, as Phyle and Sparta do in Lysias, Macedonia in Aeschines, the Chersonese in Demosthenes, and Lesbos in Antiphon (as we shall see in the following).5 This power was ripe for rhetorical exploitation. This chapter shows how concepts of spaces and places can be used rhetorically to speak to and activate the power of identity, primarily the perceived identities of the various players in the speech and in the court-room. For the purposes of applying a spatial analysis to the literary context, I define a space as an undifferentiated location detached from emotional value, and one that is particularly identifiable by its physical characteristics;6 these physical features denote what Kate Gilhuly and Nancy Worman call ‘ontological categories in a broad and symbolic sense’.7 We may take the example of the Athenian law-court, defined by both its permanent physical features (e.g., areas for the judges and onlookers to stand or sit) and its temporary ones (e.g., the presence of the participants in the trial). These features denote the broad category of ‘law-court’ space, of which each is an individual example. Meanwhile, place is particularly defined by what I will call the ‘psychological’ characteristics

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of a location. By psychological, I mean a combination of ideological, social, cultural, historical, mythological, and other non-physical features that are perceived by individuals and combine to provide a place with a certain identity of its own, which distinguishes it from other broad-category spaces.8 This is a place as a ‘multilayered locus of the imaginary’,9 combining perceived aspects of a space to create meaning and identity as a place. For example, there are many law-court spaces in Athens; the Areopagus, however, exists as a place (as well as a space) because its history, mythology, social role, and so forth distinguish it from other law-court spaces and identify it in a particular way for those aware of these psychological features.10 The nature of such features is that they may be known to some and not to others; the Areopagus may have less meaning to a visitor from another polis than to an Athenian citizen. As a result of the psychological nature of place, it must be a human construct, but ‘one that human life is impossible to conceive of without’.11 What this means for the purposes of the present discussion is that place is an intrinsic part of a wider human identity, and one of the means that allow us to exist with that identity; we need places in order to know that we are human, and our humanity is what allows us to conceive of and create place. Both spaces and places can have effects on the identity of an individual. Places can create longlasting and even permanent identities, which are not necessarily dependent on being present in the place in question: one is still a native of one’s own country while abroad. By contrast, spaces might have more transient effects on identity: a postgraduate teaching assistant might assume the identity of teacher in one classroom and student in another. When an Athenian citizen enters a law-court in order to take part in a trial, he assumes the identity of litigant or judge. Thus we can immediately designate two kinds of identity: those that are more innate or defining, such as a person’s nationality, ethnicity, or sex, and those that are dependent on space and/or time, such being a child, having a particular job, or being perceived as a criminal. It is important too to note the link between identity and behaviour. In many cases, identity is not simply something we ‘have’ or ‘are’, but something we perform (or are expected to perform) in the way we act: an Athenian citizen is expected to act in a certain way and fulfil certain roles both politically and personally, for example. The nature of the identity behaviour can vary based on location, particularly when crossing the threshold between public and private. When considering the performed nature of identity, it is important to set it apart from concepts of character or role: while these are created through behaviour, identity is expressed through it. Perhaps more importantly, the understanding of place as a ‘material practice’ means that most places become places as a result of human behaviour and action – that ‘places are performed on a daily basis through people living their everyday life’.12 Churches or schools, for example, gain their specific connotations because of the human actions performed within them, acquiring from these a socially and formally recognized purpose and thus maintaining their connotations even when these behaviours are no longer being enacted. In the Athenian legal context, this means, for

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example, that the Areopagus exists as the ancestral court for homicide, a place, because of the repeated performance of homicide trials inside the court space. As a result, identity behaviour can be a key factor in creating place. These modes of affecting identity are particularly useful tools for an analysis of oratory. Although the Athenian speeches exist for us purely as texts, they were created to be performed as speech acts, which necessarily took place in particular physical spaces.13 As a result, the physical characteristics of the space in which oratory is delivered can affect the behaviour, and therefore the identity, both of the speaker and of the listeners, and by doing so thus affect the way in which they deliver or receive the spoken material. Places, on the other hand, can be introduced within the speech as signifiers of identity: if the speaker addresses his listeners as ‘men of Athens’, he identifies those to whom he is speaking by the ‘psychological’ factors and performed behaviours, and their implications, that comprise their citizenship.14 This, in turn, will have been intended to put them in a particular frame of mind as they receive his arguments. Antiphon 5 makes an ideal case study for these concepts, as there are several major spatial aspects to its context and narrative and several key identities at play. The trial naturally takes place in Athens, but the alleged crime occurred on Lesbos, and the narrative contains a complex ‘map’ of the crime scene. The speaker, Euxitheus, argues that his trial should have been held in a homicide court, rather than the present dicastic court. Concerns are raised about the residence of the defendant’s Mytilenean father in Thrace. Euxitheu occupies two transient identities in his speech: a defendant and an alleged murderer. Although these identities might provoke Euxitheus to engage in certain behaviours – speaking in favour of his own innocence, presumably swearing the requisite oaths before the trial, and perhaps avoiding the parts of Athens that were off-limits to accused homicides, as we shall see in the following – he is not simply performing these as ‘roles’: in the court-room, the judges and the other litigants would have perceived Euxitheus through the lens of these identities even before he began his speech. In the simplest sense, Antiphon’s speech is designed to argue for Euxitheus’ innocence, but if we understand this as an effort to distance Euxitheus from his externally applied identity as a murderer and, crucially, the behaviours associated with being a murderer, we can begin to see the usefulness of arguments from space and place, which are contingent for their existence on human behaviour.

The location of the trial The speaker of Antiphon 5, Euxitheus, a Mytilenean, is accused of killing one Herodes, an Athenian. The narrative tells that the two men boarded a ship in Mytilene in eastern Lesbos headed for Aenus on the Thracian coast, where Euxitheus intended to visit his father and Herodes intended to ransom certain Thracian slaves. The slaves travelled along with them, as did several free Thracians who would pay the ransom for the slaves. Not long into the journey, which Gagarin notes would have taken around three days in total,15 bad

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weather forced the ship to put in at a port in Methymna, in northern Lesbos. The passengers transferred from their open-topped vessel to one with a roof and began a drinking party. At some point during the night, Herodes left the boat. He had not returned by morning, and a search ensued in the surrounding area lasting two days; Euxitheus apparently also sent an attendant back to Mytilene to search for Herodes there. Herodes was not found, and when the storm passed, Euxitheus continued his journey to Aenus. The boat in which they had been drinking was brought to Mytilene, where Herodes’ relatives conducted further searches. They accused Euxitheus of killing Herodes, and whether in Aenus or back in Mytilene, Euxitheus was arrested under either the apagōgē or the endeixis procedure and brought to Athens for trial.16 One of the first arguments presented, before we even hear the narrative, is that the legal procedure under which Euxitheus is being tried is inappropriate for his alleged crime. The procedure is apagōgē or endeixis kakourgōn, a procedure of arrest and trial against a kakourgos, a ‘wrongdoer’, a label that seems to have been associated with criminals in a number of categories, including thieves, clothes-snatchers, and slavers, amongst others.17 Indeed, the speech suggests that the use of the procedure to try an alleged killer is something ‘that has never happened to anyone before in this country’ (5.9).18 Whether or not that was strictly the case, the procedure must have been reasonably unusual in order for Antiphon to feel confident in this argument. The speech goes on to praise the homicide laws, under which Euxitheus argues that he should have been tried, with a particular focus on the homicide courts: In my case, firstly, in the very place that others accused of homicide are ordered to avoid, here they have held my trial, in the Agora.  .  .  . And then, as I think all of you know, all courts judge cases of homicide in the open air, for no other reason than that the judges will not go into the same place as one with unclean hands, and that the one who is prosecuting the case will not be under the same roof as a murderer; . . . But having evaded these [rules] and invented laws for yourself, you speak against me while not under oath, and your witnesses testify while not under oath, though they should have sworn the same oath as you and held the sacrificial offerings before testifying against me. (5.10–12)19 From amongst Antiphon’s descriptions of the homicide courts, I have highlighted here features that are particularly spatial or physical. He begins with the location of the current trial, at one of the courts in the Agora.20 As Antiphon notes, this was one of a list of places from which those accused of homicide were banned from the time of the registration of the case with the basileus until their trial. Demosthenes lists the prohibited places as the lustral water, libations, mixing vessels, sacrifices, and the Agora.21 Antiphon 6 shows that those accused of homicide were also banned from the law-courts.22 This ban was both a social and a religious sanction.23 Many of these sites represented places

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where citizen identity behaviours were enacted, and they were also off-limits to those subject to atimia.24 They were also busy locations where many people congregated, especially the Agora. A known killer entering these places was socially offensive, as by doing so he physically enacted aspects of civic life, a life which he appeared to be continuing to live unabated despite having allegedly disrupted the community with an unlawful killing. His movement in these spaces was also religiously dangerous, as it was possible that he was polluted by miasma from the killing; this could spread indiscriminately to other citizens, particularly in busy public spaces.25 In sacred spaces such as the temples, he risked corrupting sacrifices, the results of which could endanger the city more broadly.26 Enclosed spaces, too, were a risk, hence the ban from the law-courts and, as Antiphon notes here, the fact that homicide courts were in the open air, a fact that was perceived as making the spread of pollution less likely, as well as avoiding social impropriety. It is argued in these first two points of the speech, then, that the presence of an alleged killer in the current court-room space is improper and even socially offensive and religiously dangerous. The final point highlighted here, the swearing of solemn oaths on a specific sacrifice, compounds this. The swearing of an oath was a physically embodied act, necessarily accompanied by the ritual sacrifice of one or more victims. Although oaths were sworn at all Athenian legal proceedings, those sworn at homicide trials are indicative of a greater level of religious solemnity than those attested in the dicastic courts.27 The homicide oaths not only involved a strong self-curse like other court oaths, but were also sworn on the cut pieces of a specific set of victims, which set them apart from the simpler oaths sworn in the dicastic courts.28 The cut pieces came from three different sacrificed animals, and the swearer had to stand over or on the pieces and possibly handle them too.29 This emphasized the importance and solemnity of the occasion, as oaths of this sort were the most forceful,30 provided a greater sense of ritual, and were seen in very few other contexts in the classical period.31 Christopher Faraone has shown how oaths of this nature were usually invoked when there was a danger threatening the city in which the oath was being sworn, suggesting here that, once again, the killer poses a threat to the city, perhaps through pollution, if he is not adequately contained.32 The swearing of oaths and performance of sacrifices in a certain space can be interpreted as a way of designating or ‘marking off ’ that space for a specific ritual use – thus, an act of place-making.33 As Alastair Blanshard notes, rituals such as these: served to inscribe the court into the Attic topography. Given the temporary, and variable, nature of the built environment of the law-courts, this inscription was otherwise impossible to achieve. Ritual builds a law-court as strong and clearly defined as one of marble or Portland stone.34 This kind of delineation occurs to some degree in all Athenian courts, but the nature of the oaths in the homicide courts goes over and above standard

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formulae for legal matters, explicitly involving the gods in the process. The loss of the performance context of the trial should not be allowed to diminish the great significance of such oaths, which would have been immediately apparent to those who witnessed their swearing. The force and number of oaths sworn at homicide trials suggests a stronger than average desire to delineate and control the space for a certain purpose. These measures aimed to prevent the trials performed there from spilling over into the spaces of everyday life.35 Antiphon’s point, then, is that by allowing an alleged killer to enter a dicastic court in the Agora for trial rather than confining him to a homicide court, his prosecutors have acted extremely inappropriately. At first glance, this appears to be a dangerous strategy: in order to argue for the impropriety of the charge, Euxitheus must temporarily align himself with the identity of a killer, thus making his presence in the dicastic court dangerous and potentially polluting. This identity is a perilous one, bringing with it the certainty of social opprobrium and some form of punishment, likely exile at a minimum and potentially even execution. As the purpose of the speech is to argue for Euxitheus’ innocence, and thus distance himself from his perceived status as a murderer, why would he risk aligning himself with such an identity? The answer is that, in proposing that he is indeed a murderer, Antiphon is able to question the propriety of the present court for trying this particular case. By questioning the court-room space, Antiphon implicitly questions the identity of the judges, who are part of the performance of a process that establishes the court-room space as acceptable and appropriate for conducting a specific trial.36 But this panel of judges is not a homicide panel and therefore, in Antiphon’s construction, does not have the necessary authority to preside over Euxitheus’ trial. His argument highlights their identity as dicastic judges, rather than Areopagites or ephetai, and in doing so marks them out as an ‘inappropriate’ panel of judges, closely tied to the ‘inappropriate’ court location. Antiphon may, however, also be seeking to construct a more aspirational identity for the dicastic judges here: in implicitly asking them to reject the performance of Euxitheus’ trial in the dicastic court space, he casts them as protectors and upholders of the ancestral laws that dictate (in his formulation) that homicide should be tried in the homicide courts.37 His argument implies that the judges should see themselves as having an ideological duty to uphold tradition and that they should thus reject a non-traditional means and location for prosecuting a homicide. Antiphon presumably hopes to cast doubt upon the prosecutors’ integrity here, rather than to actively argue for the trial to be thrown out and tried under a more suitable charge and in a more suitable setting, seeing that this was probably not possible once the trial had begun. Euxitheus’ tricky construction of himself as a murderer, then, is worth it for the rhetorical blows it strikes to his opponents’ integrity and obedience to Athenian legal procedure. Its appearance towards the beginning of the speech may be designed to ensure that the image of Euxitheus as murderer is not one with which the judges are left.

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Mapping Herodes’ disappearance The narrative in the speech is unclear as to what has actually happened to Herodes; this is surely a rhetorical choice intended to create distance between the alleged killer and the victim.38 Despite the fact that the trial is for homicide, it seems that a body has not been found and that Herodes is in fact missing, presumed dead. In order to minimize Euxitheus’ role in the crime, Antiphon’s narrative presents the space where Herodes disappeared in a confusing and unspecific manner, thus obfuscating the actual events that occurred. Having ended the main portion of his narrative, the speaker expands on his claim that Herodes left the drinking boat while he remained aboard all night: They say that the man was killed on the land, and that I, who did not leave the boat at all, struck him on the head with a stone. They say they know these things precisely. But of how the man disappeared, they cannot provide any rational explanation. Clearly, it is likely that it happened somewhere near the harbour, the man being drunk and leaving the boat at night; for neither would he probably be able to be in control of himself, nor could someone leading him off a long way have found a reasonable motive to do so. But in searching for the man for two days both in the harbour and at a distance from the harbour, no witness, no blood, no other sign was revealed. . . . But even if I certainly did leave the boat, there is no rational way that the man, having disappeared, could have remained undiscovered, if he did not go very far away from the sea. But they say that he was thrown into the sea. From what boat? It is clear that the boat was from the harbour itself. And so how has it not been discovered? Indeed, it would be reasonable also to find some sign in the boat, a dead man having been placed in it and thrown overboard by night. And now they say that they have found signs in the boat in which he was drinking and which he left, in which they agree the man was not killed. (5.26–28) This passage verbally creates a hypothetical map of the crime and overlays it with a map of the search for Herodes. Antiphon identifies four key spaces on this map: the drinking boat; the boat from which Herodes was allegedly thrown into the sea; areas near to the harbour; and areas at a distance from the harbour. The verbal map is used to chart the movements of the main players: Euxitheus, Herodes, his killer, and those searching for his body. The majority of these spaces are vague and non-specific, particularly the unidentified boat allegedly used to dispose of Herodes’ body. Many of the charted movements, too, are hypothetical or unclear: Herodes left the boat at an unspecified hour; he may not have left the harbour area; no one could have taken him far from the harbour; he was possibly thrown into the sea. Antiphon even makes the movements of those searching for Herodes appear vague and confusing, noting that they found traces of his murder on the drinking boat, on which the crime

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could not possibly have happened. Within this unclear rhetorical map, in fact, there is only one static and reliable point: Euxitheus himself did not leave the drinking boat. There is a clear contrast between the known, chartable location of Euxitheus and the hypothetical or unclear movements of all other players in the narrative. The way this passage uses space establishes Euxitheus’ stillness as an indicator of his innocence. Generally, in any type of narrative, the addition of spatial details will add to the reliability of the narrative as perceived by the audience. This is because spatial details ground a narrative in reality by tying it to a specific place and time. But if the spatial and temporal details provided are unclear, as in this passage, that reliability begins to falter. Against such a backdrop, a point of certainty, such as Euxitheus remaining on the drinking boat, becomes more convincing. The imprecise mapping of the crime, in particular, is designed to make the events seem more doubtful to the judges, an effect that is compounded by the fact that Herodes’ body has not been found. If in the entire confusing narrative, the only point about which the judges can be precise is the location of Euxitheus on the boat all night, where the crime definitely did not happen, his specific location becomes inextricably tied to his innocence of the crime. The careful mapping of the space of the crime gives Euxitheus an alibi and distances him from his perceived identity as a murderer: if his behaviour in the space of the crime cannot be aligned with the behaviour necessary to kill Herodes, then he cannot be the killer. This would have been an obvious contrast to the version of the crime constructed through the narrative of the prosecutors, which would surely have positioned Euxitheus as a killer and may have attempted to map the crime in a more detailed way.

Residence and loyalty Amongst the more ‘evidentiary’ aspects of the prosecution’s argument in this case – the testimony of the slave, the note from Lycinus – it appears that they also introduced arguments designed to speak more directly to Euxitheus’ ēthos with the aim of affecting the judges’ perception of him and his identity: in particular, they seem to have attacked the nationality, politics, and residence of his father. At §74–75, Euxithe 75 notes that he must not only defend himself but also his father, making it clear that the prosecution speech must have in some way attacked him too.39 At §76–79, the nature of this attack becomes clearer: Euxitheus establishes that his father, a native Mytilenean, lived in the city prior to the revolt of 428; at this time, Euxitheus says his father ‘displayed with his deeds his favour towards [the Athenians]’ (5.76). During the revolt, he was ‘forced’ (ēnankasthē) to join with the other revolutionaries, although his devotion to Athens remained the ‘same’. At §77, Euxitheus stresses that his father was not one of those found responsible for the revolt and punished, and at some time in the ten years between the revolt and the present trial, Euxitheus’ father moved to Aenus, on the Thracian coast, where Euxitheus claimed to be travelling to visit him on the voyage during which Herodes disappeared.

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It is clear is that these attacks aim to construct a particular identity for the father, namely that of an anti-Athenian revolutionary. It is likely that this was designed to tarnish Euxitheus’ own reputation and thus compound his perceived identity as a killer. Crucially, this anti-Athenian identity has seemingly been constructed primarily through rhetorical uses of space. Although, of course, we do not have the prosecution speech, we can extrapolate some of what they may have said from Antiphon’s response. We may begin by considering the perception of Mytilene as a place from the Athenian perspective. Gilhuly and Worman call the construction of place ‘relational’, meaning that the understanding of a place can be affected when it is presented in relation to another place. In this instance, as the trial is taking place in Athens in front of a panel of Athenian citizens, it is unavoidable that Mytilene is not being understood in a vacuum, but in the context of its relationship with Athens. Although the trial took place around ten years after the revolt, it is likely that the spectre of the event still loomed in Athens, and for many of the Athenians in the panel of judges at Euxitheus’ trial, this historic moment would still be one of the primary psychological features by which they defined Mytilene as a place. This would naturally influence their opinion towards Euxitheus, particularly if the prosecution could convincingly argue that his father was one of the revolutionaries. The use of the father’s residence in Aenus may be even more interesting. There are identifiable arguments on both sides for the reason behind his residence: the prosecution may have suggested that Euxitheus’ father lived in Thrace to avoid paying tax or to be out of reach of Athenian law, both of which Euxitheus explicitly denies at §78, arguing that in fact his father moved to escape the sykophants who had been persecuting him.40 But it is clear that behind these arguments there is a larger belief at play: that moving away and choosing to live at a distance from Athens indicates waning loyalty to the city and its values.41 This is made clear in the speech: in the course of his denial of his father’s defection, Euxitheus states that ‘neither has he become a citizen of another city, like the others I see going to the mainland, and living among your enemies’ (5.78). This statement probably referred in particular to Mytilenean citizens who harboured resentment over the failed revolt and had moved from Mytilene to cities in Asia Minor that were hostile to Athens.42 In moving to Aenus, Euxitheus’ father had relocated to a region with which Athens had a complex relationship. Matthew Sears identifies an Athenian ambivalence towards Thrace, the more negative aspects of which identified Thracians as particularly greedy and belligerently violent.43 Although Euxitheus’ father was clearly not Thracian, by highlighting his residence among the Thracians the prosecution may have hoped to elicit these opinions from the judges, which would have in turn supported their apparent construction of Euxitheus as a murderer for hire (5.61–63). Antiphon may be attempting to downplay the nature of the father’s move at §78 by saying that his father en Ainō chōrophilei (he loves the place, or Aenus is his favourite haunt or resort, rather than that he lives there

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permanently); similarly, earlier in the speech when Euxitheus states he was travelling to Aenus to visit his father, he says that his father ‘happened to be there at that time’ (etunchane gar ekei ōn tote, §20) rather than that it was his permanent residence.44 Although this is, in part, designed to emphasize the chance nature of his trip, and therefore the impossibility of his having conspired to kill Herodes, it also serves to minimize the concept of his father’s physical distance from Athens. Whatever Euxitheus’ father’s actual feelings were towards Athens, it is apparent from these sections that Antiphon was concerned that it was indeed plausible for his physical distance from Athens to be construed by the Athenian citizen judges as representative of his disloyalty, and therefore to more easily associate him with the Mytilenean revolutionary identity, which would have affected the judges’ perception of Euxitheus himself negatively. It may be this same anxiety that is behind a statement made as part of Euxitheus’ procedural complaints. The prosecution appear to have defended their choice of procedure on the grounds that Euxitheus would not have appeared at trial had he not been arrested under the present procedure; he responds that he could have refused to come to court anyway, or gone into voluntary exile after his first defence speech, a procedural aspect of the dikē phonou under which he would alternatively been tried, ‘if it made no difference to [him] to lose the city’ (kaitoi emoi ei mēden diephere steresthai tēsde tēs poleōs, 5.13). Antiphon intends here to construct Euxitheus as someone loyal to Athens by demonstrating his desire to retain the right to movement in Athenian territory. In doing so, he once again attempts to diminish the negative perception of Euxitheus and discourage the judges from viewing him as a murderer.

Conclusions The majority of Euxitheus’ arguments that employ concepts of space and place are designed to distance him from his perceived identity as a murderer. The physical space of delivery can affect, and be used to reflect on, emphasize, or reshape, the identities of those present at the trial; in Euxitheus’ case, Antiphon rather dangerously plays with Euxitheus’ potential identity as a polluted killer in order to cast doubt on the appropriateness of the dicastic court trying him, which in turn identifies the dicastic judges as the ‘wrong’ panel and discredits Euxitheus’ accusers. Mapping of space in narratives can be used to make said narratives more or less convincing, and a contrast between vagueness and certainty can be presented to underline certain features, such as Euxitheus’ lack of movement, which provides him with an alibi that distances him from the possibility of his being identified as the murderer of Herodes. Places, and particularly an individual’s proximity to them, can be used to define a person’s identity, with particular regard to their loyalty to their polis, as appears to have been the case with the prosecution’s attack on Euxitheus’ father, which he is at pains to reject. I anticipate that there are far more uses of space and place to speak about identity than these, particularly in other forms of oratory: places can be invoked

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as identifiers of civic ideology and national identity, as can be seen by the role of the Areopagus in Isocrates 7; they can be constructed in relation to an enemy as a means of self-definition of the polis, as is Macedon in the Philippic speeches of Demosthenes; physical traits of spaces, such as the bēma, statues, and other topographical features, can be employed for a variety of rhetorical reasons, not least to activate the democratic ideals of the Athenian listeners by linking the physical features of the city to political and legal activity. This chapter should be considered not as an exhaustive account of the rhetorical uses of space and place in Athenian oratory, but rather as an inroad into an analysis of oratory that uses space and place as a framework.

Notes 1 See, for example, the various contributions to Barker, Bouzarovski, Pelling, and Isaksen (2016), Gilhuly and Worman (2014), Skempis and Ziogas (2014), and de Jong (2012); cf. Heirman (2012), Purves (2010). 2 Some work has already begun in this area: see de Bakker (2012a) and (2012b). 3 See, e.g., Hall (1995) and the various contributions to Kremmydas, Rubinstein, and Powell (2013) and Papaioannou, Serafim, and da Vela (2017). 4 On the physical space of the Areopagus, see Wallace (1989) 215–218. Zelnick-Abramovitz (2011) 123–126 notes that both the Areopagus council and the hill itself were symbols of stability for the Athenians. On other ideological aspects of the Areopagus, see Plastow (forthcoming) chapter 2. 5 Phyle: Lys. 13.77–82. Sparta: Lys. 12.58, 13.11–12. Macedonia: Aeschin. 2.22–23, 2.58. Chersonese: Dem. 23.8–15. For Lysias, Phyle is unilaterally a democratic stronghold, and its status as such is used to further heighten the horror of Agoratus’ crimes when he attempts to use his presence there as a defence. Sparta is an obvious source of oppression of the democracy, but particularly in these two speeches of Lysias it is the place where people go to carry out specific betrayals that harm the fabric of Athens in the form of, for example, the destruction of the walls and ships. Macedon naturally holds great power in the debates between Aeschines and Demosthenes, but Aeschines particularly exploits it as a means of arguing that Athenian values should hold whether a person is at home or abroad, even abroad in enemy land. In speech 23, Demosthenes paints a picture of political turmoil and monarchy-grabbing in Thrace, with which he aligns Charidemus and, by association, Aristocrates, putting them at odds with Athenian values and interests. These are just a handful of examples, and others can be seen throughout the forensic corpus. 6 Cresswell (2004) 10. 7 Gilhuly and Worman (2014) 9–10. 8 Others, primarily Henri Lefebvre, have in fact identified space in a very similar way to this construction of place by arguing that space is something produced by human action, in Lefebvre’s reasoning particularly the action of political ideology – that spaces are, essentially, what we make of them, rather than existing outside of human interaction (Lefebvre [1991 (1974)] 8–9, 16–18). 9 Gilhuly and Worman (2014) 5. 10 It is worth noting that the hill itself was not the only meeting place of the Council of the Areopagus (see Wallace [1989 (1985)] 218), but the place must have held ideological resonance even when the Council was not meeting there and even as the role of the Council changed due to its long-standing presence in the city, as suggested by Isoc. 7.38. 11 Cresswell (2004) 33. On the social construction of place, see Harvey (1996) 261. For the argument that society cannot exist without place, and that being human requires a place in which to do so, see Malpas (1999) 35–36.

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12 Cresswell (2004) 34. 13 The fact that the published versions of the speeches may have differed from the versions delivered in court does not undermine this, as the speech as a whole would have been designed with delivery in mind, and a published version would probably still represent a perception of publicly successful argumentation; even those speeches that may not have actually been delivered assume an audience, and thus a space of delivery. Only purely hypothetical rhetorical exercises, such as Antiphon’s Tetralogies, are exempt from this, as they appear to operate rather differently from actual court-room speeches (see Carey (2007) 246). 14 On the effects of various forms of address in the Athenian courts, see Martin (2006). 15 Gagarin (1989) 31–32. 16 On the operation of the procedure, see Hansen (1976), esp. 14. 17 Hansen (1976) 36–48, Todd (1993) 117. 18 We should take the speaker at his word that the procedure is apagōgē or endeixis kakourgōn (as Carawan [1998] 334, Gagarin [1989] 18–20, Edwards and Usher [1985] 27–28), and not apagōgē phonou, which was the procedure used in Lys. 13 (see Volonaki [2000] 173). It would be an extremely risky strategy for Euxitheus to state that he was being tried under a certain procedure if this was not the case, especially as he makes a point of the unusual nature of the charge (cf. Isae. 8.34). The apagōgē procedure is not mentioned in the surviving part of the inscription of Dracon’s law, nor associated with Dracon in any other ancient sources, nor does it appear in Demosthenes’ list of available homicide procedures in speech 23. Volonaki’s (2000) theory that the apagōgē procedures for homicide developed later from other kinds of apagōgē procedure seems to follow a convincing timeline, although it remains difficult to prove. For the less convincing view that apagōgē procedures for homicide, including the use of the apagōgē kakourgōn, were in use prior to the writing of Draco’s law, see Evjen (1970), followed by Carawan (1998) 333–340. 19 My quotations of Antiphon are based on the 2018 Oxford Classical Texts edition of the text by M.R. Dilts and D.J. Murphy, and translations are my own. 20 On the specific locations of courts in the Agora, see Boegehold et al. (1995). 21 Dem. 20.158. 22 Antiph. 6.36. For other mentions of the ban see, e.g., Ant. 3.3.11, Pl. Lg. 9.871a. 23 For the most recent discussion of pollution for homicide at Athens see Harris (2015). On the social and religious role of pollution for homicide, see Plastow (forthcoming) chapter 3. 24 Cf. Lys. 6.9, 24. On atimia see, e.g., Hansen (1976) 55–90, Todd (1993) 142–143, and more recently Dmitriev (2015), Joyce (2018). 25 Cf. Antiph. 6.39–40, Dem. 21.114–115, 117–120, Lys. 13.79–82. 26 Cf. Antiph. 6.45–46. 27 The oath referred to most often by the orators is the dicastic oath. For the general use of the dicastic oath in the Athenian courts, see Harris (2013) 101–137, Mirhady (2007). References to the dicastic oath can be found many times in the orators, as Harris catalogues in an appendix (353–356). The oaths sworn by dicastic judges contained general clauses referring to fairness, relevance, and compliance with Athenian law. For an example of the dicastic oath, see Ath. Pol. 67.1. The antōmosia was sworn by litigants in the dicastic courts, whereas the diomosia in the homicide courts was sworn by the litigants and their witnesses, the latter of whom had to affirm the guilt or innocence of the accused as well as the truth of their statement. 28 See MacDowell (1963) 92, Torrance (2014) 140. Antiph 6.6 suggests that the oaths set the homicide courts apart from the dicastic courts. The animals sacrificed were a boar, a ram, and a bull (Dem. 23.67). For more on the oaths in the homicide courts, see Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 111–115. On the self-curse in oath-swearing, see Konstantinidou (2014). Although explicit self-curses were not limited to homicide litigants’ oaths, and appear in several other contexts, particularly Greek tragedy, Konstantinidou (39) notes that ‘self-cursing by litigants is attested exclusively in homicide trials’ (my emphasis), setting these oaths apart within the Athenian legal context.

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29 Antiph. 6.6, Aeschin. 2.87, Dem. 23.67–68. For the potential translation ‘on’ rather than ‘over’, see Faraone (2002) 81 n.11. Konstantinidou (2014) 22 notes how the handling of such pieces ‘represent[s] the potential activation of the self-curse’: that is, the death of the swearer. 30 Faraone (2002) 82–83. 31 The arbitrators at the selection of a new group of archons (and perhaps the archons themselves, although the text is unclear) took an oath and declared their decision upon the cut pieces of multiple sacrifices (Ath. Pol. 55.5); an oath against bribes and cheating was sworn by various participants and adjudicators at the Olympic games (Paus. 5.24.9–11). 32 Faraone (2006) 152–153. 33 Dem. 23.67–68, 71 and Antiph. 6.14 suggest that oaths were indeed sworn in the courtroom space, immediately prior to or during the trial. Carawan (1998) 138–143 suggests that the diōmosia was in fact sworn at the preliminary hearings, but his only real basis for this is practicality, and the argument is not especially convincing. 34 Blanshard (2004) 25–26. 35 Blanshard (2004) 23. 36 Bers (2000) 557, discussing the ritual role of panel selection, notes that ‘what the jurors seem to have enacted . . . is best described as ceremony, a civic ritual carrying an implicit symbolism that responded to distrust of the jury . . . a means to impress others with the solemnity of the courts and to impress and thereby reassure themselves . . . the mode of distribution was designed to maximise orderliness; and orderliness could be seen as a metonymy for legitimacy’. 37 Cf. exhortations for the dicastic judges to act like the Areopagus judges at Aeschin. 1.92–93, Lycurg. 1.11–13. 38 Due (1980) 46–47 argues that this choice also explains the lack of alternative explanations offered by Euxitheus for Herodes’ disappearance. Gagarin (1989) 100–102 offers the alternative explanation that Antiphon and Euxitheus were not in fact able to construct any plausible alternatives to the prosecution’s version; and he adds (1989) 91–99 some conjectures of his own. 39 Vollmer (1958) 109–111 notes that the section forms something of a mini-speech in itself and may have been prepared in this way in order that it could easily be omitted from the spoken version if the prosecution did not include an attack on Euxitheus’ father. See also Edwards and Usher (1985) 111–112 and Gagarin (1997) 211. 40 Gagarin (1989) 87–89 suggests that this may be a veiled attack on the prosecution, picking up on the implications in §10 and §59 that they are attacking him for personal gain rather than in pursuit of justice. 41 Cf. Lys. 31.6–9, and Lycurg. 1, on which see Filonik (2017) 226–229. 42 Gagarin (1997) 213, Edwards and Usher (1985) 115. Although the statement is ambiguous, ‘the mainland’ probably does refer to the nearest ‘mainland’ to Mytilene, i.e. Asia Minor, rather than the other contemporary enemy city, Sparta. 43 Sears (2013) 140–173. 44 Edwards and Usher (1985) 80, 115 note that chōrophilei ‘indicates an extended residence’ and thus that the earlier statement that the father happened to be there may be an understatement.

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Boegehold, A.L., Mck. Camp II, J., Crosby, M., Lang, M., Jordan, D.R., and Townsend R.F. (1995) The lawcourts at Athens: sites, buildings, equipment, procedure, and testimonia, The Athenian Agora, vol. XXVIII (Princeton, NJ) Carawan, E. (1998) Rhetoric and the law of Draco (Oxford) Carey, C. (2007) ‘Epideictic oratory’, in I. Worthington (ed.) A companion to Greek rhetoric (Oxford) 236–252Cresswell, T. (2004) Place: a short introduction (Oxford) de Bakker, M.P. (2012a) ‘Lysias’, in de Jong (2012) 375–392 de Bakker, M.P. (2012b) ‘Demosthenes’, in de Jong (2012) 393–412 de Jong, I. (ed.) (2012) Space in ancient Greek literature (Leiden) Dmitriev, S. (2015) ‘Athenian atimia and legislation against tyranny and subversion’, CQ 65, 35–50 Due, B. (1980) Antiphon: a study in argumentation (Copenhagen) Edwards, M. and Usher, S. (1985) Antiphon and Lysias, Greek Orators, vol. I (Warminster) Evjen, H.D. (1970) ‘ΑΠΑΓΩΓΗ and Athenian homicide procedures’, RHD 38, 403–415 Faraone, C.A. (2002) ‘Curses and social control in the law courts of classical Athens’, in D. Cohen and E. Müller-Luckner (eds.) Demokratie, Recht und soziale Kontrolle im klassischen Athen (Munich) 77–92 Faraone, C.A. (2006) ‘Curses and blessings in ancient Greek oaths’, Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religion 5, 140–158 Filonik, J. (2017) ‘Metaphorical appeals to civic ethos in Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates’, in L. Cecchet and A. Busetto (eds.) Citizens in the Graeco-Roman world: aspects of citizenship from the archaic period to AD 212 (Leiden) 223–258 Gagarin, M. (1989) The murder of Herodes: a study of Antiphon 5 (Frankfurt) Gagarin, M. (1997) Antiphon: the speeches (Cambridge) Gilhuly, K. and Worman, N. (eds.) (2014) Space, place, and landscape in ancient Greek literature and culture (Cambridge) Hall, E. (1995) ‘Lawcourt dramas: the power of performance in Greek forensic oratory’, BICS 40, 39–58 Hansen, M.H. (1976) Apagoge, endeixis and ephegesis against kakourgoi, atimoi and pheugontes: a study in the Athenian administration of justice in the fourth century BC (Odense) Harris, E.M. (2013) The rule of law in action in democratic Athens (Oxford) Harris, E.M. (2015) ‘The family, the community and murder: the role of pollution in Athenian homicide law’, in C. Ando and J. Rüpke (eds.) Public and private in ancient Mediterranean law and religion (Berlin) 11–35 Harvey, D. (1996) Justice, nature and the geography of difference (Cambridge, MA) Heirman, J. (2012) Space in archaic Greek lyric: city, countryside and sea (Amsterdam) Joyce, C. (2018) ‘Atimia and outlawry in archaic and classical Greece’, Polis 35, 33–60 Konstantinidou, K. (2014) ‘Oath and curse’, in Sommerstein and Torrance (2014) 6–47 Kremmydas, C., Rubinstein, L., and Powell, J. (2013) Profession and performance: aspects of oratory in the Greco-Roman world (London) Lefebvre, H. (1991) [1974] The production of space, translated by D. Nicholson-Smith (Oxford) MacDowell, D.M. (1963) Athenian homicide law in the age of the orators (Manchester) Malpas, J.E. (1999) Place and experience: a philosophical topography (Cambridge) Martin, G. (2006) ‘Forms of address in Athenian courts’, MH 63, 75–88 Mirhady, D.C. (2007) ‘The dicasts’ oath and the question of fact’, in A. Sommerstein and J. Fletcher (eds.) Horkos: the oath in Greek society (Liverpool) 48–59 Papaioannou, S., Serafim, A., and da Vela, B. (2017) The theatre of justice: aspects of performance in Greco-Roman oratory and rhetoric (Leiden) Plastow, C. (forthcoming) Homicide in the Attic orators: rhetoric, ideology, and context (London)

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Purves, A.C. (2010) Space and time in ancient Greek narrative (Cambridge) Scott, M. (2013) Space and society in the Greek and Roman worlds (Cambridge) Sears, M. (2013) Athens, Thrace, and the shaping of Athenian leadership (Cambridge) Skempis, M. and Ziogas, I. (eds.) (2014) Geography, topography, landscape: configurations of space in Greek and Roman epic (Berlin) Sommerstein, A.H. and Bayliss, A.J. (2013) Oath and state in ancient Greece (Berlin) Sommerstein, A.H. and Torrance, I.C. (2014) Oaths and swearing in ancient Greece (Berlin) Todd, S.C. (1993) The shape of Athenian law (Oxford) Torrance, I.C. (2014) ‘Ways to give oaths extra sanctity’, in Sommerstein and Torrance (2014) 132–155 Vollmer, G. (1958) Studien zum Beiweis antiphontischer Reden, diss. Hamburg (unpublished) Volonaki, E. (2000) ‘“Apagoge” in homicide cases’, Dike 3, 147–176 Wallace, R.W. (1989) The Areopagos Council, to 307 B.C. (Baltimore, MD) Zelnick-Abramovitz, R. (2011) ‘The guardian of the land: the Areopagos Council as a symbol of stability’, in G. Herman (ed.) Stability and crisis in the Athenian democracy (Stuttgart) 103–126

Index

addiction 50–8 adoption 18, 21, 40–2, 85, 90 adultery 42, 55, 67 agriculture 22, 158, 162 Alcibiades 16, 75, 106, 115–16, 157 ambition ( philotimia) 7, 106, 113, 114–15, 117, 118, 123–4 Amnesty 87, 113–15 ancestral wealth see inheritance Andocides 16, 23, 107, 182 Andros 55 Anthesteria 92 antidosis 155, 163 apagōgē 128, 144, 194 Apaturia 33 Apollodorus (son of Pasion) 8–9, 19, 38, 67–8, 84, 90–4, 157–9, 163–4, 173, 177 aporrhēta see defamation (kakégoria) apostrophe (rhetorical figure) 127, 129; see also judges (Athenian), addresses to arbitration 15, 16, 19, 34–5, 63, 129, 160–1 arbitrators see arbitration; Solon of Erchia archaic language 8, 122, 129–33 archons 92–3, 102, 106, 113, 159 Areopagus 57, 123, 128, 180, 191–3, 201 Aristagora 7, 64, 72–6 Aristophanes (comic poet) 75, 174 Aristophanes (Lys. 19) 17 asebeia see impiety Assembly (Athenian) 55–7, 104, 123–6, 131, 137–43, 145–6, 155, 191 atimia see disfranchisement autochthony 7, 83–95 bastardy see legitimate birth Boeotus 6, 18, 25, 33–44, 64–6, 75 Boulē see Council (Athenian) Callias of Alopeke 182 Callippe 18

cavalry see military service Chaeronea (battle) 138, 140, 141, 147 Chalcidian League 137, 140 character 5, 51, 56, 67, 75, 76, 108–9, 111, 114, 122–5, 128, 131, 153, 172, 184–5, 192; assassination (see slander (diabolē)) citizenship (Athenian) 1, 7–9, 19, 20, 37–8, 74–5, 91, 92, 94, 102–8, 113–16, 124, 128, 133, 157–9, 193; by decree 83, 85, 158 citizen status see citizenship (Athenian) City Dionysia see Great Dionysia civil law (modern) 172 civil war (stasis) 3, 5, 8, 87, 106, 141–2, 145, 154 colonies 93, 138, 147 comedy 19, 23, 52, 56, 66, 76, 88; see also Aristophanes common knowledge 21, 42 Corcyra 106, 154 Corinthian War 116, 124 Coronea 117 Council (Athenian) 7, 36, 57, 107, 108, 109, 114–18, 143, 173, 176 councillors (Athenian) see Council (Athenian) court-rooms see law-courts courts see law-courts criminal law (modern) 171 Critias 75, 107 defamation (kakēgoria) 8, 114, 123–9; see also slander (diabolē) deme membership see demes demes 5–6, 15, 18, 19–26, 33, 34, 36, 42, 54, 88, 102, 105, 116, 159 demesmen see demes democracy 4–6, 51, 55–7, 63, 83–5, 86–7, 92–3, 94–5, 102, 103, 106–9, 112, 113–14, 115, 116, 118, 119, 128, 133, 142, 179, 201

Index

207

democratic values see democracy dēmos 7, 8, 103, 106, 108, 114, 116, 137, 138, 139, 141–3, 145, 154, 157 demotics 2, 5, 15–19, 25, 33, 36, 84 Dexileus 115, 116 diabolē see slander (diabolē) diapsēphisis 21, 24, 55, 105 dicastic courts see law-courts dicastic oath see oaths dicasts see judges (Athenian) dikē kakēgorias see defamation (kakēgoria) dikē pseudomarturiōn see false witness discursive institutionalism 7, 83 disfranchisement 47, 103, 104, 105, 107, 110–11, 113, 123–5, 195 dokimasia 7, 25, 102–6, 108–9, 111–15, 118, 173, 176, 178 dokimasia rhētorōn 47, 51, 123–5 dowry 6, 17, 35, 41–4, 65–6, 68–9, 75, 115, 159; see also marriage dramatic festivals see festivals

festivals 3, 7, 71, 88, 94, 155; see also Anthesteria; Apaturia; Great Dionysia; Lenaea; Rural Dionysia feud see enmity fines 20, 36, 125, 173, 177 Four Hundred 106, 107, 179; see also oligarchy; Thirty Tyrants; tyranny friends see friendship friendship 22–3, 50, 63, 73, 123, 155, 156, 159, 174, 175; see also enmity funeral orations see funeral speeches funeral rites (nomizomena) 25 funeral speeches 7, 84–7, 89, 90, 92, 114

eisangelia 160, 178, 179 eisphorai see taxation Ekklēsia see Assembly (Athenian) elites 57, 107, 155 endeixis 143–4, 177, 194 enmity 23–4, 35, 123, 128, 139, 155–6, 173, 174–6, 177, 183, 201; see also friendship; revenge epidikasia 182 epiklēros 56, 182; see also marriage epitaphios logos see funeral speeches epitropoi see guardianship Erechtheus 83, 88–90 Eretria 8, 55, 142, 144–6 Erichthonius see Erechtheus ethnic identity see ethnicity ethnicity 7, 70, 89, 93, 192; see also autochthony ethnics 19 ēthos see character Euboea 8, 55, 137–42, 145, 155 eugeneia 85–7, 89, 90, 94 Evandrus 7, 113–14, 176–7 execution 71, 73, 104, 107, 144, 196 exile(s) 113, 124, 142, 196, 200 expertise see legal expertise experts see legal expertise

hatred see enmity Heliastic oath see oaths homicide 9, 56, 73, 107, 123, 126–8, 140, 144, 155, 193–200 homosexuality 47, 60n42, 180, 182 honour(s) 7, 20, 84, 91, 102–14, 118–19, 125, 176, 183–4 hubris 51–3, 55, 143, 155–6, 172

false witness 16, 23, 55, 123–4; see also witnesses family 2, 6, 23, 24, 25, 32–4, 37, 38, 41, 42, 50, 53, 54, 57, 64–6, 68–9, 72, 75, 85–7, 89–90, 94, 105

gossip 48, 105 graphai see public lawsuits (graphai) graphai paranomōn 38, 108, 162 Great Dionysia 53, 87, 132, 155; see also festivals; Rural Dionysia guardians see guardianship guardianship 17, 54, 126, 163

identity 1–5; collective 7, 85, 109; gender and 50, 55, 57, 63–80, 153, 158, 164; performance of 8, 58, 104, 122, 158; personal 2–3, 43–4, 171; rhetorical 4–8, 49–50, 57, 172, 176, 178, 182; stereotypes 2, 7, 64, 70, 76, 155, 160–1, 164; theft 33, 37; theory 2–5; see also character; personality illegitimacy see legitimate birth imagined community 87, 94 immigration see migration impiety 69–70, 72, 73, 143; see also religion inheritance 9, 33–5, 37–8, 48, 49, 51–4, 66, 68, 126–7, 154, 158, 161, 163, 182 inherited wealth see inheritance judges (Athenian) 6, 8–9, 16, 18, 21, 41, 47, 49, 53, 56–7, 64, 66, 68, 71, 73, 74, 75–6, 91, 118, 122, 123, 125–6, 128–33, 156–61, 164, 171, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 180, 182, 183, 185, 191, 192, 193, 196, 198, 199, 200; addresses to 16, 23, 38, 118, 141, 163, 174, 193; see also apostrophe (rhetorical figure)

208

Index

judges (modern) 184 juries (modern) 4, 171, 185 jurors (Athenian) see judges (Athenian) justice 85–7, 91, 94, 103, 114, 144, 154, 171, 173, 175, 184, 185 kakēgoria see defamation (kakēgoria) killing see homicide kinship see family law-courts 3, 4, 5, 7, 9, 26, 63, 71, 76, 84, 90–1, 93–4, 109, 114, 131, 160–1, 173, 184, 191–3, 195–6, 200; see also Areopagus legal expertise 8, 122, 133, 185 legitimate birth 5, 19, 21, 25, 33–43, 64–5, 68, 75, 76, 85, 89, 90, 103, 182 Lenaea 88 Leocrates 17, 22, 91, 118, 174 Leodamas 55–6, 113, 115 liturgies 20, 25, 36, 49, 53, 63, 112, 113, 124, 128, 143, 155–9, 162–4; see also trierarchy liturgy evasion see wealth, concealment of Macedon 143, 201 magistrates (Athenian) see archons Mantias of Thoricos 6, 33–44, 64–9, 75 Mantitheus (speaker of Lys. 16) 7, 16, 20, 104, 114–18 Mantitheus of Thoricus (speaker of Dem. 39 and [Dem.] 40) 6, 33–43, 64–9, 75 marriage 17, 19, 21, 24, 25, 33, 34, 41, 42–3, 65, 66, 67, 68–9, 91–2, 93, 115, 159 metaphor 3, 8, 50, 85–7, 89, 90, 106, 114, 122, 132 metic tax see taxation metics 2, 72–4, 93, 103, 110, 153, 158–9, 161 miasma see pollution middle class 153, 154, 162 migration 22, 64, 71–4, 83, 85–7 military service 20–1, 25, 48, 63, 113, 115–16, 118, 124, 128, 160, 161 Munichia 107 murder see homicide mythology 2, 7, 71, 83, 85, 91, 93, 94–5, 192 Mytilene 193–4, 199–200 names see demotics; ethnics; naming and naming customs; nicknames; occupational names; patronymics; women, naming of

naming and naming customs 2–3, 32, 34, 36, 43, 65 naturalization see citizenship (Athenian), by decree Neaera 90–4, 159, 173 neighbours 21–2, 177 Nicarete (Dem. 57) 161 nicknames 6, 18, 56–7 nobility see eugeneia nomizomena see funeral rites (nomizomena) nothoi see legitimate birth oaths 15, 34, 40, 41, 55, 63, 91, 107, 114, 128, 130, 133, 173, 185, 193–6 occupational names 16 oikos see family old age 161 oligarchy 51, 86, 106–7, 112, 144, 154, 176, 179 Olynthus 137, 140–6 Oropus 109 Panhellenism 140, 141 paternity 39–40, 65 patrimony see inheritance patronymics 2, 5, 15–19, 33, 36, 84 Peloponnese 137, 139, 140, 141 Peloponnesian War 106, 140, 147, 161 performance 3, 56, 88, 122, 124, 129–33, 183, 191–3, 196; see also identity, performance of perjury see false witness Persian Wars 86, 140, 147 personality 5, 16, 51, 57 Phano 92–3, 159 Phanodemus 118 Pheme (goddess) see rumour Philip of Macedon 8, 47, 57, 137–47, 177, 181, 183–4 Philocrates 19, 138; peace of 138, 139, 145, 181 Philon 7, 20, 21, 108–11, 113 philotimia see ambition (philotimia) phonos see homicide phratries 19, 24, 33–4, 40, 42, 159 Phryne 6, 64, 69–72, 75–6 Piraeus 52, 112–13 place(s) 3–4, 191–201; burial 54, 84; forbidden 92; gambling 53; see also space(s) Plangon (mother of Boeotus and Pamphilus) 6, 18, 34–43, 64–9, 75 Plangon of Miletus 66 poetry 132

Index pollution 19, 95–6, 200 private lawsuits (dikai) 35, 133, 179 prosecution 8–9, 15, 23, 35, 49, 55, 63, 69–70, 72, 74–5, 123, 127, 139, 141–2, 172, 173–84; see also volunteer prosecutors prostitution 48–9, 51–3, 56–7, 67, 69, 70, 74, 76, 92, 159, 180–1 pseudomarturia see false witness public lawsuits (graphai) 74, 172, 178, 184; see also apagoge; eisangelia; endeixis; graphai paranomōn public service see liturgies; military service punishment 104, 107, 110–11, 118, 126, 171, 174, 180, 196; see also disfranchisement; execution; exile; fines relevance (of legal evidence) 48–9, 91, 122, 129, 133, 171, 176, 177, 180–5 religion 55, 57, 70, 194–5; see also festivals; impiety report see rumour reputation 48, 66, 74, 105, 113, 125, 139, 175, 199 revenge 56, 73, 74, 160, 173–4; see also enmity rhetorical identity 5–6, 49–50, 57, 172, 176, 178, 182 rumour 48, 55, 56 Rural Dionysia 88; see also festivals; Great Dionysia Sacred War 47, 138 sacrifices 21, 23, 84, 92, 163, 194–5 Salamis 118 scandal 36, 48, 52, 180, 182 scrutiny see dokimasia slander (defamation) see defamation (kakēgoria) slander (diabolē) 113, 114, 142, 179, 183 socio-economic status see also middle class; poverty; wealth Solon (lawgiver) 51, 57, 124–5, 129, 131–3 Solon of Erchia (arbitrator) 35 space(s) 191–201; public 58, 191, 195; social 3; sympotic 70; see also place(s) stasis see civil war (stasis)

209

state funerals 7, 84–7, 89, 90, 93, 94 status see citizen status sureties 16, 19 sykophancy 9, 36, 55, 122, 129, 143, 159, 174, 177–9, 180, 182, 186, 199 synoecism 87, 93 taxation 20, 25, 36, 72, 105, 112, 146–7, 155–6, 162–3; see also wealth, concealment of taxes see taxation tax evasion see wealth, concealment of testimony see witnesses Theramenes 107 Theseus 92, 154, 155, 160, 162 Thirty Tyrants 7, 20, 23, 106, 107, 108, 111–15, 123–4, 126–7, 177; see also Four Hundred; oligarchy; tyranny Thrace 138, 140, 193, 198, 199 Thrasybulus of Collytus 16, 176 Thrasybulus of Steiria 16, 107–8, 116 timē/timai see honour(s) tragedy 88, 106, 143 tribes 19–21, 25, 43, 84 trierarchs see trierarchy trierarchy 33, 36, 112, 156, 163–4 tutors see guardianship tyranny 51, 55, 86, 88, 138, 142; see also Thirty Tyrants tyrants see Thirty Tyrants; tyranny vengeance see revenge volunteer prosecutors 9, 142, 172, 174–7, 185 war dead see funeral speeches; state funerals wealth 71, 116, 153–9, 162; concealment of 49, 155, 163, 199; see also liturgies; taxation witnesses 15, 17–25, 33–4, 38, 48–9, 54, 56, 63, 68, 109, 117, 123, 126, 133, 194, 196–8; see also false witness women 24, 34, 53, 55, 67, 72, 158–9, 161–2; as litigants 63, 70, 75–6; naming of 17, 43, 66; see also Aristagora; Callippe; Neaera; Phano; Phryne; Plangon

Index locorum

Aeschines 1 Against Timarchus 1–2 175 2 173 3 58n3 4 51 8 51 9–18 51 11 51 19 57 20 51 25 51, 57, 60n49 26 57 27–32 134n6 28 47, 58n3 28‒30 47 29‒30 52 30 59n19 31 59 n19 32 47 33 57 37 51 38 58n3 40 52, 53, 59 n32 41 18, 52 41‒50 52, 59n38 42 50, 52, 58n14, 59n19 43 18, 53, 59n31 50 18 51 53 52 52, 59nn31 & 32, 60n49 53 50, 52, 53, 59n31 54 53, 59nn31 & 38; 91 54–55 52 56 56 56–70 52 57 51, 53, 56, 59n31 58 52 60–61 53

62–65 17 63 19, 27n14, 58n8 64 59n38, 60n51 65 56 69 56 70 56 71 60n51 72 59n32 74 51 75 50 76 60n42 77–78 21 80–85 57 81 47 81‒86 59n16 87 59n32 88 167n48 92–93 203n37 94 59n19 95 50, 51 95–96 51, 54 97 53, 58n14 98 16 98–100 170 99 53 101 49, 58 n14 104 18, 53 105 54 106 50, 51, 55, 59n19 108 51 110 56, 60nn42, 51 111 56 113 59n40 114 25 115 50, 55 116 51 117 56 124 53 125 56

125‒131 56, 59n16 126 60n50 130 56 131 56, 60n50 132‒140 47 135–137 180 138 51 138–139 57 140–141 55 141 51 154 59n19, 91 156 16 156–157 18 157 56, 59n16, 60n49 158 51, 56 159 51 163 51 164 60 n50 170 56 171 171–172 56 173 60n46 173–174 56 174 58n6 175 56 178 185 179 185 180 58n3 180–184 57 181 182 183 55 185 51, 55, 60n42 188 51, 57, 58n3 189 51 191 55 194 49 195 59n19 2 On the embassy 5 179

Index locorum 13 19 22 187n19 22–23 201n5 34–35 183 37 139 n12 58 201n5 67–80 17 70 183 78 19 83 26n6 87 203n29 88 182 93 16 99 182, 187n24 127 182 139 187n19 145 179, 187n24 147 167n47 148 19 150 21 151 182 155 27n16 179 182 180 183 183 183, 187n24 3 Against Ctesiphon 6 91 41 20 44 20 51 16 52 155 n12 54 19 93 185 115 26 n5 138 16 138–139 19 171–172 19, 183 174–176 183 175 188n35 177–182 91 187 26n6 193 185 194–195 16 195 16 Scholia Schol. Aeschin. 1 Arg. 1.5 (ed. Dilts) 58n10 Andocides 1 On the mysteries 1 187n19 2 91 7 185

16 77n14 65 16 73–80 119n7 77–79 120nn22, 23 93 187n24 98 187n24 99 179, 187n24 104 187n24 105 187n24 117 188n31 121 182 122 182 124–127 78n18 135 187n19 150 20 Antiphon 1 Against the stepmother 1 187n13 5 On the murder of Herodes 9 194 10–12 194 13 200 20 200 26–28 197 61–63 199 74–75 198 76–79 198 78 199 80 187n24 6 Death of a chorus-boy 6 203n29 11 28n37 13 28n37 14 203n33 36 202n22 39–40 202n25 45–46 202n26 Aristophanes Acharnians 418–432 167n49 593ff 166n40 Ecclesiazusae 233–238 78n20 Knights 1017 187n9 1030 173 n9 Plutus 900–901 174 907 174 913 174 914 174

211

920 174 Frogs 233 132 686–737 120n22 Wasps 895 187 n9 Aristotle Poetics 1458a18–24 132 Politics 1275a6 96n20 1275a23 103 1275b18–19 103 1278a34–38 103 1295b 1–20 154 1296a 7–9 154 1296a36–38 165n6 1301a–1307b 154 1304b 1–5 154 1326a17–25 93 Rhetoric 1354a22–3 97n51 1356a 133n1, 185 1358b21–28 91 1362a 147n15 1398b 44n6 1404a 135n49 1404b 132 1416a 185 [Rhetorica ad Alexandrum] 1424b 147 n15 Athenaeus 13.59 78n21 13.567d–569f 78n29 Ath. Pol. 21.4 26n1 26.4 26n2 40.2 108 42.1 15, 134n14 46.1 167n53 53 166n38 55.3 30n62 55.3–4 105 55.4 30n62 55.5 203n31 59.4 30n62 67.1 91, 202n27 Cicero De natura .deorum 1.93 77n2

212

Index locorum

Demosthenes 1 Olynthiac I 1–9 147n16 6 147n10 9–12 147 n10 23 148n33 25–27 147n16 2 Olynthiac II 3 147n10 14–17 181 18–20 181 20 148n33 22 139n10, 148n35 110–113 181 3 Olynthiac III 11–12 148n20 14 147n10 16 139 28 139 33 147n10 34 167n41 4 Philippic I 8 139 13 148n35 50 148n35 6 Philippic II 5 148n20 7 [On Halonessus] 42 26n6 8 On the Chersonese 57 148n20 61 139, 148n31 73 148n20 76 139 9 Philippic III 2 142 17 147n7 20 141 21–25 147n13 23–25 147 27 147n7 28 141 31 140 32–35 148n26 36–45 140 45 140 47–52 147n13 53 139, 141 53–69 140 54 145, 146 55 141, 142, 144 56 141, 148n21 57 142 57–62 147n7

58 142 59 143 60 143 61–62 144 62 144 67 148n34 10 Philippic IV 63 148n31 13 On Organization 5 15 18 On the crown 99–100 147n17 102 163 102–108 163 112 187n24 118 187n24 121 91, 187nn19, 24 129 27n20 129–131 183 138 147n12, 148n22 180 28n28 189 173, 179 212 187n24 232 187n24 262–264 183 279 187n19 315 187n19 19 On the false embassy 2 47 87 147n7 98 187n24 137 148n38 157 181 166–172 177 166–173 141 166–175 181 189 177 196–198 141 202 181 207 173 213 185 213–214 181 221 187n24 223–224 173 224 177 229–232 173, 181 233 59n16 257 58n9 260 147n7, 148n33 283 54 283–287 134n6 284 58n9 285 47 294–295 147n7

299 174n12 20 Against Leptines 1 173 10 178 18 163 104 78n22 146 23n5 21 Against Meidias 7 148n25 80 156 83 27n14, 160 84 160 95 160 96–97 160 103 15 114–115 202n25 117–120 202n25 135 156 139 156 143–147 157 152–174 156 153 155 154–157 157 158 156 159 157 160–166 156 167 156 174 156 182 161 183 160 185 156 198 156 200 26n5 211 156 227 156 22 Against Androtion 1 173 5–8 167n53 8 167n53 21–24 167n53 33–34 167n53 40 26n5 53–54 162 58 148n25 60 26n10 65–66 162 23 Against Aristocrates 1 173 5 173, 187n9 8–15 201n5 61 187n24 67 202n28 67–68 203n39 71 203n33

Index locorum 120 148n25 190 173 206 20 24 Against Timocrates 3 173 6 187n16 8 173 13 26n5 116 26n5 134 16 138 26n10 25 Against Aristogeiton I 7 26n10 30 111 26 Against Aristogeiton II 40 187n9 27 Against Aphobus I 14 27n16 18 163 56 17 58 17 29 Against Aphobus III 23 20 41 179 48 17 33 Against Apaturius 14 16 15 16 22 16 36 For Phormio 47 165n21 37 Against Pantaenetus 2 179 4 27n18 39 Against Boeotus I 3 37 4 45n30 5 25, 36 6 45n30 7–18 26n1 9 18 13 36 18 39, 45n30 20 37, 39, 45n30 27–30 45n30, 77n9 29 39 30 45n30 31 37, 45n20 32 35, 45n30 33 45n30 34 38 35 20, 45n30 36 39, 41, 45n30 39 40

40 [Against Boeotus II] 2 30, 45nn21 3 44n11 6–8 18, 43 10 37, 41 10–11 77n3 16 35 17–18 77n8 18 35 26 41, 45n31 28 30, 45nn21 42 37 49 78n22 51 67 52 27n18 54 45nn21, 30 42 [Against Phaenippus] 28 27n18 43 [Against Macartatus] 7 17 64 30n59 70 22 77–78 18 44 [Against Leocrates] 3–4 161 9–10 27n23 17 27n23 34 96n20 35 20 35–40 25 37 20, 24 39 24 44 21 45 Against Stephanus I 46 15 50 91 73–74 166n27 77 158 78 158 79 44n16 47 [Against Evergus] 5 27n14 22 26n5 28 26n10 54 163 60 22 48 [Against Olympiodorus] 6–7 30n59 11 17 49 [Against Timotheus] 6–32 165n11 14 27n18 49.31 27n18 50 [Against Polycles]

213

7 19 7–13 163 17 27nn16, 18 21 98n61 24–26 98n61 41 26n5 47 27n16 52 26n5 53 26n5 54–56 165n23 56 165n21 51 On the trierarchic crown 11 167n46 52 [Against Callippus] 20 27n18 28 23 53 [Against Nicostratus] 1 187n24 2 173 6–13 177 13 27n18 14–17 177 20 27n18 54 Against Conon 1 187n13 4 29n47 7 27n15 10 27n16 13–14 180 31 15 55 Against Callicles 21 22 35 22 57 Against Eubulides 2 24 5 133n2 6 24 10 21 18 161 30 26n4 37–38 27n23 43 27n23 49 24 57 23 59 25 60 21, 24 61–62 24 68 77n14 58 [Against Theocrines] 1–3 187n16 6 26n10 19 27n19 33 27n16 37 27n16

214

Index locorum

66–69 177 59 [Against Neaera] 3–8 159 4 30n62 12 173 16 77n13, 97n55 18 28n30 19 46n40, 166n31 20 46 n40 21 28n30 22 28n30 24 28n30 25 27n16, 28n29 26–28 28n29 28 44n16 29 28n30, 78n21 30 28n30, 78n21 31 159 32 27n16, 28n29 33 28n30 36 78n21 39 28n30, 77n16 40 27n16, 28n29 41 46 n40 43 28n30 45 27n14 46 77n3 47 15, 28, 29 47–48 27n16 48 28n29 50 27n23, 78n19 52 77n13 52–53 97n57 54 27n16, 28n29 58 27n23 67 46n40 72 28n30 73 92 74–75 92 76 92 84 27n16, 28n29 108 159 111 159 116–117 28n30 121 27n22 122 46n41, 166n30 126 173 60 Funeral speech 3 85 5 96n21 7 96n15 10 96n15 26 85

Dinarchus 1 Against Demosthenes 14–115 91 23 16 48–54 180 51 186n1 2 Against Aristogeiton 17 104 18 30n59 Dionysius of Halicarnassus De Demosthene 44 96n18 De Lysia 8–9 135n52 Euripides Electra 1131 167n44 Heracleides 215–222 88 Ion 20–21 89 29–30 89 237–240 89 267–274 89 289–292 89 542 97n41 579–580 89 589–592 90 999–1000 89 1058–1060 89 1463–1467 90 1466–1467 89 1540–1541 89 1561–1562 89 1601–1603 90 Orestes 375 167n41 917–922 165n2 Suppliants 177–178 164n1 234–237 164n1 238–245 164n1 Fragments fr. 21 Kannicht 165n2 fr. 282.5 Kannnicht 59n20 fr. 853 Kannicht 106 Gorgias F 5a–6 Diels-Kranz 96n22 F 6 Diels-Kranz 96n15

Herodotus 1.56.2 95n3 7.161.3 95n3 Homer Iliad 2.546–51 95n3 Odyssey 7.77–81 95n3 13.430–432 161 n48 Hypereides Against Athenogenes 8–9 17 13 133n2 13–20 27n18 Against Demades fr. 76 15 Against Demosthenes 26 26n10 Against Diondas 26 179 28 187n24 Funeral oration 5 96n15 7 86, 97n48 10 147n17 11 147n17 16 147n17 19 147n17 24 147n17 32 96n16 40 147n17 In defence of Euxenippus 12 16, 20 28–29 16 29 147n12 33 187n24 34–35 16 In defence of Lycophron 2 179, 187n24 4 27n21 10 77n16 11 188n43 16 187n12 Fragments fr. 17 Jensen 78n40 Inscriptiones graecae IG I3 503–4 84 1147.5 84 1162.4 84 1162.45–8 84

Index locorum 1163.34–41 84 1166.2 84 1179.10–13 84 1186.108 84 IG II2 43.15–46148n3165n237 1609.83 and 89 165n23 223 118 1612.b10 1622 77n8 3039.2 165n23 5225 84 Isaeus 1 On the estate of Cleonymus 1 30n59 2 On the estate of Menecles 9 17 10 30n59 14–17 21 16–17 29n55 18 20 29 27n18 36 20 36–37 30n59 42 20 44 21, 28n44 3 On the estate of Pyrrhus 66–67 2 16 10 46n40 13 22 22–23 17 30 77n14 30–31 27n22 30–34 27n21 61 96n20 80 20, 21, 25 4 On the estate of Nicostratus 18 29n47 5 On the estate of Dicaeogenes 5 17 6 96n20 18 16 26 17 36 28n37 6 On the estate of Philoctemon 3 18 10 21, 27n21 13 27n21 14 46n41 38 167n57 60 28n37

64–65 30n59 7 On the estate of Apollodorus 15–17 29n55 18 17 27–28 21 30 30n59 36 28n40 8 On the estate of Ciron 3 18 8 17, 46n41 19–20 20 20 21 21–26 30n59 34 202n18 9 On the estate of Astyphilus 5 17 8–9 21 13 20 18 22 30 29n55 33 20, 21 10 On the estate of Aristarchus 4 17 11 On the estate of Hagnias 4 187 n24 14 187 n24 31 187 n24 12 On behalf of Euphiletus 24–25 31 179 Fragments fr. 4 Thalheim (Against the demesmen, concerning an estate) 23 fr. 10a Thalheim (Against Epicrates) 21 Isocrates 4 Panegyricus 111 107 7 Areopagitucus 20 10n16 38 201n10 8 On the peace 133 120n31 15 Antidosis 230 179 18 Against Callimachus 10 16 Lucian Dialogi meretricii 6 78 n33

215

Lycurgus 1 Against Leocrates 1 173 2 174 3 179 4 171 6 174 11–13 203n37 19 22 22–24 17 31 187n24 41 97n48 48 166n24 51 118 69 118 74 118 83–130 91 98 118 140 118 Lysias 1 On the killing of Eratosthenes 7 78n20 16 77n16 28 138n35 31 135n35 33 46n37 2 Funeral speech 3 96n16 17–18 86 18 85 20 86, 96n31 22 96n15 24 96n31 43 96n27 63 96n31 65 96n31 3 Against Simon 19 180 4 On a premeditated wounding 3–4 20 9 180 6 Against Andocides 9 202n24 24 176 53 23 7 On the olive stump 18 28n42 18–19 22 21 173 28 28n43 30 187n19 38 173

216

Index locorum

42 185 9 For the soldier 5–16 78n22 15 187n19 19–20 175 22 187n19 10 Against Theomnestus for defamation 1 123, 126 2 123, 126 3 125, 126, 134n7 4 123, 124 6–20 126 7 127 9 127 11 128 12 124, 128, 134n20 13 129 15 129 15–16 130, 135n36 17–18 130 18–20 130 22 124, 134n10 23 134n13 27 123, 125 30 123 31 134n13 32 133 12 Against Eratosthenes 2 175 3 174 58 201n5 62–66 107 13 Against Agoratus 11–12 201n5 19 19 55 23 58–61 19 65 188n26 73 19 77–82 201n5 79 20 79–82 29n47, 202n25 15 Against Alcibiades 9 91 16 For Mantitheus 1 187n19 3 115, 187n19 4–8 115 8 187n19 9 115 10 115 11 115 13 116

14 20, 116 15 116 16 117 17 117 18–19 117 21 117 17 On the property of Eraton 8 22 18 On the property of Nicias’ brother 10–12 107 20 173 19 On the property of Aristophanes 2 187n19 9 187n24 15–16 17 20 For Polystratus 2 20 11–12 29n52 12 20 13 23 17 179 23 19 21 On a charge of accepting bribes 6 20 8–9 26n5 17 187n24 20 179 22 Against the corndealers 1 187n24 23 Against Pancleon 3 22 3–8 21 5 21 9–11 27n19 24 For the invalid 1–3 119n13 2 187n24 8 167n48 14 167n51 25 On a charge of overthrowing the democracy 1 179 2 112 3 112, 187n24 4 112, 113 5 112 8 112 10 112 12 112 13 112 14 112

23 113 24 113 28 113 30 112 34 113 26 Against Evandrus 2 114 3 114 3–4 113 8 114 9 102 12 187n23 15 173 16–20 114 21–24 176 27 Against Epicrates 12 23 31 Against Philon 1–2 173 5–6 109 6–9 203n41 8 108 9 109 13 108 14 109 15 20 18 109 20–23 109 24–25 110 24–33 109 26 110 27 108 29 110, 111, 187n11 30 110 31 110 33 109, 111 34 109 32 Against Diogeiton 77n4 Fragments fr. 167.89–90 Carey 27n18 fr. 208 Carey 77n5 fr. 217 Carey 27n18 frr. 251–252, 254 Carey 29n50 fr. 258 Carey 29n55 fr. 415 Carey 30n58 Pausanias 5.24.9–11 203n31 Plato Apology 32c4–9 134n31 Cratylus

Index locorum 418a7 134 n28 Critias 113a7–8 134n28 Laws 744 d–e 154 85 n15 9.871a 202n22 Menexenus 237b–c 86 237e 96n25 238b–239a 85 238e–239a 97n44 240e 96n15 244e–245a 96n15 246b–c 96n16 248 96n16 Republic 550c–e 154 551d 154 Symposium 172a 27n13 183a 59n20 Plautus Bacchides 5.2 78n21 Pliny Naturalis historia Praefatio 29 77n2 Plutarch Demosthenes 23.5 187n9

Lycurgus 47–48 167n47 Moralia 389a 78n26 840–841 48 n10 Solon 18 186n6 21 125, 134n21 24.2 96n20 [Vitae decem oratorum] 48 n10 Poseidippus fr. 12 78n25 Quintilian 2.15.9 78n25 10.15.2 78n25 Sophocles Antigone 567–81 88 640–680 88 734–739 88 Theocritus Idylls 2 73 Theophrastus Characters 25.3 28n34 Thucydides 1.2.5–6 95n3

217

1.2.6 95n5 1.24.3 93 2.34.2–6 95n9 2.36.1 95n3, 96n22 2.37.1–38.1 85 2.43.1 96n16 2.65.7 106 3.69–84 65n4 3.82.4 3 6.13.1 26n7 6.18.6 26n7 7.77.7 102 8.75.2 96n29 8.89.3 106 8.93.3 96n29 Xenophon Hellenica 2.2.11 120n22 2.3.15 107 2.3.30 107 2.4.17 107 2.4.25 108 Memorabilia 1.2.14 119n19 1.3.9‒11 59n20 1.5.6 59n20 2.9.1 187n12 4.2.37–38 165n9 Oeconomicus 13‒23 59n20 [Respublica Atheniensium] 1.10 10n19