The Materiality of Text - Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity 9004375503, 9789004375505

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The Materiality of Text – Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity

Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy Editorial Board John Bodel (Brown University) Adele Scafuro (Brown University)

VOLUME 11

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

The Materiality of Text – Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity Edited by

Andrej Petrovic Ivana Petrovic Edmund Thomas

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover Illustration: A plaque with a metrical entry regulation to the sanctuary of Great Mother (Phaistos, Crete, I.Cret. I XXIII 3, 3rd/2nd century BCE). Photo by A. Petrovic, courtesy of the Archaeological Museum in Heraklion. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Petrovic, Andrej, editor. | Petrovic, Ivana, editor. | Thomas, Edmund  (Edmund V.), editor. Title: The materiality of text : placement, perception, and presence of  inscribed texts in classical antiquity / edited by Andrej Petrovic, Ivana  Petrovic, Edmund Thomas ; editorial assistant, Kevin Scahill. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2019] | Series: Brill studies in Greek  and Roman epigraphy, ISSN 1876-2557 ; volume 11 | Includes bibliographical  references and indexes. Identifiers: LCCN 2018032005 (print) | LCCN 2018039341 (ebook) |  ISBN 9789004379435 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004375505 (hc :alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Inscriptions, Greek. Classification: LCC CN350 (ebook) | LCC CN350 .M34 2018 (print) |  DDC 480—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018032005

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1876-2557 isbn 978-90-04-37550-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-37943-5 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Acknowledgements ix List of Figures x Note on Contributors xv The Materiality of Text: An Introduction 1 Andrej Petrovic

Part I Concepts 1 What is an ἐπιγραφή in Classical Greece? 29 Athena Kirk 2 The Aesthetics and Politics of Inscriptions in Imperial Greek Literature 48 Alexei Zadorojnyi

part II Contexts section A Epigraphic Spaces 3 The ‘Spatial Dynamics’ of Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram: Conversations among Locations, Monuments, Texts, and Viewer-Readers 73 Joseph W. Day 4 Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions 105 Valentina Garulli 5 Erasures in Greek Public Documents 145 P. J. Rhodes

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Contents

section B Literary Spaces: The Materiality of Text in Greek and Roman Literature 6 The Authority of Archaic Greek Epigram 169 Donald E. Lavigne 7 Writing, Women’s Silent Speech 187 Michael A. Tueller 8 Hard Verses and Soft Books: The Materials of Elegy 205 S. J. Heyworth

section C Architectural Spaces 9 The Power of the Absent Text: Dedicatory Inscriptions on Greek Sacred Architecture and Altars 231 Ioannis Mylonopoulos 10 Re-Appraising the Value of Same-Text Relationships; a Study of ‘Duplicate’ Inscriptions in the Monumental Landscape at Aphrodisias 275 Abigail Graham 11 Layers of Urban Life: A Contextual Analysis of Inscriptions in the Public Space of Pompeii 303 Fanny Opdenhoff 12 Damnatio Memoriae Inscribed: The Materiality of Cultural Repression 324 Ida Östenberg 13 Inscriptions between Text and Texture: Inscribed Monuments in Public Spaces – A Case Study at Late Antique Ostia 348 Katharina Bolle 14 Framing Late Antique Texts as Monuments: The Tabula Ansata between Sculpture and Mosaic 380 Sean V. Leatherbury

Contents

Indices Index Locorum 405 Index Nominum 409 Index Rerum 413

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Acknowledgements This volume contains revised versions of selected papers delivered during a series of research talks on the materiality of texts at Durham University in the academic year 2011/12, hosted by the Department of Classics & Ancient History, and a conference held in Durham in September 2012. As editors, we are very grateful to all our contributors for their patience, understanding, and support. We are particularly grateful to the Department and the Faculty of Arts and Humanities at Durham for their financial support of both the research talks and the conference. We are also very grateful to the British Epigraphy Society and the Society for Promotion of Hellenic Studies for their financial support, particularly in the provision of student bursaries. We thank the staff at University College Durham and the Calman Centre for their hospitality and unwavering support prior to and throughout the conference, and Dr. Barney Chesterton and Eris Williams Reed, then both PhD students in the Department, for their help in all organizational matters and for their general good cheer. At the University of Virginia, we are grateful to Matt Pincus, a graduate student in the Classics Department for his help with proofreading, and especially to our University of Virginia colleague Jane Crawford for her generous help with several papers written by non-native speakers of English. Kevin Scahill and Adam Gross, our editorial assistants, have provided invaluable help throughout the complex process of the preparation of this manuscript for printing. Our particular thanks go to Professor John Bodel for his encouragement to submit the volume to the Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy series, to Professor Adele Scafuro as the series’ co-editor, and to the anonymous reader(s) for their feedback and advice. Both individual papers and the volume as a whole have greatly profited from all their suggestions and advice. In addition, we are very grateful to the editors at Brill, Mirjam Elbers and Giulia Moriconi, as well as to our production editor, Wilma de Weert. Finally, we are very grateful to the museums and institutions around the world that have kindly granted permissions to publish images of their material: they are thanked individually in individual papers. The abbreviations follow the guidelines of OCD and SEG, supplemented by those of the GdE; less often encountered abbreviations are explained either in the list of abbreviations following individual papers, or on the first mention of the relevant corpus. For further assistance, please consult the Index locorum. Charlottesville and Durham, February 2018. Andrej Petrovic, Ivana Petrovic, Edmund Thomas

Figures

Chapter 3

1 Delphi, sanctuary of Apollo, late second century CE. Plan (no. 19639, D. Laroche) 77 2 Delphi Museum, Daochus’ monument. Photo (no. 47.283, Ph. Collet) 78 3 Delphi, Daochus’ monument. Restoration drawing (by C. Smith) 78 4 a–c Samos, Cheramyes’ korai: A, Paris, Louvre; B, Samos, Vathy Museum; C, Berlin, Altes Museum. 83 5 Samos, Geneleos’ group. Restoration drawing at H. J. Kienast, “Die Basis der Geneleos-Gruppe,” AM 107 (1992), Beilage 2 86 6 Dedication of -chares (his inscription visible) and Tychandrus. Restoration drawing (by K. E. Rasmussen, Archeographics) at C. M. Keesling, “Patrons of Athenian Votive Monuments,” Hesperia 74 (2005) 406, fig. 8 87 7 Delphi, “Nauarchs” dedication. Restoration drawing at J. Pouilloux and G. Roux, Énigmes à Delphes (Paris 1963) 57, fig. 18 (Roux) 91 8 Delphi, Arcadians’ dedication. Drawing at H. Pomtow, “Studien zu den Weihgeschenken und der Topographie von Delphi,” AM 31 (1906), pl. 24 (H. Bulle) 91 9 Olympia, c. 450 (with the later Nike dedication) 96



Chapter 4

1.2.a Photo taken by A. La Capra, courtesy of Elena Miranda, University of Naples, permission of Valeria Sampaolo, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples 110 1.2.b Photo published by Moretti, IGUR 1148 110 1.3 Photo published by Bernand, IMEG pl. XXXII 113 1.5 Photo published by Bernand, IMEG pl. LXIV (detail) 116 2.1 Photo Museo Lapidario Maffeiano, Verona, inv. no. 28671 119 2.3.a and 2.3.b Photographic Archive of the Epigraphical Museum, Athens, inv. no. EM 10495 123 2.4 Photo Museum of Eleusis, cat. no. 253 (detail) 126 2.6 Photographic Archive of the Epigraphical Museum, Athens, inv. no. EM 2641 129 3.1 Photo provided by Fototeca Musei Vaticani, Città del Vaticano, Rome, inv. no. 9034 132

Figures



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Chapter 5

1 ML 64 = IG I3 54 = OR 149.B 154 2 ML 71 = IG I3 36 = OR 156 156 3 IG II2 43 = RO 22: erasure on main face 160 4 IG II2 43 = RO 22: erasure on left-hand side 161



Chapter 9

1 New York. Columbia University’s Low Library 234 2 Syracuse. Temple of Apollo, after Monumenti Antichi 41, 1951, 827–28 fig. 101 236 3 Delphi. Hall of the Athenians 237 4 Olympia. Column of the south pteron of the temple of Hera 239 5 Delphi. Architrave of the treasury of the Cnidians 240 6 Olympia. Roman inscription on the architrave of the Megarians 241 7 Delphi. North frieze of the treasury of the Siphnians (detail) 242 8 Delphi. Altar of the Chians 245 9 Labraunda. Dedicatory inscription on the temple’s architrave 252 10 Cyrene. Dedicatory inscription on the altar of Apollo 252 11 Priene, Athena Polias. Dedicatory inscription of Alexander the Great 254 12 Priene, Athena Polias. Dedicatory inscription of Augustus 254 13 Samothrace. Restored eastern elevation of the propylon dedicated by Ptolemy II 256 14 Samothrace. Restored elevation of the Arsinoëum 256 15 Syracuse. Inscription on the stylobate of the temple of Apollo 261 16 New York. Columbia University’s Butler Library 262



Chapter 10

Map 1 Reconstructed plan of Aphrodisias 280 1 Reconstruction of the exterior of the Sebasteion by U. Outschar from “Betrachtungen zur kunstgeschichtlichen Stellung des Sebasteions in Aphrodisias” in J. de La Genière and K.T. Erim (1987) eds., Aphrodisias de Carie, Colloque du Centre de Recherches archéologiques de l’Université de Lille III, 13 novembre 1985, Paris, Recherches sur les Civilisations, 115, fig. 2 281

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Figures

2 Reconstruction of the Sebasteion highlighting the location of its monumental building dedications. Smith 2013: 7 p. 14 (Sebasteion. Inscribed building dedications: distribution plan) 284 3a A poorly preserved fragment of the interior propylon dedication illustrating the use of a decoration between benefactors on line 2. 285 3b A well preserved fragment (Block 2) of the interior propylon dedication illustrating the use of vacats and decorations (circles) between recipients and sections of text on line one 285 4a–b Photographs of the exterior building dedication of the propylon. Smith 2013: Plate 3. Ded 1: Propylon Dedication, West 288 5 Reconstruction of the North Portico of the Sebasteion. “Sebasteion – Aphrodisias” 290 6a Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment c 1978 291 6b Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment d 1978 291 6c Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment f 1981 292 7 Photograph of the restoration dedication from the North Portico. Smith 2013: Plate 5. Ded 3: North Building dedication, West End 293 8 Plan of the Baths of Hadrian 295 9 Photograph of IAph2007 5.208 296 10 Photograph of IAph2007 5.207 297



Chapter 11

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Façade of III 2, 1, Casa di Trebius Valens (Stefani – Varone 2009: 234) 307 Surroundings of III 2, 1 (Della Corte 1914, 103 fig. 1) 307 Façade east of entrance III 2, 1 (Stefani – Varone 2009: 238. 239) 309 Graffito CIL IV 8815 (CIL IV Suppl. 3, 918) 315 Surroundings of I 7, 1 (Della Corte 1911: 417 fig. 1) 317 Façade east of entrance I 7, 1 (Stefani – Varone 2009: 76) 318 Dipinti on the external northern front of the Palestra Grande, photograph from the excavation (Stefani – Varone 2009: 222) 320 8 External northern front of the Palestra Grande, drawing (Stefani – Varone 2009: 222) 320



Chapter 12

1 CIL 14.4393 from the Vigiles barracks in Ostia 328 2 Stele from the British Museum, Reg. no. 1805,0703.210 329

Figures

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3 Fasti consulares Capitolini. The name Marcus Antonius, grandfather of the triumvir, was erased and later reinserted. Inscr. It. 13.1 56–7, Tab. XXXVIII. Rome, Musei Capitolini, fragment XXIII 334 4 Fasti triumphales Capitolini, Inscription recording Antony’s ovatio in 40 BCe, (lines 14–15) . Inscr. Ital. 13.1 86–7, Tab. LI. Roma, Musei Capitolini, fragment XL 335 5 Fasti Colotiani. The name M. Antonius was erased and reinserted at four different places. Inscr. Ital. 13.1: 273, Tab. LXXXV. Rome, Musei Capitolini, NCE 7084 339 6 Bronze tablet with the Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre 339 7 Recarved inscription set in the attic of the arch of Septimius Severus. The preserved holes reveal that Geta’s name was earlier shown in bronze letters. From Keppie 1991, fig. 22, p. 50. I am grateful to Lawrence Keppie for letting me use his original photo, taken from the scaffolding of the arch in 1988 343



Chapter 13

1 Plan of the Forum Baths (after SdO XI) 352 2 a and b Fragment of a white marble plaque with dedicatory inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor on both sides. (Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma) 355 3 Reconstruction drawing of dedicatory inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor on a marble plaque (after CIL XIV 4714) 356 4 Fragment of a white marble block with inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor. (Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma) 358 5 Fragment of a re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths with inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor. (Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma) 359 6a and b Two fragments of a re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths with Greek verse inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor. (Photo: author) 361 7 Detail of the building inscription by Ragonius Vincentius Celsus written on an architrave. (Photo: author) 364 8 Statue base with dedicatory inscription by Vincentius Celsus from the main forum at Ostia. (Photo: author) 365 9 Statue base with dedicatory inscription by Ragonius Vincentius Celsus from the Vatican Collection. (Image provided by the Vatican Museums) 366 10 Location of the inscriptions within the Forum Baths and their surroundings. (Image: author, after SdO XI) 370

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Figures

Chapter 14

1 Bronze votive tabula to Serapis, second century CE 386 2 “Spoils from the Temple” relief, Arch of Titus, Rome, c. 81 CE 386 3 Mosaic from the Square of the Corporations advertising the services of caulkers and ropemakers (CIL 14.4.549.1), Ostia, second century CE 388 4 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory inscription, Church of the Holy Martyrs Lot and Procopius, Khirbet Mukhayyat (Nebo), Jordan, 557/8 CE 391 5 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory epigram, Church of Sts. Peter and Paul, Gerasa, Jordan, c. 540 CE 392 6 Triumphal arch mosaics with tabula, San Paolo fuori le mura, Rome, 440–61 CE  395 7 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory inscription, Thyrsos Basilica, Tegea, Greece, late fourth or early fifth century CE 398

Note on Contributors Katharina Bolle studied Classical Archeology, Ancient History and Medieval History at the Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg. She completed her doctoral dissertation in 2015 on the epigraphic habit in Late Antiquity. From 2012 to 2017 she was a member of the Collaborative Research Center 933 “Material Textcultures” (Heidelberg University) that explores the materiality and presence of written texts in pre-modern societies. Joseph W. Day is Emeritus Professor of Classics at Wabash College (Indiana, USA) and frequent senior associate member of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Since the 1980s, he has published numerous articles and reviews on earlier Greek epigram and, in 2010, Archaic Greek Epigram and Dedication: Representation and Reperformance (Cambridge). Valentina Garulli is Researcher in Greek Language and Literature at Bologna University and has worked at different stages of her career in Cambridge, Göttingen, Cincinnati, and Oxford. She has authored publications on Greek biography (Il Περὶ ποιητῶν di Lobone di Argo, Bologna 2004), Greek poetry on stone (Byblos lainee. Epigrafia, letteratura, epitafio, Bologna 2012), Greek and Latin epigram (particularly Callimachus and Posidippus), and Hellenistic poetry. One of her main research fields is also the history of classical scholarship: Wilhelm Otto Crönert and Tadeusz Zielinski have been subjects of her research. Abigail Graham is a lecturer in Ancient History and Archaeology at the University of Warwick. Her research focuses on the role of monuments in the context of the ancient city and the way that monumental writing was presented to the ancient audience. Her interest in the broader use and application of inscriptions is evident in her primer on the Roman World, The Romans (Routledge: November 2014), and a biennial postgraduate course in epigraphy at the British School at Rome, which she co-ordinates. She is currently writing a monograph on Monumental Epigraphy at Roman Ephesus.

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Stephen J. Heyworth is Bowra Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Wadham College, Oxford. In 2007 he issued a new edition of Propertius in the Oxford Classical Text series together with a detailed textual commentary entitled Cynthia, and subsequently a literary and grammatical commentary on book 3, in collaboration with James Morwood. The two of them published a similar edition of Aeneid 3 in 2017. His main focus is now on Ovid’s Fasti: a commentary on book 3 will be published by Cambridge University Press in 2019. He is studying the manuscript tradition as he moves towards an OCT of the poem as a whole. Athena Kirk is Assistant Professor of Classics at Cornell University. Her research focuses on the intersections between Greek literary and epigraphic texts. She is writing a book on Greek inventory lists and their intra-generic poetics. Donald E. Lavigne is Associate Professor at Texas Tech. He is especially interested in the oral/ poetic landscape of Archaic Greece and its influence on the Hellenistic poets. He has been focused on the seamier side of the Classical World in his research on the iambic tradition in Greece and Rome and in his exploration of epigram. He is currently at work on a book that examines the persona of iambic poems as the defining feature of the genre. His second large project concerns ancient epigram and will explore both shared and divergent poetic strategies which illustrate the place of epigram within Archaic Greek song culture. Sean V. Leatherbury is Assistant Professor at Bowling Green State University, a one-time Postdoctoral Fellow at the Getty Villa in Los Angeles and current Research Associate of the ‘Monumental Art of the Christian and Early Islamic East’ Project at the University of Oxford. Previously, he has held fellowships at the Bard Graduate Center in New York, and the Kenyon Institute in Jerusalem. He holds a D.Phil. in History (Late Antique and Byzantine Studies) from Oxford. Ioannis Mylonopoulos is Associate Professor at Columbia University. He studied in Athens and Heidelberg and held positions at the Universities of Heidelberg, Vienna, and Erfurt. He has been twice visiting professor at Paris I Panthéon-Sorbonne. He has been the recipient of several fellowships including such from the Harvard Center for Hellenic Studies, the Institute for Advanced Study (Princeton), the

Note on Contributors

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Onassis Foundation, the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents at Oxford University, and the German Research Council. His numerous publications cover various aspects of ancient Greek religion and its materiality with a particular focus on cult images and the archaeology of sanctuaries. He is the director of the excavations at the sanctuary of Poseidon in Boeotian Onchestos. Fanny Opdenhoff has studied Classical Archaeology, Latin Literature and Italian Literature at the University of Heidelberg, where she has written a doctoral thesis on the subject Die Stadt als beschriebener Raum. Das Beispiel Pompeji und Herculaneum. Apart from working on wall inscriptions in the towns buried by the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 CE, she has published on the distribution of small finds in Pompeian houses. Ida Östenberg is Associate Professor in Classical Archaeology and Ancient History at the University of Gothenburg and research fellow at The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities. She has published extensively on the Roman triumph and is the author of Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford, 2009). She is currently writing a monograph about public grief in ancient Rome and articles on topics such as military defeat, Agrippina the Elder and aristocratic funerals. Together with Simon Malmberg and Jonas Bjørnebye, she has edited The Moving City: Processions, passages and promenades in ancient Rome (London, 2015). Andrej Petrovic is Professor of Classics at University of Virginia. He works on Greek epigraphy, cultural history, and religion. His previous authored and co-edited books include Kommentar zu den Simonideischen Versinschriften (Brill 2007), Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (CUP 2010, Pb 2016), and Inner Purity and Pollution in Greek religion (vol. I, OUP 2016, with I. Petrovic). Ivana Petrovic is Hugh H. Obear Professor of Classics at University of Virginia. She works on Ancient Greek literature, religion, and on South-Slavic traditional oral poetry. She has published books on the cult of Artemis in Hellenistic poetry (Brill 2007) and inner purity and pollution in Greek religion (vol. I, OUP 2016, with A. Petrovic), and co-edited volumes on the Roman Triumph (Steiner 2008),

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on Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (CUP 2010), and on Greek Literary Epigram (forthcoming, OUP). P. J. Rhodes was Professor of Ancient History at the University of Durham, and since 2005 has been Emeritus and Honorary Professor. He works particularly on Greek history, especially political, and on the sources of our knowledge, both literary and epigraphic. He is a Fellow of the British Academy, and in 2014/15 was President of the Classical Association. Edmund Thomas is Professor (Senior Lecturer) of Ancient Visual and Material Culture at Durham University. He works particularly on Roman architecture and its reception. He has published articles on the use of inscriptions in Roman architecture and is preparing a book on the forms, placement and role of architectural inscriptions from antiquity to the modern era. Michael A. Tueller is Professor of the Classics at Arizona State University, is the author of Look Who’s Talking: Innovations in Voice and Identity in Hellenistic Epigram, and is in the midst of revising the Greek Anthology for the Loeb Classical Library. He received his PhD from Harvard University in 2003. Alexei Zadorojnyi studied Classics at the Moscow State Lomonosov University, graduating summa cum laude in 1996. He completed his PhD on Plutarch at the University of Exeter in 1999. Since 1999 he has been teaching Classics at the University of Liverpool, where he is now Senior Lecturer. He has published widely on Plutarch and imperial intellectual culture, especially on aspects of the GrecoRoman literate practices. He is co-editor of the Cambridge Companion to Plutarch with Frances Titchener.

The Materiality of Text: An Introduction Andrej Petrovic 1 Background Once upon a time, Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria used to be one of the most powerful men in the world, until he was one no more. Born in 1899 an ambitious man in the remote Abkhazian backwaters, and coming from a Mingrelian Georgian family of devout orthodox potato farmers, he rose to inconceivable power. Inconceivable, at least, for people of his background: in the course of his prematurely ended life, he went quickly from the ragged dirt-underneathhis-fingernails boy to a provincial child prodigy, and on, to a promising physicist and a mathematics wizard, just to become a devout Bolshevik and one of Stalin’s most trusted subordinates – a connoisseur of the historical spirit and, more importantly, of the marshal’s mood swings. Before he turned thirty-five, Lavrentiy established himself as one of the craftiest and most unscrupulous Communist spin masters and was soon afterwards appointed, appropriately, head of the KGB’s predecessor the NKVD. A man whose viciousness was matched only by the vastness of his ambition, Beria was destined to become a general of words and a lyricist of violence: he is part of the reason why Soviets glued Stalin’s name to Lenin’s, as if the two were Castor and Pollux, and why many Soviets tacitly accepted the unimaginable horrors of Lubyanka’s basement chasm and of Siberian gulags as a necessity of life, as a sacrifice for a better tomorrow, as the dues paid for their children’s happiness. Hegelian in spirit and Mephistophelian in action, Lavrentiy Beria was doomed to succeed.1 Yet, in the end, it was the sheer grandeur of his success and his closeness to Joseph Vissarionovich that brought about his demise: even though nobody can reliably attest what exactly brought Lavrentiy down so quickly and so violently after Stalin’s death, very few will dispute that the jealousies of Khrushchev and of other powers that be behind the marshal’s throne played a decisive role in Beria’s demise. Within three months, Beria went from the Kremlin’s golden prospect to a counter-revolutionary convicted of treason: his head was the first to roll in the wars of the Bolshevik successors who, trembling on their feet like ill-treated dogs, loved, loathed, but above all, feared their master’s whims. 1  On Beria’s background, early life and education at the Baku Polytechnic for Mechanical Construction, Knight 1993: 11–28; career as chief of the NKVD and role at Lubyanka, 1938– 1946, Knight 1993: 87–154.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_002

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Petrovic

If Beria’s rise was meteoric, public and spectacular, his disappearance was slow, silent and systematic. ‘Glavlit’, the hard-working Soviet censorship agency, made sure that his photographs and relevant documents started vanishing from public spaces, and self-censorship did the rest. His name was uttered privately, when it was uttered at all, and in a half-breath or a half-whisper; and then, finally, the Destalinization turned his legacy to dust. No doubt at Khrushchev’s behest, Soviet folk were expected to bid Beria’s name farewell and to consign his memory to nothingness. In late 1953, or in very first days of 1954, less than a month after Beria’s expeditious trial and execution, every household subscribing to ‘The Great Soviet Encyclopedia’, the ideological canon of what-is-what and who-is-who, produced and revised by the Kremlin’s brightest, received a peculiar letter. In this letter, there was an addendum to the encyclopedia, and, at the same time, hushed, a delendum. Errata corrige, implied the missive: one page, printed in fat black ink on the encyclopedia’s thick paper, had to be cut out or, at the very least, covered with the thin page contained in the letter. Beringovo more, the Bering Sea, with its tricky currents, had, it seemed, been much better understood by the Soviet scientists – and the enveloped page revealed the scientific breakthroughs. The sheet came with an instruction to place it at the end of the encyclopedia’s existing entry devoted to the Bering Sea, incidentally replacing all of the entry dedicated to comrade Beria’s name. This turned Lavrentiy Beria to a shadow, as his personal history dwindled to nothing more than a silhouette hidden beneath the bible-thin paper of the addendum. Sunken underneath more current facts, surrounded by the lives of those who had received a better lot during the post-Stalinist cleansings, Beria and his memory were to be dunked into Lethe’s waters. There is no information on whether subscribers actually did what the publishers of the encyclopedia asked; or whether they did, and then anxiously stroked the new page with a moist palm, inviting with their sweat the words underneath the papery veil to remind them of what had been concealed.2 2  Beria stripped of honors and declared a non-person: Decree of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, June 26, 1953, chaired by K. Voroshilov [= Koenker/Bachman 1997: 130, document 65]; the episode with the letter received by the subscribers of the Great Soviet encyclopedia is documented in most of the authoritative accounts of Beria’s life, and the content of the letter, including the instructions for the (around 60 000) subscribers of the first edition were published in English in The Stanford Daily, already in January 5 1954 (vol. 124, issue 50, p. 2), less than two weeks after Beria’s execution (December 23, 1953): “The State Scientific Publishing House of the Great Soviet Encyclopedia recommends that pages 21, 22, 23, and 24 be removed from Volume Five, as well as the portrait [of Beria] between pages 22 and 23, to replace which the pages of a new text are enclosed … The aforementioned pages should be cut out with scissors or blade, leaving inside a margin on which the new pages can be pasted.” On Glavlit’s all-encompassing efforts to remove Beria from public memory and discourse,

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Rarely does a damnatio memoriae succeed in being a flawlessly efficient editio historiae.3 Cut-outs and scrapes leave gaps and wounds, while stitches only accentuate the artificiality of the seam, rather than regenerate the texture of the fabric.4 Ever since Greek antiquity it has been clear that the removal of prominent individuals from the media of public discourse inevitably leaves a deep scarring in a discourse’s tissue, a wound that in itself transmits a message and encapsulates the potential for remembrance.5 In this sense, subscribers to the ‘Great Soviet Encyclopedia’ were not in a markedly different position from, say, Greek and Roman readers of the various documents dealing with those whose names were to be ousted from public memory, such as the Antigonids, or Geta, discussed in the present volume by Peter Rhodes and Ida Östenberg respectively.6 In fact, the extent of the overlap between ancient and modern practices is in some cases extraordinary: as Östenberg demonstrates, in some cases of damnatio memoriae, not only were the stones’ surfaces scratched and inscriptions’ nailed bronze letters pulled out from stones like rotten teeth to remove the name of the damnati, but even papyri could be redacted, and painted tondi could be modified to remove the uncomfortable presences from sight. That said, the issue of damnatio represents only one among many complications deriving from materiality of our texts; other facets encapsulated by the peculiar story of Beria’s demise include the palimpsestic character of the Glavlit’s censorship, as well as the impact of formal authority on the physical modifications of the text’s carrier. And these are but a fraction of a much larger ancient discourse on textual materiality which tackled also topics of materials, surfaces, frames, reliefs, layouts, colors, carving-scratching-painting, erasures, reuse, re-inscriptions, palimpsests, and opistographs. But also: Cyclopean and filigree letters, monumentality and miniature; pretty letters carved or painted with style, skill, and patience, and less pretty ones, angrily scribbled in haste under protection of the night; textual fixity policed by script’s materiality and textual fluidity of ephemeral oral performance; text as ornament, text as art, see Loewenstein 2012: 11: “the head of Glavlit sent out a message ordering the removal of Beria’s images wherever they might be found shortly after his arrest in 1953. It specified that all portraits of Beria, both alone and in groups must be removed. It also included paintings, reproductions, transparencies, slides, and newsreels.” 3  On damnatio memoriae vs. abolitio memoriae, see esp. Varner 2004: 5–9. 4  For this point, see Östenberg in this volume, building on the theoretical work of Alfred Gell. 5  A synopsis of Greek practices, Flower 2006: 17–41; for the fascinating practice of removal, reuse, and re-inscription of Greek statues, see Platt 2006, Shear 2006, and Keesling 2017: 182–216. 6  Below, pp. 149–50, 341–4.

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text as medium and text as message – and, of course, all of these at the same time. Those texts which force us to think of the materials, and those materials which compel us to focus on texts; texts as objects of gaze, of admiration, and of reading; texts for the gods and texts for the humans.7 For ancient epigraphic writing, as well as writing on tablets and papyri, were all of that, and much more – as the essays in this volume cumulatively demonstrate. The destiny of Beria’s entry is but one link in a lengthy chain of cultural practices surrounding the materiality of text, a chain which starts, arguably, with the very invention of writing. Cultural parallels between modern and ancient practices aside, however illuminating and perfectly traditional they may be as scholarly paradigms, there are further reasons why we ought to pay special attention to the topic of the materiality of texts in the present age. The fact that in all literate societies textuality is predicated upon materiality8 and that textuality is necessarily defined by the physical characteristics of the media it relies upon, is indicative of the degree of vulnerability to which all public and private discourses are, in theory and practice, open and liable. In the early twenty-first century we have become acutely aware of the constant threat of discursive instability. This is due not simply to the emergence of a highly networked world in which any discourse on any topic will very quickly find a challenge and a competition in an alternative or an opposing discourse. Rather, the fluidity of the physical characteristics of textuality in the increasingly digital world has been recognized as a legitimate threat to the very concepts of truth and history – no matter how they are defined – and, concomitantly, as a hotbed and a playground for revisionist ‘histories’, ‘alternative facts’ and ‘post-truth’ politics.9 On a more upbeat note, the unstable materiality of modern texts, coupled with the speedy modalities of transmission and dissemination, has greatly

7  On text as art, and on text and art, I single out here superb studies of miniature and monumentality, and textual art and textual layout in Squire 2011 on tabulae Iliacae (with the letters h. 0.8 mm!) and Squire 2017 on Optatian’s poems respectively, and on Greek figure poems, Kwapisz 2013. On art of/and Byzantine inscriptions, Rhoby 2017; on frames, Platt/Squire 2017. A study of materiality of texts intended for divine addressees remains a desideratum (focusing on, for instance, tabellae defixionis, ‘Orphic’ god tablets and various temple inventories carved in miniature letters). On the aesthetic features of archaic Greek inscriptions, see now Dietrich 2017. 8  In the case of oral traditions and ‘oral texts’, this may extend to include sound as matter, on which see below, p. 5 and 7–9, as well as semantic shifts and modifications of linguistic materiality, on which see Kristeva 1974: 98–9. 9  On this, Viner, K. “How technology disrupted the truth”, The Guardian, July 12, 2016. https:// www.theguardian.com/media/2016/jul/12/how-technology-disrupted-the-truth, and for the theoretical and ethical issues, Berry 2014, passim and esp. 121–48.

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enriched the way in which we perceive text and literature.10 Such changes in literary self-expression have transformed our ‘textual mind’, to borrow Adriaan van der Weel’s phrase,11 just as, once upon a time, the rise of epigraphic habits in antiquity changed the textual mind of the ancients12 – and they have compelled us to become increasingly sensitive to issues of textual materiality and immateriality. And this change affects both the most down-to-earth features and the most fundamental aspects of a (literary) text: while a crime novel comprising hundreds of pages might nowadays travel to its reader around the world in a matter of seconds, not very many readers, we imagine, will be bothered to chase the first edition of an e-book. Secondly, the very instability of the written text in the digital age might lead to an interesting phenomenon. Unlike printed books, digital texts, being theoretically forever open and potentially subject to serial modifications, may turn out to be closer in nature to ancient oral literary traditions, with their continuously revised and refashioned narratives. It is obvious that the digital platform ‘The Homer Multitext’ simulates the cumulative experience of having listened to several rhapsodes performing the same book of the Iliad much more vividly than any printed edition can.13 Furthermore, autonomous and authorially controlled digital texts are becoming a rarity, as online content invites and delights in comments, evaluations and reviews, fosters fierce debates, and, essentially, treats its readers as co-authors and critics, rather than as passive consumers. It is no surprise, then, that with the emergence of the texts of the digital age, texts exposed to continuous alterations and revisions, the subject of materiality and especially materiality of text has truly gained currency and momentum in scholarship, not only within Classics, but in the humanities at large. Bill Brown was unquestionably right when he quipped in his celebrated essay ‘Thing Theory’ that every epoch has its own thing about things:14 as an object 10  On key characteristics of literature in the digital age, see Hammond 2016: 12, who expands on van der Weel’s seminal 2011 contribution in which key differences (‘salient features’) distinguishing digital texts from print are defined as: a) textual instability; b) ease and low cost of copying; c) speed (of transmission); d) two-way traffic; e) lack of hierarchy; convergence of modalities (i.e. types of information that a medium can relate – with digital media having sound and video, in addition to print media’s still images and text). 11  van der Weel 2011. 12  For a discussion of term epigraphe and the suggestion that it denotes a specific kind of text which originates in written form, see Kirk in this volume, and Garulli on epigraphic signposting and editing. 13  http://www.homermultitext.org. As Matt Pincus points out to me, issues of textual stability, instability, and authorial and extra-authorial control are theorized upon already in Plato: Pl. Phdr. 274c ff. 14  Brown 2001: 13–14.

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of investigation, the materiality of texts closely reflects our century’s sensibilities and, increasingly and worryingly so, its anxieties. 2

Materiality Matters: From Phenomenology, through Dialectic, to Social Anthropology

That said, the interest in the concept or concepts of materiality has a long and venerable history in philosophy, linguistics, and cultural theory, including technology and media studies. This introduction therefore briefly touches on some of the crucial stages in the development of explorations of materiality in these disciplines, and on the emergence of the ‘material turn’ upon which explorations of textual materiality are predicated, before turning to current work on this topic in Classics and Ancient History. To start with the most influential philosophical and linguistic discourses on materiality, Martin Heidegger’s analysis of ‘the thing’ and Mikhail Bakhtin and Valentin Vološinov’s work on the materiality of language have arguably exercised a particularly seminal influence on explorations of materiality in the second half of the twentieth century. Decades before the emergence and dissemination of the World Wide Web, Heidegger opened his landmark essay entitled Das Ding (‘The Thing’) with the famous remark that “all distances in time and space are shriveling”, which led him to investigate the notion of nearness, and then to start conceptualizing the very essence of a thing, the celebrated ‘thingness of a thing’ (‘das Dinghafte des Dinges’), and ‘objectness of an object’ (‘Gegenständlichkeit des Gegenstandes’).15 Clearly influenced by Plato and his ontological reflections, Heidegger’s favourite intellectual frenemy,16 the essay effectively claimed that only when human agency is present do things become objects. The essay’s significance regarding conceptualizations of materiality, however, is not limited to the thought experiment of the kind associated with the much-repeated question 15  Heidegger 19947: “Alle Entfernungen in der Zeit und im Raum schrumpfen ein. Wohin der Mensch vormals wochen – und monatelang unterwegs war, dahin gelangt er jetzt durch die Flugmaschine über Nacht.” Early Heidegger’s interest in thingness was shaped by his confrontation with Kant’s concept of ‘Ding’, and explored in lectures delivered in 1935/6 (published subsequently as Die Frage nach dem Ding, Tübingen 1962). 16  On Heidegger’s vexed and complicated relationship with Plato, see Gonzalez 2009. Explicit references in ‘Das Ding’ to Plato: 19947: 160 and 178. Matt Pincus drew my attention to the fact that around the time of the publication of Sein und Zeit, Heidegger was interested in the passage from Plato’s Phaedrus mentioned above, n. 13 (Pl. Phdr. 274c ff.), and that he digresses at length on the second half of the dialogue, including this passage, in his lectures on the Sophist.

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of the sound of a tree falling in a forest free from humans. Rather, the essay marks a seminal point in the material turn among phenomenologists, as it widened the concept of ‘the thing’ to include abstract meanings and challenged the notion of physicality as a differentia specifica in definitions of a thing, an axiom accepted among many Hegelians up to this day.17 Consequently, under the influence of Heideggerian thought, materiality was established as a discursive term designed to highlight the abstract potential of ‘thingness’, and to underscore the effects of human agency throughout the process of turning things into objects.18 The concept of materiality, semantically extended to include abstract ideas, was spread already in late 1920s among Marxist materialists such as Bakhtin and Vološinov who built materiality into the very foundations of formalist theory of language and consciousness: the language became, for Bakhtin, the material means of production, the shape and control of which carried direct repercussions for the forming of consciousness and for material expressions of ideology19 – two topics which would become, as is well known, of great interest to Jacques Lacan and Louis Althusser, but also to present-day Hegelian fundamentalists such as Slavoj Žižek.20 Current research on the materiality of language and text is often steered, even explicitly, by the convictions of traditional dialectical materialists and their critical engagement with Hegelian idealist dialectic. For Hegel, matter is defined in terms of its potential: matter is ‘what should become’ – ‘was werden soll,’ –21 and the material is the result of the process by which matter obtains physicality; the physical phenomenon of the matter is often referred to as a ‘medium’ by Hegelians.22 Two thinkers of very different ilk, but with intermittently intertwined interests, Jacques Derrida and Marshall McLuhan, engaged thoroughly with Hegel’s views of matter, materiality and dialectic, but foregrounded the notion of medium, variously defined. In their respective works, Derrida and McLuhan raise essentially semiotic questions (the former occasionally, the latter regularly) when they explore the role of the media in the formulation 17  On Hegel and materiality, Miller 2005: 7–10. 18  For material turn, old and new, see Bennett / Joyce 2010; for a recent exploration of material cultural theories in relationship to media, Herzogenrath 2015. 19  For a synthesis of Vološinov’s and Bakhtin’s views on the materiality of language and its relationship to ideology and the consciousness, see Eagleton 1996: 102 and Beetz 2016: 94–5. 20  Žižek 2012, passim, but esp. part II. 21  For an analysis, see Ferrarin 2001: 137–8 and, on passivity of the matter, 188–9. 22  See Siep 2014: 58.

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and transmission of meaning/matter, which is often referred to as a ‘code’ or a ‘message’.23 Both Derrida and McLuhan mobilize in their discussions the standard dichotomy between the medium and the matter, with complementary, and sometimes competing, concerns: McLuhan, focusing on the result, famously asserts that medium dominates over matter to such an extent that medium becomes the message, while Derrida, focusing on the process, highlights the transformational effects on the matter in course of its materialization. The differences between the two are also clear and pronounced when it comes to their understanding of the effect of the technologies: for McLuhan, it is technologies that ‘massage’ the messages, while Derrida foregrounds in his discussions the immaterial materiality of language, sound as substance, and message divorced from the technology.24 In fact, the topic of immateriality (variously conceived of as immateriality of message, matter, or text) has been a hotly debated one among poststructuralist theorists and conceptual artists since the early 1980s, the decade in which things started to matter more than ever. In 1985, one year after the American pop-singer Madonna stormed the international music charts with her anti-feminist anthem ‘Material girl’, an infectious song perfectly encapsulating materialistic (rather than material) obsessions of the early greed-is-good age of dehumanized capitalism,25 the philosopher Jean-François Lyotard and the curator Thierry Chaput opened an exhibition ‘Les Immatériaux’ at the Centre national d’art et de culture GeorgesPompidou in Paris, an exhibition which sought to destabilize and displace the very core of the concept of materiality and raise questions of the role of 23  Significantly, Derrida was particularly interested in Hegel as semiotician – cf. Derrida 1972 (but delivered as a lecture at Collège de France already in 1968). On McLuhan’s critical engagement with Hegel’s dialectic, see esp. Grosswiler 1996: 95–124. 24  Fundamental is McLuhan 1964, and see McLuhan with Fiore and Angel 1967 on the medium and ‘massage’. While not an ardent supporter of semiotics himself, Derrida nevertheless engaged with McLuhan’s work throughout his career and employed the concept of ‘medium’ in relation to language and script, while in his late works he addresses McLuhanesqe concerns of virtuality, materiality and media in some detail: for an illuminating analysis of orality/literacy debates in Derrida’s engagement with McLuhan’s views and questions of materiality and virtuality, see Cavell 2010: 145–61. 25  Madonna, Like a Virgin, Sire/Warner Bros, 1984, track 1, writers: Peter Brown and Robert Rans. Whether Madonna should be interpreted as a feminist or an anti-feminist is a much-debated topic among musicologists: for a recent discussion, see Brooks 2015. Interestingly, the use of term ‘materiality’ in British English, has increased five times between 1982 and 2002, according to (and for what it’s worth) Google’s Ngram, and about three times in American English in the period between 1972 and 2002. In German, the use of term ‘Materialität’ rises quickly in the decade following reunification of Germany, after which it is in sharp decline. Remarkably, French ‘matérialité’ demonstrates much less dramatic dynamics.

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technology in communication.26 ‘Les Immatériaux’ revolved associatively, rather than rigorously, around the Indo-European and Sanskrit root *mat/ MÂT, ‘to entwine, twist, interweave’, alongside Latin root ma-, ‘to originate’, and their real or fabricated derivatives: matériau, matrice, matériel, matière, and maternité.27 The five terms corresponded to Lyotard’s five components of communication,28 and, thematically and relatedly, to the five sections of the exhibition in which the visitor was invited to roam through space, and experience and actively contribute to the generation of meaning by individual interaction with matter, including sound, lights, smells and words, some of which were written by Jacques Derrida and other influential thinkers of the day.29 In a nutshell, the exhibition represented a rejection of stable materiality and a quest for the sublime staged as a drama of epistemological negotiation between material and matter. Very quickly it gained a cult status among French intelligentsia and has become, up to the present day, a standard point of reference in post-structuralist and post-modernist debates on media and materiality, such as those of Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht, or those engaging with Jean Baudrillard’s work more generally.30 The exhibition’s emphasis on the Indo-European root *mat from which the terms ‘matter’, ‘material’ and ‘materiality’ (are imagined to) stem, and the root’s original Indo-European meaning ‘to entwine, twist, interweave’ is interesting also from the perspective of this volume’s title, ‘the materiality of text’. Both terms, materiality and text, are homonyms in relation to the conceptual metaphors from which they originate: text, like textile, and material, like mat,

26  For an analysis of the exhibition, see Hudek 2009. 27  For the authors’ bilingual (Sanskrit and Latin) conceptualization of the root mat-, see Les Immatériaux: A Conversation with Jean-François Lyotard and Bernard Blistène, Art Agenda Magazine, May 27, 2014 (http://www.art-agenda.com/reviews/ les-immateriaux-a-conversation-with-jean-francois-lyotard-and-bernard-blistene/). 28  The five parts of communication which Lyotard adopted from Harold Lasswell’s famous model of communication (‘who / says what / in which channel / to whom / with what effects?’). The correspondence is the following: matériau = support (medium), matériel = destinataire (to whom the message is addressed), maternité = destinateur (the message’s emitter), matière = référent (the referent), and matrice = code (the code). The correspondence is borrowed from Hudek 2009. 29  Derrida’s entries on ‘dematerialization’, ‘Matériau’, and ‘Matériel’ are printed in English in Lange-Berndt 2015: 207–8. 30  Readings of Jean Baudrillard’s (and Roland Barthes’) work were recorded for the exhibition and played for the visitors – see Pierce 2012: 193–225, chapter 5 on ‘Les Immatériaux’ and the sublime) and especially 215–16. Cf. Gumbrecht 2012, 8–9, with discussion of materiality and ‘Les Immatériaux’.

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spring from the same cognitive metaphor of weaving and entwining.31 Hence, in some parallel universe in which linguistic divides collapsed and the language of conceptual metaphors is universally understood, to speak of the materiality of texts could be perceived as equal to speaking of the textuality of texts, or materiality of materials. Be that as it may, in our universe materiality remains a much-discussed concept that, as is increasingly acknowledged, unites the literal with the abstract, and especially, the inanimate with the human.32 Or, to reproduce here the words of one of the most influential students of materiality, British anthropologist Tim Ingold: “in every case, there seem to be two sides to materiality. On one side is the brute materiality or ‘hard physicality’ … of the world’s ‘material character’; on the other side is the socially and historically situated agency of human beings who, in appropriating this physicality for their purposes, project on it both design and meaning in the conversion of naturally given raw material into the finished forms of artifacts.”33 3

Materiality and the Text: Structural Backbones of the Present Volume

With this in mind, but without at this point addressing further the etymological entanglements and definitional quandaries of the term, noteworthy though they are, let us outline the intellectual impulses that have governed the organization and arrangement of this volume. The principal concern of the first section is the extent to which the texts’ physical media, their “hard physicality,” with all its defining characteristics, influence, guide, or force the mode of a text’s reading, interpretation, and later reception. Taking a cue from current research on the physicality of ancient texts,34 it is hoped that this introduction will equip the reader with an insight into the topic’s wider intellectual 31  See Etymological Dictionary of Latin (de Vaan), s.v. texo, -ere ‘to weave, construct’. On weaving metaphor and ‘text’ in Greek (hyphos) and Latin (textus), see Bažil 2017, passim, and esp. 344–53 (with further literature). 32  I list a narrow selection of recent relevant works exploring the nature of ‘materiality’ from anthropological perspective: Graves-Brown 2000; DeMarrais et al. 2004; Miller 2005:1–50; Boivin 2008, esp. chapters 1–2. 33  Ingold 2012: 432. 34  Here I think in particular of recent work on scroll and codex, such as Johnson 2003 on book-roll and scribes, Johnson 2010 on Roman reading culture, Whitton 2015 on hermeneutic import of the book-roll, and Gibson/Whitton 2016 on the physical scroll and the experience of reading Pliny the Younger, to mention just a few. Cf. similar work on the visuality of inscriptions, esp. Lissarrague 1985 and Lissarrague 1992.

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ramifications, while the essays by Athena Kirk and Alexei Zadorojnyi,35 both dealing with the cultural context of epigraphic writing and the textual hard physicality, will facilitate the reader’s engagement with the essays contained in the following section (II A–C). For, in the section of this volume entitled ‘Epigraphic spaces’ (II A), to speak of materiality is to speak of a physical material’s creative potential or its controlling or limiting effect, and, ultimately, to conceive of materiality with its latent or realized agency in mind. In some ways, then, the specific two-sided conceptualization of materiality adopted here reaches back to ancient discourses on matter and materials and their role. The noun materia, introduced into Latin with the meaning ‘matter’ only in the first century BCE by Cicero,36 was intended to reproduce the semantic range of Greek, and specifically Aristotelian, ὕλη (hyle):37 both terms, hyle and materia, denoted first and foremost potential building materials. In fact, already in Homer hyle denotes both the living trees, as well as the cutdown wood, timber, “the stuff of which a thing is made, material”,38 which illuminates subsequent elaboration of the ‘forest/wood’ semantic complex and its affiliation with meanings of both ‘material’ and ‘matter’. For a carpenter, hyle represents the ‘stuff’ in its capacity to be turned into an object such as a chair or a recliner; from the Hellenistic period onwards, the meaning of hyle was extended to include the ‘(subject-) matter’ of poetry or speculation: tragike or poietike hyle.39 In Heideggerian terms, for both Aristotle and Cicero, hyle/materia represents the potentiality of things to take shape (eidos; morphe) and become objects owing to the agency of the carpenter. One of the clearest formulations of Aristotle’s hylomorphic theory which provides a foundation for his specific

35  Below, pp. 29–47 and 48–68. 36  Preus 2007: 164–5 s.v. ‘matter’. Note, however, that Cicero employs the term materia in his critique of Epicureanism and from a Stoic vantage point – see Fin. 1.18 with Sedley 2011: 54–5. Sedley 2011: 60 calls into question whether Cicero translates ὕλη as materia in his philosophical treatises, while conceding that this is probably the case in his rhetorical writings. 37  Fundamental on Aristotelian hyle: Happ 1971. There is some disagreement among ancient philosophers concerning the extent to which hyle is fundamentally Aristotelian. On the attempts to trace the term to Plato’s Timaeus: Sedley 2002 vs. Hahm 1977. 38  Cf. LSJ, s.v. ὕλη III, with reference to Od. 5.257. 39  Cf. LSJ, s.v. ὕλη: “in Philosophy, matter, first in Arist. (Ti. Locr.93b, al. is later); defined as τὸ ὑποκείμενον γενέσεως καὶ φθορᾶς δεκτικόν, GC 320a2; as τὸ ἐξ οὗ γίγνεται, Metaph. 1032a17; οὐσία ἥ τε ὕ. καὶ τὸ εἶδος καὶ τὸ ἐκ τούτων ib. 1035a2”, and for hyle as subject matter of poets, see Polyb., 2.16.14: καὶ πᾶσαν δὴ τὴν τραγικὴν … ὕλην. For a discussion concerning actuality and potentiality of hyle, see Arist., Metaph. books 7 (ζ) and 9 (θ).

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understanding of being (ousia), is found in the Physics:40 hyle, matter, is that which either acquires form for the first time, or changes from its previous form. And hyle is understood in relative and also abstract terms, as “that from which”,41 so that products as well as materials can be understood as hyle: clay is hyle, matter, from which brick, in its specific morphe, is produced, but the brick is also hyle from which a wall, in its specific morphe, is made. By the same token, syllables can be understood as material for words, which in turn can be taken to represent materials for sentences and statements, and so on upwards, following the order of magnitude.42 According to Aristotelian logic, then, to speak of materiality, is, in the ‘Literary spaces’ section of this volume (II B), also to speak of an abstract material’s creative potential or its controlling or limiting effect, and, ultimately, to conceive of materiality with its latent or realized agency in mind. For, the literary production or tradition of one period is the literary material, poietike hyle, of another. This is what Latin elegy does with epigram, as Stephen Heyworth shows, and, as Michael A. Tueller suggests, it is also what Hellenistic epigrammatists did with their own predecessors’ oeuvre. Materials and texts, however, in the physical as well as in the abstract sense, by definition do not exist in isolation, but occupy real or imagined spaces. They are not defined solely by their own structure, but also by agencies of materials and texts in their immediate or sometimes remote, surrounding. In the present volume, both Fanny Opdenhoff and Joseph Day draw attention to these phenomena. Moreover, materials and texts also exist in time which may define them, and which the materials themselves can define or embody.43 Throughout Greco-Roman antiquity we encounter debates on eternity and ephemerality centered around notions of texts, inscriptions and their material supports.44 How can literature be a Thucydidean “possession for all time”? Does only Simonides’ idiot believe that inscribed stones can withstand the passage of time and preserve human memory forever? Do golden letters, in which Pindar’s ode was allegedly inscribed in Lindos, or in which dedications to the gods graced Augustan temples in Rome, truthfully guarantee the immortality 40  The literature on Aristotle’s theory of hylomorphism is vast: we direct the reader to Gill 1989 and Ainsworth 2016 for an overview of the problems and debates, and to Evnine 2016 for recent discussion of hylomorphism in relationship to materiality. 41  See Physics 194b9–195a16, Ἔτι τῶν πρός τι ἡ ὕλη· ἄλλῳ γὰρ εἴδει ἄλλη ὕλη (194b9). 42  Arist. Metaph. 1048b37–1049a18, with Makin 2006: 116–8. Cf. Pl. Crat. 389c–390b and 393d–394c. 43  Cf. Ingold 2012: 439: “Materials are not in time; they are the stuff of time itself.” 44  On these questions, see Lavigne in this volume, building on the theoretical concept of aura developed by Walter Benjamin.

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of those texts and gifts?45 What kinds of expectations, effects, hopes, or anxieties are associated with the choice of material, or choice of lettering, or with the aesthetic, textural and textual decisions concerning the incision and the layout of the texts?46 Tim Ingold provides a valuable insight into these processes when he remarks that “to understand materials is to be able to tell their histories”,47 while for another influential anthropologist, Michael B. Schiffer, as too for the philosopher Michel Serres, the defining characteristic of humans as a species is our relationship with objects and the materiality of every-day life.48 Objects, in a word, are in a relationship with humans, and in a relationship with each other. And even if this relationship is often subject to human intervention, regulation, and revision, the objects do have the autonomous capacity to act as subjects.49 To speak of materiality, therefore, is, in the ‘Architectural spaces’ section of this volume (II C), to speak simultaneously of materials’ relationship to human agents and the materials’ surroundings, and to gauge the creative potential or the controlling or limiting effect of such relationships. It is, once again, ultimately and finally, to conceive of materiality with its latent or realized agency in mind. These issues are tackled from six specific angles by Ioannis Mylonopoulos, Abigail Graham, Fanny Opdenhoff, Ida Östenberg, Katharina Bolle, and Sean V. Leatherbury. A building inscription is nothing more or less than a human intervention into an inanimate object, an assemblage of material, but an object which was perceived to have an independent voice.50 4

Summary: Aims, Methods and the Layout of the Volume

The present volume explores the phenomenon of the materiality of texts in a narrow sense: all contributions either start with, or focus on, epigraphic texts 45  Thuc. 1.22.4; Simonides 581 PMG; Pind. Ol. 7 for Diagoras of Rhodes was inscribed in golden letters: for sources, see scholia on the poem (Drachmann Vol. I, 195). Cf. also the ‘Orphic’ gold tablets, as a part of a wider and ancient Mediterranean tradition, López-Ruiz 2015. 46  See Bolle in this volume, pp. 348–77. 47  Ingold 2012: 434. 48  Schiffer 1999. Cf. Serres 1995: 87: “The only assignable difference between animal societies and our own resides … in the emergence of objects. Our relationships, social bonds, would be as airy as clouds were there only contracts between subjects. In fact, the object, specific to the Hominidae, stabilizes our relationships.” 49  This, of course, is a paraphrase of the famous statement by M. Serres: “Le sujet naît de l’objet.” 50  This point is owed to Edmund Thomas.

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directly or indirectly in order to gauge the questions of their placement, presence, and perception. Epigraphy has long since developed into a highly specialized and sophisticated discipline, which yields a continuing flow of new texts, offering both solid documentation to nourish the historical disciplines, texts that enrich and stimulate literary studies, and data that enhance and contextualize archaeological and art-historical investigations. In recent years epigraphic research has played a major role in providing a framework which allows us to grasp the wider historical implications of inscriptional evidence for society, demography, and the display of authority. At the same time, epigraphers help to explore and interpret the historical and psychological aspects of particular phenomena such as graffiti.51 It is probably fair to say that our developing sensitivity to issues of the materiality of text is already invigorating new and stimulating approaches to the nature of physical forms of writing in antiquity. This volume therefore principally aims to bring together a wide range of innovative methodologies from ancient history, literary studies, and art history, which highlight the physicality of inscribed text in ancient Greece and Rome. Focusing on the “materiality”, and in some cases the “immateriality”, or disappearance through deliberate or accidental erasure, individual chapters represent an invitation to rethink modern assumptions about the processes of writing and reading texts in their ancient surroundings and between them help to establish novel ways of thinking about the physical forms of texts that survive from the ancient world. The volume’s chief ambition and aim is therefore to provide a holistic and multi-disciplinary perspective on the physical writing of antiquity, and to increase modern sensibilities to material aspects of our texts which are often elided in modern printed editions. The intellectual currents outlined above continue to frame scholarship on issues of materiality throughout the humanities, and the critical methodologies and innovative approaches to physical forms of writing in antiquity that are announced here arise out of a variety of disciplines, including Epigraphy, Philology, Cultural History, Art History, Classical Archaeology, and Philosophy. Thus, while this volume primarily addresses students and scholars of the ancient world and cultural historians of writing, it is our hope that it will have relevance for readers from a wide variety of disciplines, including but not limited to epigraphy, literary studies, art history and architectural history. This book is divided into two sections. The first section considers the concepts underlying material forms of writing and the essence of writing itself as 51  On authority: Davies and Wilkes 2012; on graffiti: Baird and Taylor 2011.

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a process of physical and cultural intervention, and its corollary, the nature of reading inscribed letters as a social and mental act. The second section considers their specific contexts and is divided into three sub-sections, according to disciplinary perspectives: first, epigraphic space (the layout of texts, their presentation in material and immaterial forms, and the spatial dynamics of their physical setting); second, literary space (the inter-relations between literary texts and their presentation in stone and between the spoken word and the written version); and, third, architectural space (the placement of texts within buildings, the aesthetic and social strategies of their dedicators, and the architectonic effects of such writing, both intended and unintended). In Section I, “Concepts”, two introductory chapters discuss the nature and definitions of physical forms of writing and their cultural significance. Athena Kirk (Chapter 1) considers Greek literary discourse concerning inscriptions and emphasizes the literary constructions of the material existence of texts. Alexei Zadorojnyi (Chapter 2) discusses the terminology for the act of inscribing and highlights the aesthetic qualities ascribed to material aspects of text. Papers of the first subsection of Section II, “Contexts”, deal with “Epigraphic spaces”. These chapters discuss concepts of materiality for inscribed texts and pay particular attention to the impact of physical characteristics and contexts of texts on the act of reading and reception. Joseph Day (Chapter 3) investigates larger physical contexts which governed the intended reception of inscribed texts in sacred space. His analysis of such ‘spatial dynamics’ is based on an investigation of communicative aspects of dedications with inscribed texts. He draws attention to visual and verbal cross-references (sc. deictics) emerging from the monuments’ features and points out how these features facilitate communication (verbal and visual) between texts and images. Two further chapters investigate the materiality of inscribed texts with an emphasis on their functional features. Valentina Garulli (Chapter 4) draws parallels between papyrological evidence and practices of stonemasons in the use of sigla in inscribed texts, speculating about the levels of recipients’ education and the functions of the signs. Issues concerning changes in material existence, perception of texts, and recipients’ (re-)creation of meaning is the subject of Peter Rhodes’ investigation (Chapter 5), which discusses changes to text in the form of erasures and the historical contexts which caused the changes to take place, or for the texts to be completely destroyed. In the following subsection, B. “Literary spaces”, all three chapters focus on the tensions between the inscribed text as artifact and the literary fictionalization of the materiality of text. Epigram takes a prominent place, as the first Greek literary genre intended for inscription, rather than performance. The

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initial chapter investigates the variety of Archaic and Classical Greek epigrams, tackling the issue of textual authority. Donald Lavigne (Chapter 6) argues that, in order for Archaic and Classical epigrams to accomplish their goal of memorialization, they should be seen in the light of the larger archaic tradition of performed poetry. Drawing on Walter Benjamin’s concept of aura and Greenblatt’s concept of wonder, he argues that the poems under discussion articulate their authority by virtue of their intimate connection to physical monuments. Moving into the Hellenistic period, Michael A. Tueller (Chapter 7) focuses on the epigrams from the fourth and third centuries BCE and looks into the phenomenon of gendered writing, arguing that the epigrams of Erinna create the idea of a woman as inscriber rather than inscribed, and simultaneously question whether writing can endow an object with speech, a dilemma later taken up by Callimachus. As the theme then turns to Roman literature, the principal object of investigation is the representations of writing and materiality of text in elegy. Stephen Heyworth (Chapter 8) examines some of the many instances in which Propertius and Ovid display an awareness of material texts, illustrating the extraordinary range of materials and tools they imagine as implements and surfaces for writing. Memorialization and the interplay between spoken and written word are shown to be significant, as the elegists continue the engagement with materiality that can be traced back to Catullus, the Hellenistic epigrammatists, Callimachus, and the Homeric epics. In the final subsection of this volume, C. “Architectural spaces”, the six chapters address the variety of dedicatory texts on buildings in the ancient Greek and Roman world. The visual meaning of such texts depended on the complex interrelationship of the social role of the dedicator or ‘author’ of the text, its material form, the position and visibility in the built structure on which it stood, and the surrounding features including the frame of the text and other inscriptions around it. While the traditional view of Greek architecture as almost wholly free from inscriptions has been modified by recent finds and research to present a picture of Greek buildings as freely inscribed dedicatory objects,52 Ioannis Mylonopoulos (Chapter 9) re-asserts the comparative reluctance of Greeks to inscribe buildings and explains it by an unwillingness to identify the principal structures of Greek sanctuaries as votive offerings. The following chapters trace the subsequent practice of placing dedicatory texts on buildings and the continual balancing act between the reticence of the dedicator and the flaunting of display. Abigail Graham (Chapter 10) and Fanny Opdenhoff (Chapter 11) consider in detail the complex spatial 52  Umholtz 2002.

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arrangements that could be found among a set of texts inscribed within a single context. Graham shows principally how formal texts were arranged within the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias to create specific visual effects and to indicate hierarchies, while Opdenhoff describes the more haphazard, ongoing material modifications of painted, scratched, and carved writings on walls at Pompeii. In Chapter 12, Ida Östenberg explores the unintended side-effects of epigraphic practice, focusing on the Roman practice of damnatio memoriae and its paradoxical capacity to perpetuate as well as physically to remove specific names. Katharina Bolle’s chapter (13) discusses the visual strategies involved in the erection of public inscriptions at Ostia during the extensive restoration of the town between the third and fifth centuries CE. The increasing emphasis placed on the aesthetic design of the text anticipates the last chapter, which charts the changing priorities in Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages.53 This is the theme of Sean Leatherbury’s contribution (Chapter 14) in which he discusses the special significance of the tabula ansata as a widely used framing device for inscriptions, and shows how changes in materials impacted tabula ansata’s monumentalizing function in Italy, Greece and Jordan. His argument that the special link between discourse and medium can be regarded as a form of “metamediality” has implications for all the chapters in this section and in the volume as a whole. 5 Outlook It goes without saying that this volume can only scratch the surface of these topics, and that it is inevitably selective in its explorations of the concept of textual materiality as it relates to each of the three large cornerstones – material, literature, and context – around which the book is organized. But as organizers of the conference and editors of this volume, we are delighted to witness an increasing number of contributions on the topic of materiality in Classics, Classical Art History, and Ancient History over the past five years. This should not surprise, for the topic of the materiality of text is, as mentioned repeatedly, naturally at home in the field of Classics, since Greek and Roman authors of all periods express concern for the survival of their work or link literary value to concepts of permanence and ephemerality.

53  Several contributions in Elsner and Lobato’s excellent 2017 collection deal with various aspects of materiality / visuality of Late Antique texts; the collection appeared too late for the contributors of this volume to fully profit from its insight in their papers.

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In fact, the topics of the ‘thingness’ of our evidence and its relationship to human agents have in past years found prominent advocates in the fields of ancient literatures, Classical Art History, and, increasingly, Epigraphy. I single out here just two relevant contributions: following Ruth Bielfeldt’s edited volume entitled Ding und Mensch in der Antike, a volume which sought to explore ancient things in their relationship to humans as ‘kulturelle Präsenzgesten,’ a forthcoming special issue of Art History, edited by Verity Platt and Milette Gaifman, is dedicated in its entirety to ancient ‘embodied objects’, that is, “the complex entanglements that bound Greco-Roman artefacts to the bodies of their contemporary (be)holders”.54 Just how pervasive the interest in materiality throughout Classical disciplines has become, can be illuminated by pointing to a small selection of recent investigations which explore concepts of materiality in explicit terms: for instance, the function of materiality in magic;55 the materiality of gods;56 the role of materiality in a section of Catullus’ book, in Propertius’ oeuvre, and in Martial’s conceptualization of his work;57 materiality and script on Minoan weapons;58 materiality and memory in Roman funerary rituals;59 in Philo’s conceptualization of logos;60 materiality and Mediterranean (wine) consumption, from the Bronze age to the Classical period;61 materiality of Late Antique letters;62 materiality and communication;63 and materiality and the sublime.64 In other words, materiality is attracting significant attention in Classics and Ancient History. Still variously grasped and heterogeneously defined (when and if it is defined at all), it has become an object of investigation in sub-fields as distant from each other as Mycenology and Late Antique Latin literature. But the interest in the relationship between materiality and texts goes far beyond 54  Both volumes provide informative explorations of key issues; the quotation is from Gaifman/Platt’s sophisticated Introduction, forthcoming 2018, a tour de force overview of recent methodological developments, which directly engages with the actor-networktheory; on this, see also in Östenberg in this volume. On materiality, materialism and Classical art history, see Platt 2016. 55  Boschung / Bremmer 2015. 56  Auffarth 2010. Fundamental on the materiality of gods in Greek and Roman art: Platt 2011. 57  Catullus: Feeney 2012; Martial: Roman 2001 and Seo 2009; Propertius: Phillips 2011. 58  Flouda 2015. 59  Graham 2011. 60  Robertson 2006. 61  Riva 2010 (and van Dommelen/Knapp 2010 volume generally on identity and materiality); on consumption generally: Steel 2013. 62  Williams 2014. 63  Enderwitz / Sauer 2015. 64  Porter 2016, esp. chapters 5 and 6 on material and immaterial sublime respectively.

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the strict purview of Classics.65 Heidelberg University is the home of a largescale Collaborative Research Project, Materiale Textkulturen, (SFB 933), established in 2011, with which some of our contributors have been collaborating over the years (K. Bolle, F. Opdenhoff), and which is dedicated exclusively to questions of materiality and writing in pre-typographic societies.66 The project covers a vast amount of ground: it supports relevant research in diverse periods; and it investigates cultures from ancient Mesopotamia, through medieval Japan, to pre-modern Europe, and beyond. The project’s outputs are published in a dedicated book series (‘Materiale Textkulturen’, De Gruyter) which since 2014 has published no fewer than seventeen volumes on relevant topics.67 In epigraphy, increasing attention is being paid to the materiality of inscribed texts and the design of written surfaces. This is particularly welcome and timely, for a number of new epigraphic finds have put into sharp relief the need to think more systematically about these issues, issues of great import, but as a rule undetectable and invisible in standard editions and traditional corpora of epigraphic material. Anyone who has set his or her eyes on, say, the Ischia cup, tabulae Iliacae, or Byzantine epigrams on frescoes and mosaics, will understand the urgency and timeliness of this topic, a topic best illustrated, perhaps, by the spectacular new text from Eua Lukou, and the controversies surrounding the unexpected layout of the casualty list: because of our limited engagement with issues of textual layout, some scholars assumed that they were dealing with a forgery, while others hypothesized that the layout imitates the hoplite formation.68 One hopes that more work will take its cue from Patricia Butz’s explorations of the stoichedon style, and address the topics of layout and textual arrangement in a systematic fashion, and the hope seems justified.69 To judge by recent publications and conferences, materiality has become one of the most attractive topics to students of Greek and Latin epigraphy. Current work on graffiti, which engages directly with the topics of the 65  Another indicator of a sudden surge of interest in this topic is that, at times, overlaps appear: Prof. Ulrich Eigler of University of Zurich, together with Brigitte Marti, Cornelia Ritter-Schmalz, Raphael Schwitter and Dominique Stehli, organized in Zurich in June 2016 a conference entitled ‘The Materiality of Texts between Lebenswelt and Lesewelt’. 66  http://www.materiale-textkulturen.org. 67  Of these, several are of particular interest to Classicists: Lohmann 2017 on graffiti in Pompeii; Berti/Bolle/Opdenhoff/Stroth 2017 on monumental inscriptions in antiquity and the middle ages; Sarri 2017 on epistolography; Haß/Noller 2014 on materiality and literary theory (chapters 2–6); Kehnel/Panagiotopoulos 2014 on materiality and early societies. 68  For an overview of the issues, see Petrovic 2013. 69  Butz 2010.

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relationship between individual textual segments, alongside explorations of the layouts of Latin inscriptions, of epigraphic opistographs, and of the physical forms and formats of Classical Athenian inscriptions,70 bears witness to the fact that Greek and Latin epigraphers are increasingly sensitive to the issues of the materiality of their texts. That very materiality represents, as has been learned in recent years, in and of itself an invaluable evidence, and this volume aims to make a contribution to the efforts of its assessment. Bibliography Ainsworth, Th. 2016. “Form vs. Matter.” In E. N. Zalta, ed., The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, (Spring 2016 Edition). https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2016/ entries/form-matter/. Auffarth, Ch. 2010. “The materiality of god’s image: the Olympian Zeus and ancient Christology.” In J. N. Bremmer and A. Erskine, eds., The Gods of Ancient Greece, 465– 80. Edinburgh. Baird, J. A. and Taylor, C., eds. 2012. Ancient Graffiti in Context. New York.

70  For graffiti, particularly illuminating is The Ancient Graffiti Project, directed by Rebecca Benefiel (ancientgraffiti.org), and for exploration of spatial dynamics of graffiti, an investigation complementary to Joe Day’s work on the Greek material in this volume, see Benefiel/Sypniewski 2016. For work on textual layout of Latin verse-inscriptions from Rome and Hispania: Limón Belén 2014; opistographs: Kuin 2017 with further literature; for work on the format of Attic inscriptions: Meyer 2017 (with rich relevant bibliography). Conferences: A. Petrovic chaired the panel on Carmina Graeca at the XV International Congress on Greek and Latin Epigraphy (Vienna 2017) at which the contributors dealt explicitly with issues of textual layout and its materiality. At the SCS meeting in Boston in January 2018, Erica Angliker and Ilaria Bultrighini organized a panel entitled “Current approaches to the materiality of texts in Greco-Roman antiquity” to which two of our contributors (J. Day and S. Leatherbury) contributed papers. At the SCS meeting in San Diego in January 2019, Paula Perlman and Cristina Carusi of the University of Texas will be organizing a panel dedicated to “Graphic Display. Form and Meaning in Greek and Latin Writing” which deals with issues of the relationship between “graphic display,” content, and audience response, i.e. with the issues which productively coincide with many of the questions which are raised in this book, such as textual strategies steering the reader of an inscription towards generation of meaning. Cf. ASGLE Bulletin 21.2, Dec. 15 2017, pp. 3–4.  For comments and suggestions concerning this essay, I am very grateful to Ivana Petrovic and Mike Squire. Thanks are due also to Kyle Chattleton, Matt Pincus, Kevin Scahill, and Edmund V. Thomas. I thank also Milette Gaifman, Verity Platt and Mike Squire for generously sharing their work with me in advance of the publication.

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Bažil, M. 2017. “Elementorum varius textus: Atomistisches und Anagrammatisches in Optatians Textbegriff.” In M. Squire and J. Wienand, eds., Morphogrammata / The Lettered Art of Optatian: Figuring Cultural Transformations in the Age of Constantine, 341–68. Paderborn. Beetz, J. 2016. Materiality and Subject in Marxism, (Post-)Structuralism, and Material Semiotics. London. Benefiel, R. and Sypniewski, H. M. 2016. “Images and Text on the walls of Herculaneum: Designing the Ancient Graffiti Project.” In A. Felle and A. Rocco, eds., Off the Beaten Track: Epigraphy at the Borders, 26–45. Oxford. Berry, D. M. 2014. Critical Theory and the Digital. New York/London. Berti, I., Bolle, K., Opdenhoff, F., and Stroth, F., eds. 2017. Writing Matters. Berlin. Bennett, T. and Joyce, P., eds. 2010. Material Powers. Cultural Studies, History and the Material Turn. London/New York. Bielfeldt, R., ed. 2010. Ding und Mensch in der Antike: Gegenwart und Vergegenwärtigung. Munich. Boivin, N. 2008. Material Cultures, Material Minds: The Impact of Things on Human Thought, Society and Evolution. Cambridge. Boschung, D. and Bremmer, J. N., eds. 2015. The Materiality of Magic. Paderborn. Brooks, O. 2015. “‘I’m a free bitch baby,’ a ‘material girl’: interrogating audience interpretations of the postfeminist performances of Lady Gaga and Madonna.” In H. Savigny and H. Warner, eds., The Politics of Being a Woman: Feminism, Media and 21st Century Pop Culture, 67–90. New York. Brown, B. 2001. “Thing Theory.” Critical Inquiry 28: 1–22. Butz, P. 2010. The Art of the Hekatompedon Inscription and the Birth of the Stoichedon Style. Boston and Leiden. Cavell, R. 2010. “Specters of McLuhan: Derrida, media, and materiality.” In P. Grosswiler, ed., Transforming McLuhan: Cultural, Critical, and Postmodern Perspectives, 135–62. Stuttgart. Davies, J. and Wilkes, J., eds. 2012. Epigraphy and the Historical Sciences. Oxford. DeMarrais, E., Gosden, C., and Renfrew, C., eds. 2004. Rethinking Materiality: The Engagement of Mind with the Material World. Cambridge. Derrida, J. 1972. “Le puits et la pyramide (introduction à la sémiologie de Hegel).” In J. Derrida, Marges de la philosophie, 79–127. Paris. Dietrich, N. 2017. “Framing Archaic Greek sculpture: figure, ornament and script.” In Platt, V. J. and Squire, M., eds., The Frame in Classical Art: A Cultural History, 270–316. Cambridge. Enderwitz, S. and Sauer, R. 2015. Communication and Materiality. Written and Unwritten Communication in pre-modern Societies. Berlin. Eagleton, T. 1996. Literary Theory: An Introduction. Minneapolis. Elsner, J. and Lobato, J. eds. 2017. The Poetics of Late Latin Literature. Oxford.

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Evnine, S. 2016. Making Objects and Events: A Hylomorphic Theory of Artifacts, Actions, and Organisms. Oxford. Ferrarin, A. 2001. Hegel and Aristotle. Cambridge. Feeney, D. C. 2012. “Representation and the materiality of the book in the polymetrics.” In I. M. Le M. Du Quesnay and A. J. Woodman, eds., Catullus: Poems, Books, Readers, 29–47. Cambridge. Flouda, G. S. 2015. “Materiality and script: constructing a narrative on the Minoan inscribed axe from the Arkalochori Cave.” Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici N.S. 1: 3–56. Flower, H. I. 2006. The Art of Forgetting. Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture. Chapel Hill. Gaifman, M., Platt, V., and Squire, M., eds. forthcoming 2018. The Embodied Object in Greek and Roman Art. Special edition of Art History (41.3). Gibson, R. and Whitton, C. 2016. The Epistles of Pliny. Oxford. Gill, M. L. 1989. Aristotle on Substance: the Paradox of Unity. Princeton. Gonzalez, F. J. 2009. Plato and Heidegger: A Question of Dialogue. Philadelphia. Graham, E.-J. 2011. “Memory and materiality: re-embodying the Roman funeral.” In V. Hope and J. Huskinson, eds., Memory and Mourning: Studies on Roman Death, 21–39. Oxford/Oakville, CT. Graves-Brown, P. M., ed. 2000. Matter, Materiality and Modern Culture. New York. Grosswiler, P. 1996. “The dialectical methods of Marshall McLuhan, Marxism, and Critical Theory.” Canadian Journal of Communication 21: 95–124. Gumbrecht, H. U. 2004. Production of Presence: What Meaning Cannot Convey. Palo Alto. Hahm, D. E. 1977. The Origins of Stoic Cosmology. Columbus. Hammond, A. 2016. Literature in the Digital Age: An Introduction. Cambridge. Happ, H. 1971. Hyle. Studien zum aristotelischen Materie-Begriff. Berlin. Haß, C. D. and Noller, E. M., eds. 2015. Was bedeutet Ordnung – was ordnet Bedeutung? Berlin. Heidegger, M. 1994. “Das Ding.” In Heidegger, M. Vorträge und Aufsätze, 157–79. 7th ed. Stuttgart. Herzogenrath, B. 2015. Media|Matter: The Materiality of Media, Matter as Medium. New York. Hudek, A. 2009. “From over- to sub-exposure: the anamnesis of Les Immatériaux.” Tate Papers 12 (http://www.tate.org.uk/research/publications/tate-papers/12/from -over-to-sub-exposure-the-anamnesis-of-les-immateriaux). Ingold, T. 2012. “Toward an ecology of materials.” Annual Revue of Anthropology 41: 427–42. Johnson, W. 2003. Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus. Toronto.

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Johnson, W. 2010. Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities. Oxford. Keesling, C. 2017. Early Greek Portraiture: Monuments and Histories. Cambridge. Kehnel, A. and Panagiotopoulos, D., eds. 2015. Schriftträger – Textträger. Zur materialen Präsenz des Geschriebenen in frühen Gesellschaften. Berlin. Knapp, B. and van Dommelen, P., eds. 2010. Material Connections: Mobility, Materiality and Mediterranean Identities. New York. Knight, A. 1993. Beria: Stalin’s First Lieutenant. Princeton. Koenker, D. and Bachman, R. D., eds. 1997. Revelations from the Russian Archives: Documents in English Translation. Washington, DC. Kristeva, J. 1974. Revolution in Poetic Language. New York. Kuin, I. N. I. 2017. “Unseen and unharmed: a case study in understanding opistho­ graphic epitaphs.” Classical Quarterly 67: 573–82. Kwapisz, J. 2013. The Greek Figure Poems. Leuven, Paris, and Walpole, MA. Lange-Berndt, P. 2015. Materiality: Documents of Contemporary Art. Cambridge, MA. Limón Belén, M. 2014. La compaginación de las inscripciones latinas en verso. Roma e Hispania. Rome. Lissarrague, F. 1985. “Paroles d’images: remarques sur le functionnement de l’ écriture dans l’imagerie attique.” In A. M. Christin, ed., Écritures II, 71–93. Paris. Lissarrague, F. 1992. “Graphein: écrire et dessiner.” In C. Bron and E. Kassapoglou, eds., L’image en jeu, 189–203. Lausanne. Lohmann, P. 2017. Graffiti als Interaktionsform. Berlin. Loewenstein, K. E. 2012. “The Changing Nature of Literary Censorship, 1961–1965.” The Soviet and Post-Soviet Review 39: 3–21. López-Ruiz, C. 2015. “Near Eastern precedents of the ‘Orphic’ gold tablets: the Phoenician missing link.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 15: 52–91. Makin, S. 2006. Aristotle. Metaphysics Book Θ. Oxford. McLuhan, M. 1964. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. New York. McLuhan, M. with Fiore, Q. and Angel, J. 1967. The Medium is the Massage: An Inventory of Effects. New York. Meyer, E. 2017. “Inscribing in columns in fifth century Athens.” In I. Berti, K. Bolle, F. Opdenhoff, and F. Stroth, eds., Writing Matters, 205–64. Berlin. Miller, D. 2005. “Materiality: an introduction.” In D. Miller, ed., Materiality, 1–50. Durham NC. Petrovic, A. 2013. “The Battle of Marathon in pre-Herodotean Sources: on Marathon Verse-Inscriptions.” In C. Carey and M. Edwards, eds., Marathon – 2500 Years, 45–61. London. Phillips, T. 2011. “Propertius and the poetics of the book: 1.18 and 3.15–17.” Cambridge Classical Journal 57: 105–35.

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Pierce, G. B. 2012. Scapeland: Writing the Landscape from Diderot’s Salons to the Postmodern Museum. Amsterdam. Platt, V. 2006. “Honour takes wing: unstable images and anxious orators in the Greek tradition.” In Z. Newby and R. Leader-Newby, eds., Art and Inscriptions in the Ancient World, 247–71. Cambridge. Platt, V. 2011. Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and Religion. Cambridge. Platt, V. 2016. “The matter of Classical Art History.” Daedalus 145: 69–78. Platt, V. J. and Squire, M., eds. The Frame in Classical Art: A Cultural History. Cambridge. Porter, J. I. 2016. The Sublime in Antiquity. Cambridge. Preus, A. 2007. Historical Dictionary of Ancient Greek Philosophy. Lanham, MD. Rhoby, A. 2017. “Text as art? Byzantine inscriptions and their display.” In I. Berti, K. Bolle, F. Opdenhoff, and F. Stroth, eds., Writing Matters, 265–84. Berlin. Riva, C. 2010. “Trading settlements and the materiality of wine consumption in the north Tyrrhenian sea region.” In B. Knapp and P. van Dommelen, eds., Material Connections: Mobility, Materiality and Mediterranean Identities, 210–32. New York. Robertson, D. G. 2006. “Mind and language in Philo.” Journal of the History of Ideas 67: 423–41. Roman, L. 2001. “The representation of literary materiality in Martial’s ‘Epigrams’.” Journal of Roman Studies 91: 113–45. Sarri, A. 2017. Material Aspects of Letter Writing in the Graeco-Roman World. Berlin. Schiffer, B. and Miller, A. R. 1999. The Material Life of Human Beings: Artifacts, Behaviour and Communication. New York. Sedley, D. 2002. “The origins of Stoic god.” In D. Frede and A. Laks, eds., Traditions of Theology, 41–83. Boston. Sedley, D. 2011. “Matter in Hellenistic philosophy.” In D. Giovannozzi and M. Veneziani, eds., Materia, 53–66. Florence. Seo, J. M. 2009. “Plagiarism and poetic identity in Martial.” American Journal of Philology 130: 567–93. Serres, M. 1995. Genesis. Ann Arbor. Shear, J. 2006. “Reusing statues, rewriting inscriptions and bestowing honours in Roman Athens.” In Z. Newby and R. Leader-Newby, eds., Art and Inscriptions in the Ancient World, 221–46. Cambridge. Siep, L. 2014. Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Cambridge. Steel, L. 2013. Materiality and Consumption in the Bronze Age Mediterranean. New York. Squire, M. 2011. The Iliad in a Nutshell: Visualizing Epic on the Tabulae Iliacae. Oxford. Squire, M. 2017. “Optatian and his lettered art: A kaleidoscopic lens on Late Antiquity.” In M. Squire and J. Wienand, eds., Morphogrammata / The Lettered Art of Optatian: Figuring Cultural Transformations in the Age of Constantine, 55–120. Paderborn.

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Umholtz, G. 2002. “Architraval Arrogance? Dedicatory Inscriptions in Greek Architecture of the Classical Period.” Hesperia 71: 261–93. van der Weel, A. 2011. Changing our Textual Minds: Towards a Digital Order of Knowledge. Manchester. Varner, E. R. 2004. Monumenta Graeca et Romana: Mutilation and Transformation: damnatio memoriae and Roman Imperial Portraiture. Boston. Whitton, C. 2015. “Grand designs: unrolling Epistles 2.” In I. Marchesi, ed., Pliny the Book-maker: Betting on Posterity in the Epistles, 109–43. Oxford. Williams, J. 2014. “Letter writing, materiality, and gifts in Late Antiquity: some perspectives on material culture.” Journal of Late Antiquity 7: 351–9. Žižek, S. 2012. Less than Nothing: Hegel and the Shadow of Dialectical Materialism. London.

Part I Concepts

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chapter 1

What is an ἐπιγραφή in Classical Greece? Athena Kirk The relationship between writing and its materials has witnessed vigorous interest in the past few decades among scholars of cultural history in many periods. Among other things, they have attempted to move beyond studies of literacy that in their view privilege linguistic content over the physical qualities of writing.1 These more recent studies aim by contrast to return our focus to the visual, tangible elements of writing, and “rematerializ[e] literacy” through analysis of such features as typography, graphic design, or print culture.2 Scholars of Classical antiquity have also begun to engage with material concerns in this way. While studies of Greek epigraphy have long attended to many of the physical qualities of inscriptions, and autopsy of stone itself has always been a crucial component of epigraphic study, it nonetheless is often difficult or impractical, and certain material details tend to go ignored. Definitions of what ancient inscriptions are (and are not), however, remind us of their inherent physicality; thus in the recent Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, Rudolf Wachter says of epigraphic texts: “[t]heir essential feature is that the material support of the text and its letters date from antiquity … This also applies to papyri … of course, but papyri are not considered inscriptions, because papyrus is soft and fragile, whereas inscriptions are typically texts written on solid material.”3 Despite our acknowledging the importance of this physical essence, the fact remains that more often than not we encounter inscriptions as disembodied texts, edited and reprinted on paper in modern typeface and editorial symbols. As a result we study them first for content rather than appearance, only perhaps later seeing the genuine article. By the same token, as a society that operates comfortably with facsimiled text, we navigate smoothly between media, understanding a reprint and an original as, textually, fundamentally the same.

1  Ong 1982, Goody 1977, Havelock 1981 and 1986 are among the most oft-cited voices of the language-centered. 2  Trimbur 2002: 192. Haas 1996 made a similar attempt, addressing shifts in writing technology. 3  Wachter 2010: 47.

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Ancient Greek readers and writers operated in a completely different technological landscape.4 Their descriptions of writing often emphasize the letters, the writing surface or support, and its tendency to function together with the words on it to enact the text. This paper explores the ancient Greek discourse surrounding inscriptions, and specifically the use of the term ἐπιγραφή.5 While an ἐπιγραφή is usually defined as an ‘inscription’ in some general sense, it in fact means something more specific once it comes into use: unlike texts first composed and then recorded on stone such as laws, decrees, epigrams, and curses, ἐπιγραφή properly denotes a text that originates in written form and attaches itself to an object: dedicatory descriptions for votives, name labels, distinguishing marks. Literary discussions of inscriptions, inscriptions themselves, and more figurative uses of the word demonstrate these key features of materiality, inextricability from surface, and unspokenness. Greek writers seem to have a peculiar conception of the relationship between a stone and its content, and are less apt to perceive the text of the inscription as an entity separable from its physical medium. Τhe way writers of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE both develop and use the word ἐπιγραφή reveals their general reluctance to separate writing from stone, message from medium, and text from object: for them, the so-called materiality of the ἐπιγραφή is an inalienable given.6 1

Before ἐπιγραφή: Messenger Objects

The abstract noun ἐπιγραφή is not attested in literature before the fifth century. Early Greek mentions of writing, while few, nonetheless hint at the importance of the inscribed object to the overall act of communication, as itself conveying meaning together with the text. Our first glimpse is to be found in the Iliad, with the infamous σήματα λυγρά Proteus inscribes on the pinax he sends with Bellerophontes to Lycia to decree his murder (Hom. Il. 6.168–69): 4  The relationship of Greek audiences to written text has been explored in numerous books of the last several decades, including but not limited to Havelock 1986; Thomas 1989; 1992; and 1994. More recent attention has gone to actual public interaction with inscribed text, including that of Svenbro 1993; Sickinger 1999; Pébarthe 2006; Bakewell 2006; Glaraki 2007; Thomas 2009; Missiou 2011; and Pappas 2011. 5  Note that while studies of literacy of course play a part in this discussion, I will not directly treat actual readership of inscriptions, for which see, as well as those sources above, Day 2010: especially 59–84; Keesling 2003: 34–35; and Bing 2002. 6  I am grateful to the participants and organizers of the “Materiality of Texts” conference from which this volume stemmed for their generous questions and comments. I also benefited greatly from the useful suggestions of an anonymous reviewer.

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πέμπε δέ μιν Λυκίην δέ, πόρεν δ᾽ ὅ γε σήματα λυγρὰ γράψας ἐν πίνακι πτυκτῷ θυμοφθόρα πολλά … He sent him to Lycia, and he gave him destructive tokens, writing many murderous messages in a folded(?) tablet. While others have pointed out that this episode emphasizes the treacherous nature of writing as a technology capable of deceit, we might do well also to observe that it depicts the written word as its own entity, not just a vehicle for a message. The σήματα together with the pinax act on behalf of the sender (who, after all, had the letter written because he was reluctant to kill Bellerophontes himself).7 Steiner argues that “the tablet, like other sēmata, functions inferentially and can deliver its message even without the semiotic inscriptions,” and she rightly highlights the object as being of at least equal importance to text.8 We might point to Pind. Ol. 7 as another example of writing’s inherent physicality in Greece. The text of the ode, we learn from a scholiast, was affixed in gold letters to the temple of Athena Lindos on Rhodes, valuable as much for its substance as for its content, and, as others have noted, “worth its weight in gold.”9 Clearly the material manifestation of the poem contributed to its overall ‘objecthood.’ But within the poem itself too can be found indications of the physical importance of writing. In the final lines the poet praises the victor Diagoras’ widespread renown, remarking on its manifestations in various regions of Greece, including in what sounds like a victor list (Pind. Ol. 7. 86–87): ἐν Μεγάροισίν τ’ οὐχ ἕτερον λιθίνα ψᾶφος ἔχει λόγον. And in Megara the stone reckoning holds no other account. As before, it is the object, here an emphatically material stone, that delivers the message, not the words on it.10 The physicality of the text is apparent here just

7  Rosenmeyer 2001: 40–43 emphasizes and usefully explores the later trope of false letters. 8  Steiner 1994: 15–16. Whereas she sees a transition between the original message that Proteus inscribes (an inscription) and that which the Lycian king receives (a sēma), I see both as part of one and the same text-object. 9  Schol. ad Pind. Ol. 7 p. 195, 13 Dr, quoting Gorgon, FGrH 515F18. Quotation from Dougherty 1993: 121. 10  Reference to an object also lends credibility. Discussing this poem, Price 2012: 24 makes the general point that in contrast to the Roman era, there were no official adjudicators

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as in the Homeric example, and both passages avoid referring explicitly to the written words themselves. References to letters (γράμματα), as forms to be observed rather than immediately ‘read,’ show how important the formal qualities of writing itself are to the discourse. At Aesch. Sept. 660–61, Eteocles wonders about Polyneices whether “the gold-wrought letters babbling on his shield along the wandering of his mind will lead him back” (εἴ νιν κατάξει χρυσότευκτα γράμματα | ἐπ’ ἀσπίδος φλύοντα σὺν φοίτωι φρενῶν). Even more technical discussions of γράμματα maintain this sense, speaking of letters as agents themselves rather than just units of linguistic meaning. One famous example occurs in Euripides’ Theseus, in which an illiterate herdsman describes the shapes of letter forms spelling out the name of the eponymous hero, as well as a similar passage of Agathon (Telephus fr. 4); the herdsman’s description of the letter theta proceeds (Eur. Theseus fr. 382.3–4): κύκλος τις ὡς τόρνοισιν ἐκμετρούμενος, |οὗτος δ’ ἔχει σημεῖον ἐν μέσῳ σαφές (“a kind of circle, measured out as with a compass, which has a clear sign in the middle”). These examples have rightly been viewed as telling portraits of the range of alphabetic abilities in the fifth century; they emphasize the contrast between the illiterate character and the literate audience member, who would be able to understand the name from his description.11 But they again remind us of the tangible realities of reading words for an ancient viewer or listener, whose conception contrasts sharply with the modern, critical notion of a text as something – anything – readable, a message, regardless of the medium in which we find it.12 Moreover, in the Theseus example, the herdsman ultimately communicates with the audience using writing, but not via its phonetic values. It is this nuance that I would like to explore further in the context of epigraphic texts and the literary discourse surrounding them. Specifically, I will discuss in what follows how ancient writers talk about inscriptions, as well as how inscriptions refer to themselves, using the verb ἐπιγράφω and the noun ἐπιγραφή.13 The vocabulary of inscriptions in the Classical context shows that for Greek mythical variations, and “[c]ompeting claims … had to rest on evidence such as physical remains, old oracles, decrees and the writings of poets and historians”. 11  Recently Pappas 2011: 47–48, who sees these examples as attempts to temper the power that came with being very literate and democratize the decipherment of writing; see also Torrance 2013: 176, 180. 12  For definitions along these lines see, e.g., Lotman 1977: 50–55. 13  Others have made useful studies of certain authors’ uses of epigraphic evidence, including West 1985 (for Herodotus) and Higbie 1999 (especially for the fourth-century historian Craterus of Macedon, also Aristotle and Plutarch). This chapter has a slightly different aim, with an interest not so much in what stones these authors may have seen as in what they felt an ἐπιγραφή was.

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writers conceive of inscriptions as complex text-objects that operate on material as well as phonetic levels, rather than texts separable from their vehicles or supports. 2

Writing about Writing

As users of a relatively new technology, the Greeks understandably have a plurality of ways of describing epigraphic writing: it would appear that there is not one established convention.14 Herodotus, whom we tend to consider one of the earliest students of inscriptions, never once uses the noun ἐπιγραφή to describe writing on surfaces, despite some two dozen mentions of inscriptions.15 Perhaps the word was not available in Ionic; perhaps it had yet to come into popular usage anywhere. Much as his Archaic predecessors, Herodotus also rarely (if ever) discusses an inscription without attending to the surface on which it is written, often in odd or cumbersome periphrases. He frequently describes objects as having “letters that say things” (γράμματα λέγοντα τάδε) or expressing “through letters” (διὰ γραμμάτων)16 and also at times specifies the mode of carving or etching (ἐντάμνω, ἐγκολάπτω). What he does not state is that “there is an inscription” in such and such a place.17 Γράμματα in the Histories are very much a physical entity, a product of contact and workmanship, rather than metaphorically synonymous with a “text.”

14  New technologies seem to start being called a number of names before settling into one or a few conventional variants; consider, for example, the “USB drive,” also known under several synonyms. 15  West 1985: 279–280 lists 24 mentions of inscriptions, 13 with Greek writing, 11 foreign. Herodotus does use the abstract noun ἐπίγραμμα, but in reference to hexameter and elegiac poems, not prose inscriptions. 16  This phrase occurs in the description of Croesus’ boundary marker at Kudrara. The irony of course here that it is likely the monument itself and not its hermetic script that would have signaled the ends of Lydia to an Anatolian. He makes a similar claim about Cheops’ pyramid (2.125.6): σεσήμανται δὲ διὰ γραμμάτων αἰγυπτίων ἐν τῇ πυραμίδι ὅσα ἔς τε συρμαίην καὶ κρόμμυα καὶ σκόροδα ἀναισιμώθη τοῖσι ἐργαζομένοισι· “And it was made known via Egyptian letters on the pyramid how much of radishes, onions, and garlic was consumed by the workmen.” 17  Herodotus does use the word ἐπίγραμμα three times, but only in reference to verse inscriptions (at 5.59 and twice at 7.228). Epigrams, although they too are on a surface, have other defining characteristics of form and content that set them apart as entities unto themselves, on or off the stones, whereas prose – or list – inscriptions do not and thus may not for him fall into the same category.

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A curious example of a new terminology occurs in Herodotus’ description of two perirrhanteria dedicated at Delphi, in which one can observe a syntactic struggle (Hdt. 1.51.3–4).18 τῶν τῷ χρυσέῳ ἐπιγέγραπται Λακεδαιμονίων φάμενον εἶναι ἀνάθημα, οὐκ ὀρθῶς λέγον· ἔστι γὰρ καὶ τοῦτο Κροίσου, ἐπέγραψε δὲ τῶν τις Δελφῶν Λακεδαιμονίοισι βουλόμενος χαρίζεσθαι, τοῦ ἐπιστάμενος τὸ οὔνομα οὐκ ἐπιμνήσομαι· On the gold one of them, it has been inscribed saying that it is a dedication of the Lacedaimonians, but it does not state the truth. For this is also a dedication of Croesus’, and one of the Delphians – whose name I know but will not mention – inscribed it out of a desire to please the Lacedaimonians. While the sense is quite clear, the parsing is less so: ἐπιγέγραπται first appears impersonal (“there has been inscribed …”) but then takes the participle φάμενον in an apparent agreement with something: the perirrhanterion? The inscription on it? Was the perirrhanterion perhaps a speaking object, literally announcing itself (if falsely) as the ἀνάθημα of the Lacedaimonians? The possibility is not unlikely, especially given that about twenty percent of Archaic votives behave this way, as first-person inscriptions of the “oggetti parlanti”/ “Ich-Rede” type.19 But if the statement refers to the inscription itself (“it does not state the truth”), it is as if Herodotus has all but supplied the noun ἐπιγραφή, outlining it in shadow as a cognate accusative-turned-subject of the passive verb. As we might expect as well, the passage clearly places stock first and foremost in the inscribed object rather than the text on it. The discussion, and the syntax, focus on the precious metal items, and the mention of the inscription seems to be an afterthought; as West sees it, “its function is … to persuade us that [Herodotus] had access to particularly knowledgeable sources at Delphi.”20 Perhaps, but this detail also reveals a fundamental rule about objects and ἐπιγραφαί: they have an intrinsic identity generally tied to the words on them, and any alterations to that relationship upset the balance of label to object. This story introduces a particularly interesting example, for this 18  Powell 1938: 134 notes that Herodotus uses ἐπιγράφω “peculiarly” here. The text segment from φάμενον to λέγον is unsatisfactory. I quote here Madvig's emendation, printed in the apparatus of Hude's 1927 OCT; in his 2015 edition, Wilson prints a heavily revised and supplemented version: φασὶ μὲν ὦν ⟨ἐκείνων⟩ εἶναι ἀνάθημα, οὐκ ὀρθῶς λέγοντες. 19  Keesling 2003: 19. The figure includes both inscribed objects and statue base inscriptions on votive monuments. 20  West 1985: 280.

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ἐπιγραφή, rather than clarifying and corroborating or authenticating the object, obfuscates its provenance and deceives the viewer.21 The vague, passive syntax only adds to the confusion. One might wonder in this context why Herodotus might not resort to another available noun to describe the text, and why he does not quote the inscription directly as he does elsewhere. The omission is perhaps not so arbitrary; rather, Herodotus typically quotes the text of an inscription only when it can be spoken aloud in a separate performance context: that is to say, only for things that sound like utterances.22 Thus he quotes texts for verse epigrams (4.88, 5.59–61, 5.77, 7.228), speeches (Themistocles, 8.22), and foreign messages, which he presumably heard translated (Nitocris’ tomb at 1.187, Darius’ inscriptions at 3.88 and 4.91, 2.136, 2.141).23 Moreover, the inscriptions he does not quote generally do not record utterances with lives outside their monuments. These include administrative lists, such as of the allies on the serpent column (8.82), the peoples on Darius’ Bosporus inscription (4.87), Cheops’ pyramid expenditures (2.125), workers on Alyattes’ tomb (1.93), and Croesus’ boundary marker at Kudrara (7.30) (which may have said a mere name). The perirrhanterion possibly presents a difficult case, as it does not bear a verse inscription but is not an administrative document either, and may even be a speaking object – itself a special kind of utterance. Thus φάμενον signifies both an utterance and not, and in the nebulous subject of the participle we may see the ambiguous speaking voice of the object, and of the real and false dedicators.24 Perhaps having a separate noun for this example – writing tied to an object, but not a poem to hear aloud nor a speech – may have made things easier. Allowing that Herodotus may discriminate inscribed texts on the basis of ‘utterance/not’, rather than ‘copy/original’, ‘accurate/inaccurate’, or ‘poetry/prose’ can perhaps also recover some credibility for him. In quoting Themistocles’ message to the Ionians written on the rocks of Euboea (8.22), he gives a text implausibly long for stone. As West sees it, we would accept 21  Many have noted a similar pejorative undercurrent in early references to writing in general in Classical literature. 22  Of course, many types of inscriptions could and perhaps would be read aloud in practice ex post facto. Chaniotis 2012: 214 presents a compelling case for the reading aloud of cult regulations. 23  This is not to say that Herodotus invariably quotes an utterance-type inscription: he does not give the text of Sesostris’ victory stelae (2.102–103), although they have messages on them likely in the voice of the king; here, however, his goal seems to be to describe the female genitalia depicted on the stelae erected in cowardly lands rather than Sesostris’ words. 24  For one theory of the silent writer’s presence in the inscription’s reading voice, see Svenbro 1993: 44–63.

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such approximations were he quoting a speech, “[b]ut a professedly verbatim report of a Greek inscription erected in an easily accessible area not more than fifty years before Herodotus wrote is a different matter, and this use of oratio recta seems to betray a curious failure to appreciate the peculiar qualities of epigraphic evidence.”25 Odd as it may seem, however, Herodotus’ oratio recta may not signal faithful copying of the inscribed text so much as the fact that this was an utterance. He appreciates epigraphic evidence on different terms, and a message from Themistocles – even one on stone – is still a speech, to be quoted about as accurately as one delivered orally. A prose inscription on a dedication, however, is another matter entirely, for it exists only in one medium. Herodotus’ categories of inscriptions do not align with our own.26 3

The Uniqueness of ἐπιγραφή

The inscription on the perirrhanterion, then, is a true ἐπιγραφή: that is, a text that originates written on an object, not one transferred to it. The word is thus rather specialized, standing in contradistinction to other ways of talking about writing. Perhaps for this reason, inscriptions invariably mention ἐπιγραφαί in conjunction with objects. By far the most common Greek context in which to mention an ἐπιγραφή is to tell whether or not something has one. Items in inventories, for example, are marked either as ἐπιγραφὴν ἔχων, “having an inscription,” or ἀνεπίγραφος, “uninscribed.”27 The ubiquity of this distinction attests to the strong bond objects have to ἐπιγραφαί: while the ἐπιγραφή may not always appear on a dedication, it nonetheless properly resides on a particular object exclusively, not to be removed or transferred. Ἐπιγραφαί in the absence of this material context all but fail to exist. Formulas that do not usually include the term ἐπιγραφή also prove illuminating as to its definition. Attic decrees and laws often contain the following injunction in some version or other: τὸ δὲ φσέφισμα τόδε ἀναγράφσαι τὸν 25  West 1985: 286. Herodotus’ aim, she concludes, is to add color to his characterization of Themistocles and express his reverence for him. 26  Modern scholars of course recognize a difference between verse and prose dedications as well, but on the basis of register rather than voicing. Day 2010, for instance, while he highlights distinctions (“epigrams, then, represent the rite of dedication, often more fully than prose inscriptions” (9)), reads both prose and verse inscriptions as “reperformative.” 27  Some version of ἐπιγραφὴν ἔχων occurs several hundred times in inscriptions. ἀνεπίγραφος appears slightly fewer than 300 times, mainly in the inventories of Brauronian Artemis, the inventories of dedications from the Athenian Asclepieion, and the Delian inventories.

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γραμματέα τε̑ς βολε̑ς ἐν στέλει λιθίνει καὶ καταθε̑ναι ἐν πόλει, (“[it is resolved that] the secretary of the boule write up the decree on a stone stele and set it up on the Acropolis” [here based on IG I3 63.5–7]). Almost invariably, this phrase employs ἀναγράφω, rather than ἐπιγράφω, to denote the recording of the decree onto a stele. Of course, the idea of making the resolution into a monument speaks again to the physical nature of laws and decrees.28 The stele itself becomes the decree or law with which the public interacts, and it, not a detached idea of the text it embodies, is the authority to which citizens answer.29 But, importantly, the text that the secretary records began life as a verbal utterance before it became material. By contrast, the following example illustrates the nuance of ἐπιγράφω alongside ἀναγράφω, with a distinct contextual meaning. An inscription from 422 BCE concerning the treaty made between Athens and Bottice employs both terms.30 It too contains the familiar injunction to post the agreements on a stele, followed by further instructions for the Bottiaoi to do the same (IG I3 76.25–30): … κα]ὶ ἐπιγράφσαι ἐν τ[ε̑] | ι στέλει το̑ ἄ[ρχοντος τὸ ὄνομα ἐφ’ ὁ�]̑ ἐγένοντο αἱ χσ[υ]ν[θ] | ε̑και· Βοττια[ῖοι δ’ ἐν στέλαις λιθί]ναις ἀναγράφ[σαντ] | ες καταθέντ[ον ἐν τοῖς hιεροῖς κ]ατὰ πόλες, ἐπι[γράφσ] | αντες ἐν ταῖ[ς στέλαις το̑ν ἀρχόν]­ τον τὰ ὀνόμα[τα το̑ν Β] | οττιαίον ἐφ’ [ὁ�ν̑ ἐγένοντο hαι χσυνθε̑]κ[α]ι· … And to mark on the stele the name of the archon under whom the agreements came about. And the Bottiaioi, writing up [these things] on stone stelae should set them up in their temples city by city, marking on the stelae the names of the Bottiaian archons under whom the agreements came about. The text shows a clear semantic distinction between ἀναγράφω and ἐπιγράφω. While the former is used, as usual, of recording the text on a stele, the latter refers to the more specific action of adding archons’ names as an identifying marker, much as one might on a dedication. While ἀναγράφω describes the recording of the agreements themselves and the names of the particular poleis involved, all of which were probably spoken aloud as part of the negotiations,

28  For discussion (and partial refutation) of the view that written laws are symbolic monuments rather than readable texts, see Gagarin 2008: 67–92. 29  Liddell 2010: 105 expresses this idea, as have others such as Pébarthe 2006 and Harris 1994. 30  For the date see Meritt 1925.

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the parties are to ἐπιγράφειν the names of the presiding archons.31 This act of labeling, of placing an identifying placard on the stele, is described in distinct terms from recording speech. Unlike other inscribed texts, an ἐπιγραφή does not lead a separate life as an utterance. 4

Ἐπιγραφή as Label?

The idea that certain inscribed messages are inextricable from a monument or object and work silently, not as recorded speech, seems to inform early literary references to the noun ἐπιγραφή. Thucydides, linguistic radical and perhaps even gadfly, employs the term in Pericles’ funeral oration, as he famously describes the global memorials honoring the heroic dead (2.43.3):32 ἀνδρῶν γὰρ ἐπιφανῶν πᾶσα γῆ τάφος, καὶ οὐ στηλῶν μόνον ἐν τῇ οἰκείᾳ σημαίνει ἐπιγραφή, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν τῇ μὴ προσηκούσῃ ἄγραφος μνήμη παρ’ ἑκάστῳ τῆς γνώμης μᾶλλον ἢ τοῦ ἔργου ἐνδιαιτᾶται. For luminous men the whole earth is a tomb, and not only does the ἐπιγραφή of the stele mark it in their hometowns, but even in foreign places an unwritten memorial for each one lives on in people’s hearts, rather than in the actual monument. Pericles’ pronouncement reminds an audience presumably preoccupied with physical honors of the intangible, invisible vehicles of memorial. The statement gives a veiled admonition as much as a comfort. Gomme clarifies the semiotics, pointing out that by ἄγραφος μνήμη Thucydides means λόγος, commemorative speech, while ἔργον refers to the actual physical memorial.33 The ἐπιγραφή that begins the sentence then also stands in sharp contrast to the ἄγραφος μνήμη, and though it contains words, like a monument, it is an example of a material ἔργον, rather than λόγος: it is, by definition, unuttered and physical. Moreover, 31   I.Oropos 324, a late third-century decree from the sanctuary of Amphiaraus at Oropos detailing that certain damaged metal dedications be melted down to make new items with an inventory of said objects, may echo this use of ἐπιγράφω in its discussion of the resulting stele recording the dedications, lines 39-48. Based on IG I3 76, one might consider restoring ἐπιγράψαι in place of ἀναγράψαι at lines 41–42. 32  I leave it to others to speculate as to whether Pericles himself may have used the term; the sentiment seems to me characteristically Thucydidean. 33  Gomme 1945: 137–138.

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the ἐπιγραφή has a localized, physical sphere of influence – unlike λόγος, it is not created to operate outside of the space in which it resides. This static, limited import is not what we always imagine for inscriptions, which we tend to think of as made to last and designed to promote fame far and wide. Indeed, Gomme was right to note the irony that “[i]n fact for Athens it is the material monument, the work of art, that has endured.”34 But the connotations here are quite the opposite, and I would argue that they reveal a popular reluctance to see inscriptions as texts with lives outside objects. Thucydides may be among the first wave of speakers to use ἐπιγραφή the abstract noun, and in doing so he in fact raises the question of whether his contemporaries think of an inscription as something that exists in the abstract. The reminder that we must be attentive to the intangible honors of γνώμη, rather than just ἔργα, leads to a further consideration as well: how exactly does an inscription interact with its vehicle? To some extent, it depends on where we find it. In her work on dedications, Keesling has made the observation that most of the time, inscriptions on votive statues provide what she terms “disjunctive representation;” that is, they rarely tell us whom a statue depicts and thus do not in her view function as labels, but give instead other information, such as the names of the dedicators (not pictured) or honored god.35 Exceptions to this rule, she notes, include athletic victory statues, which often both depict victors and name them on bases. We may also include funerary monuments in this category. At the same time, however, even a disjunctive representation, an inscription that does not name the statue or object it resides on, still does in some sense label it, as belonging to a dedicator, a god, or a city, as in the case of the agreements between Athens and Bottice. But even in the case of these more label-like ἐπιγραφαί too, Keesling’s conclusion holds: the items “were never intended to be viewed outside the context of a sanctuary or without their dedicatory inscriptions.”36 To this I would add: neither were the inscriptions intended to be viewed without their dedications. Ironically, evidence of this conclusion emerges in more metaphorical discussions of ἐπιγραφαί, those that do not refer to actual stones. In Isaeus’ On the Will of Nikostratus, ἐπιγραφή refers, legally, to the ascription of a name to a person. In the case, two claimants to the estate of one late Nikostratus ascribe the

34  Gomme 1945: 138. 35  Keesling 2003: 16–21. 36  Keesling 2003: 21.

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deceased a different patronymic in an effort to establish (or eliminate) his next of kin. As the speaker points out in his introductory remarks, the jury’s initial task will be to consider whose ascription of the name is correct: πρῶτον μὲν οὖν, ὦ ἄνδρες, περὶ τῆς τῶν ὀνομάτων ἐπιγραφῆς ἄξιόν ἐστιν ἐξετάσαι … (2) “first of all, it’s fitting that you take consideration concerning the assigning of names …” The parties for whom the speaker advocates claim to be Nikostratus’ first cousins. They contend that their opponent, a pretender to the inheritance, has fabricated a different patronymic (and a phony will) for Nikostratus in an effort to disinherit them. Isaeus uses the proper technical terminology to describe the truthful claim, stating that the rightful inheritors “have ascribed to Nikostratus the patronymic Thrasymachus,” (Θρασυμάχου ἐπεγράψαντο τὸν Νικόστρατον (2)), while their opponents claim Nikostratus is the son of some made-up character Smikrus (Σμίκρου μὲν πατρὸς εἶναί φασι τὸν Νικόστρατον (3)). Since the opponents have both produced a will for Nikostratus-son-of-Smikrus and also brought a suit against the kin of Nikostratus-son-of-Thrasymachus for the same estate, Isaeus can argue that their claim is absurd: νῦν δὲ πῶς οἷόν τε τῷ ἀνδρὶ δύο πατέρας ἐπιγράψασθαι; τοῦτο γὰρ Χαριάδης πεποίηκεν· (4) “Now how is it possible to ascribe two fathers to the man? But Chariades [the opponent] has done just that.” The success of Isaeus’ clever argument, then, relies on the concept of the patronymic ἐπιγραφή as a placard, a tag that sticks onto a person. He imagines it as a physical entity, in that it’s not so much that Chariades has altered the patronymic content of the real ἐπιγραφή, as that he has affixed a second (and false) ἐπιγραφή to the same man. Importantly for our interpretation, removing it or transferring it is both improper and preposterous. Thus a defining feature of an ἐπιγραφή is this exclusive, singular relationship to the object upon which it is affixed. For Isaeus, the success of his argument lies in the fact that (if we continue the dramatization) the opponent has attached the second patronymic to Nikostratus and neglected to remove the first one, thus making the man unidentifiable. While this may seem an overspecific point – not to mention a questionable legal argument – I raise it because it implies that an ἐπιγραφή can in fact do far more than just label something already determinate: it rather can define and create an identity for whatever it graces.37

37  I am not suggesting, of course, that the inscription always labels the same identity details on every object: there is, for instance, a notorious lack of correlation between votive statues and the information their inscriptions give (they do not name the depicted figure), a so-called “disjunctive representation” (Keesling 2003: 16–17). But the inscription still defines that statue as an ἄγαλμα, or other votive, and this defining quality is my concern and interest here.

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Objects, it seems, have ἐπιγραφαί that complete them and have a symbiotic relationship with them.38 All this might lead us to wonder whether the inscription provides a truth already inherent in an object (“I am the cup of Nestor”39) or whether having it inscribed makes it so. One might think that the former would be the case: the object has a certain inherent identity, which the accompanying inscription confirms and reaffirms for the viewer. A useful model of the relationship of the ἐπιγραφή to the writing surface is speech act theory’s notion of a “direction of fit,” between words on the one hand and some world reality on the other.40 We might expect ἐπιγραφαί to have a so-called “words to world” fit, where the words conform to the world and describe a state of affairs: “we are married,” “I am the cup of Nestor.” In the alternative “world to words” fit, the state of affairs in the world is meant to fit itself to a statement (“I wish we were married”). Another possibility is a statement that simultaneously expresses a desire for a given state of affairs (world to words) but then enacts that state of affairs and thus ends up describing it (words to world). This type is called “world to words to world,” or, in more familiar terms, a speech act. ἐπιγραφαί then can also enact and describe realities: if I write “I am cup of Nestor” on my own mug, I have just made it so, even though it had no previous Nestor-ness.41 This kind of enactment occurs often in speaking objects and votives, and has been discussed in previous scholarship on Archaic inscriptions in particular, and with emphasis on their enacting value that comes with verbal performance.42 But I suggest here something further: a direction of fit separate from verbal performance, and one that also emerges in the literary discourse and seems to be understood somewhat consciously about ἐπιγραφαί. Plato provides a telling example of the phenomenon in the Laws, when the Athenian stranger discusses penalties for preventing a man from appearing in court or from competing in athletic or artistic competitions. If someone prevents a competitor from entering the games and then wins at an event, not

38  This may sound like a restatement of McLuhan 1964, and to some extent it is; I am concerned here, however, more with how the message and the medium affect each other’s truth-values, than with how exactly they communicate. 39   Pace Watkins 1976. 40  For an account of direction of fit see Austin 1953: 227–46, as well as Humberstone 1992. 41  One striking example of this policy in practice is the ostrakon, where the direction of fit theory applies to its creation and usage – the writer wishes for a particular state of affairs (world to words), and then the ostrakon enacts it. 42  Notably Svenbro 1993: 26–43, and Day 2010: esp. 106–123.

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only – as one would expect – will he receive no credit for the victory but also (Pl. Leg. 955a–b): … τά τε νικητήρια τῷ διακωλυθέντι διδόναι καὶ νικήσαντα γράφειν ἐν ἱεροῖς οἷς ἂν ἐθέλῃ, τῷ δὲ διακωλύσαντι μὴ ἐξέστω μηδὲν ἀνάθημα μηδ’ ἐπιγραφὴν τοῦ τοιούτου ἀγῶνός ποτε γενέσθαι, βλάβης δὲ ὑπόδικος γιγνέσθω, ἐάντε ἡττῆται ἀγωνιζόμενος ἐάντε καὶ νικᾷ. [the officials will] give the victory prize to the man prevented from competition and write him down as the victor in whatever temples he wishes, while the man who prevented him will be allowed to have no dedication or ἐπιγραφή related to such a contest, and he will be responsible for damages whether he loses or wins. Like Nikostratus’ paternity, the status of someone as a victor in the passage is in many ways contingent on the presence or absence of an ἐπιγραφή. How he fared in the contest, or whether he even competed at all, is irrelevant: if you have a label calling you victor, you won. As well as highlighting the seriousness with which competitions were treated, the passage again reveals the credence attached to inscriptions, which could literally make victory so. That the Athenian stranger voices these proposals perhaps further emphasizes the further power the inscription has acquired to define the state of affairs in Attica in particular. 5

Ἐπιγραφή as Stamp

I have argued above that ἐπιγραφή denotes not just any inscribed text, but one that generally goes unuttered and comes into being on a surface, attaching properly to it. As such, tensions arise if and when ἐπιγραφαί are removed or changed. While the passage from the Laws already suggests this possibility, later texts affirm it. Dio Chrysostom, for instance, gives a protracted critique of the Rhodians’ rampant habit of μεταγραφή, that is, the re-inscription of statues. As he describes it, whenever the Rhodians wish to bestow an honor on someone (Or. 31.9): συμβαίνει δὲ πρᾶγμα ἀτοπώτατον· ὁ γὰρ στρατηγὸς ὃν ἂν αὐτῷ φανῇ τῶν ἀνακειμένων τούτων ἀνδριάντων ἀποδείκνυσιν· εἶτα τῆς μὲν πρότερον οὔσης ἐπιγραφῆς ἀναιρεθείσης, ἑτέρου δ’ ὀνόματος ἐγχαραχθέντος, πέρας ἔχει τὸ τῆς τιμῆς, καὶ λοιπὸν τέτευχε τῆς εἰκόνος ὁ δόξας ὑμῖν ἄξιος, πάνυ ῥᾳδίως οἶμαι

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καὶ λυσιτελῶς οὑτωσὶ σκοπουμένοις ὥστε θαυμαστὴν εἶναι τὴν εὐπορίαν καὶ τὸ πρᾶγμα εὐχῆς ἄξιον, εἰ μόνοις ὑμῖν ἔστιν ὃν ἂν βούλησθε ἱστάναι χαλκοῦν δίχα ἀναλώματος καὶ μηδεμίαν δραχμὴν μήτε ὑμῶν καταβαλόντων μήτε τῶν τιμωμένων. The strangest thing happens: your leader points out whichever alreadydedicated statue seems right to him, and then the previous inscription on it is removed, someone else’s name is scratched onto it, and there you have it; the man who seems worthy to you has just received his statue, so very easy and so cheap, I think, that your solution is marvelous and your practice is worth envying, if it’s possible for your people alone to put up a bronze statue for anyone you want for free, without you or any of the honorands paying a drachma! Dio levels numerous indictments against μεταγραφή in addition to its being a lousy way to save a buck. Many of them reveal a conservative discomfort of the sort we have seen earlier: in his view too, an ἐπιγραφή properly belongs on an object. As in the Laws, the sense emerges that the inscription is so inalienable from the object that it is responsible for the object’s identity and authenticity.43 These problematic correlations between ἐπιγραφαί and objects, these mis-labelings, essentially transgress the rules and undermine civic, ritual, and cultural order. It is for this reason that Dio variously likens μεταγραφή to giving someone a gift of counterfeit money, or leading sacrificial animals to the altar without going through with the rites. He also touches on the subject of athletic competition, taking the concept outlined in the Laws to a negative extreme (Or. 31.21): εἰ τις ἀνέλοι τὸν στέφανον, οὗ χάριν φιλοτιμοῦνται, καὶ τὴν ἐπιγραφὴν τὴν ἐσομένην Ὀλυμπίασιν ἢ Πυθοῖ τῆς νίκης, ἆρ᾽οἴεσθε μίαν ἡμέραν αὐτοὺς ἀνέξεσθαι τὸν ἥλιον μόνον, οὐχ ὅπως τὰ ἄλλα ὅσα τῷ πράγματι πρόσεστιν ἀηδῆ καὶ χαλεπά; If someone should take away the crown on behalf of which they [the athletes] compete, and the victory inscription that will be at Olympia or Pytho, do you think they’d withstand the sun one more day, or similarly all the other unpleasant and harsh things part and parcel of their practice? 43  For further discussion of the oration in relation to μεταγραφή see Keesling 2003: 165–204 and Kajava 2003, as well as Keesling 2017: 856–58 on epigraphic antecedents of Dio’s formulations in Or. 31.

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In other words, ἐπιγραφαί do not just express a desired victor as in Plato; there would not even be victors without inscriptions, because the whole system would be annulled (Or. 31.24). The entire institution of honorific inscriptions and of victors, then, depends on this inalienable relationship of ἐπιγραφή to object – without one there cannot be the other. Furthermore, this passage suggests that the causality of this relationship is even more overt: it is not just that the ἐπιγραφή affirms or wishes for a victor, but that the victor exists because of the ἐπιγραφή. A final example from Rhodes illustrates the extreme to which the definition of ἐπιγραφή could stretch. I.Lindos 419, a decree of the first century CE, attests directly to the changing protocol and behavior surrounding inscribed objects, and a new use for the word ἐπιγραφή. Τhe decree outlines a series of fundraising measures for the temple at Lindos, which had fallen on financial hardship. One proposal to generate revenue is that citizens can pay to have statues reinscribed (34–40): τοὶ αὐτοὶ ἐπιστάται μ[ισθω]σάντω ἑκάστου ἀνδριάντος τὰν | [ἐ]πιγραφάν, διαχειρο[τονησ]άντων Λινδίων εἰ δεῖ τοῦ εὑρίσ | κοντος κατακυροῦ[ν ἢ μ]ή, καὶ [εἴ κ]α [δ]όξῃ τοῦ εὑρίσκοντος κα | [τ]ακυροῦν τὸ πεσὸν ἀργύριον· [ἀ]πὸ τού[τ]ων καταβαλόμε | [ν]οι λ[όγ]ον π[ό]σου ἑ[κ]ά[σ]το[υ ἁ] ἐπιγραφ[ὰ ἀπε]δόθ[η] παραδόντω ἰερὸν | [ἤ]μ[ειν εἰς] πα[ρ]ακα[τ]α[θ]ήκαν τᾶς Ἀ[θ]άνας τ[ᾶ]ς Λινδία̣ς καὶ τ[οῦ] | [Διὸς τοῦ Πολιέ]ω̣ ς·̣ Let the same officials auction off the inscribing of each statue, with the Lindians deciding whether it is right to confirm the winning bid or not, and, if they think it is right to confirm the winning bid, taking an account of how much the inscribing of each was sold for, let them hand over the money resulting from these (auctions) to the fund of Athena Lindia and Zeus Polieus, to be sacred. Here, the two mentions of ἐπιγραφή denote the very act of inscribing and the right to inscribe things that do not even exist yet, but can be conceived of only as future physical entities tied to statues. Even in this abstract context the authors of the decree do not put the “naming of the statues” or the “texts” for sale, but rather this special brand of inscription, unique and not representative of spoken language. In discussing orality in the Archaic period, Bakker has claimed that seeing language as a “conduit” or “container” for content is a modern bias. The person “[w]ho writes in Archaic Greece” he says, “… is concerned with the fixation, and thereby the preservation, of what binds container and content together into

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an indissoluble whole, that is, speech.”44 For early literate Greece, the concept of ἐπιγραφή behaves in much the same way. Rather than being an analogue for an utterance, the ἐπιγραφή is its own dissoluble whole, tied to an object. Thus a final and apt way to conceive of the ἐπιγραφή, then, may not be a text, a text-object, a representation, or even precisely as a label, but as a “stamp” of sorts. Without it, an object lacks authenticity and even identity, and with it can acquire them. Similarly, the ἐπιγραφή-stamp lacks meaning and utility on its own: it may include words, but its message is incomplete without a medium. As an extension, perhaps what makes this rather simple function difficult to envisage for a modern viewer is the fact that the “stamp” has become essentially fossilized in the ancient context: that is to say, in not giving us certain information, ἐπιγραφαί do not behave as the kind of stamps we would like them to. In this way, to us they are more like “things,” in the sense that Bill Brown has outlined, which we imagine as material, and, importantly, which in our editions and discussions have escaped from their cultural background or context. Brown cites the example of Claes Oldenburg’s sculpture of a typewriter eraser, viewed by an audience that has never used (or possibly seen) one: Oldenburg’s piece is a “thing,” because it is no longer a practical object whose use we recognize, but rather something that “attains a new stature precisely because it has no life outside the boundary of art.”45 “The thing,” he says, “seems to name the object just as it is even as it names some thing else” – in this case, the obsolescence of the typewriter.46 Ἐπιγραφαί, too, as at Lindos, on Herodotus’ perirrhanterion, or on the Athenian stranger’s victor list, even as they name dedicators, gods, deceased men, and melted objects, also name the dissolution of the ἐπιγραφή’s original functions, and its ultimate, permanent, de-materialized state. Bibliography Austin, J. L. 1953. “How to talk: some simple ways.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 53: 227–46. Bakewell, G. 2006. “Written Lists of Military Personnel.” In C. Cooper, ed., The Politics of Orality, 87–102. Leiden. Bakker, E. J. 1993. “Activation and Preservation: The Interdependence of Text and Performance in an Oral Tradition.” Oral Tradition 8: 5–20. 44  Bakker 1993: 15. 45  Brown 2001: 15. 46  Brown 2001: 5.

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Bakker, E. J. ed. 2010. A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language. Chichester and Malden, MA. Bing, P. 2002. “The Un-Read Muse? Inscribed Epigram and Its Readers in Antiquity.” In M.A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit, and G.C. Wakker, eds., Hellenistic Epigrams. Hellenistica Groningana 6, 39–66. Leuven. Brown, B. 2001. “Thing Theory.” Critical Inquiry 28: 1–22. Chaniotis, A. 2012. “Constructing the Fear of Gods: Epigraphic Evidence from Sanctuaries of Greece and Asia Minor.” In A. Chaniotis, ed., Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World, 205–34. Stuttgart. Glaraki, T., 2007. “Language and Writing.” In A.-F. Christidis, ed., A History of Ancient Greek: From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity, 193–6. Cambridge. Day, J. W. 2010. Archaic Greek Epigram and Dedication: Representation and Reperformance. Cambridge. Dougherty, C. 1993. The Poetics of Colonization : From City to Text in Archaic Greece. Oxford. Gagarin, M. 2008. Writing Greek Law. Cambridge. Gomme, A. W. 1945. A Historical Commentary on Thucydides. Oxford. Goody, J. 1977. The domestication of the savage mind. New York. Haas, C. 1996. Writing Technology: Studies on the Materiality of Literacy. Mahwah, NJ. Harris, D. 1994. “Freedom of Information and Accountability.” In R. Osborne and S. Hornblower, eds., Ritual, Finance, Politics: Athenian Democratic Accounts Presented to David Lewis, 213–25. Oxford. Havelock, E. A. 1981. The Literate Revolution in Greece and its Cultural Consequences. Princeton. Havelock, E. A. 1986. The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Orality and Literacy from Antiquity to the Present. New Haven. Higbie, C. 1999. “Craterus and the Use of Inscriptions in Ancient Scholarship.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 129: 43–83. Humberstone, I. L. 1992. “Direction of Fit.” Mind 101: 59–83. Kajava, M. 2003. “Inscriptions at Auction.” Arctos 37: 69–80. Keesling, C. 2003. The Votive Statues of the Athenian Acropolis. Cambridge. Keesling, C. 2017. “Greek Statue Terms Revisited: What does ἀνδριάς mean?” Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 57: 837–61. Liddel, P. 2010. “Epigraphy, Legislation and Power Within the Athenian Empire.” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 53: 99–128. Lotman, J. 1977. The Structure of the Artistic Text. Ann Arbor. McLuhan, M. 1964. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. New York. Meritt, B. D. 1925. “Peace between Athens and Bottice.” American Journal of Archaeology 29: 29–31. Missiou, A. 2011. Literacy and Democracy in Fifth-Century Athens. Cambridge.

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Ong, W. 1982. Orality and Literacy : the Technologizing of the Word. London. Pappas, A. 2011. “Arts in Letters: The Aesthetics of Ancient Greek Writing.” In M. Shaw and M. Dalbello, eds., Visible Writings: Cultures, Forms, Readings, 37–54. New Brunswick, NJ. Pébarthe, C. 2006. Cité, démocratie et écriture : histoire de l’alphabétisation d’Athénes à l’époque classique. Paris. Powell, J. E. 1938. A Lexicon to Herodotus. Cambridge. Price, S. 2012. “Memory and Ancient Greece.” In B. Dignas and R. R. R. Smith, eds., Historical and Religious Memory in the Ancient World, 15–36. Oxford. Rosenmeyer, P. A. 2001. Ancient Epistolary Fictions: The Letter in Greek Literature. Cambridge. Sickinger, J. P. 1999. Public Records and Archives in Classical Athens. Chapel Hill. Steiner, D. 1994. The Tyrant’s Writ: Myths and Images of Writing in Ancient Greece. Princeton. Svenbro, J. 1993. Phrasikleia: An Anthropology of Reading in Ancient Greece. Ithaca, New York. Thomas, R. 1989. Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens. Cambridge. Thomas, R. 1992. Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece. Cambridge. Thomas, R. 1994. “Literacy and the City State in Archaic and Classical Greece.” In A. Bowman and G. Woolf, eds., Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, 33–50. Cambridge. Thomas, R. 2009. “Writing, Reading, Public and Private ‘Literacies’: Functional Literacy and Democratic Literacy in Greece.” In W. A. Johnson and H. N. Parker, eds., Ancient Literacies, 13–45. Oxford. Torrance, I. 2013. Metapoetry in Euripides. Oxford. Trimbur, J. 2002. “Delivering the Message: Typography and the Materiality of Writing.” In G. A. Olson, ed., Rhetoric and Composition as Intellectual Work, 188–202. Carbondale. Wachter, R. 2010. “Inscriptions.” In E. Bakker, ed., A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language 47–61. Chichester. Watkins, C. 1976. “Observations on the ‘Nestor’s Cup’ Inscription.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 80: 25–40. West, S. 1985. “Herodotus’ Epigraphical Interests.” The Classical Quarterly 35: 278–305. Wilson, N.G. 2015. Herodoti Historiae, Libri I–IV. Oxford.

chapter 2

The Aesthetics and Politics of Inscriptions in Imperial Greek Literature Alexei Zadorojnyi Inscriptions mentioned and/or narrated in imperial Greek literature deserve to be read as a special interface of aesthetic and social sensibilities among elite Greco-Romans – “elite” being a catch-all name for active involvement in the high-profile discourse as well as (often) high social standing of the authors and their target audiences. It is from this discourse, from the “literary” sources broadly understood, that we can gauge the contemporary expectations about the materiality of the epigraphic habit, as well as map it in a more nuanced way onto the socio-cultural concerns of the empire’s educated and politically alert groups.1 My argument below is based on analysis of two illustrative yet largely overlooked passages from second century CE texts that both have strong claims on the cultural capital and across-the-board eminence: the Onomasticon by the sophist and scholar Julius Pollux of Naucratis, who held the imperial chair of rhetoric in Athens in the 180s,2 and the Periplous of the Black Sea by Flavius Arrian of Nicomedia, a statesman and writer who flourished in the first half of the century. In order to throw into relief the literate mindset behind Arrian’s text, a passage from the Civil Wars by Appian of Alexandria will be revisited for the idea of graffiti as an “inferior” class of inscriptions. 1 Pollux’s Onomasticon is an ambitiously pitched work of lexicography (each of its ten books has a dedication to Commodus Caesar), aiming to take stock of the available and culturally healthy Greek vocabulary. It is therefore a project that 1  I am grateful to the participants of the Durham conference, as well as to my Liverpool colleagues and the volume’s referees for their valuable comments and suggestions. Translations from Pollux and the scholia on Dionysius Thrax are my own; other translations, unless otherwise noted, are from the Loeb Classical Library, at times modified for greater literalness.   Cf. Stoneman 1995; Slater 2009; Zadorojnyi 2013. 2  Philostr. V S 593; Avotins 1975: 316–17 and 321. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_004

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fits in with the mainstream preoccupation of Greek intelligentsia of the time, namely the reassertion and perpetuation of Hellenic identity via emphatically displayed command and deployment of the language of Classical Greek literature (think “Second Sophistic” and “Atticism”).3 Pollux’s approach is that of an Atticist but a liberal and inclusive Atticist.4 Thus, he embraces the diction of Herodotus, New Comedy and some Hellenistic historians as authoritative and sufficiently Classical; he also takes into account the current norms of lexical usage, instead of looking down upon them. He does not, however, simply proffer a catalogue of quality words; rather, he follows the tradition of organizing the linguistic material into semantic or thematic clusters, almost like a modern thesaurus. Having said that, the overall book-by-book order of entries in the Onomasticon5 is not always immediately evident. Pollux states himself that he is going to cover the gods first, “as befits pious men”, but then he will proceed at random (1.2 τὰ δ’ ἄλλα ὡς ἂν ἕκαστον ἐπέλθῃ τάξομεν). Nonetheless, scholarship is increasingly swayed to accept that behind Pollux’s word-lists and comments there is a sense of agenda and a kind of meta-narrative of assumptions about “the paradigmatic relationships at the heart of Romano-Greek society” (König and Whitmarsh 2007: 34) that language reflects, or should reflect.6 Over and above its panoramic focus on the aesthetics of the verbal resources of Hellenic paideia (1.2 πεφιλοτίμηται … εἰς κάλλους ἐκλογήν, “the ambition has been … to select what is beautiful”),7 the Onomasticon gives voice to the classicizing Deuterosophistic imagination about the world wherein paideia is operative. Book 5 of the Onomasticon contains an entry on epigraphic writing, γράμματα ἐν στήλαις (5.149–50). While the first half of Book 5 is dedicated to 3  On Atticist lexicography in the Second Sophistic, see Anderson 1993: 90–2; Swain 1996: 51–6; Schmitz 1997: 72–91, 116–17, 123–5; Whitmarsh 2005: 43–5; Strobel 2009: 98–105; Matthaios 2015: 266–8. 4  See Tosi 2007; Valente 2013; Matthaios 2013: 80–129 and 2015. 5  According to Bethe 1900: xvii the extant text(s) of the Onomasticon derive from a Byzantine epitome, rather than the original opus. 6  Cf. Chiron 2013: 47: “… le lexique de Pollux nous paraît devoir être lu comme un grand livre d’images qui reflète l’ordre du monde et nous donne en même temps les clefs d’un discours sur le monde, pour des raisons et selon un mécanisme sur lesquels nous aurons à revenir.” See further Zecchini 2007: esp. 19, 24–5; König and Whitmarsh 2007: 32–4; Nesselrath 2012: 166; Chiron 2013; König 2016. 7  Beauty (κάλλος) as the umbrella goal of rhetorical performance: e.g. [Luc.] Charidemus 25. Attic dialect as “a fine asset” (καλόν): Aristid. Or. 1 (Panathenaicus) 323. Pollux’ contemporary (and rival?) Phrynichus stipulates that use of Greek vocabulary is a matter of aesthetic discrimination – literally, a choice between “beautiful” and “disgusting” (Eclogae praef.: “as no one is so wretched as to prefer what is disgusting to what is beautiful,” οὐ γάρ τις οὕτως ἄθλιος ὡς τὸ αἰσχρὸν τοῦ καλοῦ προτιθέναι); see Strobel 2009: 99; for fresh assessment of the “conflict” between Pollux and Phrynichus, see Matthaios 2013: 70–8; Tosi 2013.

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diverse words that pertain to hunting, the passage on epigraphy belongs in the eclectic (cf. 5.103 χύδην) second half8 and is sandwiched between the synonyms of προΐσχεσθαι, “to hold forth” (5.148) and of διακορής, “satiated” (5.151), followed by “unambiguous”, ἀναμφίβολον (5.152). Not long thereafter the book ends (5.169–70) with what is in effect a scholion on a pair of Plato’s terms (Ti. 35a): “the Same” (τὸ μὲν ταὐτόν = permanent, stable, non-material) vs “the Different” (τὸ δὲ θάτερον = changeable, unstable, transient). The entry on γράμματα ἐν στήλαις (5.149–50) is, bluntly, a list of participles and adjectives that can apply to epigraphic writing:9 Γράμματα ἐν στήλαις

Writing on stelae:

I

ἐγγεγραμμένα, ἐγκεχαραγμένα, ἐγκεκολαμμένα, ἐνσεσημασμένα, ἐντετυπωμένα, ἐγκείμενα, ἐναποκείμενα, ἐγκατακείμενα, ἐμπεποιημένα, ἐνειργασμένα, ἐνόντα, ἐγγεγλυμμένα.

inscribed, incised, engraved, stamped, imprinted, situated, preserved, laid down, worked-in, builtin, present, carved.

II

καὶ ἐγγράψας, ἐγχαράξας, ἐγκολάψας, ἐνσημηνάμενος, ἐγκόψας, ἐγγλύψας, ἐνθείς, ἐνεργασάμενος, ἐγκαταθέμενος, ἐμποιήσας, ἐντυπώσας, ἐντυπωσάμενος, κοιλάνας, βαθύνας.

And: to inscribe, to incise, to engrave, to stamp, to cut, to carve, to inset, to build in, to put in, to work in, to imprint (twice), to hollow, to drive deep.

III

καὶ τὰ μὲν ὑπέργεια, ἐπιφανῆ, ἔκδηλα πρόδηλα, ἐπίδηλα, ἐπίσημα, θεατά εὐθέατα – τὸ γὰρ εὔσημα εὐτελές –

And: either (men) above-ground, conspicuous, patent, in sight, manifest, marked, visible, well-visible (“well-marked” is cheap though).

IVa τὰ δ’ ὑπόγεια, ἀφανῆ, ἄδηλα,

Or: (d’) under-ground, out of sight, unseen.

8  Yet with a penchant for polarities, such as love/hatred (5.113–16), praise/denunciation (5.117– 18), affability/stand-offishness (5.137–9), or silence/speaking out (5.146–7). 9  The Greek text below is transcribed from Bethe 1900: 301; his critical apparatus merits separate attention.

The Aesthetics and Politics of Inscriptions

IVb τὰ δὲ χρόνια, ἀρχαῖα παναρχαῖα, παλαιά παμπάλαια, ἄσημα, ἀσαφῆ, συγκεχυμένα, ἀμυδρά, ἀμαυρά, ἐξίτηλα, ἀθέατα δυσθέατα, δύσγνωστα ἄγνωστα, δυσγνώριστα ἀγνώριστα, ἀτέκμαρτα, δυσόρατα ἀνόρατα ἀδιόρατα, κατερρυηκότα ἐξερρυηκότα διερρυηκότα, δυσσύμβολα ἀξύμβολα, δυσείκαστα, ὕποπτα ἀνέποπτα.* *ἀνέποπτα Kühn: mss ἀνύποπτα

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And (de): aged, ancient, very ancient, old, very old, indistinct, unclear, blurred, faint, obscure, evanescent, invisible, hardly visible, hard to understand, unknowable, hard to recognize, unrecognizable, unverifiable, hard to see, invisible, indiscernible, ruined, derelict, hard to read, unfigurable, unguessable, suspect, undetectable.

A salient, if foreseeable, aspect of this word-hoard is its intertextual saturation. Pollux’s choice of words across the Onomasticon is strategically beholden to Classical Greek literature. Sometimes he would identify his authorities (3.1 οἱ δόκιμοι τὴν γλῶτταν); in passages where he does not name a single author, as is the case in 5.149–50, it is worthwhile to explore his intertextual matrix all the same.10 While pinpointing a Classical precedent (that, moreover, deals with epigraphic writing!) for Pollux’s every word or form in our passage may not be altogether easy, at least two adjectives seem to stand out from the list: ἀμυδρά and ἐξίτηλα. The former is a fairly popular epithet in imperial Greek authors who find themselves talking about ancient inscriptions (e.g. Plut. Rom. 7.8; Paus. 6.15.8; Luc. VH 1.7; Cass. Dio 37.9.2); crucially, it is also attested in reportage of inscriptions (γράμματα) in Thucydides (6.54.7) and “Demosthenes” (In Neaeram 76). The adjective ἐξίτηλος, in turn, combines with a wide range of objects or qualities that become enfeebled and vestigial. This may befall images (e.g. impression of a seal: Philo De eo quod deterius potiori insidiatur 76; mural paintings: Paus. 10.38.9 γραφαὶ … ἐπὶ τῶν τοίχων) and writing,11 such as manuscript text (Galen In Hippocratis librum vi epidemiarum commentarii, 1 praef. vol. 17A.795K) or archival records (Cass. Dio 57.16.2). Pollux, who elsewhere gives ἐξίτηλος among the descriptors of faded dye (βαφή, 1.44),12 might be thinking along those lines in 5.150 too. Yet the odds are strong that for the neuter plural ἐξίτηλα the intertextual lodestar was the proem of Herodotus’ 10  E.g. Theodoridis 2003 – yet see the caveat by Tosi 2007: 12. 11  The Greek does not always allow to distinguish between image and script: e.g. Philo De vita Mosis 1.287, De posteritate Caini 113. 12  Likewise, it is credible that the expression ἀμυδροῖς γράμμασι in Thucydides (and pseudoDemosthenes) refers specifically to discoloration of paint-filled incised letters: Meiggs and Lewis 1989: 20.

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Histories (ὡς μήτε τὰ γενόμενα ἐξ ἀνθρώπων τῷ χρόνῳ ἐξίτηλα γένηται).13 Can it be that the Onomasticon is recalling Herodotus here? (In which case Pollux ought to be seen as a forerunner of John Moles’ reading of the Herodotean proem as metaphor of monument!14) It is no doubt possible to carry on the quest for intertexts relevant to Pollux’s passage, but ἀμυδρά and ἐξίτηλα are sufficient proof that epigraphic writing was on the radar of the stylistically erudite and self-conscious discourse of the Second Sophistic.15 The contents and, critically, the structure of Pollux’s entry provide more consequential clues about the aesthetic and, at the end of the day, cultural contours of epigraphic writing itself in the discoursal universe – as distinct from the historical lifeworld – of the second-century pepaideumenos. Now, it is likely that Pollux associates γράμματα ἐν στήλαις primarily with funerary epigraphy, because elsewhere in the Onomasticon he includes “to set up a stele, to inscribe an inscription” (στήλην ἀναστῆσαι, ἐπίγραμμα ἐπιγράψαι) under τάφος, “tomb” (3.102). Yet apart from the fact there are also inscribed non-funerary stelae mentioned in the Onomasticon (10.97, 10.146, 10.148), the lexical reach of the passage suggests that Pollux is not thinking exclusively of tomb-inscriptions: for example, the passive perfect participle of ἐντυπόω is readily usable about inscribed laws and decrees (Poll. 8.128; cf. St Paul, 2 Corinth. 3.7, Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 9.7.1) or an engraved dedicatory artefact (Ath. 11.466e, 489b–c). We are thus entitled to hope that Pollux’s text would unlock his attitude to epigraphy wholesale, as it were – that is, as a visual, cognitive, and aesthetic phenomenon in the world the Onomasticon sets out to chart. On closer inspection, 5.149–50 is organised into four clusters of synonyms, as the layout of the Greek text and my translation above attempt to show. Group I zeroes in on the inscription qua product of writerly effort in the literal sense, of words forcefully attached (scratched, carved …) to the stele’s surface and henceforth stored on that surface (ἐγκείμενα, ἐναποκείμενα, ἐγκατακείμενα … ἐνόντα). The subject of group II is the inscription’s creator;16 signally, all the 13  A celebrated passage for sure: e.g. Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3.3; Luc. Hist. conscr. 54; Aristid. Or. 28.69. 14  Moles 1999: 44–51. 15  Compare the unforgiving criticism of a “most non-endorsable” (ἀδοκιμωτάτῳ) turn of phrase in an inscription on the statue of Demosthenes dedicated by the great secondcentury sophist Polemo: Phrynichus of Bithynia, Eclogae 396. 16  The notion of writing on a hard surface is also reinforced, notably through κοιλάνας. The verb κοιλαίνω is part of the idiom of stone erosion that dates back to (at least) the gnomic line by Choerilus of Samos (πέτρην κοιλαίνει ῥανὶς ὕδατος ἐνδελεχείῃ, fr. 11 Bernabé), which was not forgotten during the Second Sophistic (cf. Gal. De loc. aff. 1.2 vol. 8.27K, De temperamentis 3.4 vol. 1.676K). See also scholia Marciana on the Grammatical Art of Dionysius Thrax (Hilgard 1901: 304): πόθεν γράμμα; ἀπὸ τοῦ γλάπτω, ὃ σημαίνει τὸ κοιλαίνω·

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Greek participles (needless to say, the infinitives of the English translation are a cop-out on the translator’s part) are in the masculine singular. Even though the masc. nom. sing. form is pretty much mandatory for the adjectives and participles that undergo synonymization in the Onomasticon (e.g. 1.20–1, 5.144, 8.80), the implications of this morphological habit should be weighed with due seriousness; to Pollux, epigraphy is confirmed as men’s (yet another) prerogative at the most bedrock level of language.17 Group III is about the visibility and conspicuousness of inscribed writing as successfully consummated texts on display. By contrast, the last and longest inventory (IVa–b) conjures up the image of inscriptions that do not open to the viewer’s gaze and understanding, of texts affected by time and material decay (συγκεχυμένα … κατερρυηκότα, ἐξερρυηκότα, διερρυηκότα) which causes a communicative shutdown. I contend that several insights into the perception of epigraphic writing in the Second Sophistic can be gained from the passage. The premises Pollux works from are: a) the ontological link between the text and its hard surface (Groups I–II); b) the acceptance of immanently masculine authorship (Group II); c) visual display as the teleological epigraphic scenario (Group III); d) the anticipation that inscriptions would be ancient and difficult to make out (Group IVb). The last point has particular resonance in the context of the Second Sophistic, when engagement with the Classical Greek past is paramount for the purposes of cultural articulation.18 For the educated Greeks of this period “very ancient” inscriptions are right up their street, geographically but also programmatically as evinced by the fact that in a number of VIP inscriptions from the period archaic styling of characters is attempted.19 So it is hardly surprising that the antiquarian appreciation of “old” epigraphic textuality manifests itself in literature. Consider, for instance, how Remus in the Plutarchan Life of Romulus, 7.8 describes the trough in which he and his brother had been exposed as infants: οἱ γὰρ παλαιοὶ τὰ γράμματα τοῖς λίθοις ἐνεκόλαπτον (“Where does the word ‘letter’ come from? From ‘I carve’, which means ‘I scrape out’, for the ancient men used to scape letters on stones.”). The seemingly straightforward (ἐγ)χαράξας bespeaks epigraphic handiwork (cf. e.g. Plut. Them. 9.2; Diog. Laert. 1.48; Strabo 15.3.7; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.19.3; Anth. Pal. 11.312.3) but may extend to the idea of (grand? carefully crafted?) literary effort; thus in a Hellenistic epigram Aeschylus is saluted for his storm-like impetuosity as opposed to “carving of chiselled letters” (Anth. Pal. 7.411.3–4 μὴ σμιλευτὰ χαράξας γράμματα). 17  On masculinity in the Second Sophistic, see Gleason 1995: esp. 58–81. 18  For insightful and wide-ranging analyses, see Whitmarsh 2001; Porter 2001 and 2006. 19  E.g. the altar-tomb of Herodes Atticus in the Panathenaic stadium: IG II2 6791, with Galli 2002: 20 and plate 28.4; Reif 2008: 114–15 and plate VIIb. For archaizing inscriptions of Roman Laconia, see Kennel 1995: 87–92.

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the trough still exists and is preserved, with its bronze girdles engraved with faint characters (ἔστι δ᾿ ἡ σκάφη καὶ σῴζεται, χαλκοῖς ὑποζώσμασι γραμμάτων ἀμυδρῶν ἐγκεχαραγμένων) that would be perhaps useless as recognition tokens for our parents … Remus invokes an inscription from his own past, on the diegetic time scale not all ancient, in a tone that sounds oddly similar to reportage of bona fide antiques in Pausanias’ Periegesis. Besides, it is symptomatic that Remus doubts the readerly value of the “faint characters”. In the Deuterosophistic narrative, an archaic inscription is relished as a representamen rather than as actual text; the words do not even have to be deciphered – their role is to be poignantly cryptic and exotic. Consider how Pausanias lingers over the boustrophedon inscription on the Chest of Cypselus (5.17.6 “inscriptions written in the ancient characters … the inscriptions … are written in winding turns difficult to figure out”, ἐπιγράμματα … γράμμασι τοῖς ἀρχαίοις γεγραμμένα … γέγραπται … τὰ ἐπιγράμματα ἑλιγμοῖς συμβαλέσθαι χαλεποῖς), or how a mysterious tablet is brought into play in Plutarch’s dialogue On the Daimonion of Socrates: Before the tomb [of Alcmena] lay a bronze tablet containing many characters, amazingly ancient – for it was not possible to understand anything from them (πίναξ χαλκοῦς ἔχων γράμματα πολλὰ θαυμαστὸν ὡς παμπάλαια· γνῶναι γὰρ ἐξ αὑτῶν οὐδὲν παρεῖχε), although they appeared clearly (ἐκφανέντα) after the bronze was washed. The lettering was peculiar and foreign (ἴδιός τις ὁ τύπος καὶ βαρβαρικὸς τῶν χαρακτήρων), very close to the Egyptian. (577F)20 The thesis that the gaze and imagination of the insiders of second-century Greek classicism and antiquarianism is inexorably pulled towards an epigraphic record which is ancient simpliciter, finds further support in the literary snapshots of inscriptions that have been eaten away by time to the point of becoming symbolic rather than legible texts. A good example is Lucian’s rather detailed ecphrastic account of the tomb of the legendary Scythian sage and healer Toxaris in Athens, near Dipylon: … Toxaris was found buried there, recognized from the inscription, even though it was not completely visible (τῇ τε ἐπιγραφῇ γνωσθείς, εἰ μὴ πᾶσα ἔτι ἐφαίνετο), and especially by the carving (ἐγκεκόλαπτο) of a Scythian on the stele … Even now you can still see more than half of it, the entire bow 20  See Parker 2010; on the theme of signs and interpretation in the dialogue, Hardie 1996.

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and the book; the upper section of the stele and the face time had already disfigured (τὰ δὲ ἄνω τῆς στήλης καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον ὁ χρόνος ἤδη ἐλυμήνατό που) … (Scyth. 2) But a more abstract remark on the degeneration of epigraphic surfaces can be no less revealing; Philostratus starts from “wrecked stelae” (στηλῶν … τρύφη) when he is busy sketching out the typical features of “an ancient marketplace” (ἀγορᾷ ἀρχαίᾳ) in a generic deserted town (VA 6.4.1).21 The Onomasticon is thus by no means alone or exceptional in its interest in time-worn epigraphic texts. Pollux’s readers are expected to encounter and, more importantly, to be able to frame through learned Deuterosophistic language a great deal of inscriptions that are effaced and well-nigh unreadable.22 The lexicographer cannot help sharing in the antiquarian zeitgeist, yet ultimately his perception of γράμματα ἐν στήλαις stems from the long-standing Greek awareness of the temporal factor per se as a fundamental and endemic constraint for monuments.23 Monuments are material texts that must confront diachronic uncertainties; Edmund Thomas captures the problem with his concise (and highly transferable) comment on the commemorative capacity of Classical Greek tombs: Their meaning depended on continued recognition of their visible signs, the sculpted image of the deceased and the writing on the funerary marker. (Thomas 2007: 166) Pollux’s passage dovetails with these concerns about epigraphic writtenness. And there is perhaps a whiff of pessimism. It may not be happenstance that Book 5 of the Onomasticon finishes with a gloss on the Platonic polarity between the ideal and perennial ταὐτόν and the immanently unstable, worldly 21  On abandoned townships of imperial Greece see Alcock 1993: 145–7. 22  It is worth noting that Pollux does not provide terminology for destruction of stelae (as he does when talking about gods’ statues, 1.11–12: τὸ δὲ ἄγαλμα ἱδρύσασθαι ἐρεῖς … τὰ δὲ ἐναντία ἀνατρέψαι …) and erasure of inscriptions, such as e.g. ἐκκόπτειν. In 5.149 κοιλάνας and βαθύνας do not, in my view, suggest erasure, albeit in 2.62 both words crop up in the list of words for “gouging the eyes out”. Inscriptions in the world of the Onomasticon do not seem to be at risk from human agency – instead, they decline peacefully over time. (Contrast Philostr. VA 6.4.1, where both alternatives are considered.). 23  On ruins, real and metaphorical, as a major cultural lens of the Second Sophistic see Porter 2001; further, Porter 2011. In recent readings of the protean nature of modernity ruins are proving to be an extraordinarily fecund perspective: e.g. Ginsberg 2004; Huyssen 2010; Hell 2010; several contributions in European Review of History – Revue européenne d’histoire, vol. 18.5–6 (2011).

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θάτερον (5.169–70). What if Pollux is wearing the philosophical hat in his treatment of γράμματα ἐν στήλαις too? The synonyms of 5.149 foreground the hard work that goes into writing on a hard surface, but in 5.150 inscriptions end up in the domain of θάτερον as victims of material and semantic entropy. 2 Let us now head backwards in time from Pollux to Arrian. His Periplous of the Black Sea is an account of the inspection trip Arrian undertook as governor of Cappadocia around 131 CE. The book is dedicated to the emperor Hadrian and opens with Arrian’s arrival at Trapezus (today’s Trabzon, on the north coast of Turkey). Arrian rapidly moves to tell of the improvements he made to a sanctuary there: καὶ οἱ βωμοὶ ἀνεστᾶσιν ἤδη, λίθου μέντοι γε τοῦ τραχέος, καὶ τὰ γράμματα διὰ τοῦτο οὐκ εὔδηλα κεχάρακται, τὸ δὲ Ἑλληνικὸν ἐπίγραμμα καὶ ἡμαρτημένως γέγραπται, οἷα δὴ ὑπὸ βαρβάρων γραφέν. ἔγνωκα οὖν τούς τε βωμοὺς λίθου λευκοῦ ἀναθεῖναι, καὶ τὰ ἐπιγράμματα ἐγχαράξαι εὐσήμοις τοῖς γράμμασιν. ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἀνδριὰς ἕστηκεν ὁ σός, τῷ μὲν σχήματι ἡδέως – ἀποδείκνυσιν γὰρ τὴν θάλατταν – τὴν δὲ ἐργασίαν οὔτε ὅμοιός σοι οὔτε ἄλλως καλός· ὥστε πέμψον ἀνδριάντα ἄξιον ἐπονομάζεσθαι σὸν ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ τούτῳ σχήματι· τὸ γὰρ χωρίον ἐπιτηδειότατον εἰς μνήμην αἰώνιον. The altars are already set up, though in rather rough stone, and as such the inscribed letters are not particularly clear; the Greek inscription is also inaccurately carved, as it was written by barbarians. I therefore decided to rebuild the altars in white stone, and to carve the inscription in clear letters. And though your statue has been erected in a pleasing pose – it points out to the sea – the work neither resembles you nor is beautiful in any other way. So do send a statue worthy to bear your name, in the same pose, for that spot is very well suited to an everlasting monument. Peripl. M. Eux. 1.2–4, trans. A. Liddle, modified

The cameo narrative24 showcases the imperial system’s commitment to broadcasting power and culture through the medium of monuments and

24  In Zadorojnyi 2013: 173 Arrian’s passage is discussed along similar lines, but in less detail; see also Strazdins, forthcoming, 2019, ch. 1.

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monumental writing;25 politics and aesthetics are interfused on several levels. Arrian is disappointed with the current state of monumentality at Trapezus, and intervenes on behalf of both the emperor and the linguistic and aesthetic criteria of Hellenism. He cannot put up with the allegedly poor workmanship of the altars and especially the altar inscription which had been written badly by the locals;26 the staple view that Greek language deteriorates in barbarian environment (e.g. Dio Chrys. 36.9; Plut. De fac. 941C)27 is thereby given a palpable graphological twist. The text of the Periplous is vague on how the original altar inscription is related (or not) to Hadrian’s statue.28 One might be tempted to conclude that Arrian has the inscription re-cut for aesthetic and cultural, rather than directly political, reasons. Yet legibility of official writing displayed to the population was part of the administrative etiquette under the empire.29 And it is significant that the inscription and the emperor’s statue are mentioned in such close proximity.30 Arrian’s passage is also a gambit of literary and social negotiation. On the one hand, through the upgrading of Hadrian’s monument the Periplous implicitly monumentalizes itself31 as a project sanctioned from the outset by

25  See Thomas 2007: esp. 150–61; from a plethora of relevant scholarship, see e.g. Alcock 1993: 181–99; Stewart 1998; Ando 2000: 304–13; Boatwright 2000: 108–213 and 2010; Karivieri 2002; Puech 2002; Alföldy 2003; Niquet 2003; Zuiderhoek 2009: 122–33, and 141–6; Zanker 2010; Mayer 2010; Noreña 2011: 200–97; Reitz 2012: esp. 317–21; Nicholls 2013. For inscriptions honoring Arrian himself, see Stadter 1980: 2–17. 26  For Arrian’s implied disparagement of the people and, indeed, the elite of Trapezus here, see Madsen and Rees 2014: 1–2. 27  See, further, Bowersock 1995: 5–6. 28  Most commentators tend to sidestep the question; Porter 2001: n. 34 (text on p. 276) is more upfront about his reading (“presumably Archaic Greek inscription”). 29  For example, a third-century memorandum from the vice-prefect of Egypt notes that transcripts of its contents, “in clear letters” (εὐδήλοις γράμμασιν), must be posted throughout the region (POxy 34.2705, lines 10–11); see also OGIS 665, lines 12–13; PYale inv. no. 299, lines 12–15, with Rea 1977. Texts such as these ought to be construed not so much as proof of mass literacy, but rather as evidence of the provincial government's assumptions about how the people are to be governed; see Bowman 1991: 121–22. 30  Cf. Boatwright 2000: 140: “the passage depicts the appropriation of a provincial sanctuary [of Hermes] by imperial cult. ⟨…⟩ juxtaposition [of the emperor’s statue] with altars and temple blurred the distinction between emperor and deity. ⟨…⟩ The restorations in Trapezus integrated emperor and local cult, even while enhancing the image of Hadrian himself.” 31  Compare König 2007: 15–17 on the narratorial monumentalization in the finale of Xenophon of Ephesus’ novel by way of inscribed temple dedications. In Arrian’s Periplous we may be looking at a similar trick played out, more assertively, at the opening of the narrative.

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the propitious powers which the emperor’s effigy stands for (cf. 2.4).32 But Arrian necessarily empowers himself as administrator-cum-narrator too, because he takes credit for the improved monumental landscape at Trapezus. The message appears to be that the elite, here represented by a cultured Greek consular,33 are veritable stakeholders in construction of the imperial authority and the atmosphere of civilized stateliness by dint of monuments and inscribed texts. The Periplous effectively reminds the emperor, under the eyes of the other readers,34 how the physical aesthetics and promulgation (1.4 “into eternal memory”, εἰς μνήμην αἰώνιον) of his own public image and, by the same token, of the empire’s paideia-friendly regime, are modelled and delivered by high-ranking “intermediaries” (after Boatwright 2000: 25) who are savvy epigraphic and literary designers – such as Arrian.35 Note that Arrian asks the emperor to send (1.4 πέμψον, cf. 2.1 εἰ δέ σοι δοκεῖ πέμψον μοι) statues to Trapezus (of Hadrian, 1.4; of Hermes and the hero Philesios, 2.1–2) but the inscription he sorted out himself, so that he is in a position to publicize this achievement through the narrative. Arrian is dissatisfied with the original altar inscription on two counts: the text is bad Greek (ἡμαρτημένως γέγραπται), and the characters themselves are “not clearly cut” (οὐκ εὔδηλα κεχάρακται) in the first place. Arrian decides to have it re-engraved in εὐσήμοις … γράμμασιν, which Aidan Liddle prudently translates “clear letters”. It would be perverse to fault Liddle’s translation, because the idea of legibility has to be important here and is certainly attested for the Greek adjective. βιβλίον πᾶς ἂν ἥδιον ἀναγνῴη καὶ ῥᾷον τὸ εὐσημοτέροις γράμμασι γεγραμμένον Anyone would read a book written in clearer characters with greater pleasure and ease (Arr. Epict. diss. 2.23.1)36

32  On the ideological importance of imperial portraits, see Ando 2000: 228–40, 369–70. 33  Madsen 2009: 45, 122–23; Madsen and Rees 2014: 1–3. 34  Stadter 1980: 35–36. 35  Indeed, the very gesture of Hadrian’s statue (1.3 “it points to the sea”, ἀποδείκνυσιν γὰρ τὴν θάλατταν) willy-nilly serves Arrian’s intertextual game plan in the Periplous as a shrewd allusion to Xenophon’ Anabasis: so Rood 2011: 142–43; Strazdins, forthcoming, 2019, ch. 1. 36  Further on the visual aesthetics of the ancient (Greek) book as focal object of cultured activity, see Johnson 2000: 612–15, esp. 612: “The clarity of the letters and the width of the column are, arguably, primarily functional, but the beauty of the letter shapes, and the elegant precision of placement for the columns cannot be…. the physical roll not only contained high culture, but was itself an expression of high culture …”

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Aesthetic expectations about legibility encompass epigraphic texts too: a Hellenistic inscription from Teos requires the lessor of a temenos to inscribe the contract of the lease “in letters legible and pleasing to the lessees” (lines 43–45 (στήλην … εἰς ἣν ἀναγράψει ὁ μισθωσάμενος τὴν συγγραφὴν τὴν χαράσσων γράμμασιν εὐσήμοις καὶ ἀρεστοῖς τοῖς μισθώσασιν)).37 The semantics of εὔσημος revolves, however, around a more general concept of distinctive, interpretable, and altogether good indication38 that can appertain to diverse fields: medical symptoms (e.g. Hippocr. Art. 26, Vectiarius 16; Gal. De diebus decretoriis 1.2 vol. 9.776K, 1.7 vol. 9.802K), animal tracks (Theophr. Caus. pl. 6.19.5), harmonics (Plut. De animae procreatione in Timaeo 1019A), vision (Alexander of Aphrodisias, De anima mantissa p. 146–7 Bruns), judgement (Plut. Quaest. conv. 719B), teaching (e.g. Sext. Emp. Pyr. 3.158, Math. 10.167; Gal. De simplicium medicamentorum temperamentis 3.13 vol. 11.571K; Artem. 1.65; Porph. Vita Pythagorae 48, 50), mention in a literary text (Strabo 10.2.23), and of course speech and more broadly sound (Soph. Ant. 1021; Ael. NA 4.46, 16.2; Porph. Abst. 3.4.4, 3.5.3; St Paul 1 Corinth. 14.9). Functional clarity often gets injected with a taste of demonstrable positivity (growing out of εὔ-, as it were), for example, when talking about favorable divination (e.g. Eur. IA 252; Plut. Caes. 43.4; esp. Philostr. VA 1.31.2 and 8.7.35), athletic physique and gait (Philostr. De gymnastica 35.16–17, 55.6), singing (Dio Chrys. Or. 72.14), onomatopoeia or otherwise dynamic turn of phrase (e.g. [Plut.] De Homero 2.16.2 and 2.16.4; scholia recentiora Arethae in Pl. Tht. ad 184d, p. 440–1 Greene), apt terminology (Aretaeus De causis et signis acutorum morborum 2.3.1) and, finally, literary diction – Photius regularly uses this word to pay tribute to various writers (e.g. Heliodorus: Bibl. cod. 73, 50a, l. 11: λέξεσί τε εὐσήμοις καὶ καθαραῖς), Arrian among them (Bibliotheca codex 92, 73a, l. 5). So εὔσημος is about signs that make sense and are “readable” to an echelon of people who have aspirations to structured and definitive knowledge and overtly prioritize “clarity” in visual and verbal culture alike (e.g. Quint. Inst. 8.3.62; Luc. Salt. 62, Lexiphanes 23).39 A legible inscription is thus a small piece in the vast jigsaw of Greek intellectualism and semantic quality control; elite knowledge (seeing, reading …) is accustomed to demanding and prizing transparent information signage.

37  See Adak, forthcoming 2018. I am grateful to Mustafa Adak for sharing this unpublished material with me, as well as to Andrej Petrovic for alerting me to it. 38  Cf. Hsch. E 7184 εὔσημον⟩· εὔδηλον, φανερόν. 39  Further references assembled in Lada-Richards 2007: 194. There is no question that praise for clarity co-existed with more or less appreciative acknowledgement of various forms of literary obscurity: see Schlapbach 2010: 255; Dozier 2013.

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“Good” signs constitute prestigious knowledge that underwrites social and political prestige.40 It is ironic that while Arrian speaks of creating a respectable inscription “in well-legible letters” (εὐσήμοις … γράμμασιν), Pollux dismisses the same adjective as “cheap” (5.150 τὸ γὰρ εὔσημα εὐτελές), that is insufficiently Classical, nomenclature for legible and opportunely situated epigraphic writing. Pollux has got a point, for εὔσημος is scarcely represented in Classical Greek prose (it occurs a few times in tragedy). Still, the fact that Arrian has used a word that belongs somewhat more firmly in the koinê – not least because his philosophical training (with Epictetus) justifies a blasé attitude about elegant style!41 – does not destroy the main outcome of the Periplous episode, namely that “welllegible letters” are the aesthetically and politically appropriate visualisation of elite textual standards. 3 The contrast between Pollux’s rejection and Arrian’s espousal of the phrase εὔσημα γράμματα thus calls attention to a relatively minor faultline in the ideology of Greek writtenness. Much more promising could be the contrast between “quality” epigraphy as referred to in literature, and the murky and problematic (aesthetically and politically) world of graffiti as viewed, again, through the spectacles of Greco-Roman literature.42 An episode in Appian’s Civil Wars (2.113/472), set in Rome in 44 BCE, gives rise to a stimulating comparison with the outlook behind Arrian’s Periplous. Appian narrates how, in the build-up to the conspiracy against Julius Caesar, obliquely subversive graffiti swarm over

40  Cf. n. 29 above. The vibes of socio-political excellence are audible in the adjective εὔσημος, too – it can be applied to the pre-eminent tribe (Ephorus FGrH 70 fr. 158.5, εὐσημότατον) or an impressive artefact (high-quality mantle: Manetho Astrol. Apotelesmatica 4.422). This connotation escalates in medieval Greek; in the 13th-century lexicon ascribed to Zonaras εὔσημος is defined as περιφανής· λαμπρός· καλός· ἀγαθός (E p. 903). 41  Arr. Epict. diss., praef. 5–6; Stadter 2012: 91. The posture of “indifference” towards the presentation of text among Greco-Roman philosophers ranges from depreciation of stylistics (see Zadorojnyi 2014: 305–6) to total disregard for graphemic aesthetics: Plotinus “neither formed the letters beautifully as he wrote, nor divided words clearly, nor cared for spelling, but clung to meaning alone” (Porph. Plot. 8 ἔγραφε δὲ οὔτε εἰς κάλλος ἀποτυπούμενος τὰ γράμματα οὔτε εὐσήμως τὰς συλλαβὰς διαιρῶν οὔτε τῆς ὀρθογραφίας φροντίζων, ἀλλὰ μόνον τοῦ νοῦ ἐχόμενος). 42  See Zadorojnyi 2011.

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Brutus’ praetorial seat (“Brutus, are you dead? Wake up! You are not his ancestor,” and so forth). Cassius explains to Brutus the purport of these graffiti: Or do you think it is the artisans and shopkeepers who write ἀσήμως on your tribunal rather than the best of Romans …? (ἤ σοι δοκοῦσιν οἱ χειροτέχναι καὶ κάπηλοι καταγράφειν σου τὸ δικαστήριον ἀσήμως μᾶλλον ἢ οἱ ῾Ρωμαίων ἄριστοι) Cassius’ words imply that graffiti is a category of writing that one would not normally associate with the elite. For, as I argued elsewhere, this is how GrecoRoman literary sources are wont to construe graffiti, essentially disconnecting the elite from graffitism. The drift of Cassius’ reply to Brutus is that in the moment of a truly unique crisis, the “best” Romans (cf. Plut. Brut. 10.6) resort to writerly strategies that are not normally theirs.43 The messages on Brutus’ tribunal were hardly calligraphic yet they were legible. Why does Appian’s Cassius call such writing ἀσήμως, then? Can he be referring to the withheld identity of the graffitists, who operated in secrecy (B Civ. 2.112/469 λάθρᾳ) and obviously did not sign their messages?44 But the idea of anonymity neither exhausts nor dominates over the semantic potential of ἀσήμως/ἄσημος in Greek usage. At the core of the epithet ἄσημος is lack of readable indication.45 Such a lack can be actualized as blank surface,46 shapeless silhouette (Dio Chrys. Or. 12.61; Philostr. VA 2.22.2), inarticulate utterance,47 muddled locution (Gal. De sophismatis penes dictionem 2 vol. 14.588K), or abstruse jokes (Plut. Quaest. conv. 712A). Notwithstanding the occasional failure of words to create any content, language tends to be seen as the tool for converting the unsignified into meaning. 43  Zadorojnyi 2011: 127–29. Morstein-Marx 2012: 210 thinks that Appian presents Cassius’ explanation of the graffiti as “disingenuous”; I am not sure this contradicts my overall argument though. 44  Graffiti as clandestine writing: e.g. Plut. Caes. 62.7; Luc. Dial. meret. 10.4; see Newsome 2013. Compare the use of ἀσήμως in medical literature to describe a change in the patient’s condition that occurs without outward symptoms (e.g. Gal. In Hippocratis librum III epidemiarum commentarii 1.10 vol. 17A.551K τῆς ἀσήμως γενομένης ῥᾳστώνης). 45  It goes without saying that ἄσημος is not used in the sense of “riddle” or “allegory” – absence of signification and the obscurity of deeply coded meaning are poles apart. 46  Of a shield: Eur. Phoen. 1112; of papyrus sheet: Philostr. VA 4.44.2; of unstamped gold or silver: e.g. Hdt. 9.41.3, Thuc. 2.13.4, 6.8.1; Diod. Sic. 17.66.1; Pollux 3.86. 47  Hdt. 2.2.3; Soph. Ant. 1209; Eur. Alc. 522; Arr. Epict. diss. 2.17.6; Plut. De def. or. 438B, De sera 564B, De gen. 587C; Pollux 5.10; Luc. Menippus 9, Alex. 13; [Luc.] Amores 15 ἄσημοι … ψιθυρισμοί.

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φωνῆς καὶ λέξεως … οὐδὲν γοῦν παραλέλοιπεν ἄσημον τῶν πρὸς αἴσθησιν ἀφικνουμένων, ἀλλ᾿ εὐθὺς ἐπιβάλλει τῷ νοηθέντι σαφῆ σφραγίδα ὀνόματος of voice and speech … [the linguistic ability] has left nothing of what comes to the senses undesignated but immediately attaches a clear seal of a name to every thought (Dio Chrys. Or. 12.65) ἐπειδὴ τῷ ὄντι ὁ λόγος τοῖς ἐνθυμήμασιν ὑπαντῶν, ῥήματα καὶ ὀνόματα προστιθεὶς χαράττει τὰ ἄσημα, ὡς ἐπίσημα ποιεῖν. since when speech verily meets the concepts, by allocation of verbs and names it engraves the unmarked so as to make it marked. (Philo De migratione Abrahami 79) It is debatable whether the engraved signs of the last passage are a spin-off of the epigraphic mentality.48 A striking parallel that involves real-life inscriptions is found, however, in the text of a first-century decree from Rhodes (I.Lindos 419.30–34): statues without inscriptions are, literally, asemantic (ἀνεπίγραφοι και ἄσαμοι), but will acquire meaning and identity when they get properly inscribed (ἐπισάμους ἐπιγρ[αφ]ὰν ἔχοντας).49 At the same time there is a strong social dimension to ἄσημος. The plural form ἄσημοι (or ἀσημότεροι) is one of the labels for the socially insignificant, the rank and file, the faceless commoner.50 Pollux (5.162–63) includes ἄσημος in the list of terms applicable to a worthless person (ἐπὶ τοῦ μηδενὸς ἀξίου). Very frequently the litotic οὐκ ἄσημος is chosen to refer to noble lineage (e.g. Plut. Sert. 2.1; [Luc.] Amores 15), prominent status of individuals or places (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.19.3; Eur. Ion 8), or distinguished action (Diod. Sic. 5.52.3). So ἄσημος is a word in which cognitive anxieties mesh with social prejudice; it is thus the natural antonym of both ἐπίσημος and εὔσημος. 48  Coinage (a popular source of metaphors) might be a safer explanation. Cf. Philo Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 180: “Do you not think that from the many things in nature, just as from stamped and unmarked coins, the invisible cashier … distributes to the lover of culture the stamped and tested ones, and to the ignoramus the unstamped and unmarked?” (ἐπισήμων γε μὴν καὶ ἀσήμων ὥσπερ νομισμάτων, οὕτως καὶ πραγμάτων ὄντων ἐν τῇ φύσει πολλῶν ὁ ἀόρατος τομεὺς οὐ δοκεῖ σοι … τὰ μὲν ἐπίσημα καὶ δόκιμα τῷ παιδείας ἐραστῇ, τῷ δὲ ἀμαθαίνοντι τὰ ἀτύπωτα καὶ ἄσημα προσνεῖμαι;). 49  Kajava 2003: 72–75. For the link between inscriptions and true identity/ownership, see Dio Chrys. 31.47, 83, with Zadorojnyi 2013: 371–72. For a discussion of I.Lindos 419 and the terms ἀνεπίγραφοι and ἄσαμοι, see Keesling 2017: 856–58. 50  E.g. Dion. Hal. AR 4.29.2 ἐκ ταπεινῶν καὶ ἀσήμων … προγόνων, 5.6.4; Joseph. BJ 4.148; Plut. Fabius 14.2, Cat. Mai. 11.3, Sert. 22.8; Luc. Dial. mort. 1.1. About locations: e.g. Strabo 10.4.1.

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Revising my earlier understanding of ἀσήμως in Appian’s passage (B Civ. 2.113/472),51 I submit that his description of graffiti as writing produced ἀσήμως draws on the whole semantic spectrum of the word.52 The rule of thumb is that graffiti do not signify in the normative way – they are illegible and garbled as well as anonymous and furtive. From the perspective of the elite Greco-Roman narrative, graffitism is but textual “white noise” by the socially undistinguished (the Roman graffitists of 44 BCE are an exception that proves the rule). This writing has no legitimate claim on the public space, whether intellectually, aesthetically or politically. 4 To sum up. Having zoomed in on three gobbets from second century Greek literature, we can triangulate some of the “deep” socio-cultural assumptions about epigraphic writing among the pepaideumenoi of the empire. Arrian bears witness to the aesthetic and political prestige of epigraphic writing for the elite; a “well-signified” inscription is a device of imperial propaganda as well as a medium of promoting one’s own culture and authority. Such epigraphy is an a priori glorious and culturally valid genre of writing. Its antipode, in the eyes of the literary elite, is graffiti – dubious and ignoble texts that are somehow non-signs, written ἀσήμως. The main interest of Pollux’s passage is that he offers a condensed diachronic picture of epigraphic texts: visibility is counterbalanced with the theme of oldness that brings along decay, illegibility, and invisibility. The idea that inscribed monuments are vulnerable through their physicality is of course widespread in Greco-Roman literature. While Arrian in Trapezus scores a small victory with his εὔσημα γράμματα, Pollux does not let us forget that in the longer run inscriptions are bound to become ἄσημα and ἀσαφῆ (5.150). Pollux probably envisages inscriptions that are several centuries old. All the more reason for pitting his epigraphic pessimism against Arrian’s epigraphic initiative in the Periplous. It has been tentatively argued that the sizeable lintel stone at Trabzon, displaying four Greek words from a formulaic dedication to Hadrian (Ἁδριανῷ Σεβαστῷ δημαρχικῆς ἐξουσίας) below later Arabic writing, is a leftover from the monument(s) commissioned by Arrian.53 Four words is not 51  In Zadorojnyi 2011: 127 and 129 I translated “anonymously”, which I now find tendentious and narrowing. 52  Cf. Hillard 2013: 113: “in a manner indistinct, obscure and without dignity”. 53  Mitford 1974: 160–2 with plate V.2.

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much, yet in fact enough to guesstimate the message, and the extant letters are “[R]egular and well cut but shallow” (Mitford 1974: 160). So, pace Pollux, Arrian’s effort was not entirely wasted at Trapezus. Bibliography Adak, M. forthcoming 2018. “The neoi and the temenos of Dionysas. A Hellenistic lease contract from Teos.” Philia 4. Alcock, S. E. 1993. Graecia Capta. The Landscapes of Roman Greece. Cambridge. Alföldy, G. 2003. “Die Repräsentation der kaiserlichen Macht in den Inschriften Roms und des Imperium Romanum.” In L. de Blois, P. Erdkamp, O. Hekster, G. de Kleijn and S. Mols, eds., The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power, 3–19. Amsterdam. Anderson, G. 1993. The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire. London and New York. Ando, C. 2000. Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Avotins, I. 1975. “The holders of the chairs of rhetoric at Athens.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 79: 313–24. Bearzot, C., Landucci, F. and Zecchini, G., eds. 2007. L’Onomasticon di Giulio Polluce. Tra lessicografia e antiquaria. Milan. Bethe, E. ed. 1900. Pollucis Onomasticon, vol. 1. Leipzig. Boatwright, M. T. 2000. Hadrian and the Cities of the Roman Empire. Princeton. Boatwright, M. T. 2010. “Antonine Rome: security in the homeland.” In B. C. Ewald and C. F. Noreña, eds., The Emperor and Rome: Space, Representation, and Ritual (Yale Classical Studies, vol. 35), 169–97. Cambridge. Bowersock, G. W. 1995. “The barbarism of the Greeks.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 97: 3–14. Bowman, A. K. 1991. “Literacy in the Roman Empire: mass and mode.” In J. H. Humphrey, ed., Literacy in the Roman World, 119–31. Ann Arbor. Chiron, P. 2013. “La dimension rhétorique de l’Onomasticon.” In C. Maudit, ed., L’Onomasticon de Pollux: aspects culturels, rhétoriques et lexicographiques, 39–65. Lyon. Dozier, C. 2013. “Blinded by the light: oratorical clarity and poetic obscurity in Quintilian.” In S. Butler and A. Purves, eds., Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses, 141–53. Durham and Bristol. Galli, M. 2002. Die Lebenswelt eines Sophisten. Untersuchungen zu den Bauten und Stiftungen des Herodes Atticus. Mainz. Ginsberg, R. 2004. The Aesthetics of Ruins. Amsterdam.

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Gleason, M. W. 1995. Making Men. Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome. Princeton. Hardie, P. 1996. “Sign language in On the Sign of Socrates.” In L. Van der Stockt, ed., Plutarchea Lovanensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch, 123–36. Leuven. Hell, J. 2010. “Imperial ruin gazers, or why did Scipio weep?” In J. Hell and A. Schönle, eds., Ruins of Modernity, 169–92. Durham NC. Hilgard, A. ed.1901. Scholia in Dionysii Thracis Artem Grammaticam. Leipzig. Hillard, T. 2013. “Graffiti’s engagement. The political graffiti of the late Roman republic.” In G. Stears, P. Keegan and R. Laurence, eds., Written Space in the Latin West, 105–22. London and New York. Huyssen, A. 2010. “Authentic ruins: produces of modernity.” In J. Hell and A. Schönle, eds., Ruins of Modernity, 17–28. Durham NC. Johnson, W. A. 2000. “Toward a sociology of reading in Classical Antiquity.” American Journal of Philology 121: 593–627. Kajava, M. 2003. “Inscriptions at auction.” Arctos 37: 69–80. Karivieri, A. 2002. “Just one of the boys. Hadrian in the company of Zeus, Dionysus and Theseus.” In E. N. Ostenfeld, ed., Greek Romans and Roman Greeks: Studies in Cultural Interaction, 40–54. Aarhus. Keesling, C. 2017. “Greek Statue Terms Revisited: What does ἀνδριάς mean?” Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 57: 837–861. Kennel, N. M. 1995. The Gymnasium of Virtue. Education and Culture in Ancient Sparta. Chapel Hill and London. König, J. 2007. “Orality and authority in Xenophon of Ephesus.” In V. Rimell, ed., Seeing Tongues, Hearing Scripts: Orality and Representation in the Ancient Novel, 1–21. Groningen. König, J. 2016. “Re-reading Pollux: encyclopaedic structure and athletic culture in Onomasticon Book 3.” Classical Quarterly 66: 298–315. König, J. and Whitmarsh, T. 2007. “Ordering knowledge.” In J. König and T. Whitmarsh, eds., Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, 3–39. Cambridge. Lada-Richards, I. 2007. Silent Eloquence: Lucian and Pantomime Dancing. London. Liddle, A. ed. 2003. Arrian: Periplous Ponti Euxini. London. Madsen, J. M. 2009. Eager to be Roman. Greek Response to Roman Rule in Pontus and Bithynia. London. Madsen, J. M. and Rees, R. 2014. “A Roman Greek.” In J. M. Madsen and R. Rees, eds., Roman Rule in Greek and Latin Writing: Double Vision, 1–15. Leiden and Boston. Matthaios, S. 2013. “Pollux’ Onomastikon im Kontext der attizistischen Lexikographie. Gruppen ‘anonymer Sprecher’ und ihre Stellung in der Sprachgeschichte und Stilistik.” In C. Maudit, ed., L’Onomasticon de Pollux: aspects culturels, rhétoriques et lexicographiques, 67–140. Lyon.

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part II Contexts

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section A Epigraphic Spaces

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chapter 3

The ‘Spatial Dynamics’ of Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram: Conversations among Locations, Monuments, Texts, and Viewer-Readers Joseph W. Day Ancient Greeks typically encountered inscribed monuments, not as lone objects, but among numbers of others: civic inscriptions in agoras, dedications in sanctuaries, and markers in graveyards, even small rural ones like the family plot beside an ancient road in southwestern Attica, where, among several other monuments, a kouros stood on a base inscribed with an epigram lamenting a young man’s death in battle.1 By reason of their placement, form, and texts, as well as the socio-cultural frames of people’s interactions with them such as festivals, funerals, and political gatherings, they were experienced as members of groups in conversation with other members. They pointed to others, or themselves in relation to others, thus drawing people encountering them into the dialogue and generating what Michael Scott calls a site’s “spatial dynamics.”2 They engaged viewers with a visual allusiveness or cross-referencing; and verbal cross-references in inscriptions – even real intertextualities – reflected, explained, and enhanced the visual conversations.3 Reconstructing ancient spatial dynamics presents challenges. Much has disappeared; findspots often tell us little about original locations, and those spaces changed over time; publications separate things that were juxtaposed for ancient passers-by – statues, supports, inscriptions, and physical contexts; and of course the whole project of reconstructing ancient receptions of inscriptions is fraught with problems. Still, progress is being made on various fronts. Closest to my interest in dedications, Scott discusses the spatial dynamics of Archaic and Classical Delphi and Olympia, where political messages were conveyed to visitors by siting dedications in relation to others. Especially for Delphi, he traces competing claims and counter-claims, sight-line connections 1  I thank Profs. A. Petrovic, I. Petrovic, and E. Thomas for inviting me to participate in the excellent Durham conference and for their efficiency and xenia throughout. I also thank my fellow participants for their fine contributions and helpful responses to mine.   See Neer 2010: 24–28; IG I3 1240 = CEG 27 (c. 540–530?). All dates are BCE. 2  Scott 2010. 3  Cf. Petrovic 2011. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_005

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and interruptions of them, among war memorials and other dedications around the Temple Terrace and lining the Sacred Way down to the sanctuary’s entrance. He shows, for example, how “major dedications [of the second half of the fifth century] … were … located so as to confront and dominate the many previous Athenian dedications.”4 I return to the southeast corner of the sanctuary later. Scott mentions inscriptions, but does not much exploit what they offer. Recent studies of spatial dynamics among public monuments at Athens pay more attention to epigraphic material. Julia Shear argues that civic inscriptions on the west side of the Agora after the democratic restorations of the late fifth century interacted with buildings, activities in them, and nearby inscriptions and monuments.5 For citizens encountering these ensembles and reading the inscriptions, consistent messages about democratic citizenship and Athens’ political past were reinforced again and again. The stele for the so-called Phyle heroes in front of the Old Bouleuterion provides an example. Its emphasis on the lawful agency of the dêmos (the People) created cross-references to nearby inscriptions such as Demophantus’ decree; but highlighting of the word dêmos itself also created internal cross-references linking the heading of the name list, the decree, and – set off between them with empty space and larger letters – the epigram.6 Athenians also encountered monuments in conversation with each other in their public burial area (the dêmosion sêma), where inscribed casualty lists beside polyandria (mass graves) were often accompanied by epigrams. Nathan Arrington argues that the area’s traditional associations and the accumulation of monuments exhibiting similar formal features collectively impressed on visitors a common message about Athenian “resilience.”7 Furthermore, the annual civic funeral (the patrios nomos of Thuc. 2.34.1) cooperated with location and monuments in spreading their message. The spatial, formal, and ritual factors drawing these monuments into a collectivity were joined by the inscriptions. Casualty lists, lacking patronymics and demotics, and arranged to reflect the Cleisthenic tribal organization, reinforced the collective message about resilient self-sacrifice for the polis; but they also included specifics in the names and the geographical rubrics of headings. Epigrams include specifics, 4  Scott 2010: 103 (with 106, fig. 4.10); cf. Melfi 2011. 5  Shear 2011. For honorific monuments in the Hellenistic world, see Ma 2013, esp. 67–151, 216–33. 6  Aeschin. 3.187–91; CEG 431; Raubitschek 1941; SEG 28.45, 52.86; cf. Shear 2011: 96–113, 230–38, 247–62; 2007a: 107. For Demophantus, see Andoc. 1.96–98; Shear 2007b. Cf. the Eion herms: Aeschin. 3.183–85; Bing 2014: 16–21. 7  Arrington 2010; 2011; 2015: 19–123 (quotation 95, 113, 280); but cf. Low 2010 (esp. 353–57); 2012.

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too; but they reinforce the common theme with verbal echoes among themselves, as when “a present participle” for fighting or struggling “is coupled with a verb for dying in the aorist to describe how the men died: with courage.”8 A mid-fifth-century text illustrates the point (IG I3 1181 = CEG 4 = AP 7.254): … ὀ⌊λέσατε hέβεν⌋, | ⌊πλείστοις hελλάνον ἀντία ⟨?β⟩⌋αρνάμε⌊νοι⌋, “… you lost your youth, fighting against most of the Greeks.” The organization of casualty lists and the commonalities of epigrams constitute intertextualities against which specifics stood out, an idea I return to later. This verbal intertextuality, just as the visual sort among the monuments, reinforced the “collective impact”9 of the dêmosion sêma. Viewers and readers created a notional unity out of their participation in a conversation among multiple pieces. Verse inscriptions are my concern, and here I examine epigrams on Archaic and Classical dedications. Visitors to sanctuaries engaged in something more complex than two-way communication between themselves and single monuments. Physical contexts of dedications, their forms, and inscribed texts drew visitors into broader conversations, which I categorize as “cooperative” or “competitive,”10 although a monument could participate in both kinds. The Athenian Agora and dêmosion sêma offer models of cooperative conversations; many of Scott’s illustrations of spatial dynamics are competitive. To illustrate cooperative conversations, I present examples of family dedications.11 1

Cooperative Conversations: Family

Multiple offerings in one sanctuary by the same person but highlighting his or her family, or by different members of a family, could invite comparative viewing by means of formal similarities or the placement of individual pieces. Epigraphic cross-referencing, sometimes specific intertextualities, assumed and invited comparative reading of a family’s dedications, thereby enhancing their communicative potential. Similar effects could be achieved by a single monument with parts and inscriptions devoted to different family members. To set the stage, let us look at a famous example of the latter type. In the 330s, above the Temple Terrace in Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi, the Thessalian dynast Daochus II dedicated a retrospective of eight larger than 8  Arrington 2011: 188; cf. Low 2010: 346–47. See IG I3 1162 = CEG 6 and the Marathon stele (SEG 56.430), also IG I3 1163 = CEG 5 and IG II2 5226 = CEG 467 = AP 7.245. 9  Arrington 2011: 202. 10  Cf. Ma 2013: 113 (“competition and collaboration”). 11  See Löhr 2000; also Day 2010: 187–98; Hintzen-Bohlen 1990 (SEG 40.1701); cf. Ma 2013: 155– 239. Here and throughout, I present sondages and make no claim to comprehensiveness.

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life-size marble statues of family members (Figures 1 [no. 511], 2, and 3).12 They stood on a nearly twelve-meter long base, in chronological order beginning on the viewer’s right after a now missing large statue, probably Apollo. First is Daochus’ great-great grandfather, Acnonius, born in the mid-sixth century and active into the fifth; last on the left is the dedicator’s son, Sisyphus II.13 Beneath these two, the base carries prose labels, but each of the six statues between stood above its own epigram.14 Iconographically, the statues create various groupings.15 The three nudes toward the right, for example, make a unit: their nudity, poses, and styles constitute visual intertexts. Only by reading the epigrams, though, did viewers learn their names, why they are unclothed and of different ages, and what aspect of the family’s glory they jointly established (CEG 795): ii. πρῶτος Ὀλύμπια παγκράτιον, Φαρσάλιε, νικᾶις, | Ἁγία Ἀκνονίου, γῆς ἄπο Θεσσαλίας, | πεντάκις ἐν Νεμέαι, τρὶς Πύθια, πεντάκις Ἰσθμοῖ· | καὶ σῶν οὐδείς πω στῆσε τροπαῖα χερῶν. First from the land of Thessaly, Pharsalian Hagias son of Acnonius, you won the pankration at the Olympics, (and) five times at Nemea, three at 12  Adults were about 2.00 m. high, youths 1.85 m. See Bommelaer and Laroche 1991: 200–1, no. 511, pl. 4; Dohrn 1968; Evans 1996; Hintzen-Bohlen 1990: 134–37; Jacquemin 1999: 51–52, 139, 346, no. 391; Löhr 2000: 118–23, no. 139; Le musée 91–98 (F. Croissant); Preuner 1900; Rausa 1994: 57–58 (no. 6), 130–36; Ridgway 1990: 46–50, pls. 22–26; Will 1938. Jacquemin and Laroche 2001 argue that the monument stood inside a roofed building, a Thessalian treasury; cf. Geominy 2007: 85–88. Geominy 1998 (SEG 48.597) and 2007 downdates to 287–277, unconvincingly in my view; cf. von Steuben 1999: 37–38; but Aston 2012: 48–53; Palagia and Herz 2002: 245–46; Rolley 1999: 325–29 (esp. n. 20). My discussion is essentially as delivered at the Durham conference, but Bing 2014: 2–14 anticipates much of it. I thank Prof. Bing for sharing his paper before its publication, after the conference. 13  The identification and placement of six pieces are secure, from right to left: (position 2, after ?Apollo) Acnonius (Delphi 1827); (3) his son Hagias (1875); (5) Hagias’ brother Agelaus (1183, 4885); (6) Hagias’ son Daochus I (1828); (7) Sisyphus I, son of Daochus I (1921, 1953); (8) Daochus II, dedicator and son of Sisyphus I (1922, plinth and feet). Two statues are problematic: (position 4) a nude torso (1360, not displayed in the Delphi Museum) may belong to Hagias’ other brother, Telemachus (see Evans 1996: 16–20; Tsirivakos 1972); (position 9) the youth leaning on a herm (1435, 1551, 11785) is associated with Sisyphus II, but cf. Palagia and Herz 2002: 245–46 (but Geominy 2007: 94–96). 14   C EG 795 (followed here); FD III.4 460 (J. Pouilloux); Syll.3 274 (H. Pomtow); also Ebert 1972: 137–45, nos. 43–45 (texts ii-iv); Kosmetatou 2004: 234–41; Löhr 2000: 118–23, no. 139; Moretti 1953: 68–75, no. 29 (texts ii-iv); Preuner 1900 (esp. 1–17). 15  See Evans 1996: 43–73, 83–84; Löhr 2000: 122; Rolley 1999: 326–29; Stewart 1990: 1.187; von Steuben 1999: 35–36 (with pl. 6.2); Will 1938: 302–3.

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figure 1

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Delphi, sanctuary of Apollo, late second century CE. Plan (no. 19639, D. Laroche) Courtesy of École française d’Athènes

the Pythians, five times at the Isthmus; and no one has ever set up trophies against your hands. iii. κἀγὼ τοῦδε ὁμάδελφο[ς ἔ]φυν, ἀριθμὸν δὲ τὸν αὐτὸν | ἤμασι τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἐχφ[έρ]ομαι στεφάνων | νικῶν μουνοπάλη̣ [ν]· Τ[..]σηνῶν δὲ ἄνδρα κράτιστον | κτεῖνα, ἐθελοντο[(⏑) ‒ c. 6]· Τηλέμαχος δὲ ὄνομα.

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figure 2

Delphi Museum, Daochus’ monument. Photo (no. 47.283, Ph. Collet) Courtesy of École française d’Athènes

figure 3

Delphi, Daochus’ monument. Restoration drawing (by C. Smith) Courtesy of A. F. Stewart

And I was born the full brother of this man, and I took away the same number of crowns on the same days, winning at wrestling; and I killed the strongest man of the T..senians, [?…].16 And my name is Telemachus. iv. οἵδε μὲν ἀθλοφόρου ῥώμης ἴσον ἔσχον, ἐγὼ δὲ | σύγγονος ἀμφοτέρων τῶνδε Ἀγέλαος ἔφυν· | νικῶ δὲ στάδιον τούτοις ἅμα Πύθια παῖδας· | μοῦνοι δὲ θνητῶν τούσδ’ ἔχομεν στεφάνους. 16  See n. 24 below.

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These had equal prize-winning strength, and I was born the brother of both of these, Agelaus; and, together with these at the Pythians, I defeated the boys in the stadion race. Alone among mortals we have these crowns. Furthest to the right stood Hagias (text ii), the dedicator’s great-grandfather, followed by his brothers Telemachus and Agelaus (iii and iv). They were athletes, competing at the same time, probably in the 480s,17 Agelaus in the boys’ category. Hagias’ epigram shows typical elements of athletic victor inscriptions, and it could stand alone.18 The other texts, though independent epigrams, cannot stand alone: their cross-references to the other athletes, statues, and epigrams bind the three into an inextricable unity.19 Deictic expressions (with conjunctions and particles) provide the basic cross-referencing.20 Telemachus’ epigram (iii.1) takes off from Hagias’: “and I was born the brother of this man.” Agelaus (iv) joins in: “these” were equally strong, “and I was born the brother of both of these”; “I won together with these”; “we have these crowns.” Thanks to the deixis, Telemachus’ and Agelaus’ patronymic and demotic, de rigueur elements in stand-alone athletic epigrams, are omitted to create, effectively, cross-references ex silentio to their brother’s epigram.21 Other cross-references include Telemachus’ victory-catalogue by reference to Hagias’: “the same number of crowns on the same days.” Forms of νικάω in all three and ἐγὼ … ἔφυν in iii and iv are intertexts. The third verses of iii and iv begin similarly with the event following νικάω. The vaunt in ii.1, with πρῶτος, is echoed by that in iv.4, with μοῦνοι δὲ θνητῶν.22 The two vaunts frame the three epigrams as a unit, and the second one marks the sequence’s close by referring to all three athletes, “we.” The three nude athletes contrast with a group of three draped statesmen and warriors to the viewer’s left, who look back to the clothed Acnonius 17  See Ebert 1972: 139; FD III.4, pp. 136–37; Moretti 1953: 70–1. 18  It contains the ἀγγελία (name, father, city, event), a νικ-word, and a victory list; see at n. 85 below. It apparently stood without the other two, but following a verse dedicatory text (possibly echoed in CEG 795.vii), beneath a statue of Hagias (and above a signature of Lysippus) at Pharsalus: IG IX.2 249 = CEG 794. For that text and what it implies about the relationship between the Pharsalus and Delphi dedications, see Bing 2014: 5–9, 13–14; Evans 1996: 104–15; Geominy 1998: 378–84; Löhr 2000: 122–23; Preuner 1900 (esp. 17–39); Rolley 1999: 326; Stewart 1990: 1.187; von Steuben 1999: 37–38. 19  See Bing 2014: 10–11; Cummins 2009: 329–33; Ebert 1972: 142–43; Geominy 1998: 380–83. 20  Cf. Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 12–15; Petrovic 2011. 21  Preuner 1900: 33. 22  Cummins 2009: 320, 328–34.

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and thus frame the nudes.23 The inscriptions also provide framing and otherwise integrate the groups into a whole. Prose texts beneath Acnonius and Sisyphus II (nos. i and viii) frame the epigrams; and the ultimate ancestor Acnonius and the dedicator Daochus II (no. vii) share an intertext: τέτραρχος Θεσσαλῶν. Relationships are indicated, so the texts as a whole generate a verbal family tree from ancestor to dedicator’s son, when read from the right.24 The first and last epigrams, ii for Hagias and vii for Daochus II, show interesting parallels that cause them to frame all the poems (CEG 795.vii): αὔξων οἰκείων προγόνων ἀρετὰς τάδε δῶρα | στῆσεμ Φοίβωι ἄνακτι, γένος καὶ πατρίδα τιμῶν | Δάοχος εὐδόξωι χρώμενος εὐλογίαι | τέτραρχος Θεσσαλῶν | ἱερομνήμων Ἀμφικτυόνων. Enhancing the aretai of his house’s progenitors, honoring his clan and fatherland, Daochus dedicated these gifts to lord Phoebus, employing good report that confers good reputation, the tetrarch of the Thessalians (and) representative to the Amphictyons. Each varies patterns found in its two mates: ii addresses Hagias in the second person, while Telemachus and Agelaus speak in the first; vii has a different

23  If Sisyphus II was nude (see n. 13 above), the pattern was interlocking (left to right): 1 nude, 3 clothed, 3 nude, 1 clothed. 24  The other texts: i. Ἀκνόνιος Ἀπάρου τέτραρχος Θεσσαλῶν. v. Δάοχος Ἁγία εἰμί (πατρὶς Φάρσαλος) ἁπάσης | Θεσσαλίας ἄρξας vac. 3–4 οὐ βίαι ἀλλὰ νόμωι, | ἑπτὰ καὶ εἴκοσι ἔτη· πολλῆι δὲ καὶ ἀγλαοκάρπωι | εἰρήνηι πλούτωι τε ἔβρυε Θεσσαλία⟦ι⟧. vi. οὐκ ἔψευσέ σε Παλλὰς ἐν ὕπνωι, Δαόχου υἱὲ | Σίσυφε, ἃ δ’ εἶπε σαφῆ θῆκεν ὑποσχεσίαν· | ἐξ οὗ γὰρ τὸ πρῶτον ἔδυς περὶ τεύχεα χρωτί, | οὔτ’ ἔφυγες δήιους οὔτε τι τραῦμ’ ἔλαβες. viii. Σίσυφος Δαόχου. Other linkages: v refers to ii (Δάοχος Ἁγία εἰμί) and repeats the demotic and ethnic in its first distich; the peacefulness of Daochus I in v may echo Telemachus’ unwillingness to kill his opponent (if a negative is restored in iii.4; see CEG comm.; Cummins 2009: 331; Ebert 1972: 143–44 [ἔθελον τὸ [μὲν οὔ]]; SEG 14.419, 16.940), but that killing also looks to the military character of Sisyphus I in vi; in vi, the second-person address, πρῶτον, and the vaunt in the final line look back to ii. See Bing 2014: 12–14.

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metrical pattern25 and does not specify its subject’s relationship with the figures to his left, as v and vi do. Instead, vii summarizes the family message of the entire monument in the collection’s only dedicatory formula, a conventionally third-person one as opposed to first or second person in all the other epigrams. Additionally, both ii and vii allude to well-known Athenian texts: ii.4 quotes words Sophocles put into Heracles’ mouth (Trach. 1102); vii.3 quotes an epigram preserved in the Anthology that may have graced the marker of the Athenian dead from Chaeronea, a pointed allusion since Daochus was Macedon’s ally.26 Daochus’ monument constituted an obvious unity: all the statues stood on one base, probably within a roofed, four-sided building. At first glance, we might describe this unity as paratactic: the statues all in a row, each with its inscription beneath, encountered seriatim by visitors moving down the line. The images’ forms and the texts’ wording, however, generated a variety of conceptual subunits and patterns. The cross-referencing, framing, and intertextuality caused each statue to be viewed and each text to be read in reference to others, thereby complicating viewers’ initial perceptions and constructing syntactical relationships. Readers and viewers entered into a complex conversation about Daochus’ family with images and texts that created a unified monument out of a multiplicity of elements.27 What precedents were there for dedicatory conversations about family? At Olympia, Pausanias informs us, families grouped their members’ monuments. We can imagine conversations centered on those of the Diagorids and their patriarch from Rhodes, but only fragmentary inscriptions remain, none an epigram.28 From the last third of the sixth century, however, Olympia does offer the remains of two dedications with epigrams highlighting one family.29 First is a column associated with a Doric capital and inscribed with three verses, one in each of three flutes (IVO 272 = CEG 419):

25  “2 hx + pent + prose” (Hansen 1985: 34, no. 2324), but hexametric patterns dominate in the final two lines. 26   A P 7.253 (GVI 28 = Simon. 8 Page, FGE); see CEG 595 and 795 comm. 27  Cf. Franssen 2011: 72–73 on Geneleos’ group. 28  Paus. 6.6.2, 6.7.1–3; Schol. Pind. Ol. 7 (Arist. fr. 569 Rose); IVO 151–53, 159 (but for 153, cf. CEG 844); see Löhr 2000: 61–64, no. 68; also Duplouy 2006: 71–75; Herrmann 1988: 156–58, nos. 55, 62–66; Hölscher 2002: 340; Rausa 1994: 44–46; Scott 2010: 161–62, 177, 199; Tzifopoulos 1991: 126–31, 142–56, nos. 22, 26–28. For other family groups, see Paus. 6.7.8 (Löhr 56–57, no. 61), 6.9.3 (Löhr 66–67, no. 73), 6.10.4–5 (n. 82 below). 29  See Herrmann 1984 (SEG 34.333); Löhr 2000: 19–20, nos. 14 (Olympia 763, 995) and 15 (Olympia 405, 978).

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Θρασυμάχο παῖδες το̑ Μαλίο [–⏑⏑ ‒‒] | το̑ι Δὶ Δάιαλκος καὶ [(⏑ –) ⏕ – c. 9] με ἀ�̣[νέθε - - -]. | Γρόφον ἐποίε Μάλιος κἀγ̣[ασικλ]ε͂ς. The first hexameter calls the dedicators “sons of the Melian Thrasymachus,” and the second names them in the dedicatory sentence (“Deïalcus and ? dedicated me to Zeus”); the trimeter is a signature of Grophon and, perhaps, Agasicles.30 From the second dedication a fragment of a stepped base survives, originally inscribed with at least two lines of text, perhaps more (IVO 273 = CEG 420): [Θρασυ]μάχο παῖδες τ[ο͂ Μαλίο –⏑⏑ ‒‒] | [- - - - - - - - - - - - -]μ[- - - - - - - - - - - -]. The base surely repeated the first verse of the column and likely the rest of the dedicatory epigram,31 if not the signature.32 We do not know what statues or other objects the column and base supported,33 or where the monuments stood; but findspots and weathering suggest they were not next to each other. Klaus Herrmann thus believes there were two dedications, rather than one bearing both inscriptions.34 Nonetheless, the two probably identical dedicatory epigrams alerted visitors who saw both monuments to the connection between them, and thus to one family’s claim on some part of the Altis.35 Pride of place is given to Thrasymachus and his Melian heritage, the latter re-emphasized in Grophon’s signature and the styles of the column36 and perhaps sculptures. Maybe his sons dedicated two memorials on behalf of their deceased father, possibly an Olympic victor in an 30  Cf. CEG 418 = LSAG 320, 324.23, with Herrmann 1984: 133–34, contra SEG 40.383, 681. 31  The letter beneath the first line’s sigma was likely Μ, but Α (of καί, preferred by Herrmann 1984: 129 n. 20) and Δ cannot be ruled out. 32  Löhr 2000: 19. 33  A bronze statue or statuette-group perhaps stood atop the column; see Herrmann 1984: 142–43. 34  Herrmann 1984: 128–29, 139–42; cf. Löhr 2000: 20 (with n. 75). For an Olympia text inscribed more than once on the same monument, see IVO 267–69, with Eckstein 1969: 33–42; Löhr 42–44, no. 45. 35  Cf. the dedications of Charopinus’ sons at Delphi, c. 550–500, with identical prose inscriptions: Löhr 2000: 17–18, nos. 11 (kouros base) and 12 (Ionic column). At Olympia, Pheidolas’ monument and that of his sons must have pointed to each other; see Ebert 1972: 46–49, nos. 6 (AP 6.135 = Anacr. 6 Page, FGE) and 7 (Paus. 6.13.9–10 = Anon. 97 Page, FGE = Zizza 2006: 288–92, no. 35). 36  Herrmann 1984: 129–33 compares Ecphantus’ dedication (Berlin, Altes Museum 1485; CEG 418).

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figures 4 A–C

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Samos, Cheramyes’ korai: A, Paris, Louvre; B, Samos, Vathy Museum; C, Berlin, Altes Museum Photos: Hans R. Goette, Deutsches archäologisches Institut

event mentioned in the lacuna of the first verse.37 In any case, the two monuments created some kind of pair, if not side by side, perhaps within eyeshot. The Samian Heraeum may provide an earlier and very impressive parallel, although we cannot be certain that family is represented. Around 570 and perhaps over a period of time after that, Cheramyes dedicated three korai (Figures 4 A–C) and a kouros, often labeled A through D as at IG XII.6.2 558.38 37  Thrasymachus does not appear in Moretti 1957. For monuments apparently erected by victors’ sons, see Day 2010: 197–98, citing CEG 346, 386, and Löhr 2000: 158–60. 38   Kore A: Paris, Louvre MA 686. Kore B: Samos, Vathy Museum. Kore C: Berlin, Altes Museum Sk 1750. Kouros D (two fragments of left leg): Samos, Vathy Museum. See Bumke 2004: 90–95; Croissant 2005; Duplouy 2006: 197–203, pls. 10–14; Franssen 2011: 65–69, 94–101, Kat. A 5–7 and 43; Karakasi 2003: 13–34, pls. 4–9; Kyrieleis 1995; Richter 1968: 46, nos. 55 and 56 (A and C, respectively), figs. 183–89. The inscriptions are IG XII.6.2 558, A–D; C–D are CEG 422–23, respectively; LSAG 328–29, 341, nos. 4 (with pl. 63; IG’s A) and 7 (IG’s D).

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Each of the two taller and formally closer39 korai, A and B, bears a dedicatory inscription that runs upward along the hem of her epiblêma, which provides a top-line for the orthograde script: A. Χηραμύης μ’ ἀνέθη̣ κεν τἤρηι ἄγαλμα. ↑ B. Χηραμύης μ’ ἀνέθηκεν τἤρηι ↑ ἄγαλμα. ↑ The inscription on kore C runs downward, orthograde, with the epiblêma as a base-line. Κouros D carried the same text, also downward and orthograde, on the outside of his proper left leg: C. Χηραμύης μ’ ἀνέθηκε θ⟨ε⟩ῆι περικαλλὲς ἄγαλμα. D. [Χηρα]μ̣ ύης μ’ ἀ�̣νέθη[κε θεῆι περικαλλ]ὲς ἄγαλμα.

↓ ↓

Texts C and D are hexameters beginning with a conventional dedicatory formula (“Cheramyes dedicated me to the goddess”) and ending in a Homeric flourish (“a very beautiful agalma”). A and B are identical to each other40 but differ from C and D: “Cheramyes dedicated me to Hera, an agalma.” Hansen (CEG) considered A and B prose; but they retain the largely poetic agalma, replicate the initial hemiepes of C and D, and perhaps scan in their entirety (if not as canonical hexameters).41 No secure evidence points to the original location of any of these statues. At some point before the third century, however, A and B stood side by side on a single block, probably along the north side of the Sacred Way.42 That represents a secondary placement, but it may have retained a memory of their earlier location. Additionally, the identical texts on A and B, their comparable layout on the statues, and the formal similarity of the korai suggest they were paired from the beginning. Jürgen Franssen and others emphasize that there was no reason to repeat the same inscription on different elements of a single 39  Franssen 2011: 65–66 emphasizes their differences, which may suggest separate dedications (see nn. 45, 48 below); cf. Bumke 2004: 91; Croissant 2005: 298–303, figs. 22–23, 25– 26; Kyrieleis 1995: 9–13. 40  For the line-break in B, see Kyrieleis 1995: 29 n. 67. 41  See Oswald 2014: 103–5, nos. 14–15; also Day 2010: 49 n. 109; Dunst 1972: 132; Duplouy 2006: 198; Girard 1880: 493; Webster 1960: 260. For agalma, see Day 2010: 85–129, who does note prose exceptions, e.g., from Didyma, DVA 690, 693, 952. 42   Kore A was found near the northeast corner of the Hera temple; see Karakasi 2003: 20 n. 120. Kore B was found at point 6A at Karakasi 21, fig. 1, 4.5 m. north of the block; see Karakasi 24; Kyrieleis 1995: 15–19, 26; also Duplouy 2006: 198–200; Franssen 2011: 65.

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monument.43 Alain Duplouy therefore concludes that A and B were indeed paired, but not on the same base; perhaps they faced each other across a street or other modest space.44 No matter how close A and B were, they addressed each other iconographically, thereby bringing viewers into their conversation and laying claim to a certain space in the Heraeum. Reading the inscriptions linked the claim to Cheramyes’ name: readers placed his seal on that space as dedicator of two agalmata to Hera. Wherever kore C and kouros D stood, they enhanced or expanded that seal. They shared a variant text (a more Homeric hexameter) and direction of writing, which suggest they formed a separate pair. Moreover, the tall kouros (restored to around 2.40–2.50 m.) and short kore (1.75 m., 40–50 cm. shorter than A and B) perhaps gave the impression of a brother and sister.45 If the two pairs formed a visual frame for a larger space such as a portion of the Sacred Way,46 visitors may have perceived that Cheramyes marked the sanctuary with spread out representations of his three daughters and son.47 Helmut Kyrieleis, on the contrary, argued that all four statues originally stood on a single base as a family group.48 Kyrieleis was inspired to restore Cheramyes’ dedication as he did by a six-figure group on one base in the Heraeum, signed by the sculptor Geneleos (Figure 5)49: from the left, a seated 43  Franssen 2011: 68; also Duplouy 2006: 198; Hintzen-Bohlen 1990: 149 n. 154; Karakasi 2003: 24 n. 172. See n. 34 above. 44  Duplouy 2006: 200–3, pls. 12–14, suggests they stood in the north portal, contra Franssen 2011: 65 n. 158; cf. Karakasi 2003: 23 with n. 156. 45  See Bumke 2004: 90–94; Kyrieleis 1995: 21–23, 30–31. In Geneleos’ group (see below), the boy’s small size and subtle differences between korai (cf. n. 39 above) point to a family; see Duplouy 2006: 196–97, and cf. the brother and sister stele from Attica (New York, MMA 11.185; IG I3 1241 = CEG 25, c. 540–530). However, Franssen 2011: 66–67 warns that C’s size need not indicate younger age, and that her differences from A and B could be attributed to a different artist’s style or stylistic development over time (see n. 47 below); cf. Croissant 2005: 302; Duplouy 199. 46  I find nothing certain about the provenience of C and D. Perhaps Isches’ kouros (Franssen 2011, Kat. A 30; IG XII.6.2 560) and the so-called southern colossus (Franssen A 29) offer a parallel for framing part of the Sacred Way; see Duplouy 2006: 191–95, pls. 5–7. 47  Or children and grandchildren. Some date kore C later than A and B by style, and the lettering of inscriptions C and D later as well, perhaps by 20–30 years. See Duplouy 2006: 199, pl. 11; Franssen 2011: 66–67; LSAG 328–29, 341, nos. 4 (our A, c. 570–560) and 7 (our D, c. 540). For a common high date, see Kyrieleis 1995: 20–29; IG XII.6.2, p. 355. 48  Kyrieleis 1995; for his generally positive reception, see Duplouy 2006: 326 n. 59; Franssen 2011: 65 n. 158; IG XII.6.2, p. 355. For the possibility that Cheramyes’ statues constituted neither a group of four nor two pairs, but four individual dedications, see Franssen 65–69; Karakasi 2003: 24 n. 172. 49  Samos, Vathy Museum 768; Berlin, Altes Museum Sk 1739; fragments in storehouses at the Heraeum. See Bumke 2004: 82–90; Duplouy 2006: 195–97; Franssen 2011: 60–62, 72–73,

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Samos, Geneleos’ group. Restoration drawing at H. J. Kienast, “Die Basis der Geneleos-Gruppe,” AM 107 (1992), Beilage 2 Courtesy of Hans R. Goette, Deutsches archäologisches Institut

woman, a boy perhaps holding a flute, three korai, and a reclining man50 grasping a drinking horn – probably a mother, four children, and father participating in some festivity. My thinking too owes something to Geneleos’ similarly-dated display of a family in multiple sculptures. As noted above, however, Cheramyes’ inscriptions render unlikely a multi-figure group on one base: Geneleos placed a single dedicatory text beneath the reclining man named as dedicator, namelabels on the other statues, and a signature on the mother’s outer garment, thereby integrating every statue into the group; each of Cheramyes’ sculptures, on the contrary, has its own verse (or quasi-verse) dedication, and no namelabels survive.51 Nevertheless, his inscriptions linked the four statues to him and to each other, thereby reinforcing what close pairing and/or more distant sight-lines did visually. If visitors to the Heraeum perceived that his four children were represented, his dedications accomplished what Geneleos did by arrangement on one base and different kinds of inscriptions, but they likely 112–17, Kat. A 54 (?+ A 26); Karakasi 2003: 13–34, pls. 24–29; Keesling 2003: 103–4; Löhr 2000: 14–17, 182–83, no. 10; Stewart 1990: 1.117, pls. 97–99. The inscriptions are IG XII.6.2 559. 50  Duplouy 2006: 196; Baughan 2011 (esp. 21–22, 35). 51  Duplouy 2006: 198 notes μ(έ) in Cheramyes’ inscriptions as opposed to ἡμᾶς in Geneleos’ signature and ἡ�̣ μέ�[̣ α]ς in the dedication; cf. ἡμέας at LSAG 332–33, 342, no. 24 (DVA 168, with p. 74). Franssen 2011: 68–69 notes singular ἄγαλμα as opposed to plurals at Didyma (e.g., DVA 690, 693). If Cheramyes’ descendants are represented, one would expect namelabels; perhaps they appeared on bases.

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Athenian Acropolis, dedication of -chares (his inscription visible) and Tychandrus. Restoration drawing (by K. E. Rasmussen, Archeographics) at C. M. Keesling, “Patrons of Athenian Votive Monuments,” Hesperia 74 (2005) 406, fig. 8 Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens and Prof. Keesling

did it over a wider area. If Kyrieleis is right, however, Cheramyes’ dedication illustrates a cooperative family conversation more like Daochus’ at Delphi: a single monument bearing multiple sculptures of family members, each with a separate inscription. The Athenian Acropolis may provide a variation on that pattern from shortly before the Persian sack (Figure 6).52 Three fragmentary lines inscribed on 52  Athens, EM 6320b, 6392, 6501, 6376; DAA 210; Kissas 2000: 114–15, no. B42, figs. 108–9; see Keesling 1995: 172–73, figs. 37–39; 2005: 403–7, figs. 5–8.

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a rectangular pillar capital record the dedication of firstfruits (aparchê) by a man of the deme Cholargus whose name was Chares or ended in -chares (IG I3 695a = CEG 239.i): [— — —]χάρες53 [— — —] ⁝ hο Χολαργε⟨ὺ⟩ς | [–⏕ –⏕ –⏕ –⏕ –]ενος ⁝ ἔργον54 vac. c. 4| [–⏕ –⏕ –⏕ – ἀνέθεκ]εν ⁝ ἀπαρχέν. vac. c. 2 These line-ends are likely the ends of three hexameters, in which case the capital originally extended leftward about a meter, for a restored length of 1.3–4 m.55 If the large cutting on top for the plinth of a marble statue extended leftward comparably, its dimensions suggest a quadruped, perhaps a horse; and since the inscription appeared on a long face, it would be coordinated with the primary view of a riderless horse, namely, full profile. Around the same time,56 Tychandrus placed a second dedication on this capital. To judge from its plinth cutting, he offered a smaller marble horse with an orientation perpendicular to that of -chares’ statue. Beneath his statue’s profile view, on the capital’s right face from the perspective of -chares’ inscription, two lines constituting a single hexameter record Tychandrus’ dedication of an “aparchê to Athena” (IG I3 695b = CEG 239.ii): κ[ἄ]μ’ ἀνέθεκε ⁝ Τύχανδρος | ἀπαρχὲν ⁝ τἀθεναίαι. vac. c. 3–4

53   D AA 210, fr. a (EM 6320b with ]χάρες), pace Kissas 2000: 114, does not seem to join the rest; thus, Prof. C. Keesling, email 8 August 2012, and cf. Raubitschek 1939: 53–54. CEG 239 comm. suggests [Θυμο]χάρες [⏔ ‒ ⏔ ‒ ⏔ ‒]; others move fr. a further to the right (DAA 210; Peek 1953–1954: 386). 54  Hansen (CEG I, p. 276) lists accusative (at no. 239 comm., citing IGB 420, he suggests ἐργασμ]ένος ἔργον) and genitive (ἔργο̅ν) as possible. Restoring with the genitive, Raubitschek (DAA 210) believes the dedicator was “an artisan, possibly a potter,” compares DAA 53 (CEG 235) and 197 (CEG 193), and associates the family in DAA 291 (IG I3 696 = Löhr 2000: 27–28, no. 25); but cf. Keesling 2003: 71–74. 55   D AA 210; Keesling 2005: 404–6, fig. 8; Raubitschek 1939: 53–54 (noting, with IGB 420, that vacats suggest verse ends). The plinth cutting would likely have been c. 0.96 m. long, and the capital probably stood on two pillars; cf. DAA 196 (IG I3 606 = CEG 188 = Kissas 2000: 108–10, no. B35). 56   D AA 210 assigned both inscriptions to the same hand; cf. Keesling 1995: 172.

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As Catherine Keesling notes, Tychandrus’ statue was not part of the original plan for the dedication; the monument became a joint votive group only through the addition of a new element.57 Tychandrus and -chares were likely members of one family. Two similar but differently sized statues on the same capital suggest a significant connection between dedicators, and the inscriptions reinforce that message. Both are hexametric, and each identifies its dedication as an aparchê. The second epigram begins with a cross-reference to the other dedication: “and Tychandrus dedicated me,” or, to highlight word order against grammar, “and I was dedicated by Tychandrus.”58 Finally, the added inscription’s abbreviated form suggests that readers were expected to supply information from its mate: a patronymic and demotic for Tychandrus, and maybe a profession or other source of the aparchai.59 Perhaps -chares and Tychandrus were brothers who dedicated different sized aparchai representing their shares of an inheritance; but I suspect Tychandrus was -chares’ son, who, after his father’s dedication was planned or even completed, added one of his own, possibly from his lesser stake in the family business.60 2

Competitive Conversations: War and Athletics

Many inscribed dedications presented themselves competitively in relation to their neighbors, rather than cooperatively. Location and visual form initiated a competitive conversation, but fully unlocking its communicative potential required reading. Visual and verbal, explicit and implicit cross-referencing registers the competitive dialogue that passers-by were invited to enter. Scott’s “spatial dynamics” mainly concern competition among poleis, and my opening 57  Keesling 2005: 397, 406. 58   Καί adds extra emphasis, if “me” (and “this”) always cross-referenced neighbors; see Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 12–14; Petrovic 2011. 59  In DAA 217, the dedication and (differently) abbreviated prose inscription of Theodorus, son of Onesimus, were added to a capital carrying the earlier inscribed (prose) dedication of Onesimus, son of Smicythus; see IG I3 699 = Löhr 2000: 37–38, no. 40 = Kissas 2000: 123–24, no. B52, figs. 124–25; also Keesling 1995: 184–86, figs. 40–43; 2005: 401–3, figs. 2–4. The family was active on the Acropolis: Onesimus dedicated many perirrhanteria (DAA 349–53, 357–58 = IG I3 926–32) and [The]odorus perhaps one (DAA 355 = IG I3 941). 60   C EG 235 records the dedication of a father and unnamed children from their joint [ἔργο̄]ν̣ θαλόντο̄ν (n. 54 above). For joint family dedications on the Acropolis, see Keesling 2005: 397–99; there were also independent dedications by family members, e.g., those of Chairion (DAA 330 = IG I3 590) and his son Alcimachus (DAA 6 = IG I3 618 = CEG 195, apparently a statue of Chairion), and see the preceding note.

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example from Delphi is one that he discusses briefly.61 Near the southeast entrance of Apollo’s precinct, from the mid-fourth century, visitors encountered three grand competing monuments, all now poorly preserved: their bronze statues have disappeared, and even the locations of the later two used to be disputed. Pausanias describes them, however, and surviving inscriptions on two show how epigrams constituted moves in the hostile dedicatory dance between states. To celebrate their victory at Aegospotami, the Lacedaemonians commissioned a dedication that loomed over persons entering the sanctuary and followed them, on their left, for fifteen meters along the Sacred Way (Figures 1 [no. 109] and 7).62 The long base supported two rows of statues: the nine in front included the Dioscuri, other deities, Poseidon crowning Lysander, and his seer and helmsman; twenty-eight allied commanders stood higher on a step behind, hence the dedication’s common name, the “Nauarchs.”63 This monument alluded to, competed with, and overshadowed its neighbor, an Athenian memorial for Marathon, which also combined super-humans and mortal commander in its thirteen statues (Figure 1 [no. 110]).64 The Spartan dedication, however, was itself challenged around 369, when the Arcadians erected one just across the street to celebrate victories over Sparta. The Arcadian base, ten meters long and three steps high at its east end, supported a row of nine statues of Apollo, Callisto, Nike, the mythical hero Arcas, and his five sons (Figures 1 [no. 105] and 8).65 The extra large Apollo (about 2.40 m. high), the first of the figures encountered by persons entering the sanctuary, was further marked by a five-distich epigram on the front of its base block (CEG 824.i = FD III.1 3). Conventional dedicatory language opens and closes the epigram: address to the god, terms for the dedication, verbs of dedication, and identification of the dedicators and reason for dedication (1–2, 9–10):

61  Scott 2010: 97 (no. 142), 104–7 (no. 186), 114–18 (no. 228); cf. Crane 1996: 176–78. 62  Paus. 10.9.7–10, Plut. Lys. 18.1, Mor. 395b. See Bommelaer and Laroche 1991: 108–10, no. 109, pls. II, V; Ioakimidou 1997: 107–15, 281–306, no. 21; Jacquemin 1999: 338, no. 322; Palagia 2009: 36–39; Pouilloux and Roux 1963: 16–19, 30–36, 55–60 (Roux); Stewart 1990: 1.53, 168– 69, 272. 63  Mortals were 1.6–8 m. high, gods about 30 cm. taller; see Ioakimidou 1997: 282, 292–93. 64  Paus. 10.10.1–2, who calls the inscription an ἐπίγραμμα, but does not quote it. See Bommelaer and Laroche 1991: 110–11, no. 110, pls. II, V; Hölscher 1974: 77–78; Ioakimidou 1997: 66–77, 179–200, no. 11; Jacquemin 1999: 315, no. 78 (dated c. 475–450?). 65  Paus. 10.9.5–6. See Bommelaer and Laroche 1991: 104–6, no. 105, pls. II, V; Ioakimidou 1997: 119–24, 322–41, no. 23; Jacquemin 1999: 313, no. 66; Scott 2008.

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figure 7

Delphi, “Nauarchs” dedication. Restoration drawing at J. Pouilloux and G. Roux, Énigmes à Delphes (Paris 1963) 57, fig. 18 (Roux) Courtesy of Michèle Brunet (for the Institut Fernand Courby)

figure 8

Delphi, Arcadians’ dedication. Drawing at H. Pomtow, “Studien zu den Weihgeschenken und der Topographie von Delphi,” AM 31 (1906), pl. 24 (H. Bulle) Courtesy of Hans R. Goette, Deutsches archäologisches Institut

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Πύθι’ Ἄπολλον [ἄ]ναξ, τάδ’ [ἀγάλματ]α̣ δῶ[ρ᾿ ἀνέθηκεν] | αὐτόχθων ἱερᾶς λαὸς ἀ[π’ Ἀρκαδ]ί�ας· ̣ |… τῶνδε σοὶ ἐκγενέται Λακεδαίμονα δηι ̣[ώσαντες] | Ἀρκάδες ἔστησαν μνῆμ’ ἐπιγινομένοις. Lord Pythian Apollo, these [agalmat]a as gifts the autochthonous people from holy Arcadia [dedicated] … The descendants of these (heroes), the Arcadians, having ravaged Lacedaemon, dedicated to you (this) memorial for those who come after. Verses 3–8 name the represented figures and weave them into a genealogy of the Arcadian people (3–5): Νίκηγ Καλλιστώ τε Λυκαν̣[ίδ]α, τῆι πο[τ’ ἐμίχθη] | Ζεύς, ἱεροῦ δὲ γένους Ἀρκάδ’ ἔφυσε κόρ̣[α]· | ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἦν Ἔλατος …66 (They dedicated) Nike and Callisto daughter of Lycaon, with whom once Zeus [mated], and from that sacred stock the girl gave birth to Arcas; and from him was Elatus … (and Apheidas, Azan, Triphylus, Erasus). The fourth block, for Arcas’ statue, carries a single distich with a dedicatory formula (CEG 824.iv = FD III.1 6): Ἀρκὰς τούσδ’ ἐτέκνωσ’, οἱ τούτων̣ [δ’ ἐκγεγαῶτες] | στῆσαν, ἐρείψαντες γῆν Λακεδα[ιμονίων]. Arcas begat these, [and] their [descendants] dedicated, having dashed down the land of the Lacedaemonians. Some time in the second half of the fourth century, someone – the Spartan state, presumably – rose to the Arcadians’ poetic challenge: Ion of Samos was commissioned to compose three epigrams, which were engraved on the Aegospotami monument across the faces of statue blocks in the front row, as 66  Verses 5–8: … ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἦν Ἔλατος καὶ Ἀφεί�δας ̣ ἠδὲ κα̣[ὶ Ἀζάν], | τοὺς δ’ Ἐρατὼ νύμφα γείνατ’ ἐν Ἀρκαδί[αι]· | Λαοδάμεια δ’ ἔτικτε Τρίφυλον, παῖς Ἀ[μύκλαντος], | Γογγύλου ἐκ κούρας δ’ ἦν Ἀμιλοῦς Ἔρα[σος]. |….

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on the Arcadian dedication.67 One epigram each appeared beneath Castor, Polydeuces, and Lysander. Ion signed the latter two (CEG 819 = FD III.1 51, 50):68 ii. [παῖ Διός, ὦ] Πολύδευ[κ]ες, Ἴων̣ [?καὶ τοῖσ]δ’ ἐλεγείοι[ς] | [?λαϊνέαν] κ̣ ρηπῖδ’ ἐστεφάνωσ[ε ?τεά]ν, | [ἀρχὸς ἐπ]εὶ πρῶτος, πρότερο[ς δ’ ἔ]τ̣ι τοῦδε ναυάρ[χου], | [?ἔστας ἁγ]εμόνων Ἑλλάδος εὐρ[υχ]όρου. [Son of Zeus, O] Polydeuces, Ion crowned [?your stone] base [?as well] with these elegeia, for you [?stood] as first [commander], before even this nauarch, among the leaders of Hellas of broad spaces. iii. εἰκόνα ἑὰν ἀνέθηκεν [ἐπὶ] ἔργωι τῶιδε ὅτε νικῶν | ναυσὶ θοαῖς πέρσεν Κε[κ]ροπιδᾶν δύναμιν | Λύσανδρος, Λακεδαίμονα ἀπόρθητον στεφανώσα[ς], | Ἑλλάδος ἀκρόπολ[ιν, κ]αλλίχορομ πατρίδα. | ἐξάμο ἀμφιρύτ[ας] τεῦξε ἐλεγεῖον ⁝ Ἴων. Lysander dedicated his image [upon] this work, when he won with swift ships, destroyed the power of the Cecropids (Athenians), and crowned unsacked Lacedaemon, acropolis of Hellas, fatherland of beautiful dancing places. Ion, from sea-girt Samos, constructed (this) elegeion. Just as the Arcadian monument “talked back” to the Lacedaemonian with its location, general type, reason for dedication, and depiction of gods and national heroes, so also the Spartan epigrams talk back to the Arcadian in three ways.69 Their first challenge concerns Sparta’s inviolability. The Arcadians twice boast of damage inflicted on Sparta: “having ravaged Lacedaemon” (CEG 824.i.9), “having dashed down the land of the Lacedaemonians” (iv.2). Ion 67   C EG 819 comm., and ML 95, both citing Pouilloux and Roux 1963: 59 (Roux); cf. Keesling 2010: 115 n. 39; Scott 2010: 117. If the older opinion is true, that Ion’s epigrams (at least 819.iii) are fourth-century re-cuttings of texts going back to the monument’s origin, the Arcadian epigrams challenge the Spartan rather than vice versa; cf. Palagia 2009: 37–38. Bousquet 1956: 580–81 believed the lettering of iii could be as early as 400, unlikely in my view. 68  And perhaps the fragmentary third (CEG 819.i = FD III.1 562+): [— — —]ι ̣[..]ν̣[.]ω̣ ι ̣ [not more than 10 letters] | [–⏕ –⏕ – Τ]υνδαριδ[‒ ⏑⏑ ‒ (not more than 10 letters)] | [–⏕ –⏕ –⏕ –] ̣ Λύσανδ[ρ]ο̣ς […]‖[not more than 2 letters] | [–⏕ – ⏑]ε̣ον θε͜ῶν ἱερὸν δάπεδον. 69  For graffiti that “talk back,” see Bing 2002: 43–44. The Arcadian monument cooperated with the Athenian against the Spartan; see Scott 2008: 433–35.

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responded pointedly with an old Spartan boast: “Lysander crowned unsacked Lacedaemon” (819.iii.3).70 Surely no one in the fourth century believed the Spartan statues were no longer impressive enough to do the main work of political display; but someone thought the epigrams added something to the monument’s impact, presumably their response to the Arcadian epigrams. Epigrams mattered to these persons, and Ion’s signatures affirm that they mattered by making explicit claims to poetic authority simply absent from the Arcadian texts. This is the second challenge. At CEG 819.iii.5, Ion’s signature is set off as an extra pentameter, and his name is marked by punctuation. At ii.1–2, Ion ascribes to himself the act of Poseidon in the statues and Lysander in poem iii.3: “he crowned the base.” If καί is restored, Ion either equates his addition to the base with the sculptors’, or he adds a cross-reference to his other poems: “… [?as well] with these elegeia.” The poet’s authority makes these inscriptions matter more, and that provides early evidence for a professionalization of the genre of epigram.71 The Arcadian and Lacedaemonian epigrams were located on their monuments strategically to advance the competitive dialogue. The longer Arcadian text was beneath the large Apollo; the couplet was on the base of Arcas, a national founder magnified in Arcadia.72 Ion’s epigrams appeared beneath Lysander crowned by Poseidon, and on the bases of the Dioscuri, heroes for the Spartans73 as Arcas was for the Arcadians. The emphasis on national heroes is reflected in another cross-reference in the texts, the third of Ion’s challenges: Arcas, son of Zeus, progenitor of the Sparta-sacking dedicators (CEG 824.i.3–4, 9, iv); Polydeuces, also son of Zeus, also a hero-model for the victorious dedicators, especially “this nauarch,” Lysander (819.ii.3–4).74 We catch sight here of evolving spatial dynamics. The Lacedaemonian monument talked back to the Athenian one; the Arcadian talked back to the Lacedaemonian; Ion’s epigrams talk back to the Arcadian poems. Walking up the Sacred Way, comparing the statues and reading the inscriptions, visitors were drawn into a competitive conversation that took shape over the course of a century.

70  Cf. Ioakimidou 1997: 323; LSJ s.v. ἀπόρθητος. 71  The poet’s self-reference provides a truth-claim and a craft signature (cf. Day 2013). See Crane 1996: 177–78; Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 289–91; Meyer 2007: 197–98; and more generally, Bing and Bruss 2007: 4, 8–11, 14–16. 72  Ioakimidou 1997: 325–26 speculates that Nike crowned Arcas. 73  Ioakimidou 1997: 283. 74   C EG 819.i (n. 68 above) presumably said something similar about Castor.

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As Scott’s book illustrates, earlier examples of political competition among states are plentiful, although epigrams are rare75; but when we turn to the placement, form, and more plentiful epigrams of earlier private dedications, it is hard to identify specific cases of competitive conversation. However, more generalized competitions, typically ones involving claims to difference couched in contexts of sameness, injected oppositional force into the reading of many inscriptions and viewing of their dedications. When sanctuary visitors encountered numerous similar dedications engraved with parallel texts, they were effectively invited to compare offerings and dedicators. In such contexts, variations, even small ones, set one piece off against its neighbors and could hold up its dedicator as somehow better. Athletic victor dedications provide an example.76 At Olympia, numbers of them accumulated in limited spaces (Figure 9): before Zeus’ temple was built, between its area and the Bouleuterion; afterwards, along the processional way from the southeast entrance of the Altis toward the Pelopion and Heraeum. Bronze statues became the high-end norm early in the fifth century, and the many gleaming, naturalistic nudes on stepped marble bases were broadly comparable, especially within stylistic periods. Inscriptions too exhibit major similarities. Verse and many prose texts, engraved on the fronts or tops of bases, share a template consisting in the winner’s name, father, event, and homeland, as in CEG 381 = IVO 147–48 (Olympia, 472): ⌊Τέλλον τόνδ᾿⌋ ἀνέθε⌊κ⌋ε Δ̣ α̣έμονος υ̣ἱὸ[ς | ὁ πύκ]τ̣α̣ς, Ἀ̣ ρ̣κὰ�̣ς Ὀρ̣εσθά�̣σιος, πα̣ῖ̣ς δ̣ [̣ ⏑⏑ ¦ ‒ ⏑⏑ ‒].77 Tellon, son of Daëmon, boxer, Arcadian from Oresthasion, boys’ (category), dedicated this (statue) … Against this background of sameness, dedicators differentiated their offerings by location, form, and inscription. Given official permission,78 they could locate their dedications near striking monuments: ten statues went up around the Messenian-Naupactian dedication of the Nike of Paeonius within twenty 75   C EG 351 (Paus. 5.10.4 = ML 36 = Zizza 2006: 158–66, no. 8) was perhaps answered by IVO 259 (IG V.1 1568 = IG IX.12.3 656 = ML 74); see Hölscher 1974: 82; Scott 2010: 192, 195–96. 76  See Herrmann 1988; Rausa 1994; Scott 2010: 159–60, 163 n. 72, 197–98, 209; Smith 2007 (esp. 94–101). Korai dedicated on the Athenian Acropolis provide another example. 77  See Paus. 6.10.9; Tzifopoulos 1991: 170–73, no. 34. Half-bracket restorations derive from a first-century exemplar on the base. Ebert 1972: 64–66, no. 14, restores the pentameter: Δ̣ ι ̣[ὸς | ἆθλον ἑλόν]. 78  See Scott 2010: 29–35, chapters 6–7 passim; cf. Smith 2007: 97.

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figure 9 Olympia, c. 450 (with the later Nike dedication) Courtesy of Hans R. Goette, Deutsches archäologisches Institut

years of its erection.79 Strategic location might also involve grouping, that is, forming a cooperative unit in at least implicit opposition to other groups.80 Monuments could be grouped by polis or region, and of course by family.81 A pair of verse artist signatures allows us to catch sight of a family group in the making. Pausanias quotes a one-distich signature for victor statues of Damaretus of Heraea (race in armor, 520 and 516) and his son Theopompus (pentathlon, 484 and 480), which apparently stood as a double dedication on one base. A very similar earlier signature, discarded and sealed in a well long before Pausanias could have seen it, presumably belonged to a statue

79  Scott 2010: 197–99. 80  Hölscher 2002: 340; Rausa 1994: 43–51; Scott 2010: 40 n. 52, chapters 6–7 passim; cf. Smith 2007: 99–100. Grouping by type of sport enhanced competition within the group; cf. Scott 162, 177 with n. 140, 209 n. 137. 81  Geographical: Day 2010: 214; Scott 2010: 176, 199–200, 209; Smith 2007: 99. Family: see n. 28 above.

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of Damaretus alone, replaced or re-positioned when the family group was created.82 A statue’s form provided another means of differentiation. Sculptors could individualize to a degree by depicting winners in action or with attributes (Damaretus had a shield, helmet, and greaves), adjusting a fillet or crown, as boys or youths, and so forth. Artists’ styles also marked statues off against neighbors: one thinks of Polyclitus’ contrapposto and Lysippus’ slender proportions. Pleasing and au courant features distinguished one statue against broadly similar, but mediocre or old-fashioned neighbors. Artists’ signatures reinforced the effect: they affirmed that the dedicator commissioned a known artist, perhaps an expensive and non-local one.83 Inscriptions enhanced difference in other ways as well. The common template, far from rendering epigrams “formulaic almost to the point of triviality,” was a “generic marker” of the subgenre.84 It reproduced the announcement (aggelia) of the athlete’s coronation, when the herald proclaimed his name, father, event, city.85 Against this structural intertext shared by nearly all the inscriptions, each victor’s specifics stood out, including in CEG 381 above the detail that Tellon competed in the boys’ category. Lists of earlier victories stood out more. These catalogues could be added in prose, as on Damonon’s stele from Sparta. An epigram beneath a racing chariot in relief explains the point of a prose victory list below that extends more than eighty lines (CEG 378 = IG V.1 213)86: Δαμόνον | ἀνέθεκε Ἀθαναία⟨ι⟩ | πολιάχοι νικάhας | ταυτᾶ hᾶτ’ οὐδὲς | πέποκα το͂ν νῦν. Damonon dedicated to Athena city-protector, having won in this way as none of his contemporaries ever. As Zachary Biles puts it, Damonon “pretends to pass [other living athletes] over as obviously inferior to himself and instead implicitly offers a challenge

82  Paus. 6.10.4–5 (… τάδε ἔργα τέλεσσαν …); NIO 114–15, no. 65 (… τόδε ϝέργον ἔτευξαν …); see Ebert 1996: 25–29, no. 2 (SEG 48.545); Oswald 2014: 119–21, no. 25. See also Herrmann 1988: 162, nos. 97–99; Löhr 2000: 46, no. 49; Rausa 1994: 47–48; Scott 2010: 161, 177; Smith 2007: 99, 137–38; Zizza 2006: 282–85, no. 33. 83  See Day 2013. On statues’ differences within series, see Ma 2013: 290. 84  Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 5 (not about this genre specifically). 85  Day 2010: 198–231. 86  Date: CEG, c. 450?–431; Jeffery 1988 (SEG 38.333), 400–350. Other examples: CEG 278, 844.

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for later generations to match his record.”87 More typically, epigrams incorporate a briefer victory list into the aggelia as an extension of its event rubric,88 exemplified in Hagias’ poem on Daochus’ monument89: “you won the pankration at the Olympics, (and) five times at Nemea, three at the Pythians, five times at the Isthmus.” The practice had a long history, as CEG 362 from Nemea illustrates (?pillar base, c. 560): Ἄριστίς με ἀνέθ|ηκε Δὶ Ϙρονίονι ϝά|νακτι πανκράτιο|ν νιϙο͂ν τετράκις | ἐν Νεμέαι Φείδο|νος ϝhιὸς το͂ Κλεο|ναίο. Aristis dedicated me to lord Zeus, son of Cronus, victor in the pankration four times at Nemea, son of Pheidon of Cleonae. By embedding a major distinguishing feature in the intertextual template, these epigrams set an athlete off powerfully from his neighbors. And they did so in verse. The very choice of meter and its competent execution marked dedicators off from those inscribing prose90; and an epigram that encompasses both aggelia and victory list in its brevitas is something of a tour de force, not entirely unlike a poet’s incorporating those two features into an epinician. Location, form, and inscription were exploited to allow victor dedications to extend competition beyond the original athletic contest. Epigram played a role in this competition through variations on a shared template that distinguished one victor from those commemorated in other monuments. Readings became moves in ongoing competitive conversations, but those conversations involved more than sanctuary visitors and athletes’ dedications, at least at Olympia. Many victor statues there lined the processional way in the area defined by the western bank of the stadium (the theatron), the front of the southeast building (the early Prytaneum), and Zeus’ temple. They were thus in visual dialogue also with the athlete-like heroes on the temple’s east pediment and metopes and with state dedications such as the Achaeans’ Trojan War statue group.91 Athletes’ dedications were likewise in conversation with new victors, who were 87  Biles 2011: 190. 88  Day 2010: 205–8. 89   C EG 795.ii (p. 76 above). His being the “first” Thessalian Olympian pancratist is also touted, and the vaunt in verse 4 is comparable to Damonon’s. 90  Cf. Lougovaya 2004: 53–56, 60–74. 91  See Scott 2010: 194–98; also Barringer 2005.

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crowned in this area: the herald shouted their proclamations in the presence of earlier athletes whose statue bases proclaimed theirs.92 3

Conclusion: “Stones in a Mosaic”

Monuments of the sort often inscribed with epigrams were frequently in cooperative and/or competitive conversation with others of their type. Visitors to sanctuaries and cemeteries were brought into those conversations, thereby becoming active participants in the places’ spatial dynamics. In their viewing and reading of numbers of individual pieces, they generated notional unities. This is obvious on the cooperative side: persons encountering multiple or manifold family monuments, for example, formed an image of a family and its past.93 It is true on the competitive side as well: one state’s or athlete’s achievement stayed fresh when a dynamic of competition was generated out of a whole sanctuary or part of it, so that a memorial stood out against what viewers and readers perceived as a broadly uniform backdrop. In such contexts, individual epigrams “contributed, like stones in a mosaic, to a whole greater than its individual parts.”94 That image is from Richard Hunter, referring to Hellenistic epigrams in books. From the beginning of the genre’s history, inscribed epigram, to work effectively with the object on which it was written and the context in which they were encountered, adopted practices that were converted into a paper matrix in Hellenistic and later literary collections. Such practices included cross-referencing, intertextuality, and variation on a pattern, with which composers exploited potentials for cooperative and competitive conversation. These practices were bequeathed to book epigram as that genre’s characteristic passions for intertextuality and variatio.95

92  See Hölscher 2002: 339. 93  Cf. Geominy 2007: 96 on Daochus’ monument. 94  Hunter 2010: 286. 95  Cf. Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 13; Petrovic 2011.

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Bibliography Abbreviations AM = Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung. BCH = Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique. DAA = Raubitschek, A. E. 1949. Dedications from the Athenian Akropolis. Cambridge, Mass. Item numbers. DVA = Lazzarini, M. L. 1976. Le formule delle dediche votive nella Grecia arcaica, MAL (Memorie, Accademia nazionale dei Lincei) 8.19.2. Rome. Item numbers. IGB = Loewy, E. 1885. Inschriften griechischer Bildhauer. Leipzig. JDAI = Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologischen Instituts. Le musée = Guide de Delphes: Le musée, Sites et monuments 6. 1991. Paris. NIO = Siewert, P. and Taeuber, H. 2013. Neue Inschriften von Olympia: die ab 1896 veröffentlichten Texte, Tyche Sonderband 7. Vienna. Arrington, N. T. 2010. “Topographic semantics: The location of the Athenian public cemetery and its significance for the nascent democracy.” Hesperia 79: 499–539. Arrington, N. T. 2011. “Inscribing defeat: The commemorative dynamics of the Athenian casualty lists.” Classical Antiquity 30: 179–212. Arrington, N. T. 2015. Ashes, Images, and Memories: The Presence of the War Dead in Fifth-Century Athens. Oxford and New York. Aston, E. M. M. 2012. “Thessaly and Macedon at Delphi.” Electrum 19: 41–60. Barringer, J. M. 2005. “The temple of Zeus at Olympia, heroes, and athletes.” Hesperia 74: 211–41. Baughan, E. P. 2011. “Sculpted symposiasts of Ionia.” American Journal of Archaeology 115: 19–53. Baumbach, M., Petrovic, A., and Petrovic, I., eds., 2010. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram. Cambridge and New York. Biles, Z. P. 2011. “Pride and paradox in IG I3 833bis.” Mnemosyne 64: 183–205. Bing, P. 2002. “The un-read Muse? Inscribed epigram and its readers in antiquity.” In M. A. Harder, R. F. Regtuit, and G. C. Wakker, eds., Hellenistic Epigrams, Hellenistica Groningana 6, 39–66. Leuven. Bing, P. 2014. “Inscribed epigrams in and out of sequence.” In M. A. Harder, R. F. Regtuit, and G. C. Wakker, eds., Hellenistic Poetry in Context, Hellenistica Groningana 20, 1–24. Leuven, Paris, and Walpole, MA. Bing, P. and Bruss, J. S., eds. 2007. Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram: Down to Philip. Leiden and Boston. Bommelaer, J.-F. and Laroche, D. 1991. Guide de Delphes: Le site, Sites et monuments 7. Paris. Bousquet, J. 1956. “Inscriptions de Delphes.” BCH 80: 547–97.

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Bumke, H. 2004. Statuarische Gruppen in der frühen griechischen Kunst, JDAI Ergänzungsheft 32. Berlin and New York. Crane, G. 1996. The Blinded Eye: Thucydides and the New Written Word. Lanham and London. Croissant, F. 2005. “Observations sur quelques korés samiennes de l’époque de Chéramyès.” Revue archéologique N.S. 2: 283–305. Cummins, M. F. 2009. “The praise of victorious brothers in Pindar’s Nemean Six and on the monument of Daochus at Delphi.” Classical Quarterly 59: 317–34. Day, J. W. 2010. Archaic Greek Epigram and Dedication: Representation and Reper­ formance. Cambridge and New York. Day, J. W. 2013. “Epigraphic literacy in fifth-century epinician and its audiences.” In P. Liddel and P. Low, eds., Inscriptions and their Uses in Greek and Latin Literature, 217–30. Oxford. Dohrn, T. 1968. “Die Marmor-Standbilder des Daochos-Weihgeschenks in Delphi.” Antike Plastik 8: 33–53, figs. 1–32, pls. 10–37. Dunst, G. 1972. “Archaische Inschriften und Dokumente der Pentekontaetie aus Samos.” AM 87: 99–163, pls. 45–62, Beilage 4. Duplouy, A. 2006. Le prestige des élites: Recherches sur les modes de reconnaissance sociale en Grèce entre les Xe et Ve siècles avant J.-C. Paris. Ebert, J. 1972. Griechische Epigramme auf Sieger an gymnischen und hippischen Agonen, Abhandlungen der sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig, Philologisch-historische Klasse 63.2. Berlin. Ebert, J. 1996. “Neue griechische historische Epigramme.” In J. H. M. Strubbe, R. A. Tybout, and H. S. Versnel, eds., ΕΝΕΡΓΕΙΑ: Studies on Ancient History and Epigraphy Presented to H. W. Pleket, 19–33. Amsterdam. Eckstein, F. 1969. ΑΝΑΘΗΜΑΤΑ: Studien zu den Weihgeschenken strengen Stils im Heiligtum von Olympia. Berlin. Evans, K. E. 1996. The Daochos Monument. Ph.D. dissertation. Princeton University. Fantuzzi, M. and Hunter, R. 2004. Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry. Cambridge. Franssen, J. 2011. Votiv und Repräsentation: Statuarische Weihungen archaischer Zeit aus Samos und Attika, Archäologie und Geschichte 13. Heidelberg. Geominy, W. 1998. “Zum Daochos-Weihgeschenk.” Klio 80: 369–402. Geominy, W. 2007. “The Daochos monument at Delphi: The style and setting of a family portrait in historic dress.” In P. Schultz and R. von den Hoff, eds., Early Hellenistic Portraiture: Image, Style, Context, 84–98. Cambridge and New York. Girard, P. 1880. “Statue de style archaïque trouvée dans l’île de Samos.” BCH 4: 483–93. Hansen, P. A. 1985. A List of Greek Verse Inscriptions c. 400–300 B.C., Opuscula Graecolatina 28. Copenhagen. Herrmann, H.-V. 1988. “Die Siegerstatuen von Olympia.” Nikephoros 1: 119–83.

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Herrmann, K. 1984. “Spätarchaische Votivsäulen in Olympia.” AM 99: 121–43, pls. 20–1. Hintzen-Bohlen, B. 1990. “Die Familiengruppe: Ein Mittel zur Selbstdarstellung hellenistischer Herrscher.” JDAI 105: 129–54. Hölscher, T. 1974. “Die Nike der Messenier und Naupaktier in Olympia.” JDAI 89: 70–111. Hölscher, T. 2002. “Rituelle Räume und politische Denkmäler im Heiligtum von Olympia.” In H. Kyrieleis, ed., Olympia 1875–2000: 125 Jahre deutsche Ausgrabungen, 331–45. Mainz am Rhein. Hunter, R. 2010. “Language and interpretation in Greek epigram.” In Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 265–88. Ioakimidou, C. 1997. Die Statuenreihen griechischer Poleis und Bünde aus spätarchaischer und klassischer Zeit, Quellen und Forschungen zur antiken Welt 23. Munich. Jacquemin, A. 1999. Offrandes monumentales à Delphes. Athens and Paris. Jacquemin, A. and Laroche, D. 2001. “Le monument de Daochos ou le trésor des Thessaliens.” BCH 125: 305–32. Jeffery, L. H. 1988. “The development of Lakonian lettering: A reconsideration.” Annual of the British School at Athens 83: 179–81. Karakasi, K. 2003. Archaic Korai. Los Angeles. Keesling, C. M. 1995. Monumental Private Votive Dedications on the Athenian Acropolis, ca. 600–400 BC. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Michigan. Keesling, C. M. 2003. The Votive Statues of the Athenian Acropolis. Cambridge and New York. Keesling, C. M. 2005. “Patrons of Athenian votive monuments of the Archaic and Classical periods: Three studies.” Hesperia 74: 395–426. Keesling, C. M. 2010. “The Callimachus monument on the Athenian Acropolis (CEG 256) and Athenian commemoration of the Persian Wars.” In Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010: 100–30. Kissas, K. 2000. Die attischen Statuen- und Stelenbasen archaischer Zeit. Bonn. Kosmetatou, E. 2004. “Constructing legitimacy: The Ptolemaic Familiengruppe as a means of self-definition in Posidippus’ Hippika.” In B. Acosta-Hughes, E. Kosmetatou, and M. Baumbach, eds., Labored in Papyrus Leaves: Perspectives on an Epigram Collection Attributed to Posidippus (P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309), Hellenic Studies 2, 225–46. Washington, D.C. Kyrieleis, H. 1995. “Eine neue Kore des Cheramyes.” Antike Plastik 24: 7–36, pls. 1–8. Löhr, C. 2000. Griechische Familienweihungen: Untersuchungen einer Repräsentations­ form von ihren Anfängen bis zum Ende des 4. Jhs. v. Chr., Internationale Archäologie 54. Rahden. Lougovaya, J. 2004. An Historical Study of Athenian Verse Epitaphs from the Sixth through the Fourth Centuries BC. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Toronto.

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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, 341–58. Cambridge and New York. Low, P. 2012. “The monuments to the war dead in Classical Athens: Form, contexts, meanings.” In P. Low, G. Oliver, and P. J. Rhodes, eds., Cultures of Commemoration: War Memorials, Ancient and Modern, Proceedings of the British Academy 160, 13–39. Oxford and New York. Ma, J. 2013. Statues and Cities: Honorific Portraits and Civic Identity in the Hellenistic World. Oxford and New York. Melfi, M. 2011. Review of Scott 2010. Journal of Hellenic Studies 131: 248–50. Meyer, D. 2007. “The act of reading and the act of writing in Hellenistic epigram.” In Bing and Bruss 2007: 187–210. Moretti, L. 1953. Iscrizioni agonistiche greche, Studi pubblicati dall’Istituto italiano per la storia antica 12. Rome. Moretti, L. 1957. Olympionikai: I vincitori negli antichi agoni olimpici, MAL (Memorie, Accademia nazionale dei Lincei) 8.8.2. Rome. Neer, R. T. 2010. The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture. Chicago and London. Oswald, S. 2014. Trends in Early Epigram. Ph.D. dissertation. Princeton University. Palagia, O. 2009. “Spartan self-presentation in the Panhellenic sanctuaries of Delphi and Olympia in the Classical period.” In N. Kaltsas, ed., Athens – Sparta: Contributions to the Research on the History and Archaeology of the Two City-States, 32–40. New York. Palagia, O. and Herz, N. 2002. “Investigation of marbles at Delphi.” In J. J. Herrmann, N. Herz, and R. Newman, eds., ASMOSIA (Association for the Study of Marble and Other Stones in Antiquity) 5: Interdisciplinary Studies on Ancient Stone, 240–49. London. Peek, W. 1953–1954. “Zu den archaischen Weihinschriften von der Akropolis.” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg. Gesellschaftsund sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 3: 377–90. Petrovic, I. 2011. “Context and meaning of the inscribed epigram.” Presentation at the Annual Meeting of the American Philological Association, 8 January. Pouilloux, J. and Roux, G. 1963. Énigmes à Delphes. Paris. Preuner, H. E. 1900. Ein delphisches Weihgeschenk. Leipzig. Raubitschek, A. E. 1939. “Zu altattischen Weihinschriften.” Jahreshefte des österreichischen archäologischen Institutes in Wien, Beiblatt 31: 21–68. Raubitschek, A. E. 1941. “The heroes of Phyle.” Hesperia 10: 284–95. Rausa, F. 1994. L’immagine del vincitore: L’atleta nella statuaria greca dall’età arcaica all’ellenismo, Ludica 2. Treviso and Rome. Richter, G. M. A. 1968. Korai: Archaic Greek Maidens. London.

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Ridgway, B. S. 1990. Hellenistic Sculpture, vol. 1: The Styles of ca. 331–200 BC. Madison. Rolley, C. 1999. La sculpture grecque, vol. 2: La période classique. Paris. Scott, M. 2008. “Constructing identities in sacred interstate space: The case of the Arkadian monument at Delphi.” In O. Menozzi, M. L. Di Marzio, and D. Fossataro, eds., SOMA 2005: Proceedings of the IX Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology, BAR (British Archaeological Reports) 1739, 431–38. Oxford. Scott, M. 2010. Delphi and Olympia: The Spatial Politics of Panhellenism in the Archaic and Classical Periods. Cambridge and New York. Shear, J. L. 2007a. “Cultural change, space, and the politics of commemoration in Athens.” In R. Osborne, ed., Debating the Athenian Cultural Revolution: Art, Literature, Philosophy, and Politics 430–380 BC, 91–115. Cambridge and New York. Shear, J. L. 2007b. “The oath of Demophantos and the politics of Athenian identity.” In A. H. Sommerstein and J. Fletcher, eds., Horkos: The Oath in Greek Society, 148–60. Exeter. Shear, J. L. 2011. Polis and Revolution: Responding to Oligarchy in Classical Athens. Cambridge and New York. Smith, R. R. R. 2007. “Pindar, athletes, and the early Greek statue habit.” In S. Hornblower and C. Morgan, eds., Pindar’s Poetry, Patrons, and Festivals: From Archaic Greece to the Roman Empire, 83–139. Oxford and New York. Steuben, H. von. 1999. “Zur Komposition des Daochos-Monumentes.” In id., ed., Antike Portäts: Zum Gedächtnis von Helga von Heintze, 35–38. Möhnesee. Stewart, A. F. 1990. Greek Sculpture: An Exploration, 2 vols. New Haven and London. Tsirivakos, E. K. 1972. “Παρατηρήσεις ἐπὶ τοῦ μνημείου τοῦ Δαόχου.” Archaiologike Ephemeris 70–85, pls. 22–33. Tzifopoulos, I. Z. 1991. Pausanias as a Steloskopas: An Epigraphical Commentary of Pausanias’ Eliakon A and B. Ph.D. dissertation. Ohio State University. Webster, T. B. L. 1960. “Notes on the writing of early Greek poetry.” Glotta 38: 251–63. Will, E. 1938. “À propos de la base des Thessaliens à Delphes.” BCH 62: 289–304, pls. 30–32. Zizza, C. 2006. Le iscrizioni nella Periegesi di Pausania: Commento ai testi epigrafici. Pisa.

chapter 4

Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions Valentina Garulli The use of lectional and critical signs is less frequent in inscriptions than in papyri and mediaeval manuscripts.1 Unfortunately, published inscriptions are often inaccurate in recording lectional and critical signs.2 Such carelessness on the part of editors is both a cause and an effect of the general lack of attention towards these phenomena. However, there are some shining exceptions to this widespread indifference: Adolf Wilhelm for one, whose works stand out for their attention to the layout of inscriptions and to the signs used in them.3 In our own day, Lucio Del Corso, referring to the use of lectional and critical signs in prose inscriptions, has pointed out that they can be found in several prose inscriptions dating from the 5th and 4th centuries BCE; they contain long and complex documentary texts, such as lists, catalogues, inventories, accounts, and records, which necessarily imply a non-epigraphic copy.4 This paper intends to draw attention to verse inscriptions and focus on three signs that strictly speaking can be called neither lectional nor critical signs. The signs which will be taken into consideration here can be called lectional signs in a broad sense, in that they help the reader to understand the structure 1  I should like to thank Gianfranco Agosti, Patrick Finglass, Enrico Magnelli, Camillo Neri, Vincio Tammaro for reading a first draft of this paper, and the participants in the seminar for suggestions and reactions.   Lectional signs stricto sensu are accent, apostrophe, breathing, punctuation marks, trema; on the other hand, critical signs are considered those signs whose presence in the margins reveals that scholarly attention has been paid to the texts. 2  Threatte 1980: 86, introducing his “illustrative examples of punctuation in the Roman Period”, complains about this: “the following lists are selective only. The inaccuracy in IG II2 and other published texts of inscriptions in recording punctuation is considerable; the following examples have therefore been taken as much as possible from texts where verification on the stone or a clear photograph was possible”. 3   Wilhelm 1909: 161 reports, for example, what follows: “Nach Meisterhans-Schwyzer, Grammatik3 13 lassen sich Spiritus asper, Apostroph und Koronis seit dem fünften Jahrhundert nach Chr. in attischen Inschriften nachweisen! W. Crönert, Mem. gr. herc. p. 9 hat diese Bemerkung wiederholt” (According to Meisterhans-Schwyzer, Grammatik3 […] rough breathing, apostrophe and coronis can be found in Attic inscriptions from the 5th century CE onwards! W. Crönert […] held this remark to be true). 4  See Del Corso 2002: 184; 2003: 34; 2010: 11.

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of the inscribed text. At the same time, they also show some sort of critical attention towards the text and its structure.5 In other words, the signs examined below may be placed somewhere between lectional signs and critical signs as strictly defined. They function mainly as dividers, and I will refer to them using the Greek terms that describe their shape: paragraphos, forked paragraphos or diple obelismene, and diple. Signs with a similar shape are found also in papyri, and the difficulty of finding a precise and unambiguous term for them reflects not only the sometimes unclear relations between epigraphic signs and the ones attested in papyri, but also the variety of functions of the same signs in papyri. A brief description of their use and function in papyri is a necessary starting point for our investigation. 1. The paragraphos (παράγραφος sc. γραμμή, marginal stroke) is a short horizontal stroke placed between lines, below the line that concludes some unit; “in lyric verses the paragraphos is often employed to indicate that the verses between it and the preceding paragraphos (or similar sign) form a metrical group” (Turner 1987: 12); “in the spoken trimeter or tetrameter passages of tragedy and comedy […] it is intended to indicate a change of speaker” (ibid. 13).6 Fundamentally, the paragraphos marks “a division, a change in the text” (Schironi 2010: 16). 2. The forked paragraphos, called also diple obelismene,7 is always placed between two lines as a divider; it marks off a section of verse or prose,8 usually longer than that marked by the paragraphos.9 3. The diple “has no intrinsic meaning” in Aristarchean usage (McNamee 1992: 11). It is a general-purpose sign, guiding the reader’s eye to a specific passage of the text, and indicating something worthy of comment in a line. In such a context it is employed as a critical sign, placed in the left margin of the written column, to the left of the written line (see Esposito 2008: 588). Nonetheless, diplai may also be used to mark divisions in texts;

5  See Cavallo 1983: 23. 6  See also Cavallo 1983: 23; Esposito 2008: 588; Schironi 2010: 16–18, 78–79, 80. 7  Schironi 2010: 10 prefers “forked paragraphos” because she regards the long stroke that extends underneath the line as the main portion of this sign and the forked tail at its left end as a mere embellishment. On the contrary, Barbis 1988: 473–75 observes that diple obelismene is the only term attested by ancient authors and therefore the most appropriate. 8  See Turner 1987: 12; Barbis 1988: 475. 9  See Esposito 2008: 588–89. Sometimes, the diple obelismene may be drawn so quickly as to appear like a simple diple; nevertheless, the different placement of these two semeia keeps their respective functions distinct (see Esposito 2008: 589).

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this usage is apparently more common in Herculaneum papyri than in those found in Egypt.10 Here are a few examples of each sign found in verse inscriptions.11 I Paragraphos. 1.1. Monument: Chian grey-blue Latomi marble stele, right part lost. “In the top of the stone a hole can be seen, where a metal clasp had been inserted to secure some kind of epikranon, which may have rounded off the upper part of the stele. At some stage it was fashioned into its present shape with an adze, which cut across the middle of the monument, mutilating the epigrams in such a way that there is little hope of retrieving the other half” (Trypanis 1960: 70). Size: 49 cm. high, 24 cm. wide, 13 cm. thick Provenance: Palaeocastro, Chios Date: 3rd/2nd BCE Genre: funerary and dedicatory Inscribed Lines: 22 Metrical lines: 22

10  See McNamee 1992: 24–25 n. 95 and 32–34 table 2.C; Cavallo 1983: 24. In Hephaestion’s system of sigla (pp. 75–77 Consbr.) the diple appears as a punctuation mark in texts of poetry; see Ercoles 2009: 56–59. 11  The following catalogue is selective, and my only aim is to make a few observations about – at least – some attested uses of these signs in verse inscriptions. The inscriptions are ordered per type of sign; for each sign the full text of only some inscriptions is given. The texts are printed as sequences of metrical lines; the vertical strokes mark the beginning of a new paragraph on the stone when inscribed lines do not correspond to metrical lines. The elegiacs are not indented when not indented on the stone. Elision is marked in the printed text only when the elided letter is not inscribed on the stone (when the stone has the scriptio plena, this will be printed). Iota subscript will be used when iota (adscript) does not appear in the inscription. In the critical apparatus what can still be read on the stone and what was read by the editors will be printed in capital letters. Both text and apparatus are adapted to the conventional system described in SEG 53.1, p. xv.

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Meter: the surviving portions of lines reveal a dactylic meter, except for vv. 15–16 which are iambic Signs: a paragraphos and a blank space are placed between ll. 4/5, 6/7, 10/11, 14/15, 16/17, 20/21 Location/state: Museum of Chios Bibliography: Robert-Robert 1958: 294–95 (no. 379); SEG 16.497; Trypanis 1960 with further bibl.; also Raubitschek 1964: 221, Calabi Limentani 1976: 17–18. Photo: Trypanis 1960

Trypanis regards this stele as an expensive text-book set up at some private school on Chios, which was proverbially rich in antiquity and may have had schools that “could afford such luxurious text-books” (1960: 74). None of these epigrams is known from any other source, and this is “rather strange for a school-text”, as Trypanis admits; this is true, unless we are dealing with a sample collection of local epigrams, offered to students as familiar models.12 As an alternative explanation, he also suggests that this stele may display “the prizewinning epigrams of some competition” (ibid.); one cannot exclude even some competition for students. Since the right-hand part of the epigrams are badly mutilated, their reconstruction remains rather speculative, but it is clear that they treat different subjects. A horizontal stroke divides the seven epigrams collected on the same stele; this usage is well attested both in documentary and literary papyri13 and in prose inscriptions, where the paragraphos usually separates sections of text.14 1.2. Monument: marble slab, broken in two fragments Size: 20 cm. high, 37 cm. wide, 3.5 cm. thick, letters 0.5 cm. high (Moretti); 20.5 cm. high, 34.5 cm. wide, 2.5 cm. thick, letters 2.2/2.5 cm. high (Ferraro)

12  For a 4th-century CE collection of epigrams, depicted on the wall of a classroom as models for students, at Trimithis see Cribiore, Davoli, and Ratzan 2008 and Agosti 2015. 13  See the well-known case of the ‘new Posidippus’, PMil. Vogl. VIII 309. 14  See Threatte 1980: 90–91 nos. 5, 6, 8 and 92–93 nos. 9 and 16.

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Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions Provenance: Rome? Date: 1st/2nd CE (Peek), 2nd/3rd CE (Kaibel) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 12 (front side, Greek), 2 (back side, Latin) Metrical lines: 12 (front side) Meter: elegiacs

Signs: two horizontal strokes are carved between lines 10 and 11, one close to the left margin at the beginning of the lines, the other towards the right margin, close to the end of the lines; the space between these lines is slightly wider than elsewhere Location/state: the slab was still complete in the 18th century, and was broken some time afterwards; the left fragment is kept at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples (inv. no. 2409), the right fragment is kept at the Museo Nazionale, Rome (inv. no. 40568) Bibliography: Redi 1738: 129–30; C. Contucci ap. Muratori 1740: III 1693 no. 1; Hagenbuch 1744: 37–38; 1747: 79; D’Orville 1750: II 29 and 250; Brunck 1776: 300 no. 695; Jacobs 1803: 266–69 ad no. 695; 1814b: 854 no. 306; CIG III 6200 (Franz); Kaibel 1878: no. 569; Cougny 1890: no. 2.402; IG XIV 1362 (Kaibel); GVI 1970; IGUR III 1148 (with further bibl.); ILMN I 286 (A. Parma: back inscription only); Epigraphic Database Roma 104183 (Antonella Ferraro, 17.1.2011) Photo: Moretti (ad Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae III 1148: right fragment, front side); see below figure 1.2.a (left fragment, front side) and 1.2.b (right fragment, front side)

front πρωθήβην ἔτι κοῦρον, ἔτι χνοάοντος ἰούλου δευόμενον φθονερὴ Μοῖρα καθεῖλε βίου, πολλὰ σοφῆς χερὸς ἔργα λελοιπότα. βάσκανε δαῖμον, οἵας οὐχ ὁσίως ἐλπίδας ἐξέταμες. ἀλλὰ σύ, γαῖα, πέλοις ἀγαθὴ κούφη τ’ Ἀκυλείνωι,

5

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figure 1.2.a Photo taken by A. La Capra, courtesy of Elena Miranda, University of Naples, permission of Valeria Sampaolo, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples

figure 1.2.b Photo published by Moretti, IGUR 1148

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καὶ δὲ παρὰ πλευρὰς ἄνθεα λαρὰ φύοις, ὅσσα κατ’ Ἀραβίους τε φέρεις ὅσα τ’ ἐστὶ κατ’ Ἰνδούς, ὡς ἂν ἀπ’ εὐόδμου χρωτὸς ἰοῦσα δρόσος ἀγγέλλῃ τὸν παῖδα θεοῖς φίλον ἔνδοθι κεῖσθαι, λοιβῆς καὶ θυέων ἄξιον, οὐχὶ γόων.

10

——— ———

εἰκοσέτη τὸν παῖδα θοὴ κατενήρατο Μοῖρα κἀστὶν ἐν εὐσεβέων ἣν διὰ σωφροσύνην.15 back Hordionia Polla 11 εἰκοσετῆ Jacobs2, Cougny || 12 ⟨ἔ⟩στι ⟨δ᾿⟩ Magnelli (per litt.) The dead young man Aquilinus is celebrated by a ten-line epigram in elegiacs; two final lines state Aquilinus’ age and that he dwells now among the εὐσεβεῖς because of his σωφροσύνη. If the strokes and a wider line-spacing did not make the division apparent, there would be no reason to regard these twelve lines as two different epigrams. What is more, the deceased’s name is not mentioned in the last couplet, which therefore is not independent from the preceding lines. However, the signs indicate that the last two lines have to be regarded as something distinct from the rest of the inscription: as another short epigram.

15  “When you were still a young man in the prime of youth, and the bloom of the first down / had not appeared yet, envious Moira took you away from life, / and you left many works of your skilled hands. O jealous god, / what expectations you did cut out in an impious way! / But you, earth, may you be good and light to Aquilinus, / and may you make bloom sweet flowers along his tomb, / as many as you are used to produce in the land of the Arabs and as many as are found in the land of the Indians, / so that the dew dripping from your sweet-smelling body may announce that inside here lays down the boy loved by the gods, / worthy of pouring and sacrifices, not of grief. / When he was twenty years old, Moira quickly killed this boy, / and he is now among the blessed ones because of his temperance”.

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1.3. Monument: limestone stele Size: 46 cm. high, 48 cm. wide16 Provenance: Saqqarah, Egypt Date: “Roman period” (Edgar), 1st/2nd CE (Peek), “haute époque impériale” (“early imperial period”, Bernand) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 16 Metrical lines: 16 Meter: elegiacs Signs: a colon marks the division between speeches in the dialogue; a medial dot indicates a pause in the middle of a sentence; a paragraphos is placed below the lines in which the speaker changes; a forked paragraphos placed below the last pentameter marks the end of the text. Moreover, two dots placed over a letter mark not only a diaeresis, but also an initial υ (“inorganic use”, Turner 1987: 10). Each metrical line is carved as a new paragraph and the pentameters are indented. Horizontal guide-lines have been ruled to assist the engraver, and a double vertical line near the whole left-hand margin marks the beginning of each verse Location/state: Cairo Museum17 Bibliography: Edgar 1927; Bilabel 1931: no. 7423; GVI 1843; GGG 427; Bernand, Inscr. métriques 68; see also Robert 1946: 118, Garulli 2012: 149–50; 2015: no. 2.a.3 Photo: Edgar 1927: plate, reprinted in IMEG pl. 32 and below figure 1.3

16  Bernand, ad IMEG 68: “les événements ne nous ont pas permis de photographier la pierre ni de la mesurer dans les réserves du musée” (“the events did not allow us either to take pictures of the stone or to measure it in the store of the museum”), p. 273 n. 4. 17  “journ. prov. 11/11/(19)32” (Bernand, ad IMEG 68).

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figure 1.3 Photo published by Bernand, IMEG pl. XXXII

στῆθι φίλον παρὰ τύμβον, ὁδοιπόρε.: τίς με κελεύει;: φρουρὸς ἐγώ σε λέων.: αὐτὸς ὁ λαΐνεος;: αὐτός.: φωνήεις πόθεν ἔπλεο;: δαίμονος αὐδῆι ἀνδρὸς ὑποχθονίου.: τίς γὰρ ὅδ’ ἐστὶν ἀνήρ ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσι τετιμένος, ὥστε δύνασθαι

5

καὶ φωνὴν τεύχειν ὧδε λίθωι βροτέην;: Ἡρᾶς Μεμφίτης οὗτος, φίλε, κύδιμος ἥρως, ὁ σθεναρός, πολλοῖς ἔξοχος, εὐρυβίης, γνώριμος ἐνδαπίοισι καὶ ἀνδράσι τηλεδαποῖσιν εἵνεκ’ ἐϋφροσύνης, εἵνεκεν ἀγλαΐης,

10

ὠκύμορος, τὸν ἔκλαυσε πόλις, τὸν ἔθαψαν ἑταῖροι· ἦ γὰρ ἔην πάτρης ἄνθος ἐϋστεφάνου.: δακρύω, μὰ σέ, δαῖμον, ἐπεὶ κλύον, ὅσσ’ ἀγορεύει

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θὴρ ὅδε.: μὴ πηοῖς, ὦ ξένε, δακρυχέοις.: ἔλθοι ἐς αἰῶνα κλυτὸν οὔνομα. – καὶ σὲ φυλάξει δαίμων καὶ σώσει πάντα Τύχη βίοτον.18 >—

15

The epigram, a dialogue between the passer-by and the animal portrayed on the grave,19 is carved with paragraphoi placed under the lines where a change of speaker takes place. This feature is not isolated, but rather is one of the means used for making the text and the dialogue immediately comprehensible (see below 2.8). 1.4. Monument: two thin slabs of sandstone (A, B), reused in an early Christian tomb ca. 100 m. est of the village school; both stones have a semicircular cutting in the top surface for the insertion of a portrait bust (the portraits of Salvia and her husband Flavianus) Size: A = 50 cm. high, 73 cm. wide, 16 cm. thick; letters 1.7 cm. high; B = 49 cm. high, 71 cm. wide, 14.5 cm. thick, letters 1.7 cm. high Provenance: Petri, Nemea, Peloponneese Date: 2nd/3rd CE Genre: honorary Inscribed Lines: 2 epigrams of 10 lines each Metrical lines: 2 epigrams of 10 lines each 18  “Please, stop at my tomb, passer-by. – Who calls me? – / It’s me, the guardian lion. – The stony one? – / That’s it. – And how did you get your voice? – Through the voice of the spirit / of a man who is in the underworld. – Who is this man / so much loved by the immortal gods, as to provide with / a human voice even a stone? – / Heras from Memphis is this man, my dear, a glorious hero, / strong, better than many, mighty, / well-known both for the native-born people and for those living far away / because of his merriment, of his splendour: / he died untimely, his town mourned his death, his friends buried him. / He was indeed the flower of his well-crowned fatherland! – / I cry for you, spirit, for having heard what this beast / says. – May you not pour tears, stranger, for your loved ones. – / May your glorious name come to live for ever. – And will the spirit protect you / and the Fate will save all your belongings”. 19  See Ricl and Malay 2012: 78 n. 10; Garulli 2012: 142–50 no. 2.2.5.

Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions

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Meter: elegiacs Signs: a dot above the line marks the end of each distich; one is placed also after χώροιο in ep. A v. 7; in ep. A v. 5 a paragraphos marks a change in speakers Location/state: Museum of Nemea, external hall Bibliography: Kritzas 1992; SEG 41.273 Photo: Kritzas 1992: pl. 86α and β

1.5. Monument: limestone stele Size: 89 cm. high, 50/55 cm. wide, 22/34 cm. thick (Bernand); 89.5 cm. high, 54 cm. wide, 34 cm. thick (Peek); letters 1.5/2 cm. (Bernand), 2 cm. (Peek) high, line spacing 3 cm. Provenance: unknown Date: 2nd/3rd CE (Peek), 2nd CE (SEG), imperial period (Bernand) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 8 Metrical lines: 4 Meter: hexameters Signs: a colon marks the division between speeches in the dialogue; the end of each metrical line is marked by ⟨ and its beginning by a paragraphos placed above the initial letter; traces of red ink are visible in some letters Location/state: Museum of Alexandria (inv. no. 21805) Bibliography: Peek 1932: 53–54 no. 1; Künzle 1933; Bilabel 1938: no. 7802; SEG 8.371; GVI 1845; IMEG 49; see also Wilhelm 1938: 78, Lattimore 1942: 49 Photo: Peek 1932: pl. VIII; IMEG pl. 64, reprinted below figure 1.5 (detail)

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figure 1.5 Photo published by Bernand, IMEG pl. LXIV (detail)

1.6. Monument: white Pentelic marble stele, damaged below; “the stele is made from an earlier monument. The epistyle has three small akroteria. Below it the bust of a beardless young man in a sunken panel, flanked by two pilasters; very bad craftsmanship. The inscription is under the relief” (Strubbe 1997: 276).20 Size: 93 (Conze, Kirchner, Strubbe)/96 (Stephani) cm. high, 21.5 (Conze)/22 (Kirchner, Strubbe)/23 (Stephani) cm. wide, 7.5 cm. thick (Kirchner, Strubbe), letters 1.5 cm. high (Kirchner, Strubbe) Provenance: Piraeus, Athens Date: 2nd/3rd CE (Raffeiner, Strubbe, Cortés Copete), 3rd CE (Welcker, Kaibel) Genre: funerary 20  Ross 1843: 124: “Schmale Stele aus Pentelischem Marmor, mit einem Kopf en face in flachem Relief und von ausnehmend schlechter Arbeit” (“narrow stele of Pentelic marble, with a bas-relief head en face of an exceptionally low quality”).

Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions

117

Inscribed Lines: 10 Metrical lines: 4 Meter: elegiacs (v. 1 incorrect hexameter, unless Ἀπολλώνιος was pronounced as Ἀπολώνιος) Signs: a paragraphos is carved at the end of the first three metrical lines; marked breathing at v. 3 (ΗΝ) Location/state: Museum of the Piraeus (inv. no. not recorded) Bibliography: Ross 1843: 124–25 no. 3 = 1861: 676–77; Stephani 1843: 196–97; Welcker 1845: 236 no. 5; Kaibel 1878: no. 119; IG III/2 1360 (Dittenberger); Conze 1911–1922: 105 no. 2134; IG II2 10385 (Kirchner); GVI 480; GGG 291; Raffeiner 1977: 46–48 no. 24; Robert 1978: 241 = 1989: 697; 1978: 253–54 = 1989: 709–10; 1978: 266–67 = 1989: 722–23; Hornum 1993: no. 88; Strubbe 1997: 276–77 no. 403; Cortés Copete 1999: 172; see also Dragatses 1891, Peek 1966: 363 Photo: Conze 1911–1922: pl. 471 no. 2134

Συνναδεὺς θεράπων | Ἀπολλώνιος ἐνθάδε | Μόσχου >–< λειτῇ ὑ|πὸ στήλλῃ κέκλιμαι | ὠκύμορος· >–< ἣν πα|ρίοις εὔφημος ἀεί, ξέ|νε, μηδ’ ἐπὶ λύμῃ >–< | χεῖρα βάλοις· φθι|μένων ὠκυτάτη | νέμεσις.21 2 ΛΕΠΗ, λεπτῇ Stephani: λείῃ Horkel ap. Stephani | KEMIMAI Stephani, κέκλιμαι Horkel ap. Stephani || 3 ἦν Πα|ρίοις Stephani This short funerary text is engraved on a very narrow stele, so narrow that this short epitaph could not be laid out as four lines corresponding to the metrical units. A paragraphos with small serifs is therefore used to mark the

21  “I, Apollonios from Synnada, slave of Moschos, here / under this small stele lay down, untimely; / if you should pass by, say always good words, stranger, and do not put your hand for the sake of insult; Nemesis of the dead is very quick”.

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hexameters:22 some attention was paid to such aspects even in case of poor and small monuments. II. Forked paragraphos or diple obelismene. 2.1. Monument: white limestone slab Size: 66 cm. high, 123 cm. wide, 15/20 cm. thick, letters 4 cm. high (Moretti, Sacco); 66 cm. high, 123 cm. wide, 15/20 cm. thick, letters 3/3.5 cm. high (Ritti); 66 cm. high, 133.2 cm. wide, 21 cm. thick, letters 6.1/6.3 cm. high (Soccal) Provenance: Rome Date: 1st/2nd CE (Kaibel, Peek, Ritti), 71–130 CE (Sacco) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 12 Metrical lines: 12 Meter: elegiacs Signs: a forked paragraphos is carved between lines 2 and 3 (the space between these lines is not wider than elsewhere)

22  For a similar paragraphos with serifs at both ends see Schironi 2010: 18 and 96–97 no. 6. In this section I must mention also the dedicatory epigram IMEG 168 (temple of Mandulis, Kalabsha, Talmis, Egypt, 1st–3rd century CE), a red-painted inscription which could not be read anymore in 1961: we have to rely on several uncertain copies made between 1893 and 1911. The last transcriptions were made by Gauthier, two in capital letters (1910: 89; 1911: 2.278–79), one in small letters (1910: 89). They record a horizontal stroke placed below the first letters of lines 7 and 22, perhaps to mark the main parts of the long acrostic, and a diple at the end of each metrical line, except for vv. 11–14, 19, 22, 25. Unfortunately, as Gauthier admits, “la fin des vers n’est pas toujours visible” (“the end of the lines is not always visible”) and “je ne puis pas garantir l’exactitude absolue de ce que j’ai cru y lire” (“I cannot guarantee the absolute exactness of what I thought I read”: both passages quoted by Bernand, ad IMEG 168). For more details about this inscription, see Garulli 2013: 255–57 no. 8.

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figure 2.1 Photo Museo Lapidario Maffeiano, Verona, inv. no. 28671

Location/state: Museo Lapidario Maffeiano, Verona (room I, inv. no. 28671); the slab is broken in two fragments and damaged in the lower part Bibliography: Maffei 1749: 63–64 no. 3; Bonada 1751: 434–35; Brunck 1776: 302 no. 701; Jacobs 1803: 275–77 ad no. 701; 1814b: 858 no. 317; Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum III 6222 Franz; Kaibel 1878: no. 580, Wilamowitz’s transcription; Cougny 1890: no. 2.610; IG XIV 1549 (Kaibel); GVI 1546; GGG 336; IGUR III 1194; Ritti 1981: 137–38 no. 74; Soccal 2007 with further bibliography; EDR 111853 (Giulia Sacco, 2.6.2011); see also Moretti 1989: 9 Photo: Moretti (ad IGUR III 1194); Ritti 1981: 138; see above figure 2.1

σῆμα τόδε Εὐδαίμων Διονυσίῳ, ὅν ῥ’ ἕταρον ὥς φίλατο, καὶ Μούσαις ἔξοχα φιλαμένωι. >— εἰ καί μοι θυμός, Διονύσιε, τείρεται αἰνῶς ἀμφὶ σοί, ἀλλ’ ἔμπης οἷα πάρεστι δέχου ὕστατα δή, φίλε, δῶρα· τὰ δ’ ἄλλα τοι ὅσσα ἔοικε

5

καὶ πάρος Εὐδαίμων δῶκε καὶ οἰχομένωι· ζωὸν μὲν μεθέηκεν ἐλεύθερον, οὐδὲ πάροιθεν οὐ σύ γε ἐπειρήθης πώποτε δουλοσύνης· ἦ γὰρ ἔης αὐτῶι κεχαρισμένος ἐξέτι παίδων, ἤπιος, ἐσθλὸς ἰδεῖν, εὔνοος, ἀγχίνοος,

10

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καρπαλίμως γράψαι σημή[ι]α διπλόα φωνῆς Ἑλλάδος εὖ εἰδὼς [ἠδ]ὲ καὶ Αὐσονίων.23 3 ΤΕΙΡΕΤΑΙ lapis: ΠΕΙΡΕΤΑΙ Maffei, Franz, qui ⟨τ⟩είρεται || 12 [οὐδ]ὲ Bonada || post v. 12 lacunam postul. Maffei, Bonada, Brunck, Jacobs2, Franz, Kaibel1 A large and accurate inscription, offered to the slave Dionysius by his master Eudaimon, who freed him from slavery before he died, as the text reveals at ll. 5–8. The forked paragraphos separates the first elegiac couplet from the following lines: this couplet, which features the archaic inscriptional pattern σῆμα τόδε κτλ., gives the names of the dedicator, Eudaimon, and of the dead Dionysius, and introduces the latter as loved by Eudaimon like a friend and exceedingly loved by the Muses. The text that follows mentions the slave and his master again, and adds some details about their relationship and about Dionysius’ skills; it expands the contents of the first couplet, which seems to function as a sort of heading. 2.2. Monument: two tuff slabs belonging to Patron’s sepulchre Size: the upper table is 31.5 cm. (Moretti), 30 cm. (Peek) high, 109.5 cm. (Moretti), 109 cm. (Peek) wide, 5.5 cm. thick; the lower table is 29.5 cm. (Moretti), 30 cm. (Peek) high, 102 cm. (Moretti), 105 cm. (Peek) wide, 5.5 cm. (Moretti), 6 cm. (Peek) thick; letters 2.5 cm. (Moretti), 2/2.5 cm. (Peek) high, line spacing 1.5 cm. (Peek) Provenance: Rome Date: 1st CE (Tran Tam Tinh, mentioned by Moretti), 2nd CE (Geffcken, Peek) Genre: funerary 23  “Eudaimon offered this tomb to Dionysius, whom he loved like a friend and who was exceedingly loved by the Muses. Although my soul is terribly oppressed over you, yet receive nonetheless the last honors that are available, my dear. As for the rest, Eudaimon gave you what was opportune both before and after he has gone. In fact, when you were alive, he freed you from slavery, and you did not experience slavery at all even before; for you were the most pleasing to him ever since boyhood, gentle, noble-looking, well-disposed, ready of wit, able to write swiftly a double code of signs, of the Greek language and of that of the Ausonians”.

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Inscribed Lines: 14 Metrical lines: 14 Meter: vv. 1–12 elegiacs (v. 12 hypermetric), vv. 13–14 iambic trimeters Signs: a forked paragraphos is carved between lines 12 and 13 Location/state: Musée du Louvre, Paris (Antiquités grecques, étrusques et romaines, inv. MA 4247 and MA 4248) Bibliography: Welcker 1845: 259–60 no. 36, ll. 1–12; CIG III 6270–1 (Franz); Kaibel 1878: no. 546b; Cougny 1890: no. 2.234–35; IG XIV 1934f (Kaibel); Geffcken 1916: 147–48 no. 362; GVI 2027; Peek 1979: 258–60 no. f; IGUR III 1303f; see also Moretti 1989: 12, Thomas 1995 Photo: Peek 1979: pl. 12, b and c; Moretti (ad IGUR III 1303)

This epigram belongs to a grand monument, dedicated to a physician named Patron,24 which included inscriptions, statues, and paintings. The monument is lost; the inscription in question is the only long verse inscription from it that survives. The forked paragraphos visible between lines 12 and 13 separates a first text in elegiacs and a final couplet in iambic trimeters. The speaker in the first part of the text is the dead Patron, in the last two lines his daughter Appuleia; so the sign marks a change of both meter and speaker. The first 12 lines make up the epitaph proper, while the last couplet seems to function in much the same way as the prose text often placed by the side of the verse text. It reveals the name of the dedicator and her connection with the deceased; it is a sphragis or, better, a sort of caption of the monument. The change of metre, particularly the choice of the iambic trimeter – closer to speech than to song (see Arist. Poet. 1449a25) – might emphasize this ‘prosaic’ function; or, better, it could be due to the prosodic structure of the personal name of Patron’s daughter.25

24  See Samama 2003: 516 no. 470. 25   Ἀπποληία is attested in inscriptions alongside the alternative forms Ἀππουληία and Ἀπουληία; it is never attested in literary texts. None of these forms can be easily inserted in a dactylic meter. Ἀπολήιος is used by Christodorus, Anth. Pal. II. 1,304.

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2.3. Monument: white marble slab Size: 105 cm. high, 152 cm. wide, 23 cm. thick, letters of lines 1–9 2 cm. high, of lines 10–15 4.5 cm. high Provenance: Athens Date: 1st CE Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 9 (left column), 6 (right column) Metrical lines: 9 (left column) Meter: vv. 1–8 elegiacs, v. 9 iambic trimeter Signs: a forked paragraphos is carved between lines 8 and 9, and the space between these lines is wider than elsewhere; marked apostrophe (v. 8 βωστρέετ’), breathing (v. 7 ὁμαρτῆι) Location/state: Epigraphical Museum, Athens (inv. no. EM 10495) Bibliography: Pernice 1892: 271–75; IG II2 12664 (Kirchner); GVI 681 Photo: facsimile published by Pernice 1892: 272; see below figure 2.3.a and 2.3.b

τῆιδε Μενανδρείων ἐπέων δεδαηκότα πάσας τύξιας εὐιέροις ἀγλαὸν ἐν θυμέλαις ἐκτέρισαν θεράποντες ἀερσίφρονος Διονύσου αὐτῶι κισσοφόρωι τοῦτο χαριζόμενοι· τοιγὰρ ὅσοι Βρομίωι Παφίηι τε νέοι μεμέλησθε

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Lectional Signs in Greek Verse Inscriptions

figures 2.3.a and 2.3.b

123

Photographic Archive of the Epigraphical Museum, Athens, inv. no. EM 10495

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Garulli

δευόμενον γεράων μὴ παρανεῖσθε τάφον, ἀλλὰ παραστείχοντες ἢ οὔνομα κλεινὸν ὁμαρτῆι βωστρέετ’ ἢ ῥαδινὰς συμπλαταγεῖτε χέρας. >— προσεννέπω Στράτωνα καὶ τιμῶ κρότωι.26 on right: Κύιντος Μάρκιος

10

Στράτων καὶ Κύιντος Μάρκιος Τιτιανὸς Χολλεῖδαι κωμῳδοὶ περιοδονεῖ και.27

15

5 ΤΟΙΓΑΡΟΣΟΙΒΡΟΜΙΩΙ Pernice: ΤΟΙΓΑΡΟΙΒΡΟΜΙΩΙ Kirchner Once again, the forked paragraphos marks more than a change of meter; it separates the real epigram, composed in elegiacs, from the last line, an iambic trimeter, which is not a poem in itself, nor it is really dependent on the previous couplets. It is a sort of voice-over, which answers the invitation expressed at the end of the poem, and indicates how readers can do what has been suggested.28 The name of the dead person is mentioned here for the first time, because it does not fit in with dactylic meter: to the right of both texts a short prose sentence provides two names, one being that of the dead person celebrated by the surviving epigram and the following isolated verse, while the other name hints at another epigram, now lost, celebrating Κύιντος Μάρκιος

26  “Here the one who learned all the artifices of Menandrean verses and was splendid in holy stages was buried with due honors by the worshippers of the cheering Dionysus, graciously offering this monument to him, ivy-wreathed. Therefore you all, young men, who care for Bromius and Paphia, do not pass by this tomb without giving it any honor, but, please, while passing by, either call the well-known name at the same time, or clap your slender hands. I greet Strato and honor him by clapping”. 27  “Quintus Marcius Strato and Quintus Marcius Titianus, members of the deme Cholleidae, singers in the comic chorus, gained victories in all the great games”. 28  The trimeter might also help the reader to understand lines 7–8.

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Τιτιανός, possibly to the right of the prose text. To sum up, the iambic trimeter introduces the name of the deceased, adding some information to the poem; nevertheless, its function is different from that of the prose text, which gives identifying information about the deceased. It contains a greeting to the dead and his praises; it takes up what is said at the end of the epigram, but can be understood even without the previous text.29 2.4. Monument: marble base Size: 54 cm. high, 40 cm. wide, 73 cm. thick, letters 1/1.4 cm. high Provenance: Eleusis Date: 3rd CE Genre: dedicatory Inscribed Lines: 20 Metrical lines: 20 (very fragmentary) Meter: elegiacs Signs: a forked paragraphos is carved between lines 18 and 19, and this is recorded by all editors; indentation is not clearly recorded by editors Location/state: Museum of Eleusis (cat. no. 253) Bibliography: Skias 1894: 208–10 no. 33; Wilhelm 1909: 97 ad ll. 17 and 19–20; IG II2 3714 (Kirchner); Peek 1980: 18–19 no. 12; see also Graindor 1931: 1452 ad l. 16, Threatte 1980: 91 no. 5 Photo: see below figure 2.4

29  For “Menander’s words”, see Nervegna 2013: 104.

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figure 2.4 Photo Museum of Eleusis, cat. no. 253 (detail)

The last two lines, although in the same meter as the previous lines, are separated from the first part of the text by a forked paragraphos; they are a curse against whoever might damage the monument. Such a curse is commonly expressed either in prose or in verse; in this case, the forked paragraphos marks off the couplet from the preceding poem, making clear that the couplet does not belong to the poem, although it shares the meter of the poem. 2.5. Monument: acephalous herm of Homer, found together with another acephalous herm of Menander Size: unknown

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Provenance: Rome Date: Aelian’s time Genre: dedicatory Inscribed Lines: 15 Metrical lines: 14 METER: elegiacs; since the two sets of poems inscribed on the bases of the herms of Homer and Menander (IGUR IV 1526) were expected to be read together, the blend of scriptio plena and elided vowels, attested by both F. Orsini’s and Achilles Statius’ drawings of the herm of Homer (Magnelli forth.: 5 n. 16), is surprising if compared with the regular avoidance of scriptio plena in IGUR IV 1526 Signs: a diple is carved between ll. 4/5, 8/930 Location/state: “lost well before the 20th century” (Magnelli forth.: 2) Bibliography: Bonada 1751: 404 nr. 22; Brunck 1776: 256 no. 498–99, vv. 5–14 only; Jacobs 1803: 146 no. 498; CIG III 6092 (Franz); Kaibel 1878: no. 1084; Cougny 1890: no. 3.111–13; IG XIV 1188 Kaibel; IGUR IV 1532 (with further bibl.); Agosti 2008: 672–73; see also Robert-Robert 1964: 138 no. 54, Bowie 1989: 244–45, Garulli 2012: 92–99 no. 2.1.5, Magnelli forth., Höschele 2017 Photo: several drawings of the herm were published from 1570 (F. Orsini) onwards (see Magnelli forth.): it is hard to say how many of them rely on autopsy of the herm

Fourteen lines were engraved on the base of an acephalous herm originally bearing Homer’s head. Two diplai obelismenai and a wider line-spacing divide vv. 4 and 5, 8 and 9. As a result, the long text appears as a sequence of three sections: the meter does not change, but the speaker is different. In the second block the persona loquens is certainly Homer, whereas in the first and third part of the text the speaker cannot be identified with certainty. One may 30  No sign is recorded by the editors in IGUR IV 1526.

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think of Aelian, named by Homer (v. 6) as his beloved listener: nonetheless, especially in the first section, the speaker may be the anonymous and traditional voice of the monument. In any case, there is no direct nor necessary connection between the sequences, although the contents are similar. The first part introduces the person represented by the herm and the anonymous voice addresses the passer-by; in the second part Homer starts to speak and introduces himself, giving his fatherland, his name and source of inspiration; in the third part the anonymous voice (possibly Aelian) addresses Homer, asking him about his mortal or immortal nature. The three epigrams share the same heading and are relatively independent; they apparently do not make up a unified story or dialogue, although they deal with the same subject. It is a sort of minianthology of epigrams on Homer. 2.6. Monument: marble stele, broken into two fragments Size: the right fragment is 18 cm. high, 34 cm. wide, 6 cm. thick; the left fragment is 20 cm. high, 38 cm. wide, 4.8/5.5 cm. thick; letters 0.6/1 cm. high Provenance: Athens Date: 2nd/3rd CE (Peek), 3rd CE (Kirchner) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 11 Metrical lines: 11 METER: vv. 1–4 elegiacs, vv. 5–11 hexameters Signs: a forked paragraphos is carved under lines 4, 10 and 11; in the first two cases it is followed by the word ΑΛΛΟ, carved in the center of the line; marked diaeresis lines 2 (ΪCΤΟΡΙΗC) and 6 (ΕΥΪΕΡΟΙCΙΝ) Location/state: the right part is lost, a squeeze survives; the left part is kept in the Epigraphical Museum, Athens (inv. no. EM 2641)

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figure 2.6 Photographic Archive of the Epigraphical Museum, Athens, inv. no. EM 2641

Bibliography: Peek 1938: 34–38 no. 3; IG II2 12318 (Kirchner); Vollgraff 1951: 379–81 no. 13; GVI 1996 Photo: Peek 1938: pl. 5.2; see above figure 2.6

[ψυχὴν μὲν σοφίη]ς ὑποφήτορα θεσπέσιον κῆρ [καὶ νόον ἠγα]θέης vacat ἔμπλεον ἱστορίης [οὐρανός, ὅσπερ] ἔδωκεν, ἐδέξατο, σῶμα δὲ γαῖα Ἀ[τθὶς] ἐπ̣ [ωνυ]μίην vacat Πιερίδων τέμενος. >>— ἄλλο φῶτα θεουδίηι μεμελημένον ἐξέτι τύτθου

5

ἐς τέλος εὐιέροισιν ἀριστεύσαν̣[τα] π̣ όνοισιν ὄλβιον ἐμπε[δ]ό�̣μ̣ η̣ τιν ἐῢν μακάρων ὀαριστήν γαῖαν ἀπ[αλλά]ξαντα θεοὶ πρὸς Ὄλυμπον ἄγοντες νέκταρος ἀμ̣ [βρο]σ̣ ίη̣ ς θέσαν ⟨ἔ⟩μμορον· αὐτὰρ ὁ χῶρος ἐνθάδε Μουσάω[ν θνητ]ὸ�̣ν̣ [κα]τὰ σῶμα καλύπτει.

10

>>—

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ἄλλο Νίκων ἀ�̣θ̣α̣ν̣άτοισι τετιμένε χαῖρε φίλοισιν.31 >>—3 1, 3 suppl. Peek1 || 2 suppl. P. Maas ap. Peek1 || 4 suppl. Peek1: ἁ[γνὴ] ἐπ[ωνυ]μίην Vollgraff || 6, 8–10 suppl. Peek1 || 7 ἐμπε[δ]ό�̣μ̣ η̣ τιν Maas ap. Peek1 || 9 ΑΜΜΟΡΟΝ lapis, corr. Kirchner (sed vide Peek1): ἄμμορον Peek || 10 Μουσάω[ν ἁγνῶ]ν Vollgraff This small funerary stele includes a series of three poems, explicitly marked as such by the heading ἄλλο placed before the second and third text. As an additional divider, a forked paragraphos can be seen between the texts, and a special forked paragraphos, combined with a coronis, marks the end of the whole series. Particular attention to the layout of the inscription is revealed by the effort to separate the cola of the pentameters by a blank space (ll. 2 and 4). The diplai are used as an extra mark, given the presence of ἄλλο. The more elaborate diple placed at the end of the whole sequence indicates that the three poems, although distinct, belong to one single project: another minianthology on the same subject, perhaps. 2.7. See below 3.2: a forked paragraphos apparently separates the first distich of the epigram engraved on the third side of the altar from the following lines. These are mutilated, and the surviving portions of text can hardly confirm that we are actually dealing with a new epigram (see Peek 1932: 62). 2.8. See above 1.3: a forked paragraphos is used in order to mark the end of the text. Since only one text had to be engraved on this stele, the forked paragraphos does not meet a real need.

31  “His soul, suggester of wisdom, his divine heart, and his mind full with most holy knowledge, did the sky receive, the sky which gave them. Yet his body was received by the earth, named Atthis, land dedicated to the Pierian Muses. Another epigram. A man who had regard for the fear of God ever since the time when he was young, who was altogether the best in holy works, blessed, with a firm mind, noble, familiar friend of the blessed ones, he left the earth and the gods took him to the mount Olympus and made him accustomed to drink ambrosia. Yet the land of the Muses covers his mortal body here. Another epigram. Nikon, honored by the beloved immortals, be happy”.

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III. Diple 3.1. Monument: limestone slab belonging to a sarcophagus, in tabula ansata, with figures in relief on either side Size: 40 cm. high, 68.5 cm. wide, letters 1.5/1 cm. high Provenance: Rome Date: 3rd/4th CE (Kaibel, Peek) Genre: funerary Inscribed Lines: 11 Metrical lines: 10 METER: elegiacs Signs: scriptio continua of the metrical lines, separated by a diple; marked breathings, apostrophe, diaeresis Location/state: Lapidario, Musei Vaticani, Rome (inv. no. 9034) Bibliography: Muratori 1740: II 958 no. 1; Leich 1742: 472–75; Brunck 1776: 316 no. 754; Jacobs 1803: 339 no. 754; Boissonade 1814: 82 ad vv. 9–10; Jacobs 1814b: 824 no. 215; CIG III 6240 (Franz); Kaibel 1878: no. 655; Cougny 1890: no. 2.487; IG XIV 1663 (Kaibel); GVI 658; GGG 276; IGUR III 1234; see also Horsley 1987: 227 Photo: Moretti (ad IGUR III 1234), see below figure 3.1

Ἰγορίοιο τάφος νεοπενθέος. ὦ τάφος, | ὅσσην ⟩ συνκλῄσας ἀρετῆς εὐκλεΐην | κατέχεις ⟩ οὐκ ἴδρις τραγικῆς μούσης, | οὐκ εὔλυρος ἀνήρ ⟩ οὐδ’ ἐπέων ῥητὴρ | ἄξια σεῖο φράσει ⟩ οἷος ἔφυς πραπίδας, | οἷος χρόας, οἷος ἰούλους ⟩ ὅσσων θ’ ὡς | πρέσβυς κοῦρος ἐὼν κράτεες ⟩ νύμφην δ’, | ἥ[ν σ]οι ἐγὼ θεῖος τεὸς ἔτρεφον οἴῳ ⟩

5

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figure 3.1 Photo provided by Fototeca Musei Vaticani, Città del Vaticano, Rome, inv. no. 9034

τλή|μονα νυμφεύσων ἥρπασε πρόσθ’ Ἀΐδης ⟩ οὐδὲ | γάμων ὑμέναιον ἀείσαμεν, ἀλλ’ ἄρα μοῦνοι ⟩ | παρθενίην ἐρατὴν σώσατ’ ἕως Ἀΐδου. ⟩32 10 1 ΙΓΟΡΙΟΙΟ lapis: ΙΤΟΡΙΟΙΟ Muratori, Leich, Brunck, Jacobs1, Franz: Ἰκαρίοιο Jacobs2, Cougny || 4 ΟΥΔΕΠΕΩΝ lapis: ΟΥΚΕΠΕΩΝ Muratori, Brunck, Jacobs, Franz || 5 χρόα{ς} Brunck, Jacobs, Franz, Kaibel || 6 κρατέεις Kaibel, fort. recte || 7 ΟΙΩ lapis: οἲ ⟨οἴ⟩ Leich, Jacobs, Franz, Cougny || 9 ὑμέναιον: lapis non legitur, ΥΜΕΝΑΙΟΝ Muratori, Franz: ΥΝΕΝΑΙΟΝ Kaibel2 | ΜΟΥΝΟΙ: μούν⟨ω⟩ (dualem numerum) Boissonade, Jacobs2, 32  “Tomb of Igorius lately mourned. O tomb, how much glory of virtue you closed up and keep. No expert in the tragic Muse, no man skilled in the lyre, nor a speaker of words will pronounce anything worthy of you, what you are like in your mind, what you are like in your body, what you are like in your first beard, to how many people you were superior like an old man while being a young man. And the wife, that I, as your uncle, nourished for you alone, did Hades take her, miserable, to wife before, and we did not sing even the wedding song, but you both alone preserved your beloved virginity as far as Hades’ house”.

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Cougny: μούνῳ Brunck || 10 παρθενικὴν Jacobs2 | σώσατ’ ἕως Muratori (“servavit usque ad Inferos”), Kaibel2: σώσαθ’ ἕως Brunck, Peek: σώσατε ὡς Boissonade, Jacobs2, Franz, Kaibel1: σώσατε εἰς Jacobs1: σώσατε κεἰς Cougny A ten-line epigram praising the dead youth Igorius(?)33 together with his fiancée, who is not named. The poem is carefully composed, and betrays some literary ambition on the part of its author.34 The metrical structure is correct, but, since the text is carved in continuous lines that take no account of the metrical units, each stichos has to be marked by a diple placed at its end. 3.2. Monument: rectangular funerary pillar (Milne), altar (de Ricci), with reliefs and inscriptions on all four sides Size: 97 cm. (Milne 1905: 48), 97.5 cm. (Milne 1901: 289) high, 45 cm. wide, 36 cm. thick; letters 1.5/3 cm. high Provenance: Alexandria, Egypt Date: early 1st century CE (Milne 1905: 50), end of the 1st century BCE (Milne 1901: 289) Genre: dedicatory Inscribed Lines: 9 (1st side), 10 (3rd side), 11 (2nd and 4th sides) Metrical lines: 6 (1st side), 5 (2nd side), 5 (3rd and 4th sides) METER: elegiacs (1st side), hexameters (2nd–4th sides) Signs: a diple marks the end of all the metrical lines; a forked paragraphos is carved on the third side between vv. 2 and 3 of the epigram (see above 2.8)

33  This is not attested as a personal name; it has, therefore, been corrected by several editors. 34  See the anaphora of the vocative τάφος … ὦ τάφος in v. 1, that of the negative adverb in vv. 3 and 4, of the interrogative adjectives and pronouns in vv. 5 and 6; some internal echoes such as θεῖος τεός in v. 7; the figura etymologica νύμφην νυμφεύσων in vv. 7–8; the paronomastic play οἴῳ at the end of v. 7 with the three οἷος of v. 5.

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Location/state: Cairo Museum Bibliography: Milne 1901: 286–90; de Ricci 1903: 568–69 no. 142; Milne 1905: 48–50 no. 9267; see also Peek 1932: 62 Photo: Milne 1901: 286–87; 1905: pl. VII

3.3. Monument: white marble base Size: unknown Provenance: Sparta Date: 2nd/3rd CE (Kaibel), after Marcus Aurelius’ reign (Le Bas) Genre: dedicatory (after death) Inscribed Lines: 28 Metrical lines: 8 METER: elegiacs Signs: a leaf is carved at the end of l. 12 of the prose text;35 a diple is placed before each verse, except for v. 4 (Ross), 2–4 (Kolbe) (Ross and Kolbe are the only editors who print the signs); a horizontal bar place above the last letter of ΝΟŌ (v. 3) is to indicate abbreviation (see Threatte 1980: 90 no. 5), and is recorded by Ross and Kolbe Location/state: unknown Bibliography: Ross 1841: 22–24; Le Bas 1848: 80 no. 162d; Gomperz 1878: 439; Kaibel 1878: no. 874; Ludwich 1886: 617; IG V/1 599 (Kolbe); see also Spawforth 1992: 234 Photo: none

35  Another sign similar to a coronis is recorded only by Ross 1841: 22.

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A short poem follows a prose text: both praise the dead Herakleia, daughter of Teisamenus, who during her life was the best of women. The whole text is carved in continuous lines, so a divider between prose and verse and a metrical divider for the elegiacs is apparently necessary; a leaf is placed at the end of the prose section of the text, the beginning of each metrical unit (stichos) is marked by a diple, the only exception being metrical line 4, and perhaps also lines 2–3.36 3.4. Monument: black granite stele, with an ornamental pediment Size: 155 cm. high, 69 cm. wide; letters 0.2/0.25 cm. (dedication), 0.14/0.15 cm. (paean) Provenance: Menschieh, Ptolemais, Egypt Date: 98–100 CE (Bernand), 98–102 CE (Baillet) Genre: paean Inscribed Lines: 15 Metrical lines: 23 METER: strophic composition37 36  I have left out the lost inscription IG II2 3743 (Kirchner = IG III/1 743, Dittenberger), where a leftward diple was apparently carved at the end of l. 3 and between the first and the second word of l. 6, as a general-purpose divider. It may correspond to the so called ἔσω νενευκυῖα διπλῆ (Hephaestion De signis p. 75.12 Consbr.): on the two variants of the diple and their ancient terminology, see Ercoles 2009: 56–59, with further bibliography. As for IMEG 168, mentioned above and also lost, Gauthier 1911: II 239 records a diple marking the end of all metrical lines, except for 11–14, 19, 22 and 25: on the reliability of the transcriptions, see above n. 16. 37  1st strophe: dactylic tetrameter, dactylic hexameter with catalexis in disyllabum, dactylic tetrameter, dactylic hexameter with catalexis in disyllabum, refrain (iambic dimeter, dactylic tetrameter with catalexis in disyllabum). 2nd strophe: dactylic tetrameter, dactylic octameter with catalexis in disyllabum, dactylic tetrameter, dactylic heptameter with catalexis in disyllabum, refrain (see above). 3rd strophe: dactylic tetrameter, dactylic hexameter with catalexis in disyllabum, dactylic tetrameter, dactylic heptameter with catalexis in disyllabum, refrain (see above). 4th strophe: prosodiac, anapaestic dimeter, anapaestic trimeter, dactylic tetrameter with catalexis in syllabam + aristophanean,

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Signs: a mid-line dot is placed after Φλεγυείαι (v. 4) and Ὑγιείαι (10); a mid-line diple is placed after παιάν (v. 6), παῖδες (v. 10), μοι (v. 13), παιάν (v. 14), δοκίμους (v. 16), παιάν (v. 18) Location/state: Cairo Museum38 Bibliography: Baillet 1889; IMEG 176 with further bibl. Photo: IMEG pl. CIX

IV. Some concluding remarks. It seems reasonable to ask whether some patterns of usage can be detected, and to compare the evidence with that offered by papyri and prose inscriptions. 1. Paragraphos. The verse inscriptions listed above vary in their date and other features: text no. 1.1 is exceptionally early (3rd–2nd century BCE), and the other texts date between the 1st and 3rd centuries CE. Varied is their provenance: Italy, Egypt, Attica, Peloponnese and Chios. Moreover, the placement of the paragraphos and its function vary. In texts nos. 1.1 and 1.2 the sign marks the end of the epigrams engraved on the same stele. In texts nos. 1.3 and 1.4 the paragraphos functions as a mark of change in speakers. Finally, in texts nos. 1.5 and 1.6, both engraved in scriptio continua, the paragraphos is used between metrical units as a mere divider. Everything suggests that the paragraphos in verse inscriptions is employed as an all-purpose divider. In Attic prose inscriptions (Threatte 1980: 90–91 nos. 5–6 and 8–9, 93 no. 16) the paragraphos can appear as a “small horizontal stroke in mid-line position, a variant of the dot”, and is used to separate names and sections of text. The use of the paragraphos in texts nos. 1.5 and 1.6 is therefore rather inscriptional; the rest of the inscriptions follow a tendency well attested in papyri (see above). 2. The forked paragraphos or diple obelismene appears in verse inscriptions dating between the 1st and 3rd centuries CE from Greece (Athens and Eleusis), Italy (Rome and the surrounding area), and Egypt (Saqqarah). It is always placed between lines of text, at the end of a unit of some sort. In most cases it functions as a proper divider: in the inscriptions examined above it divides verse from verse, not verse from prose. Sometimes this sign combines with other marks, such as the heading ἄλλο (2.6). The resulting verse dactylic trimeter with catalexis in disyllabum. Further bibl. on the metrical structure of the poem, see Bernand, ad IMEG 176. 38  Bernand, ad IMEG 176: “journ. d’entrée 28429”.

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units are remarkably different in length: one is far shorter than the other, a single couplet or even a single line of poetry. This shorter verse unit seems to be independent from the rest of the text. On the other hand, it does not always give additional information, so that its function cannot be likened to that of the prose text giving the name of the deceased, his or her father and fatherland, etc. (see e.g. text no. 2.3, where a prose caption is engraved to the right of the verse units: this shows that prose caption and short verse unit have two different functions). In text no. 2.8 the sign functions as an end-mark, according to a use well attested in papyri from the 1st century CE onwards.39 In Attic prose inscriptions of the 2nd and 3rd century CE (see Threatte 1980: 91 no. 5), the forked paragraphos separates sections of ephebic catalogues. Placement and function of the forked paragraphos in verse inscriptions are as distinctive as they are in papyri; its use as a divider is attested in both, whereas its use as an end-mark seems to be closer to contemporary papyri than to prose inscriptions. 3. Diple. In the verse inscriptions examined, found in Italy, mainland Greece and Egypt, and dating from the 2nd–4th century CE, the diple is placed in midline position at the beginning or end of metrical units, written in continuous lines with no interruption: the diple marks off the beginning and end of metrical lines, but it does not seem to be employed systematically (see 3.3, 3.4). In Attic prose inscriptions dating from the 1st to the 3rd century CE (see Threatte 1980: 92 no. 10) the diple occurs at the end of lines, indicates abbreviations of names and sometimes separates names in ephebic catalogues.40 The use of the diple as a metrical divider, sometimes even as a decorative space-filler, is closer to its use in prose inscriptions than in papyri of the same period. What makes the difference is the placement of the diple. In Greek papyri, it is usually placed to the left of the written line; only some Latin Herculaneum papyri offer some examples of diplai placed in the written line, between words, apparently as punctuation marks (see Marichal 1979: 67).41 A comparison between ‘inscribed’ and ‘handwritten’ dividers sheds new light on the whole panorama of ancient writing customs. As Del Corso (2002: 39  See Schironi 2010: passim. 40  An interesting parallel is given by a Latin inscription, dating from the 2nd century CE (Gordon 1964: no. 196): the sign indicates an interruption when one cannot begin a new paragraph. 41  As for the function of this sign, although the all-purpose diple of the Aristarchean system is a critical sign, the diple is also attested as a dividing sign, and not only in the Herculaneum papyri but also in Egyptian papyri dating between the 1st and 7th centuries CE. See McNamee 1992: 32–34 table 2.C.

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185; 2003: 34) has persuasively demonstrated, the earliest examples of the marks in question belong to some 5th and 4th century Attic inscriptions featuring lists, catalogues, inventories, accounts, records, and the like. This allows us to suppose that these signs – well-known as belonging to the Aristarchean system – were in use much earlier than the Hellenistic age (see Del Corso 2003: 35–38). The verse inscriptions collected above make use of signs in a way similar to that of prose inscriptions and papyri, but slightly different from them both. That is, the paragraphos functions as a general divider, covering a range of purposes wider than it covers in papyri; the forked paragraphos, on the contrary, appears as a well-defined mark, even compared with contemporary papyri; finally, the diple functions as a metrical divider, in a way present neither in prose inscriptions nor in papyri. Therefore prose and verse inscriptions seem to document a use of these signs which is more varied, perhaps earlier, than the Alexandrian system; the latter might have resulted from some adaptation of a more flexible system for the special use of learned readers. After all, deviations from as well as adaptations of Aristarchean usage are known.42 Let us go now one step further, and ask why these signs were used in inscriptions. As far as 5th and 4th century prose inscriptions are concerned, Del Corso (2002: 184; 2003: 34; 2010: 11) observes that long, complex documents imply a handwritten model, which would have certainly affected the transcription of the same text on stone. A handwritten copy must certainly be supposed also for verse inscriptions, although further details about its nature and use remain obscure. Be that as it may, this model had to be deliberately conceived for being transposed to stone, and, unlike archive documents, had most likely no independent existence: therefore we should ask again why the model was shaped in such a way. What is more, an occasional and uncritical imitation of a handwritten model is not consistent with the use of the signs made in verse inscriptions; they seem to be adapted for the specific needs of these texts (see the case of the diple). In other words, some effort to find the most suitable way of displaying the text on the stone was made either by the stone-cutter while arranging the text in the inscribed area or by the person who prepared a handwritten copy on purpose. For the reasons given above, it seems that we cannot but regard the signs in question as part of an independent and original project; their purpose might 42  See McNamee 1992: 9 n. 6, 11, who also observes (1992: 8): “only a little over half the texts containing Aristarchan sigla have all the marks in the right place at the right time”.

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have been, first of all, to make the inscription more legible. Paragraphoi and forked paragraphoi do indeed help the readers with the units of the inscribed text, diplai help them with meter. Moreover, the special attention paid to the legibility of the text is also apparent in the fact that the same inscription often makes use of proper lectional signs together with our dividers. We must also allow the possibility that at least the most visible signs were intended to attract attention. These purposes are not mutually exclusive nor do they prevent us from assuming an intentional use of devices with which readers had become familiar because of the increasing circulation of book-rolls. In fact, the epigraphic tradition offered a system of signs that had recently become part of the ‘visual idea’ of text as a result of the increasingly wide circulation of books. We can certainly argue for some influence of the text layout found in book-rolls as a wider cultural phenomenon which merges with a genuine epigraphical basis. Bibliography43 Agosti, G. 2008. “Epigrammi lunghi nella produzione epigrafica tardoantica.” In A. M. Morelli, ed., Epigramma longum. Da Marziale alla tarda antichità. From Martial to Late Antiquity. Atti del Convegno internazionale. Cassino, 29–31 maggio 2006, vol. 2, 663–92. Cassino. Agosti, G. 2015. “La mise en page come elemento significante nell’epigrafia greca tardoantica.” In P. Orsini, and M. Maniaci, eds., Scrittura epigrafica e scrittura libraria: fra Oriente e Occidente, 45–86. Cassino. Baillet, J. 1889. “La stèle de Menschieh.” Revue archéologique ser. 3 13: 70–83. Barbis, R. 1988. “La diplè obelismene: precisazioni terminologiche e formali.” In B. G. Mandilaras, ed., Proceedings of the XVIII Congress of Papyrology. Athens, 25–31 May 1986, vol. 2, 473–76. Athens. Bilabel, F. 1931, 1938. Sammelbuch Griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten, vols. 4, 5/2, Heidelberg 1931 (vol. 4), 1938 (vol. 5/2). 43  The main corpora of Greek inscriptions are cited according to the abbreviations employed in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd ed. When not listed in OCD, corpora of inscriptions and standard epigraphic resources have been written out in full at the first citation and subsequently cited according to the abbreviations used in Bérard, F. et al. Guide de l’épigraphiste. Paris, 4th ed. In addition, GGG = Peek, W. 1960. Grieschische Grabgedichte. Griechisch und Deutsch. Berlin; ILMN = Camodeca, G.-Solin, H. 2000. Catalogo delle iscrizioni latine del Museo Nazionale di Napoli (ILMN), I, Roma e Latium. Napoli; IMEG = Bernand, É. 1969. Inscriptions Métriques de l’Égypte Gréco-Romaine. Recherches sur la poésie épigrammatique des Grecs en Égypte. Paris.

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Boissonade, I. F. 1814. Marini Vita Procli. Lipsiae. Bonada, F. M. 1751. Carmina ex antiquis lapidibus dissertationibus ac notis illustrata, vol. 1. Romae. Bowie, E. L. 1989. Greek sophists and Greek poetry in the Second Sophistic, in ANRW II.33.1 209–58. Brunck, R. F. P. 1772, 1773, 1776. Analecta veterum poetarum Graecorum, vols. 1–3, Argentorati 1772 (1), 1773 (2), 1776 (3). Calabi Limentani, I. 1976. “Armodio e Aristogitone: gli uccisi dal tiranno.” Acme 29: 9–28. Cavallo, G. 1983. Libri scritture scribi a Ercolano. Introduzione allo studio dei materiali greci. Napoli. Conze, A. 1893, 1900, 1906, 1911–1922. Die Attischen Grabreliefs, vols. 1–4, Berlin and Leipzig 1893 (1), 1900 (2), 1906 (3), 1911–1922 (4). Cortés Copete, J. M. 1999. “Inscripciones sepulcrales.” In J. M. Cortés Copete ed., Epigrafía griega, 163–73. Madrid. Cougny, E. 1890. Epigrammatum Anthologia Palatina cum Planudeis et appendice nova epigrammatum veterum ex libris et marmoribus ductorum. Parisiis. Cribiore, R., Davoli, P., and Ratzan, D. M. 2008. “A teacher’s dipinto from Trimithis (Dakhleh Oasis).” Journal of Roman Archaeology 21: 171–91. Del Corso, L. 2002. “I documenti nella Grecia classica tra produzione e conservazione.” Quaderni di Storia 56: 155–89. Del Corso, L. 2003. “Materiali per una protostoria del libro e delle pratiche di lettura nel mondo greco.” Segno e Testo 1: 5–78. Del Corso, L. 2010. “Scritture epigrafiche e scritture su papiro in età ellenistico-romana. Spunti per un confronto.” In A. Bravo García et al., eds., The Legacy of Bernard de Montfaucon: Three Hundred Years of Studies on Greek Handwriting. Proceedings of the Seventh International Colloquium of Greek Palaeography. Madrid-Salamanca, 15–20 September 2008, vol. 1, 3–16 and 661–68. Turnhout. D’Orville, J. P. 1750. Animadversiones in Charitonis Aphrodisiensis de Chaerea & Challirrhoe narrationum amatoriarum libros VIII, vols. 1–2. Amstelodami. Dragatses, N. 1891. “Μουσεῖον Πειραιῶς.” Archaiologikon Deltion 7: 125 no. 3. Edgar, C. C. 1927. “A Greek epitaph from Saqqarah.” Annales du Service des Antiquités d’Égypte 27: 31–32. Ercoles, M. 2009. “La διπλῆ ὠβελισμένη nel P. Louvre E 3320 (Alcm. PMGF 1).” Eikasmós 20: 47–59. Esposito, E. 2008. Review of Romano, A. 2007. I segni nel papiro ercolanese 1497 (Philodemi De Musica, liber IV). Napoli. Eikasmós 19: 586–89. Garulli, V. 2012. Byblos lainee. Epigrafia, letteratura, epitafio. Bologna.

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Garulli, V. 2013. “Greek acrostic verse inscriptions.” In J. Kwapisz, D. Petrain, and M. Szymańzki, eds., The Muse at Play. Riddles and Wordplay in Greek and Latin Poetry, 246–78. Berlin and Boston. Garulli, V. 2015. “Conversazioni in limine mortis: forme di dialogo esplicite e implicite nelle iscrizioni sepolcrali greche in versi.” In G. Moretti and C. Pepe, eds., Le parole dopo la morte: forme e funzioni della retorica funeraria nella tradizione greca e romana. Atti del Convegno internazionale, Trento 5–6 giugno 2014, 59–96. Trento. Gauthier, H. 1910. “Cinq inscriptions grecques de Kalabchah (Nubie).” Annales du Service des Antiquités d’Égypte 10: 66–90; Note additionnelle aux inscriptions grecques de Kalabchah, ibid. 125–30. Gauthier, H. 1911. Le temple de Kalabchah, vols. 1–2. Le Caire. Geffcken, J. 1916. Griechische Epigramme. Heidelberg. Gomperz, T. 1878. Review of Kaibel (1878), Zeitschrift für die österreichischen Gymnasien 29: 429–40. Gordon, A. E. 1964. Album of dated Latin inscriptions, vol. 2. London. Graindor, P. 1931. Athènes de Tibère à Trajan. Le Caire. Hagenbuch, J. G. 1744. De Graecis Thesauri Muratoriani marmoribus quibusdam metricis diatriba. Tiguri. Hagenbuch, J. G. 1747. Epistolae epigraphicae. Tiguri. Hornum, M. B. 1993. Nemesis, the Roman State, and the Games. Leiden, New York and Köln. Horsley, G. H. R. 1987. New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, vol. 4. Macquarie University. Höschele, R. 2017. “A Lapidary Tête-à-Tête with Homer: Two Epigram Cycles from the Villa of Aelian.” In Y. Durbec, ed., Tradition épique et poésie épigrammatique. Présence des épopées archaiques dans les épigrammes grecques et latines, 41–58. Leiden. Jacobs, F. 1798, 1799, 1800, 1801, 1802, 1803, 1814a. Animadversiones in epigrammata Anthologiae Graecae secundum ordinem analectorum Brunckii, vols. 1–3. Lipsiae 1798 (1/1–2), 1799 (2/1), 1800 (2/2), 1801 (2/3), 1802 (3/1), 1803 (3/2), 1814 (3/3). Jacobs, F. 1813, 1814b, 1817. Anthologia Graeca ad fidem codicis olim Palatini nunc Parisini ex apographo Gothano, vols. 1–3. Lipsiae 1813 (1), 1814 (2), 1817 (3). Kaibel, G. 1878. Epigrammata Graeca ex lapidibus conlecta. Berolini. Kritzas, Χ. Β. 1992. “Δύο επιγράμματα από το Πετρί Νεμέας.” In Διεθνές Συνέδριο γιά την Ἀρχαία Θεσσαλία. Στη μνήμη του Δημήτρη Ρ. Θεοχάρη, 398–413. Αθήνα. Künzle, P. 1933. “Sopra un epigramma alessandrino.” Rivista di Filologia e di Istruzione Classica ns 11: 76–77. Lattimore, R. 1942. Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs. Illinois Studies in Language and Literature 28/1–2. Urbana, Il (Reprinted Urbana, 1962).

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Le Bas, P. 1848. Voyage archéologique en Grèce et en Asie Mineure, fait par ordre du gouvernement français pendant les années 1843 et 1844 et publié par P.L.B. […], vol. 2, Mégaride et Péloponnèse. Paris. Leich, J. H. 1742. “Specimen notarum et emendationum ad Graecas inscriptiones a C. Muratorio editas.” In Miscellanea Lipsiensia nova […], vol. 1, 450–509. Lipsiae. Ludwich, A. 1886. “Zur griechischen Anthologie.” Rheinisches Museum n.F. 41: 592–617. Maffei, S. 1749. Museum Veronense hoc est antiquarum inscriptionum atque anaglyphorum collectio […]. Veronae. Magnelli, E. forthcoming. Aelian’s epigrams in praise of Homer and Menander: Greek tradition in the suburbs of Rome. Marichal, R. 1979. “De l’usage de la «diplè» dans les inscriptions et les manuscrits latins.” In Scuola Speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari dell’Università di Roma, ed., Palaeographica diplomatica et archivistica. Studi in onore di Giulio Battelli, 63–69. Roma. McNamee, K. 1992. Sigla and Select Marginalia in Greek Literary Papyri. Bruxelles. Milne, J. G. 1901. “Greek inscriptions from Egypt.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 21: 275–92. Milne, J. G. 1905. Catalogue général des Antiquités Égyptiennes du Musée du Caire, N° 9201–9400, 26001–26123, 33001–33037. Greek Inscriptions. Oxford. Moretti, L. 1989. “I Greci a Roma.” Opuscula Instituti Romani Finlandiae 4: 5–16. Muratori, L. A. 1740. Novus thesaurus veterum inscriptionum, vols. 2–3. Mediolani. Nervegna, S. 2013. Menander in antiquity. The contexts of reception. Cambridge. Peek, W. 1932. “Griechische Epigramme aus Aegypten.” Bulletin de la Société Royale d’Archéologie d’Alexandrie 27 ns 8: 53–62. Peek, W. 1938. “Metrische Inschriften.” In J. F. Crome et al., eds., Mnemosynon Theodor Wiegand, 14–42. München. Peek, W. 1966. “Ein griechisches Grabgedicht aus der Thebais.” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg 15: 359–64. Peek, W. 1979. “Die Inschriften vom Grabbau des Patron an der Via Latina.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 35: 255–63. Peek, W. 1980. Attische Versinschriften. Berlin (Abhandlungen der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig 69/2). Pernice, E. 1892. “Grabmäler aus Athen.” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Athenische Abteilung 17: 271–76. Raffeiner, H. 1977. Sklaven und Freigelassene. Eine soziologische Studie auf der Grundlage des griechischen Grabepigramms. Innsbruck. Raubitschek, A. E. 1964. “Die Inschrift als Denkmal. Bemerkungen zur Methodologie der Inschriftkunden.” Studium Generale 17: 219–28.

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Redi, G. 1738. “Sopra gli dei aderenti.” Saggi di dissertazioni accademiche pubblicamente lette nella nobile Accademia Etrusca dell’antichissima città di Cortona 2: 107–32. de Ricci, S. 1903. “Bulletin épigraphique de l’Égypte romaine II. Inscriptions grecques (1896–1902).” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 2: 561–71. Ricl, M. and Malay, H. 2012. “Two new decrees from Iulia Gordos and Lora.” Epigraphica Anatolica 45: 73–87. Ritti, T. 1981. Iscrizioni e rilievi greci nel Museo Maffeiano di Verona. Roma. Robert, L. 1946. Épigramme de Thasos, in Id., Hellenica 2, 114–18. Paris. Robert, L. 1978. “Malédictions funéraires grecques.” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: 241–89 (= R., L. 1989. Opera minora selecta 5, 697–745. Amsterdam). Robert, J. and Robert, L. 1958. “Bulletin Épigraphique.” Revue des Études Grecques 71: 169–363. Robert, J. and Robert, L. 1964. “Bulletin Épigraphique.” Revue des Études Grecques 77: 127–259. Ross, L. 1841. Reisen und Reiserouten durch Griechenland, vol. 1, Reisen im Peloponnes. Berlin. Ross, L. 1843. “Griechische Inschriften.” Archäologische Zeitung 1/6 (Juni): 107–12 and 1/7 (Juli): 124–25. Ross, L. 1861. Archäologische Aufsätze. Zweite Sammlung. Leipzig. Samama, É. 2003. Les médicins dans le monde grec. Genève. Schironi, F. 2010. Τὸ μέγα βιβλίον. Book-Ends, End-Titles, and Coronides in Papyri with Hexametric Poetry. Durham, N.C. Skias, A. N. 1894. “Ἐπιγραφαὶ Ἐλευσῖνος.” Archaiologike Ephemeris 3: 189–212. Soccal, E. 2007. Record edited by Eva S. in the electronic catalogue of the inscriptions of the Museo Maffeiano on behalf of Regione del Veneto (unpublished). Spawforth, A. J. S. 1992. “Spartan cults under the Roman Empire: some notes.” In J. M. Sanders, ed., Φιλολάκων. Lakonian Studies in honour of Hector Catling, 227–38. London. Stephani, L. 1843. “Iscrizione metrica del Pireo.” Bullettino dell’Instituto di Corrispondenza Archeologica 196–98. Strubbe, J. 1997. Ἀραὶ ἐπιτύμβιοι. Imprecations against Desecrators of the Grave in the Greek Epitaphs of Asia Minor. A Catalogue. Bonn. Thomas, E. 1995. “Zum Zeugniswert griechischer Beischriften auf römischen Wandgemälden der späten Republik und frühen Kaiserzeit.” Mededelingen van het Nederlands historish Institut te Rome 54: 110–23. Threatte, L. 1980, 1996. The Grammar of Attic Inscriptions, vol. 1, Phonology; vol. 2, Morphology. Berlin and New York 1980 (1), 1996 (2). Trypanis, C. A. 1960. “A new collection of epigrams from Chios.” Hermes 88: 69–74.

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Turner, E. G. 1987. Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World, ed. by P. J. Parsons. 2nd ed. London. Vollgraff, W. 1951. “Inhumation en terre sacrée dans l’antiquité grecque (à propos d’une inscription d’Argos).” Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et des Belles Lettres 14: 315–96. Welcker, F. G. 1845. “Spicilegium Epigrammatum Graecorum.” Rheinisches Museum n.F. 3: 234–75. Wilhelm, A. 1909. Beiträge zur griechischen Inschriftkunde. Wien. Wilhelm, A. 1938. “Das Epithalamion in Lukianos’ Συμπόσιον ἢ Λαπίθαι.” Wiener Studien 56: 54–89.

chapter 5

Erasures in Greek Public Documents P. J. Rhodes The Greeks did not consider the needs of historians of our time, and if a document was considered obsolete for any reason their instinct was to destroy it.1 The Athenaion Politeia writes of contracts with and payments to the Athenian state: When there is a payment of money, [the demosios] hands over these same tablets to the apodektai, taking from the epistylia the records of the monies which are to be paid and wiped out [exaleiphein, appropriate for texts in charcoal on whitened boards] on this day; the others are stored separately so that they shall not be wiped out prematurely…. [The apodektai] take over the tablets, and delete the monies paid in the presence of the council in the council-house, and give the tablets back to the demosios; and if anybody misses a payment he is entered there (Ath. Pol. 47.5–48.1). Similarly each year men who have previously been registered as cavalrymen but who now declare on oath that they are physically unable to continue serving are “wiped out” from the register (Ath. Pol. 49.2). There were also individual occasions when records needed to be deleted. The first of the Athenian financial decrees of (I believe) 434/3 orders in connection with the payment of what is due to the Other Gods: The prytaneis together with the council shall repay the monies, and shall wipe out [the records] when they have repaid them, seeking out the tablets and the notes and anything that may be written anywhere else. The 1  All ancient dates are BCE. My thanks to the organisers / editors for inviting me to participate, to the British Epigraphic Society for inviting me to address its autumn 2012 meeting, to Tel Aviv University for appointing me Sackler Lecturer in April 2013, and to those who have discussed this subject with me on the various occasions; also to the Epigraphical Museum of Athens and to Mrs. E. Zavvou for the photographs, which are printed by courtesy of the Museum, and to Dr. A. P. Matthaiou for helping me to obtain the photographs. The first part of this paper is based on my brief treatment in Rhodes 2001: 136–39; cf. passages in Sickinger 1999, indexed under “documents: erasure of”. Culasso Gastaldi 2003, translated 2014, concentrates on occasions when in Athens a stele was defaced or destroyed after a change of policy or régime, and sometimes reinscribed when a second change reversed the first. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_007

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priests and the hieropoioi and anybody else who knows shall reveal what is written (ML 58 = IG I3 52 = OR 144.A.9–13). In 405/4, at the end of the Peloponnesian War, the Athenians voted to reinstate various categories of atimoi, and Andocides states that in order to do this they decided “to wipe out all the decrees, both themselves and any copy which there might be anywhere” (Andoc. 1. Myst. 76; cf. decree of Patroclides ap. 77–79). There was at least a theoretical possibility that such action might be taken not officially on the orders of the state but privately to suit the purposes of some individual, though there is no reliable evidence that that ever actually happened. Aristophanes suggests that one could obliterate the notice of an impending lawsuit by using a lens to focus the light of the sun on a waxcovered tablet (the usual word for cancelling such a notice was diagraphein, “cross through”: that could be done to a wax tablet, and Aristophanes uses that verb at the end of this passage).2 Athenaeus repeats from the fourth-to-thirdcentury writer Chamaeleon a story that Alcibiades did go to the Metroum and “wipe out” a notice of a lawsuit (Ath. 9.407b–c – but the Metroum as a recordhouse did not yet exist in the time of Alcibiades, and neither did the technitai of Dionysus, who are said to have asked for Alcibiades’ help). The orator Lycurgus conjures up the possibility that a man might go into the Metroum, wipe out a law, and claim that the loss of one law would not matter to the city (Lycurg. Leoc. 66). Inscribed texts of laws and decrees were not the original texts, but were based on papyrus originals, which were kept in the archives at least for a time (the inscription of dossiers of decrees, including decrees which had not been inscribed when they were enacted,3 shows that at any rate when a decree was not inscribed the papyrus text was not destroyed immediately). Nevertheless, when there was an inscribed text in a public place, there was a tendency to regard that as the official text, and that is the text which would be destroyed or modified if the occasion arose (if the original was searched out and destroyed or modified also, no text mentions that). When Sparta called on the Athenians in the 430’s to annul their decree against the Megarians, Thucydides says that they demanded that it should be demolished (kathairein, the verb normally used of demolishing stelae); in Plutarch’s version of the story the text is not on a stele but on a pinakion, but the demand is still that it should be demolished, Pericles says that there is a law forbidding that, and one of the Spartan envoys says, “Don’t demolish it, but turn it to face the wall; there is no law which forbids 2  Ar. Nub. 766–74; diagraphein 774, and see Harrison 1971: 104–5 with 105 n. 1. 3  E.g. ML 65 = IG I3 61 = OR 150; IG II2 360 = II3 367 = RO 95.

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that.”4 And (to take an example not of a deletion but of an addition) in 419/8, after the Argives complained that the Athenians had not prevented a Spartan force from reaching Epidaurus by sea, Alcibiades persuaded the Athenians to add a note “to the Spartan stele” (that is, the stele on which the Peace of Nicias was inscribed) that the Spartans were (in various respects) in breach of their oaths (Thuc. 5.56.1–3, cf. the complaints in 46.2). The prospectus of the Second Athenian League offers: For whichever of the cities which make the alliance with Athens there happen to be unfavourable stelae at Athens, the council currently in office shall have power to demolish them (IG II2 43.A.31–35 = RO 22.31–35); and the law about approvers of silver coinage, in 375/4, ends: “If there is any decree written on a stele contrary to this law, the secretary of the council shall demolish it” (SEG 26.72 = RO 25.55–56). Demosthenes stated that those who wanted Athens to support Megalopolis in 353/2 said that Megalopolis ought to demolish its stelae for Thebes (Dem. 16. Megalopolitans 27); and in 340/39, when the Athenians declared war on Philip of Macedon, they voted to demolish the stele about the peace and alliance which they had made in 346 (Philoch. FGrH 328F55). However, the verb exaleiphein points to a whitewashed board when we read in Alcibiades’ decree of 407 for the ratification of the settlement which he had made with Selymbria on the Propontis in the previous year, “the names of the Selymbrian hostages shall be wiped out tomorrow by the secretary of the council wherever they have been written up, in the presence of the prytaneis” (ML 87 = IG I3 118 = OR 185.38–42); and when in Athens’ decree of 405 for the Samians the Athenian triremes at Samos are to be given to the Samians, and “if for any of [the trierarchs] anything is written up anywhere in the public realm from when they took over the triremes, all of this everywhere shall be wiped out” (ML 94 = IG I3 127 = OR 191.25–30). In the peace before Leuctra in 371, when the Thebans originally swore as Thebans but afterwards asked the record to be changed to “Boeotians”, Agesilaus said that he would not change the record, but if they did not want to be included in the treaty he would wipe them out (Xen. Hell. 6.3.19). Often demolition or erasure results from a change in the political climate, as a result of which decisions taken earlier are now disapproved of, and men formerly in favour are now out of favour. We read in Ath. Pol. that in 404/3 the Thirty at Athens “demolished from the Areopagus the laws of Ephialtes and 4  Thuc. 1.139.1, 140.3; Plut. Per. 30.1, cf. Ar. Ach. 536–37.

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Archestratus about the Areopagites” – and the text continues, “and the ordinances of Solon which were open to dispute” (Ath. Pol. 35.2), but the Thirty can hardly have destroyed whole axones, and we do not know what physical form their modification of Solon’s laws took. They also demolished a number of stelae recording honors awarded by the democracy. We know about this because several of these decrees were reinscribed after the restoration of the democracy. One instance is the decree of 405 for the Samians which I mentioned above: the text survives as the first of three decrees in a dossier; the stele has a heading naming as secretary the man who was secretary when the last of the three decrees was enacted, the second decree specifies that “everything shall be valid which the people of Athens decreed previously for the people of Samos”, and the third reiterates that and orders publication, stating that “what the people of Athens decreed previously for the people of Samos shall be valid, and the secretary shall write up the decree on a stone stele.”5 We do not know whether, when these decrees were reinscribed, there was still a text in the archives which was found and used (as I remarked above, no text states that archival originals as well as stelae were destroyed), or the text had to be obtained from a copy which had been supplied to the beneficiaries. During the 360’s Athens was allied with the tyrants of Pherae in Thessaly, while Boeotia was allied with the koinon of Thessalians opposed to Pherae; but in 364 Alexander of Pherae had his power cut down and was made a subordinate ally of Boeotia, and after that he turned to naval activity against Athens, eventually raiding the Piraeus (Diod. Sic. 15.71.3–4, 80.6, 95.1–3). In 361/0 Athens indignantly broke off its alliance with Alexander, and made an alliance with the koinon, in a decree which includes the clause, “The stele for Alexander concerning the alliance shall be demolished by the treasurers of the goddess [Athena]”.6 The alliance with the koinon was made for all time, but in the Sacred War of 356–346 Athens and Pherae were once more on the same side while the Boeotians and the Thessalian koinon were on the other side: this alliance in turn must have been abrogated; the stele was found, unbroken but in poor condition, on the south slope of the acropolis. Similarly the newlyread fragment of Hyperides’ speech Against Diondas tells us that in 339, when

5  Heading, ML 94 = IG I3 127 = OR 191.1–2; secretary in third decree, IG II2 1 = RO 2.56–57; second decree revalidates, 43–44 (cf. amendment, 52–54: the decree has been modified in the light of the amendment, but the amendment is still published); third decree reiterates and orders publication, 66–68. (IG II2 1 gives the text of all three decrees.) Other instances of republication include IG II2 6, 52, both specifically referring to demolition by the Thirty, and probably ML 70 = IG I3 227 = OR 157, SEG 41.9, where only the end of the later decree survives. 6  I G II2 116 = RO 44; demolition, 39–40.

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Thebes broke with Philip of Macedon and joined Athens, it demolished the stele with Philip which it had set up.7 In the 360’s, again, Athens had trouble with the cities of Ceos, and one decree in a dossier tells us that in Iulis men who had been condemned to death, presumably in their absence, returned to Ceos and threw out (ekballein) the stelae on which were written the agreement with Athens and the names of those who had contravened the oaths and the agreement (IG II2 111 = RO 39.30–33). In 356 the Phocian Leader Philomelus, rejecting the sentences passed on the Phocians by the Delphic Amphictyony, cut out from the stelae the reports of the Amphictyons and annulled the writings about the condemnations (Diod. Sic. 16.24.4).8 Later at Delphi Aristotle and his nephew Callisthenes were honored, probably by the Amphictyony, for compiling their record of Pythian victors; but in the aftermath of the death of Alexander the Great their honors were rescinded, and the fragment which survives from the inscription was found in a well.9 In the Hellenistic period, Philip V of Macedon in 217 advised Larisa, after its population had been reduced by warfare, to grant citizenship to all resident Thessalians and other Greeks, and promised to nominate others himself; but that evidently met with resistance, since in 215 he complained that those who had been enrolled and inscribed on the stelae had been “chiselled out” (ekkolaptein): this time Larisa obeyed, and it inscribed the complete dossier (IG IX.2 517 = Syll.3 543). There are also interesting occasions when a monument is left standing but part of the text is erased. For instance, Athens under the influence of the Antigonids created two additional tribes in 307/6, named after Antigonus Monophthalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes; but in 229 it detached itself from the Antigonids and accepted the protection of the Ptolemies, in 224/3 it created another tribe, Ptolemaïs, and in 200 it declared war on the Antigonids, abolished the tribes Antigonis and Demetrias, and also decided in a comprehensive damnatio memoriae to destroy all monuments to the Antigonids and to erase all references to them in inscribed decrees (Livy 31.34.2–9). There is 7  Carey et al. 2008: 5 = Netz et al. 2011: vol. 2, 293 (p. 2 of the fragment), ll. 8–9. 8  ἐξέκοψε MSS: ἐξεκόλαψε Wesseling. 9  F D 3.1 400 = RO 80 = Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes 4 10; cf. Ael. VH 14.1.

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plentiful evidence that the decision was acted on, for instance in decrees reporting that the prytaneis had made sacrifices for the health and safety not only of the people of Athens but also of the Antigonid royal house, and there are extensive erasures in the decree enacted in the period of Antigonid control in the 250’s to honor Phaedrus of Sphettus; but the erasers did not succeed in finding every inscription containing such references.10 In the remainder of this chapter I look at a number of individual erasures, from the fifth and fourth centuries, which are interesting in different ways. One well-known instance is the Serpent Column set up at Delphi by Sparta after the Persian Wars. Thucydides tells us that originally it bore an epigram in which the Spartan regent Pausanias claimed that he as leader of the Greeks had destroyed the host of the Medes, but the Spartans chiselled that out and replaced it with a list of the cities which had taken part in fighting against the Persians (Thuc. 1.132.2–3). What remains of the monument is standing in the Hippodrome in Istanbul: the list is inscribed on the coils of the serpents, but on what survives there is no trace of the deleted epigram: it was presumably on some other part of the whole monument (Syll.3 31 = ML 27).11 The monument is problematic in other ways too. If we follow the manuscripts of Thucydides, he may be saying that the change was made only when Pausanias for the second time returned from the north-east to face accusations in Sparta; but editors have regularly replaced the manuscripts’ τοῦτο with τότ’, and the implication that the change was made immediately after the monument was set up, and that is more probably right.12 And the content of the list was controversial: two of the names inscribed are later additions to the original list; the original list includes the Eleans, who arrived too late to fight at Plataea, but not the Mantineans, who also arrived too late for Plataea; it omits four other states mentioned by Herodotus as fighting on the Greek side; but the report by the

10  On the implementation see Byrne 2010: e.g. prytany decrees, thorough deletion Agora xv 89, 111, 115; less thorough deletion 110; no deletion 119. Shear forthcoming discusses the decree for Phaedrus of Sphettus (IG II2 682 = II3 985: photographs Marincola, LlewellynJones and Maciver 2012: 299 fig. 15.3; II3.1.4 tabb. lix – lxi). I. Östenberg (324–47) discusses damnatio memoriae in Rome.  The practice of damnatio memoriae continues: in Rhodes 2001: 148 n. 17 I noted that in Hvar in Croatia, in 1999, I bought a local guide book printed in the 1980’s, in which all references to Yugoslavia and to socialism had been neatly painted out. 11  Drawing of part, Jeffery 1961: pl. 13 no. 15. 12   τοῦτο MSS, defended by Fornara 1967: 291–94; τότ’ Struve; ⟨τότε⟩ τοῦτ’ Gomme 1945: 434 ad loc., with the same chronological implication as Struve; and against Fornara see Trevett 1990: 409–11.

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traveler Pausanias of the list on the monument at Olympia omits four of the states listed on the Serpent Column, including one of the two later additions.13 Another altered Delphic dedication comes from the Deinomenid tyrants of Syracuse in the early fifth century, the text which accompanied the wellknown bronze statue of a charioteer. It consisted of two hexameters; the righthand side survives but the left-hand side does not; and the original text of the first line has been erased and replaced with a new text.14 What survives of the original text identifies the dedicator as “lord of Gela” (unusually, since in their other dedications the Deinomenids did not give themselves any such title), while what survives of the revised text identifies the dedicator as Polyzalus, the younger brother of Gelon and Hieron who came into conflict with Hieron. Earlier editors assumed that the original version named Polyzalus too, showing an arrogance which his brothers did not show, and that the purpose of the change was simply to remove his claim to be lord of Gela; more recently that has been doubted, and (for instance) H. Maehler has suggested that the lord of Gela whose victory was celebrated was Hieron, but subsequently he allowed his victory to be credited to Polyzalus (who at the time of the change was not in conflict with him and may not have been ruling Gela).15 We remain uncertain, in the absence of the left-hand part of the base, but if we knew the answer it would help us to a better understanding of the history of the Deinomenids. Making the changes to these monuments will have been a delicate matter: Sparta and the Deinomenids presumably both needed the approval of the authorities at Delphi.16

13  31 names on Serpent Column, cf. 31 cities took part in the war, Plut. Them. 20.3; later additions Tenos and Siphnos; Eleans and Mantineans too late for Plataea, Hdt. 9.77; also named by Herodotus Croton, Pale, Seriphus, Opuntian Locris (cf. ML); omitted by Paus. 5.23.1–2 Thespiae, Eretria, Leucas, Siphnos. 14   F D 3.4 452 cf. 4.5 pp. 26–31 = CEG 397. Adornato 2008 dissociates the statue and the base. Drawing Jeffery 1961: pl. 51 no. 9. 15  For recent discussions see SEG 40.427, 45.495, 52.533 – the last based on Maehler 2002, who suggests for the original text: [νικάσας hιέρον μ’ ho Γ]έλας ἀνέθεκεν ἀνάσσ[ον] [hυιὸς Δεινομένευς τ]ὸν ἄεξ’ εὐόνυμ’ Ἀπόλλ[ον]. “Victorious Hieron, the lord of Gela dedicated me, | the son of Deinomenes, whom glorious Apollo exalted.” and for the replacement: [νικάσας hίπποισι Π]ολύζαλος μ’ ἀνέθεκ[εν] … “Victorious with horses, Polyzalus dedicated me …” There is another discussion in Morgan 2015: 75–80. 16  For the Serpent Column, indeed, [Dem.] 59. Neaera 96–98, cf. Plut. De Her. Mal. 873c, claims that the deletion resulted from the Plataeans’ prosecuting Sparta before the

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Another erasure at Delphi corrects an error. In the family monument of Daochus at Delphi, set up in the 330’s, Hagias was originally credited with five victories in the pankration at the Nemean festival, “the same number of Pythian [festivals]” and five at the Isthmus: that has been left uncorrected in a monument at Pharsalus, but at Delphi “the same number” has been corrected to “three.” S. G. Miller suggests that the correction may be due to the work of Aristotle and Callisthenes on Pythian victors.17 There is a pair of Athenian alliances made for all time in the second half of the fifth century, with Rhegium on the toe of Italy and with Leontini in Sicily. In each case the original prescript has been erased and a new prescript, somewhat longer than the original, inscribed in its place.18 For Leontini, the better preserved of the two, see figure 1. The new prescripts name the archon of 433/2, and the other officials named indicate certainly the same prytany for both decrees, very probably the same day, and certainly the same proposer. The original texts are the work of two different cutters, Leontini more old-fashioned than Rhegium (though not so much so that they could not have been working at the same time); the two new prescripts may be the work of the same cutter. The mainstream interpretation is that the alliances were originally made earlier than 433/2 and (although as perpetual alliances they did not formally require renewal) they were reaffirmed in 433/2, after Athens had committed itself to Corcyra in expectation of a war in which the west would be relevant;19 Callias, the proposer, will be the proposer of the reaffirmation.20 However, if that date is right, the invocation theoi at the beginning of each will be the earliest dated instances of that phenomenon, and the inclusion of the archon’s Delphic Amphictyony. If this were right it would further weaken Fornara’s argument for deletion only after Pausanias’ second return to Sparta (cf. above). 17  The monument of Daochus at Delphi (FD 3.4 460 = CEG 795: photographs FD 3.4.4, pl. 21.D; Miller 1978: pl. 1.2–3) is discussed by J. Day (pp. 75–81). In 2. 3 it originally had πεντάκις ἐν Νεμέοις, τόσα Πύθια, πεντάκις Ἰσθμοῖ “five times at the Nemean [festival], the same number of Pythian [festivals], five times at the Isthmus” and that has been left uncorrected at Pharsalus in IG IX.2 249.6 = CEG 794.7, but at Delphi it has been corrected to … ἐν Νεμέαι, τρὶς Πύθια, … “… at Nemea, three Pythian [victories], …” See Miller 1978: 140–41. 18   M L 63–4 = IG I3 53–54 = OR 149. Photograph of 63 = 53 = 149.A (Rhegium) Austin 1938: pl. 6. 19  Expectation of a war, Thuc. 1.44.2 cf. 33.3, 42.2; the west, 44.3 cf. 36.2. 20  Lewis 1961: 118 n. 8, contr. ATL vol. 3. 276–77 and IG. But the original proposer of the Rhegium alliance did have a name ending -as (letters which survive at the beginning of the undeleted text).

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name in each will be the earliest dated instances of that in decree prescripts.21 For this reason H. B. Mattingly and others have argued that 433/2 is the date of the original alliances and the revised prescripts were inscribed for some reason somewhat later.22 But here I am sure that what I have called the mainstream view is right. The differences in formulation between the two alliances are greater than we should expect if both were proposed at the same meeting of the assembly by the same man; and I find it easier to think that reaffirmation was considered politically desirable in 433/2, even though it was not formally necessary, than that at some later date it was judged necessary to equip both decrees with prescripts longer than they had originally been given but containing details belonging to the original enactments. As for Theoi and the archon, it is to be hoped that excessive rigidity over three-bar sigma and other letter forms will not be replaced by excessive rigidity over other formal matters, and I do not think we can maintain that what is attested in the mid 420’s would be impossible in 433/2. We find a different approach to reaffirmation in the Athenian decree for Egesta, whose old-fashioned sigmas (three bars rather than four) and dating to an archon whose name ended (as far too many names end) -on have led to more than half a century of argument (ML 37 = IG I3 11). It now seems established that the name is Antiphon, the archon of 418/7 (though I have not myself succeeded in reading more than the last two letters), and the best explanation is that of A. P. Matthaiou, that in Thuc. 6.6.2 τὴν γενομένην ἐπὶ Λάχητος καὶ τοῦ προτέρου πολέμου Λεοντίνων … ξυμμαχίαν means “the alliance made in the time of Laches and the previous war over Leontini” (even though Dover said it could not), and that what happened in 418/7 but was not mentioned under that year by Thucydides was not the making of a new alliance but – slightly less damaging to Thucydides’ reputation – the reaffirmation of an alliance made in the 420’s.23 On the two faces of the same stele are two Athenian decrees for the temple and priestess of Athena Nike: the second is almost certainly of 424/3, and discussion has focused mostly on whether the first is significantly earlier or only 21   Theoi appears also in IG I3 50, perhaps of the mid 430’s, and there is a probable instance in ML 69 = IG I3 71 = OR 153, of 425/4; the archon’s name is credibly restored in the prescript of IG I3 21, of 426/5 (date e.g. Rhodes 2008: 503; contr. 450/49 IG). 22  H. B. Mattingly, first in his 1963: 272 with n. 73 = his 1996: 105 with n. 73: he doubts formal reaffirmation and does not know why or exactly when the new prescripts were inscribed. Other champions of this view were Smart 1972: 144–46; Ruschenbusch 1975; a reply by Lewis 1976. 23  See Matthaiou 2004; 2011: 57–70; contr. Dover 1954–5: 4–5. For another recent explanation see Bolmarcich 2015.

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ML 64 = IG I3 54 = OR 149.B

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slightly earlier. But the second is interesting in another respect: see figure 2. The stele is incomplete, but the full text was probably not very long. Nevertheless, one hand inscribed the first five lines and the beginning of the sixth; then in mid-sentence, after an erasure in one letter space (line 6 stoichos 4), a different hand (using eta and omega as the first did not) continues:24 Καλλίας εἶπε· τε͂ι hιερέαι τε͂ς Ἀθενάας τε͂ς Νίκες ⟦.⟧ πεντήκοντα δραχμὰς τὰς γεγραμμένας ἐν τῆι στήλ[ηι] ἀποδιδόναι τὸς κωλακρ[έτας] … Callias proposed: To the priestess of Athena Nike ⟦.⟧ the fifty drachmae written on the stele [in the first decree] shall be paid by the kolakretai … Apart from the sudden illness of the first cutter, it is hard to think why the change at this point might have occurred,25 but what are we to make of the erasure? Tod thought that at first alpha was carved (the first letter of apodidonai, which appears later in the second cutter’s text), then pi (the first letter of pentekonta, which follows immediately after the erasure in the second cutter’s text); Meiggs and Lewis suggested not alpha replaced by pi but the acrophonic symbol for fifty drachmae (a pi with inside it a small delta which looks like the upper part of an alpha); but that is certainly wrong (alpha is supported by Meritt & McGregor in IG I3, by Dr. A. P. Matthaiou, who has looked at the stone for me, and by photographs).26 In any case, it looks as if the first cutter carved something in that space before stopping, and then the second cutter on taking over deleted whatever was in that space and continued the text with the word pentekonta. There is a stele containing two Athenian decrees of the late fifth century for Neapolis, on the Thracian mainland opposite Thasos, which supported Athens while it was fighting against Thasos between 411 and 407.27 In this case the decrees were not inscribed together as a dossier, but the first was inscribed when it was enacted, in 410/09, a payment to an Athenian general was added after that, and then after Athens had recovered Thasos the second decree was enacted 24  Tod 40, 73 = ML 44, 71 = IG I3 35, 36 = OR 137, 156. I quote ll. 4–8 of the second decree. 25  Cf. Matthaiou 2009: 202–3. 26  The acrophonic symbol for fifty drachmae is 𐅄; but the lower part of the left hasta of alpha (or delta) can be seen in figure 2. 27   M L 89 = IG I3 101 = OR 187. Photograph Meritt and Andrewes 1951: pl. 23.

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figure 2

ML 71 = IG I3 36 = OR 156

and inscribed on the same stele. The first decree originally stated that Neapolis was a colony of the Thasians and refused to defect from the Athenians when it was besieged by them and the Peloponnesians. However, the Neapolitans were so alienated from their mother city that they did not want to be reminded of their origin, and the second decree includes a clause stating: In the previous decree the secretary of the council shall make a correction: instead of “the colony of Thasos” shall be written that they joined with the Athenians in fighting the war to the end. The correction required was duly made, with the old text erased and the new substituted; and (perceptively and perhaps surprisingly) it was realised that, with the Thasians removed from there, in the following line ὑπ’ αὐτῶν, besieged “by them”, would no longer make sense, and that was changed to ὑπὸ Θασίων, “by the Thasians”.28 28  Lines 7–8 with 58–59. In the editions cited the replacement texts in 7–8 can be found only in the apparatus criticus. Correctors were not always so careful: in IG II3 1238.16–17 (of c. 200) we find an invitation

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In another instance a correction was made in time, before the text was inscribed (ML 90 = IG I3 110 = OR 184). An Athenian decree of 408/7 was originally intended to honor Oeniades “of Sciathus”; but, apparently at the meeting of the assembly which passed that decree, a friend of Oeniades carried an amendment: What is written in the proposal should be changed, so that instead of “of Sciathus” there shall be written “Oeniades of Palaesciathus”. The inscribed text duly honors “Oeniades of Palaesciathus” (ll. 7–8); but the amendment is still inscribed at the end, to reveal that a change has been made (ll. 26–31). So in both these cases the Athenian practice of making a correction but including in the published text the instruction to make the correction has the effect of drawing attention to the unwanted text which was superseded. Another Athenian honorific decree with erasures is for Sthorys of Thasos, in 394/3.29 The stele contains two decrees, at the top one of the council, and below it after a blank space one presumably of the assembly, which made Sthorys an Athenian citizen; and the decree of the council refers to that grant, and so it is not the probouleuma which preceded the decree of the assembly but a subsequent decree clarifying a point which the assembly’s decree had left unclear. The assembly provided for the inscription of its decree “at Sthorys’ expense on a stele where his previous decrees were inscribed”, but the previous decrees were inscribed in two places, on the acropolis and in the sanctuary of Pythian Apollo, and the council’s decree specified that the citizenship grant was to be inscribed in both places.30 The assembly’s decree ended with an invitation to Sthorys to dinner in the prytaneion (ll. 39–40), and the council’s decree ends with another invitation (ll. 11–12).31 And in the council’s invitation something went wrong. The cutter was a careless man, who in the prescript of the council’s decree failed to identify the year (as by this time was standard), and who therefore added a postscript which included that information ἐπὶ] δεῖπνον εἰς πρυτανεῖον ἐπὶ ξέν[ια εἰς] αὔριο[ν “to dinner at the prytaneion to hospitality for tomorrow” where first the erroneous “to dinner”, appropriate to citizens, was inscribed, then after “to the prytaneion” the correct “to hospitality”, appropriate to non-citizens, was inscribed, but “to dinner” was not deleted. 29   I G II2 17 = Osborne 1981–3: D8 (I use Osborne’s line numbering). See Osborne’s commentary, and more detailed discussion in Osborne 1970. Photograph Osborne 1970: pl. 42. 30  Assembly’s publication clause 33–36 (but anybody who invalidates the decree is to pay fines both to Athena and to Apollo: 36–38) contr. council provides for two stelae, 9–11. 31  On deipnon, “dinner”, for citizens and xenia, “hospitality”, for non-citizens see Rhodes 1984.

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immediately below the council’s decree (ll. 1–3, 13–15). The council’s invitation as preserved reads: καλέσαι δὲ Σθόρυ[ν ⟦καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον⟧ ] [εἰς α]ὔριον ⟦ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖο[ν].⟧ vacat Invite Sthorys also to dinner tomorrow at the prytaneion. The words ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖο[ν have certainly been inscribed in an erasure, and the explanation seems to be that the words καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον not now preserved at the end of the previous line were inscribed in an erasure too, and that the cutter was trying to correct an error. The normal word order in this formula is the order used in the assembly’s decree, at the bottom of the stele: καλέσαι δὲ αὐτὸν ἐπὶ δεῖπνον εἰς τὸ πρυτανεῖον εἰς αὔριον, “Invite him to dinner at the prytaneion tomorrow.” Osborne suggests that in the council’s decree the cutter originally went straight from Sthorys’ name to ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖον εἰς αὔριον; next realised that he had omitted καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον and added that at the end; and then made the word order more nearly regular by leaving εἰς αὔριον where it was, but changing ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖον before it to καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον and changing καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον after it to ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖον. So the text originally inscribed will have been: καλέσαι δὲ Σθόρυν ἐς τὸ πρυτανεῖον εἰς αὔριον καὶ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον. vacat Invite Sthorys to the prytaneion tomorrow also to dinner. One text which I mentioned above, for its reference to the wiping out of hostages’ names, was Alcibiades’ settlement with Selymbria in 408 and his decree for its ratification in 407. That decree itself contains an eighteen-letter erasure in the middle of the sentence about the publication of the text (ML 87 = IG I3 118 = OR 185. 35).32 The text which survives appears to say that the generals are to have it published at their own expense, which would be unparalleled and unlikely; if as A. Wilhelm suggested the missing words are καὶ το͂ν Σελυμβριανο͂ν, it may be that originally the Selymbrians were intended to pay and that intention was afterwards reversed.33 32  Photograph Walbank 1978: pl. 59. 33  Lines 33–36 read: κ̣ α̣ὶ καταθε͂ν̣ αι ἐν̣ [πόλ]ει ἀναγράφσαντας τὸστ-

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There are several erasures in a set of sacred regulations from Oropus, during its period of independence between 386 and c. 374 (IG VII 235 = RO 27.6, 22, 24–25, 37–38, 30).34 The first simply deletes a letter carved in error (but fails to inscribe the correct letter in its place); the next seems to have replaced a fee of 1 drachma with a fee of 9 obols (1½ drachmae); in two cases we cannot make out what has been deleted; and the last two words have been deleted of a clause stating that the skin of every animal sacrificed is “to be sacred” (ἱερ[ὸν εἶναι]). In Athens in the 330’s, when Oropus belonged to Athens, skins were sold, and it may be that these regulations remained in force for some time and were altered to match changes in practice. Another text which I mentioned above, the prospectus of the Second Athenian League, contains two erasures, one of two part lines and two full lines on the main face, and one of a single line on the left-hand side (IG II2 43.A.12–15, B.15 = RO 22.12–15, 111). The large erasure, for which see figure 3, comes at the end of the statement of the decree’s purpose which precedes the motion formula. The first, undeleted, part of the statement is anti-Spartan: So that the Spartans shall allow the Greeks to be free and autonomous, and to live at peace occupying their own territory in security … (ll. 9–12) The second part was erased but not very thoroughly, so that its pro-Persian text can more or less be made out: … and so that the peace and friendship sworn by the Greeks and the King may be in force and endure in accordance with the agreements (ll. 12–15).35 When the League was founded, in 378, the Athenians had come to accept the King’s Peace of 386, and their claim was that the Spartans were abusing the Peace and that the League would uphold the Peace against Spartan abuses. [ρ]ατε⟨γ⟩ὸς [τ]ὰ�̣ς συνθέ[κ]α̣ς μετὰ το͂ γραμματέος τ [ε͂ς̣ ] βολε͂ς̣ ⟦———18———⟧ ἐν στέλει λιθί [ν]ει τέλεσι τοῖς αὐτο͂ν̣ κ̣ αὶ τὸ φεσέφισμα τόδε. “and the generals shall write up the agreement and place it on the acropolis together with the secretary of the council ⟦words deleted⟧, on a stone stele at their own expense, and this decree.”  καὶ το͂ν Σελυμβριανο͂ν (“and the Selymbrians”) A. Wilhelm (not realising that there is an erasure), καὶ τὸ φσέφισμα τόδε (“and this decree” – carelessly inscribed twice so deleted once) B. D. Meritt. 34  Photographs Petropoulou 1981: pls. 2–4. 35  On the erased text see particularly Accame 1941: 49–51; Crowther 1996.

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IG II2 43 = RO 22: erasure on main face

Already before the battle of Leuctra in 371 they were beginning to feel that Thebes was a greater threat than Sparta to Athens; at that battle Sparta was so effectively defeated by Thebes that it could no longer pose a serious threat, and in 369 Athens and Sparta became allies (Xen. Hell. 7.1.1–14, Diod. Sic. 15.67.1). In 369/8 Athens was still supporting the King’s Peace (IG II2 107 = RO 31.40 sqq.,36 103 = 33.23–26.), and it was only in 367, when Thebes after disposing of Sparta won Persian support for a revised treaty which would be aimed against Athens, that Athens turned against Persia and the Peace (Xen. Hell. 7.1.33–40). 367 is by far the most likely time for the Athenians to delete the pro-Persian clause from the League’s prospectus – but they ought at the same time if not earlier to have deleted the anti-Spartan clause which went before it. Presumably the Theban deal with Persia led to an outburst of anger, and somebody remembered that there was a pro-Persian clause in the prospectus which ought to be deleted, but it simply did not occur to anybody that since Sparta was now an ally the antiSpartan clause ought to be deleted too. The other erasure has been thoroughly done: see figure 4. It is of one line in the list of states which joined the League, and at its right-hand end is a sharp vertical stroke. Since the names immediately above are of Alcetas and his son Neoptolemus, of the Molossi in Epirus, it has often been thought that the erased name is that of their ally Jason of Pherae in Thessaly, with the vertical seen as the right-hand stroke of the final nu. This has then been caught up in arguments about when this part of the list of names was inscribed (probably 375,37 though some have gone down to 373), when if at all Jason joined the League, and when and why the Athenians might have deleted his name. However, it was first remarked by A. G. Woodhead (and I have checked it myself) that the erasure is too long for the vertical at the end of it to be part of the 36  An exceptionally frustrating inscription, in which the justification of Athens’ anti-Spartan policy in the 370’s is preserved but the justification of its new policy after Leuctra is not. 37  Cawkwell 1963: 91 n. 61.

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figure 4

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IG II2 43 = RO 22: erasure on left-hand side

last letter of Jason’s name: if it is part of a letter, the name was longer; but it may be simply the edge of the erasure and not part of a letter at all.38 The literary evidence suggests that Jason was still not an ally of Athens in 374 (Xen. Hell. 6.1.10) but was an ally, whether technically a member of the League or not, in 373/2 ([Dem.] 49. Timotheus 10 cf. 22); it is best to admit that we do not know what the name was or when and why it was deleted. I might add that Thebes was listed by the first hand as one of the founder members of the League (l. [A.]79), and despite Athens’ breach with Thebes in the 360’s that was never deleted. In the latter part of the 370’s there was fighting between Athens and Sparta centered on Corcyra, and in 373 the general Timotheus found himself in trouble when he was urgently needed there but was still in the Aegean raising men and money. He was deposed from his generalship, put on trial, and whether

38  Woodhead 1957.

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or not he was convicted he departed into the service of the Persians in Egypt.39 Part of the Athenian navy list referring to 374/3 survives: six of the triremes in it were designated “captive (aichmalotos) trireme of those with the general Timotheus” – and in each case the word “general” has been deleted (IG II2 1606): presumably the list was inscribed at the beginning of 373/2, while he was still general, and the deletions were made after he was deposed. On the stele which includes a decree defending to Mytilene Athens’ change of policy in the 360’s, all but the first line of the more conventional decree which is first on the stone but later in time has been carved in a very large erasure (IG II2 107 = RO 31): here it seems that this decree was accidentally carved without the text and amendment which follow the publication clause; the other decree was carved below it; and then the first had to be erased and recarved in more crowded letters with that material included.40 A stele recording Athens’ alliance with Carystus in 357/6, when the cities of Euboea were brought back into the Second Athenian League, ends with a list of the Athenian generals who swore to it. There are eight names with their demotics: the first, deleted but still sufficiently legible, is [Χα]βρίας [Αἰ]ξω, Chabrias of Aexone; of the second, not deleted, only the first two letters survive, Χα (Tod 153 = IG II2 124 = RO 48.20). Two different explanations have been advanced: the first, generally accepted, is that the second name was Χά[ρης Ἀγγελη], Chares of Angele (who was certainly one of the ten generals that year41). We then have to explain why Chabrias was first inscribed but subsequently deleted: on a chronology for the Social War which some scholars believe in, he was intended to swear to the alliance but in the meantime was killed in the battle of Chios;42 or else he was deposed from his generalship after the Athenians had rejected his treaty with the Thracian Cersebleptes, and in spite of Diodorus was not a general when later he was killed at Chios.43 However, Chares, usually restored as the second general, was busy in 357/6, and it is hard to find a time when he could have been in Athens with the other seven generals named to swear to this treaty, so I prefer the alternative explanation of G. L. Cawkwell, that Chares was not named here but the second name was again Chabrias, inscribed twice in error and then deleted once.44 I date the battle of Chios to the following year, 356/5, when Chabrias need not have been a general. 39  See conveniently Hansen 1975: 91 no. 80 (convicted); acquitted though not reinstated, Tuplin 1984: 566–68. 40  Erasure and reinscription ll. 8–34, noted by B. T. Nolan in an unpublished thesis (considering ll. 24–30 to be a first amendment), cf. SEG 44.36 with 257. 41  Chares sent as general to Thrace after returning from Euboea, Dem. 23. Aristocrates 173. 42  Diod. Sic. 16.7.3–4: Beloch 1922: 238 n. 2. 43  Dem. 23. Aristocrates 171–73; Chabrias not general but trierarch, Nep. 12. Chabrias 4: Tod. 44  Cawkwell 1962: 34–40.

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In Athens’ dossier of the 320’s for Heraclides of Salamis in Cyprus there is a series of erasures: in one place two words, innocent but presumably not in the original text, have been deleted; in others new text has been inscribed in the erasures, sometimes upsetting the stoichedon order. Here it seems that the cutter made a series of errors, which were corrected after he had originally finished inscribing.45 Finally, another interesting fourth-century Athenian erasure has been discussed by S. D. Lambert. This is in a decree honoring priests and hieropoioi for the successful performance of their duties, where before the display of names and crowns at the bottom of the stele the decree proper ends with a clause providing for publication in the theatre of Dionysus, followed by an erasure of twelve characters; and the stele was indeed found near the theatre of Dionysus.46 One of the priests died in 322/1, and two of the hieropoioi served in the council in the 330’s, so we are looking for a date in the 330’s or 320’s; some of the cults and honorands mentioned had connections with the Piraeus; and Lambert observes that τ̣[ῶι or τ̣[οῦ ἐ]|μ [Πειραεῖ], the theatre of Dionysus “in Piraeus”, has the right number of letters to fill the erasure and fits the traces which survive on the stone. There is no other evidence for publication of decrees there, but statues were set up there and the assembly sometimes met there. It is striking that the sacrifices which these men had made were “for the health and safety of the council and people of the Athenians and the children and wives and the other possessions of the Athenians”; and Lambert suggests that the decree was enacted, and destined for the theatre at Piraeus, in the period of panic after Athens’ defeat in the battle of Chaeronea in 338/7, when Hyperides proposed that the Athenians should “deposit their sacred objects and children and wives at Piraeus”, for greater safety,47 and later when the panic subsided it was decided to set up the stele at the theatre in the city instead and the reference to Piraeus after the mention of the theatre was deleted. So erasures range from the correction of simple errors, via rewording to meet the wishes of honorands, and updating when Athens’ alliances with Rhegium 45   I G II2 360 = II3 367: τ̣[ο]υ̣ Ἀ̣ |θηναίων after τοῦ δήμου deleted ll. 42–43; corrections ll. 38, 42, 43–44, 57, 62–63, 65, 71 (photographs IG II3 1. 2, tabb. xxviii–xxix). 46   I G II2 410 = II3 416. 39–40 (photograph IG II3. 1. 2, tab. xli): καὶ [σ]τῆσαι ἐν τῶι θεάτρωι τοῦ Διονύσου ⟦I … μ—7—⟧ … “… and place it in the theatre of Dionysus ⟦12 letters⟧ …”  τ[̣ ῶι ἐ]|μ [Πειραεῖ] originally suggested, τ̣[οῦ IG II3. See Lambert 2003 = his 2012: 299–310; cf. his 2000: 52 = his 2012: 222–23. 47  [Plut.] X orat. 849a, cf. for the panic and Hyperides’ proposal Hyp. frs. 27–39 Jensen = Kenyon, Lycurg. Leoc. 39–42.

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and Leontini were reaffirmed or when Oropus adopted current Athenian religious practices, to changes of policy as when the Spartans removed Pausanias’ couplet from the Serpent Column or Athens fell out with the Persians and the King’s Peace. Bibliography Accame, S. 1941. La lega ateniese del sec. IV a.C. Rome. Adornato, G. 2008. “Delphic Enigmas? The Γέλας ἀνάσσων, Polyzalos and the Charioteer Statue.” American Journal of Archaeology ns 112: 29–55. Austin, R. P. 1938. The Stoichedon Style in Greek Inscriptions. Oxford. Beloch, K. J. 1922. Griechische Geschichte, 2nd ed., vol. 2. 2. Berlin and Leipzig. Bolmarcich, S. 2015. “Beyond the Three-Barred Sigma: IG I3 11.” In J. Bodel and N. Dimitrova, eds., Ancient Documents and their Contexts, 54–66. Leiden. Byrne, S. G. 2010. “The Athenian Damnatio Memoriae of the Antigonids in 200 BC.” In A. Tamis, C. J. Mackie, and S. G. Byrne, eds., Philathenaios: Studies in Honour of Michael J. Osborne, 157–77. Athens. Carey, C., et al. 2008. “Fragments of Hyperides’ Against Diondas from the Archimedes Palimpsest”, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 165: 1–19. Cawkwell, G. L. 1962. “Notes on the Social War.” Classica et Mediaevalia 23: 34–49. Cawkwell, G. L. 1963. “Notes on the Peace of 375/4.” Historia 12: 84–95. Crowther, C. V. 1996. “Epigraphy and the Second Athenian Confederacy.” Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents Newsletter 2: 4–5. Culasso Gastaldi, E. 2003. “Abbattere la stele: Riscrittura epigrafica e revisione storica ad Atene”, Cahiers du Centre Gustave-Glotz 14: 241–62. Culasso Gastaldi, E. 2014. translated by C. Dickman-Wilkes, “To Destroy the Stele: Epigraphic Reinscription and Historical Revision in Athens”, Attic Inscriptions Online Papers 2 (at http://www.atticinscriptions.com). Dover, K. J. 1954–5. “Problems in Thucydides 6 and 7.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society n.s. 3: 4–11. Fornara, C. W. “Two Notes on Thucydides.” Philolologus 111: 291–95. Gomme, A. W. 1945. A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 1. Oxford. Hansen, M. H. 1975, Eisangelia. Odense. Harrison, A. R. W. 1971. The Law of Athens, vol. 2. Oxford. Jeffery, L. H. 1961. The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece. Oxford. Lambert, S. D. 2000. “Ten Notes on Attic Inscriptions.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 135: 51–62. Lambert, S. D. 2003. “IG ii2 410: An Erasure Reconsidered.” In D. Jordan and J. S. Traill, eds., Lettered Attica, 59–67. Athens.

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Lambert, S. D. 2012. Inscribed Athenian Laws and Decrees, 352/1–322/1 BC. Leiden. Lewis, D. M. 1961. “Double Representation in the Strategia.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 81: 118–23. Lewis, D. M. 1976. “The Treaties with Leontini and Rhegion (Meiggs – Lewis 63–64).” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 21: 223–25. Maehler, H. 2002. “Bakchylides and the Polyzalos Inscription.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 139: 19–21. Marincola, J., Llewellyn-Jones, L. and Maciver, C. A., eds. 2012. Greek Notions of the Past in the Archaic and Classical Eras. Edinburgh. Matthaiou, A. P. 2004. “περὶ τῆς IG I3 11.” In A. P. Matthaiou with G. E. Malouchou, eds., Ἀττικαὶ ἐπιγραφαί· πρακτικὰ συμποσίου εἰς μνήμην Adolf Wilhelm, 99–122. Athens. Matthaiou, A. P. 2009. “Attic Public Inscriptions of the Fifth Century BC in Ionic Script.” In L. Mitchell and L. Rubinstein, eds., Greek History and Epigraphy: Essays in Honour of P. J. Rhodes, 201–12. Swansea. Matthaiou, A. P. 2011. τὰ ἐν τῆι στήληι γεγραμμένα. Athens. Mattingly, H. B. 1963. “The Growth of Athenian Imperialism.” Historia 12: 257–73. Mattingly, H. B. 1996. The Athenian Empire Restored. Ann Arbor. Meritt, B. D., and Andrewes, A. 1951. “Athens and Neapolis.” Annual of the British School at Athens 46: 200–9. Miller, S. G. 1978. “The Date of the First Pythiad.” California Studies in Classical Antiquity 11: 127–58. Morgan, K. A. 2015. Pindar and the Construction of Syracusan Monarchy in the Fifth Century BC. Oxford. Netz, R., et al. 2011. The Archimedes Palimpsest. Cambridge. Osborne, M. J. 1970. “Honours for Sthorys (IG ii² 17).” Annual of the British School at Athens 65: 151–74. Osborne, M. J. 1981–3. Naturalization in Athens. Brussels. Petropoulou, A. 1981. “The ‘Eparche’ Documents and the Early Oracle at Oropus.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 22: 39–63. Rhodes, P. J. 1984. “ξένια and δεῖπνον in the Prytaneum.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 57: 193–99. Rhodes, P. J. 2001. “Public Documents in the Greek States.” Greece and Rome ns 47: 33–44 + 136–53. Rhodes, P. J. 2008. “After the Three-Bar Sigma Controversy”, Classical Quarterly ns 58: 500–6. Ruschenbusch, E. 1975. “Die Verträge Athens mit Leontinoi und Rhegion vom Jahre 433/2 v. Chr.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 19: 225–32. Shear, J. L. forthcoming. “An Inconvenient Past in Hellenistic Athens: The Case of Phaidros of Sphettos.” In C. Constantakopoulou and M. Fragoulaki, eds., The Shaping of the Past: Greek Historiography and Epigraphic Memory (BICS Supp.).

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Sickinger, J. P. 1999. Public Records and Archives in Classical Athens. Chapel Hill. Smart, J. D. 1972. “Athens and Egesta.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 92: 128–46. Trevett, J. 1990. “History in [Demosthenes] 59.” Classical Quarterly ns 40: 407–20. Tuplin, C. J. 1984. “Timotheos and Corcyra: Problems in Greek History, 375–373 BC.” Athenaeum n.s. 62: 537–68. Walbank, M. B. 1978. Athenian Proxenies of the Fifth Century BC. Toronto and Sarasota. Woodhead, A. G. 1957. “IG ii2 43 and Jason of Pherae.” American Journal of Archaeology n.s. 61: 367–73.

section B Literary Spaces: The Materiality of Text in Greek and Roman Literature

∵

chapter 6

The Authority of Archaic Greek Epigram Donald E. Lavigne There goes the neighborhood.

Tombstone of Rodney Dangerfield

∵ Modern cemeteries no less than their ancient counterparts are lieux de mémoire, to borrow Nora’s term, suffused with text and image, places that are meant to represent a now lost reality as well as a present sense of the source of social identity.1 The spatiality of the cemetery interacts on the individual and collective levels, creating a modulation between the representation of the memory of a single deceased person and that of the entire community. In visiting a grave and performing the act of memorialization, one experiences the shade of a family member both as a representative of civic mores, but also, and nearly simultaneously, as representative of personal and familial character. The authority of such a visit, i.e. the guarantee of the lasting memorialization that a tomb and a cemetery represents, is reinforced by the rhetoric of place. This rhetoric reiterates certain verbal and visual motifs in an effort to meld the individual tomb into the overall social fabric of the memory of the past and often also allows for difference in order to single out the uniqueness of a given person. In fact, cemeteries can be oriented more toward one end of this spectrum than the other. For example, compare the effect of Arlington National Cemetery in the United States, with its fields of uniform, white crosses and marble slabs, with the variety and exuberance of Père Lachaise in Paris. In most cemeteries, the dialectic that obtains between one gravestone and all the rest creates a feedback loop that reinforces the authority of each individual tomb as well as that of the cemetery as a whole. To take a concrete example, the tombstone that furnishes the epigraph to this paper wittily employs a cliché to celebrate the famous comedian (who cultivated in his public life 1  The term is elaborated in the eponymous three-volume study coordinated by Nora 1997; for a convenient overview, see Nora 1989.

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an antagonistic, comic persona) through its interaction with the other gravestones in Westwood Village Park Cemetery in Los Angeles (the final resting place of many prominent Hollywood personalities). It singles out Dangerfield’s tomb from the others (many of which share the same format and stylistic traits as Dangerfield’s), suggesting that in death (and through this stone) the comedian’s persona continues to have the particular efficacy it possessed in life. The efficacy of his monumentalized persona is realized in contrast to, and thus in competition with, the other tombs in the cemetery. However, as part of the “neighborhood”, it also signals the cooperative nature of memorialization the site of the cemetery entails. Dangerfield’s funeral monument effects its own memorializing goals even as it contributes to the memorializing goals of the cemetery as a whole. In this paper, I argue that Archaic Greek epigrammatic monuments work along similar lines and with similar goals. In both the ancient and modern contexts, the aim is to produce authentic memories of the past, which in Greek can be expressed succinctly as kleos.2 In the context of Archaic Greece, the memorializing goal of kleos is intimately connected with Archaic poetics in general and, in particular, with Homeric epic, the premier performed poetry of the period.3 Since the epigrammatic monuments of this period are concerned with kleos, it is essential to understand the way in which these two related, yet distinct, modes of memorialization interact.4 In order to do so, I offer an account of Archaic epigrammatic practice by situating it within the performance context of Archaic poetry more generally, paying close attention to both the similarities and contrasts that obtain. Taking this decidedly synchronic tack, I hope to present a clearer picture of the poetics of Archaic epigram and, perhaps, to shed a bit more light on Archaic poetics writ large. In this analysis, I focus on what is perhaps the most important factor for understanding the place of Archaic epigram within Archaic poetics, namely, its 2  I use “authentic” not as an absolute term, but rather as a description of the effect of a work of art on an audience. Certainly, these memories are also framed and, thus, specific. 3  See, e.g., Goldhill 1991 (esp. chap. 2). 4  On the relationship between kleos of tombs and epic, see Ford 1992: 143–63. Ford espouses a particularly negative view of the relationship that obtains between Archaic poetry and Archaic epigram (i.e. epigrammatic monuments are styled in the epics as inferior to Homeric poetry). Steiner 2001 (esp. chap. 5) and Fearn 2013 argue the positive view, whereby epigrammatic monuments are styled as complementary to Archaic poetry. Steiner and Fearn argue primarily from Pindar, and are surely right to see that poet’s esteem for epigrammatic monuments as a complement to his own poetry. In this paper, I am more concerned with the earliest poetic reception of epigrammatic monuments (i.e. Homer) and so I am more aligned with Ford’s view, although I would argue that the very fact of alluding to epigrammatic monuments (even if in a negative light) already highlights their implicit power.

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authority, or, its self-justification as a credible vehicle of kleos. Whereas the authority of Archaic poetry flows from its institutionalized performance contexts and the personae of its authors (especially in their intimate connection to the Muses), Archaic epigram, lacking these two features, must rely for its authority on the very materiality of its situation. Therefore, after an analysis of the “site” of Archaic epigram, I will offer a brief outline of the major elements of Archaic poetics (with a focus on the rhapsodic performance tradition exemplified by the Homeric epics), especially as they relate to the ways in which they produce authority, and then, finally, turn to a comparison and contrast with epigram. In Archaic Greece, epigram was a multi-media genre, and we must take into account the interaction of those media, the material and spatial situation of epigram, if we are to appreciate fully the ways in which the genre accomplishes its goals.5 In order to do so, we will have to account for the site-specificity any epigrammatic performance would entail. It will be useful to imagine the typical Archaic situation of epigram, clustered in groups of monuments situated along a road outside of town or within a sanctuary. There are several levels operative: 1., the collection of monuments; 2., the road, for funeral epigrams, or pilgrimage site, for dedicatory epigram; 3., the individual monument as a whole, including the inscribed poem and material object; and, 4., the performer and at least notional audience (there are other levels as well, but these are the most salient, I believe). The interaction between the performer and the site of these poems will prove crucial for our understanding of how they effect their authority.6 In order to understand the difference between institutionalized poetic performance and epigrammatic performance, it will be useful to examine the implications of epigram’s embeddedness in particular non-institutionalized (from the point of view of the poetic tradition) performance spaces, i.e. its site-specificity. In his recent book on site-specific performance, Mike Pearson has characterized the difference between professionalized performance space and that of the “site”: 5  See Muth and Petrovic 2013 for a recent and particularly incisive study of the multi-media interaction apparent in the Croesus monument. See also Steiner 2001: chap. 5 and Fearn 2013: 232. 6  Day 1989 and 2010 has shown the importance of reperformance in the ritual context; in this paper, I am more concerned with performance and reperformance in the broader, poetic sense, that is, not as a reactivation of a specific ritual act, be it dedication or burial of the dead, but as a more general act of memorialization, albeit one fueled by association with specific ritual acts and their contexts. Our approaches are truly complementary; Day sees the poetic tradition as a means of reinforcing the ritual efficacy of the epigrammatic monument, while I see the ritual context as reinforcing their poetic efficacy. I follow Nagy 1996, who theorizes reperformance as reenactment.

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I suggest that the conventions and techniques of the auditorium may be inappropriate or inadequate to the task of addressing ‘site’. And that sitespecific performance is other than a transposition and modification of stage practices. If the stage is essentially synecdochic – in which limited resources stand in for a complete picture … – site is frequently a scene of plenitude, its inherent characteristics, manifold effects and unruly elements always liable to leak, spill and diffuse into performance: ‘sitespecific work has to deal with, embrace and cohabit with existing factors of scale, architecture, chance, accident, incident’ (Persighetti 2000: 12). In the auditorium, the audience is, we might assume, already oriented and paying attention. What is operational, what under control, what an intended feature of intelligibility, what to be actively disattended, and what clearly apparent in a situation of excess – these then become key concerns at site. (2010: 1–2) The contrast between the relatively closed performance of the stage and the relatively open one at a site is instructive. It is precisely the plenitude of the site of epigrammatic performance, its “situation of excess”, and the manifold effects of such a site that interest me: the site conspires with and against audience and performer to effect site-specific performances (ibid.: 10–11). The epigrammatic site contributes to and shapes epigrammatic performance in unruly ways, especially given the fact that place and the monuments and even the itinerary are laden with significance.7 The site of epigrammatic performance cooperates with the performer, who might also be the audience, to create its authority.8 There are several ways in which the materiality of the epigrammatic site promulgates epigrammatic kleos. First, the very materiality of epigrammatic monuments allows the kleos to transcend (that is, extend through) time and space. The use of durable materials at great expense suggests a concern with the lasting nature of each monument as a whole and is lent confirmation by the very fact of the survival of a given monument and/or inscription. Furthermore, the placement on roadsides (in the case of funerary epigram) and in often-visited sanctuaries (in the case of dedicatory epigram) reflect not only an association 7  There are several studies that deal, in various ways, with the spatiality of dedication and burial. Most significant for my work have been Scott 2010, Day in this volume (above, pp. 73– 104) and the Introduction in Baumbach, Petrovic, and Petrovic 2010 on the collectivity of epigrammatic monuments as a precursor to literary collections. 8  We might describe epigrammatic monuments as “cool” media, as opposed to the “hot” media of rhapsodic performance; see McLuhan 1964: 36–45. I plan to explore this idea in more detail elsewhere.

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with the past, present and future, but also a desire to access a broad array of travelers.9 Moreover, the transcendence of space and time implicit in the site of these monuments is regularly exploited in the poems they host. In CEG 344, for example, the dedicator, Phawearistos, associates his name with Athena and Hera as denizens within a sanctified space and lays claim to everlasting kleos in terms that clearly interact with the broader Archaic poetic tradition:10 τάσδε γ’ Ἀθαναίαι δραϝεὸς Φαϝ̣|εάριστος ἔθεκε hέραι τε, hος καὶ κ|ε͂νος ἔχοι κλέϝος ἄπθιτον αἰϝεί. Phaw(?e)aristos placed these vessels for Athena and Hera, so that he too might have unquenchable kleos always. (Trans. Day 2010) The cups that Phawearistos placed in a sanctuary in Delphi in the first half of the sixth century BCE offer a lasting memorial to the dedicator by virtue of their site-specificity. As Day (2010: 47) has argued, the epigram suggests a reperformance of the ritual act of dedication, but it also entails a poetic performance by a viewer, a performance that is made all the more effective by the fact that it was surrounded by other dedications vying with it for the attention of said viewers. The transcendence of space and time evident in the kleos Phawearistos claims as his own is only fully realized as it is seen and heard in a performance by a visitor. A similar dynamic can be seen in the rhetoric of the passer-by, as expressed in several examples of funerary epigram, especially in appeals to xenoi, “strangers”, or to “those going by”, pariontes.11 Both images appear, conveniently, in CEG 13: [εἴτε ἀστό]ς τις ἀνὲρ εἴτε χσένος | ἀλοθεν ἐλθὸν Τέτιχον οἰκτίρα|ς ἀνδρ’ ἀγαθὸν παρίτο, ἐν πολέμοι | φθίμενον, νεαρὰν hέβεν ὀλέσαν|τα. ταῦτ’ ἀποδυράμενοι νε͂σθε ἐπ|ὶ πρᾶγμ’ ἀγαθόν. 9  See Steiner 2001: 253–58. In a certain sense, Pausanias’ descriptions of sanctuaries and tombstones are a realization of the effect of such placement. 10  So too Fearn 2013: 244–45, who argues that the site of dedication enhances the prestige of such monuments “through the interplay and association with other nearby monuments” (245). On CEG 344, see also Stehle 1997: 316; Keesling 2006: 73 n. 14. Finkelberg 2007 argues that the formula kleos aphthiton aiei precedes the use of the famous phrase at Il. 9.413 and developed as a result of the durability of stone. 11   Xenos: CEG 13, 108 l. 3, 112, 120, 123, 131, 453, 462; pareimi: CEG 13, 80, 108 ll. 1 and 6, 117, 174 ll. 2 and 6; for a study of the conventions associated with the passer-by, see Tueller 2010.

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Let each man, whether a citizen or foreigner coming from elsewhere, pass on only after pitying Tettichus, a good man, who perished in war and lost his fresh youthfulness. Once you have lamented this, move on to a good deed. (Trans. Day 1989) The poem appeals to visitors from abroad (and, presumably, local travelers as well) to pity one Tettichus.12 The typical translation of the imperative in l. 2 exhorts these travelers to be on their way, thus emphasizing how the epigram envisions and encourages the movement of its memorialization from its location out into the world. The poem’s reference to the “beautiful death” of Tettichus connects the deceased to Homeric ideology and becomes a central image of the poem, both the reason for pity and an ideal to be emulated.13 The audience of this poem is encouraged to “pass by” (to be interpreted both as “come near” and “continue on”), but only after internalizing Tettichus as a model to be remembered and thus, transported beyond the confines of the location of this monument. It is important to note, that the concern for spatial extension in this and other epigrammatic monuments is implicitly tied to their extension through time; several further examples specifically single out the road and so attest to the potential spatial and temporal extension of the monuments.14 As we saw above, both of these concerns, i.e. to transcend both space and time, are important ways in which the performed poetry of the period, with its guilds of traveling rhapsodes, promoted their own authority. Another important factor for the production of authority in the Archaic poetic performance context was its competitive nature, which valorized the whole project.15 Competition, albeit on the spatial plain, can also be seen in the sites of epigram. The place of epigram, the situation of the monuments into a collective, promotes competition through time in various ways (like the modern cemeteries discussed above).16 The oft-present deictic markers of epigram form links between the words and the monument, space and performer/ audience, acting as a constant reminder of the integrity of the material and the 12  Irwin 2005: 69–71 discusses the rarity of civic associations evident from Archaic funerary and dedicatory epigrams when they are set up in the deceased’s or dedicator’s city (citing the use of astos and khsenos in this epigram at 70 n. 27 as one of two extant collocations of the terms), and suggests that aristocratic traits are much more commonly emphasized (thus the relatively more common use of khsenos in such inscriptions); cf. Nicosia 1992: 7; Wachter 2001: n. 844; IG I3 1194bis. 13  On the beautiful death in Homer, see Vernant 1991. 14   C EG 16, 28, 39, 74, 142, 167, 451. 15  See Martin 1989; Collins 2005. 16  See Arrington 2010 for an analysis of larger-scale spatial competition (aristocratic cemetery vs. the dêmosion sêma) in the Athenian context.

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text.17 But, this deictic rhetoric also functions as means of distinction, singling out a particular monument in order to silence the noise of the other surrounding monuments (here we will do well to remember Pearson’s description of the site as a situation of excess). Such deictic rhetoric can be seen in numerous cases, so much so that it comprises a stylistic feature.18 In the case of funerary epigram, the individuating function of such deictics is further elaborated in the spatial directions the poems relate. As we recall, the use of parito in line 2 of CEG 13 had a dual reference, meaning both “pass by, continue on your way” and “come near”, encoding both the individuating function and the rhetoric of extension through space (and, by implication, through time).19 The call to come near, in as much as it singles out Tettichus’ monument from the others that were presumably nearby, creates an implicit, spatial competition among epigrammatic monuments. CEG 28 makes this rhetoric of spatial competition particularly clear in directing a passer-by with other things on his mind to stop and weep at the tomb of Thrason:20 ἄνθροπε hόστειχε[ι]ς καθ’ ὁδὸ|ν φρασὶν ἄλα μενοινο͂ν, στε͂θι | καὶ οἴκτιρον σε͂μα Θράσονος ἰδόν. You there, who move along the road with mind intent on other matters, halt and pity, having looked on the marker of Thrason. (Trans. Day 1989) It seems likely that a passer-by would interpret the “other matters” of the poem as the other tombs competing for his ear and voice. If the goal of this competition is to secure and spread kleos, as the epigrams themselves suggest, then their rhetoric of distinction is one way to promote the fame of the monument. CEG 13, which we examined above, goes so far as to make this idea explicit, as it sends the passer-by off inspired to do good deeds as a result of his interaction with the monument. Beyond such a directive rhetoric of distinction, there are also more subtle poetic attempts to stand out. Even in the few epigrams we have looked at so far, we can see significant poetic variations that attempt to 17  See Steiner 2001: 255–59. 18  See, e.g., CEG 344, 14 and 145; Svenbro 1993: 26–43, although I do not agree with his interpretation of their significance. 19  The injunction to come near is evident from the use of the preposition para; cf. esp. CEG 27. See Steiner 2001: 257. 20  I disagree with Stehle 1997: 315, who argues that CEG 28 requires a reader to address himself and thus creates a fictional situation; I rather see the poem as requiring a performance by the passer-by, addressed at least notionally to other passers-by, as to an audience. Cf. IG I3 1204; Nicosia 1992: 9.

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distinguish their epigrammatic monuments, and so, have them stick in a passer-by’s ear; for example, CEG 344, which, as we have seen, uses the Homeric formula, kleos aphthiton aiei, to hammer home its message. The vivid images of CEG 145 offer another compelling example:21 σᾶμα τόδε Ἀρνιάδα· χαροπὸς τόνδ’ ὄλε|σεν Ἄρες βαρνάμενον παρὰ ναυσ|ὶν ἐπ’ Ἀραθθοῖο ρhοϝαῖσι, πολλὸ|ν ἀριστεύ⟨ϝ⟩οντα κατὰ στονόϝεσαν ἀϝυτάν. This is the marker of Arniadas. This man fierce-eyed Ares destroyed / battling by the ships beside the streams of the Aratthos /achieving great excellence amid the battle-roar that brings mourning. (Trans. Bowie 2010) As Bowie shows, this epigram is full of Homeric resonance (2010: 357). In fact, A. Petrovic has gone so far as to argue this epigram is directly influenced by a passage of the Iliad (7.89–91; 2016: 51–2). In my own view, the high style of this poem, its epic resonance, emphasizes the competitive nature of epigrammatic monuments and, therefore, functions as another way of distinguishing this from other monuments.22 A similar competition can be seen in the visual realm in the variations in the artistic features of monuments. For example, a kouros like that of Croesus involves subtle, ingenious variations that serve to set it apart from the others, all of which nonetheless share the same basic stylistic features.23 In these terms, the site of epigram parallels the competitive milieu of the Archaic performance tradition, in which each performance seeks 21  On CEG 145, see Tsagalis 2008: 89–90 (with other literature cited there), who argues that the use of the odd epithet kharopos of Ares highlights the excellence of Arniadas; see also Petrovic 2016: 51–52; cf. Nicosia 1992: 6; Brodersen, Günther and Schmitt 2011: 7; Breuer 1995: T17; SEG 48.2101. Wachter explores various features that suggest “direct indications of epic poetry in non-Ionic dialect” in this and other inscriptions (2001: 331, 336, 340 with n. 1310; quote on 331). 22  In this case, we know that other monuments were nearby Arniadas’ in Archaic Corcyra: CEG 143 and 146. 23  Thus, like the epigrams, there is a certain base level of expectation within which there is scope for competitive innovation. For example, the image of Ares slaughtering Arniadas conveys the necessary information (Arniadas is killed in battle), but does so with a striking metaphor meant to associate Arniadas with the heroes of the past. As such it distinguishes itself and Arniadas from, for example, Menecrates, who, in CEG 143, is said simply to have died at sea. For a stylistic analysis of Archaic kouroi, see Richter 1970; on the relationship between the kouros and the epigram on the Croesus monument, CEG 27, see Muth and Petrovic 2013; see Svenbro 1993 for an elaborate reading of the statue of Phrasikleia, which highlights its distinctive features (although it may too closely align the sculptural program with the force of the poem).

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to have special claim to access the ears of the audience who judge with the tradition in the background, as it were. Although it may be the tour de force, accomplished through masterful expansion of traditional technique that makes one performance more memorable and so more authoritative than another, each individual performance within such a competitive framework authorizes the performance (and the tradition) as a whole, as each speaker in the Iliad contributes to the poem as a whole.24 Most critics would agree that Archaic poetry is fundamentally tied to Greek practices of cultural memory, i.e. that the impulse to memorialization is inherent in archaic poetics. The main exemplars of the Archaic Greek tradition of performed poetry, Homer, Hesiod and Archilochus (the last perhaps somewhat contentiously), to one degree or another exhibit a Panhellenic disposition of praise or blame, which is another way of saying that epic and iambic poetry preserve and broadcast important communal ideals through the medium of song.25 In the Archaic period, song is the operative word, and public, competitive performance was the primary means of disseminating poetry.26 Most important for our purposes are the three basic elements involved in such performances: performer, audience and competition.27 These three elements are united in the full, institutionalized occasions for song in the Archaic period.28 The institutionalization of performance promotes the Panhellenic character of the poetry’s memorializing goals and realizes externally the internal logic of the poems, which suggests that their subject matter is known far and wide, a property of all. Moreover, the competitive crucible through which the poetry has passed guarantees its legitimacy and longevity even as each individual performance reiterates these conceits in miniature. This whole complex of ideas is subsumed under the name of the poet whose mask each performer dons at each performance. This mask becomes the face of the authority of the poetry, an authority guaranteed by the special connection with the Muses these personae claim. In fact, critics have gone so far as to suggest that the poets themselves are essentially calques for the genres they represent, individuals invented (and reinvented) in order to account for the

24  On the expansion aesthetic with specific reference to the speeches in the Iliad, see Martin 1989. 25  One only need look to Plato for confirmation of this, although he goes on to reject poetry’s claims to educate the Greeks. 26  See Herington 1985 for Greece as a “song culture” into the Classical period. 27  For a detailed study of these characteristics, see Nagy 1996. 28  For a survey of early mousikoi agones, see Rotstein 2012.

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authority of the poetry performed through their voices.29 We can see multiple, interrelated conduits through which authenticity flows into the mouth of the performer as he wears the mask of a given poet. To take the most important example, Homer hears the events he narrates from the Muses, who witnessed the actual events firsthand, and then he sings those events to a hypothetical audience.30 That audience becomes realized when a rhapsode puts on the mask of Homer and sings the kleos, literally what is heard by Homer and then the audience. The authority of this poetry is guaranteed by the special relationship between the Muses and Homer, and the special relationship between the performer and Homer is, in turn, guaranteed and sanctioned by the professional, competitive milieu. Just as Homer is linked to the present performer through the constant series of performances, the current audience is linked to an original audience, thus lending kleos an eternal and wide-spread impact, through time and space.31 Archaic epigram shares the basic impulse of Archaic poetry in as much as it is concerned with practices of cultural memory, if in a more localized and somewhat proscribed way. Further, besides a certain amount of shared language, epigram also shares the rhythms of Archaic performed poetry.32 Indeed, by definition, epigram is metrical, and so should be qualified as song; however, its existence in writing on stone problematizes a simple definition as such. Complicating its status as song further is the fact that all epigram, again, by definition, is associated with a particular work of plastic art located in a particular space, usually surrounded by other, similar objects, what I have described as the site of epigram and its consequent site-specificity. The final major complication lies in the fact that there is no poet figure to speak of (in fact, voice in general is a highly variable feature of the genre), much less Muses to inspire and guarantee the truth of his/her words. Obviously, there are some real differences between the two genres, but, the gulf is not as broad as it might at first appear. The most immediately apparent difference surrounds the mediation of the poems. If the premier poetry of the Archaic period was performed song, inscribed song represents a serious departure from, if not a total break with poetic norms. However, as Svenbro has argued, it must be the case that the earliest poems written on stone were spoken out loud, performed – he famously proclaimed that epigrammatic monuments 29  Nagy 1996; see also Graziosi 2002, who argues in the case of Homer that the biographical tradition is intimately connected with the reception and interpretation of the poems. 30  On Homeric inspiration, see Murray 1981. 31  See, e.g., de Jong 2006. 32  As we saw most starkly in CEG 344; see Bowie 2010 and Petrovic 2016 with bibliography cited at 45 n. 1.

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were “machines to produce kleos”, with perhaps a bit too much emphasis on the machine side of the equation.33 I would expand Svenbro and argue that the mere fact that these poems are written in meter requires that an Archaic reader would experience them as performed song.34 The act of reading song, out loud or otherwise, in the Archaic period cannot but be modeled after the hearing of song. In short, the act of reading an epigram became an at least notional performance, and, so perhaps is not so different from the main Archaic exemplars, at least on the surface. But, surely there remains a stark difference between, for example, the professional rhapsode and a random pedestrian who happens to perform an epigram, given the institutionalized performance context of the former and the ad hoc quality of the latter. As I outlined earlier, the competitive rhapsodic context contributes to the authority of the poetry as a guarantee both of the truth the poetry relates and of the fact that the poetry has and will extend through time and space – it will travel with the rhapsode and his successors and be ratified by knowing audiences. If we assume that epigram has to compare with other Archaic poetic mediating practices, then, we will certainly find epigram lacking – epigram has no traveling, professional performers, no distinct persona for those performers to imitate, and no institutionalized context in which to feature such imitation.35 However, if we isolate the effects of performance, as we have seen, epigram does strive after many of the same goals as does the premier poetry of Archaic Greece. 33  Of course, Svenbro 1993 sees a distinction in the mode of reading from 550 BCE; his argumentation based on a perceived shift in person is unconvincing, certainly as a hard break between modes. 34  Christopher Witmore reminded me, per litteras, that new media always keep elements and attributes of previous media (following McLuhan 1964). As a new media arises, there is a lag time before the new media realizes its full potential, as it refashions itself in relation to the older media. Moreover, older media respond to the new media. I would see epigram in the earliest period as beginning such a process of remediation, to which Homeric poetry responds. For a detailed presentation of the concept of remediation, see Bolter and Grusin 2000. 35  In fact, as a genre, there is no secure speaking position, or voice, much less persona; for a survey of such speaking positions see Vestrheim 2010 and Schmitz 2010, who states, “We have seen that in many cases, this epigrammatic mode of communication could not be translated into pragmatic, face-to-face interaction because the identity of speaker and addressee was wavering and unclear” (35), although I cannot agree with the conclusions he draws. Steiner 2001: 257–60 argues that epigrammatic monuments are stable in as much as they are the sign or memory of the deceased or honorand; this stability is illusory in terms of performance, and she is right to emphasize the distance effected between speaker and either an author or the deceased/honorand. I would argue that this distance of voice contributes to the aura of the epigrammatic monument; more on aura below. I will deal more fully with the epigrammatic voice in my forthcoming book.

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So, if it is plausible that the inseparable materiality and textuality of epigram share in broader Archaic, competitive poetics of transcendence of space and time, then these poems too count as kleos in the full sense. Before concluding, I would like to present some ideas as to how this authority might be channeled in such site-specific performance, but first, it will be useful to look at one Archaic example of an epigrammatic performance in Homer. There are several epigrammatic monuments in Homer, but none so fully articulated as that embedded in Hector’s challenge to the Achaeans in Iliad 7:36 εἰ δέ κ᾽ ἐγὼ τὸν ἕλω, δώῃ δέ μοι εὖχος Ἀπόλλων, τεύχεα σύλησας οἴσω προτὶ Ἴλιον ἱρήν, καὶ κρεμόω προτὶ νηὸν Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκάτοιο, τὸν δὲ νέκυν ἐπὶ νῆας ἐϋσσέλμους ἀποδώσω, ὄφρά ἑ ταρχύσωσι κάρη κομόωντες Ἀχαιοί, σῆμά τέ οἱ χεύωσιν ἐπὶ πλατεῖ Ἑλλησπόντῳ. καί ποτέ τις εἴπῃσι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων νηῒ πολυκλήϊδι πλέων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον: ἀνδρὸς μὲν τόδε σῆμα πάλαι κατατεθνηῶτος, ὅν ποτ᾽ ἀριστεύοντα κατέκτανε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ. ὥς ποτέ τις ἐρέει: τὸ δ᾽ ἐμὸν κλέος οὔ ποτ᾽ ὀλεῖται.

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In like manner, if Apollo vouchsafe me glory and I slay your champion, I will strip him of his armour and take it to holy Ilius, where I will hang it in the temple of far-shooting Apollo, but I will give up his body, that the long-haired Achaeans may bury him at their well-benched ships, and heap him a mound by the wide waters of the Hellespont. Then will one say hereafter as he sails his ship over the wine-dark sea, ‘This is the monument of one who died long since a champion who was slain by mighty Hector.’ Thus will one say, and my fame shall not be lost. (Il. 81–91; Butler 1898, trans., adapted) 36  Cf. esp. Il. 4. 176–81. Elmer 2005 discusses Hector’s epigram as evidence of inscriptionality in Homer, which he defines as “a mode of linguistic reference that points more or less directly to some external object – without necessarily involving the use of writing” (2). Such a mode suggests that Homeric epic was aware of epigrammatic practice, as noticed even in the scholia, which Elmer discusses along with other inscriptional moments in the text. My argument is much indebted to Scodel 1992: 59, who refers to the passage as an “anti-epitaph” and argues, “In the view of the epic characters, tomb and song are parallel forms of commemoration, but the epic, implicitly praising its own power, sees the tomb as vulnerable to forgetfulness and abuse” (65). See also Ford 1992: 131–71 (esp. 143–44); Steiner 2001: 253–4; Strauss Clay 2016, who argues that the passage requires knowledge of funerary epigram; A. Petrovic 2016, who sees a direct allusion to this passage in CEG 145; I would not specify the direction of the allusion.

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This passage is the culmination of Hector’s attempt to convince the Achaeans to field a champion to face him in a decisive death-match meant to decide the outcome of the war. He predicts total victory, in terms that one cannot help but read ironically given the actual outcome of the war and the tomb that will eventually be visible to all who sail the Hellespont.37 As has been noted since antiquity, Hector’s imaginary tomb and its inscription sound a lot like actual Archaic epigrams, but, and this is less often noted, he has also vowed to dedicate to Apollo the armor of the Greek he threatens to vanquish.38 Thus, in this passage, we see a kind of totalizing picture of epigrammatic practice, which is totally undermined by the ultimate reality the poem relates. In the context of this paper, I am most interested in the description of the tomb, especially as it relates to actual Archaic examples.39 Most importantly for my purposes is the connection between visuality and the propagation of kleos described by Hector. Seafarers will pass by, see this impressive monument, then sing a song about it and be on their way. That this, admittedly imaginary, song is totally false is surely significant and, given other examples of the reading of funerary monuments in Homer, indicative of the unreliability, the lack of authority, of such claims to kleos, from the Homeric point of view.40 Homer allows that funerary monuments can generate kleos through their physical presence, but, he denies them any authority, especially in contrast to his authority as mouthpiece of the Muses. One does wonder, though: does Homer protest too much? Is the very fact that epigrammatic monuments are featured, even if negatively, a testament to their power? I believe so, but that does little to explain why they were effective 37  Cf. Od. 24.81–4; Strauss Clay 2016 sees a similar irony in the Iliad passage. 38  Cf. Strauss Clay 2016. 39  For a recent, complementary discussion, see A. Petrovic 2016. 40  The lack of authority implicitly assigned to epigram here is highlighted by the fact that this epigram preserves not the name of the deceased, but that of his killer; no actual example does this. Such instability seems to be common in the poetic representation of inscribed signs in Archaic literature; as Steiner 1994: 29 states, “In several of the examples, writing elucidates the meaning of a sign, and repeats its larger message in a more precise and detailed fashion; in others, it distorts that message and undermines the truth that the uncoded sêma transmits”; Steiner 1994: 33 also notices the oddity of this example, as well as that evident in Il. 23.326, 331–33 (the turning post). Other salient examples include: Il. 2.811–15 (a place marker on the Trojan plane with two different names, one according to men, the other, according to gods; perhaps men don’t even know it is a tomb) and 4.176– 81 (hypothetical tomb of Menelaus). As Grethlein 2008 has shown, in Homer, physical things, tombs included, rarely maintain any connection to the humans they were meant to memorialize beyond three generations, and thus compare poorly the much longer lasting kleos of Homeric poetry. Strauss Clay 2016 surveys some of the instability inherent in the Homeric passages; I deal in detail with passages in a forthcoming paper in which I argue that the Homeric poems style tombs as inherently unstable memorializing devices.

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kleos machines in the Archaic Greek context, in which, as we saw, kleos was conveyed through performed poetry authorized by the poet/performer’s intimate relationship to the Muses. How do epigrammatic monuments fit into this framework? If we take the Homeric passage at face value, we can read the passing sailor who sees the tomb and performs his false song as a site-specific performance, an epigrammatic event which is conceived of as a performance by a person who happens to be inspired by the presence of a monument. It is not hard to understand, from the point of view of Homeric performance, wherein the authoritative representative of the Muses performs, why epigrammatic performance might be looked down upon, given its nobody performer and the ad hoc character of the occasion. The Homeric rhetoric casts doubts on the ability of such monuments to guarantee the truth of their kleos. But, nonetheless, poems keep appearing on stones and attempting to produce kleos, so, obviously, from the point of view of people in the Archaic Greek world, these poems, authorless as they may be, retain authority. How can authorless poetry be authoritative within a culture whose main poetic models proclaim the centrality of the author for the production of authority through song? At this point it will be helpful to turn to Benjamin’s concept of aura. Benjamin describes “aura” as that which flows from “… [the work of art’s] presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be” and is linked to authenticity as “… the essence of all that is transmissible from its beginning, ranging from its substantive duration to its testimony to the history which it has experienced” (1969: 221). As we saw earlier, the materiality, textuality and spatiality, or the site, of epigram fosters its authority and I think we can see Benjamin’s aura as the effect of such monuments viewed as a totality. Thus, the performance of an epigram becomes a means by which the epigrammatic monument extends its substantive duration and historical testimony. The presence of a monument conditions the authority of its poetry as means of memorialization. The Archaic Greek epigrammatic monument certainly exhibits an aura tied to the presence of the monument and its extension through time (and, with its poems, through space, too), as we have seen. But, as durable, localized and embedded structures, these monuments also seek to have a share in the kind of aura Benjamin attributes to natural objects, which manifest a unique phenomenon of distance and permanence.41 When we see these monuments as attempts to effect the distance appropriate to natural objects in conjunction with their uniqueness as works of art, tied to a tradition 41  For an analysis of neolithic monuments along similar lines, see Holtorf 2000–2008, 5.7. The distance effected by epigram through its instability of voice contributes to the aura as a whole; see above, n. 35.

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which is ultimately fueled by their ritual origins, we can begin to see how their aura creates their authority. The performer at an epigrammatic monument becomes a poet like Homer, that is, a person inspired to sing, as Homer is inspired by the Muses. The distance created by the variability of voice so typical of Archaic epigrams reinforces the nearly religious experience of poetic inspiration.42 The statue or stele or dedicated object seems to come to life, not as a poet or performer, but as the source of inspiration, the guarantee of a connection through time past and present, that is, a force akin to the Homeric Muses.43 All this, is, of course, not to say that the Homeric poems, especially as institutionalized performance events, do not also have their own aura. But rather, that the aura of the Archaic performance of Homeric epic as well as the aura of an epigrammatic monument offer different but complementary models for understanding the production of authority in Archaic poetics. The inspired moment of epigrammatic performance, in fostering in the passer-by a situation not unlike Homeric inspiration (the epigrammatic performer is like the poet-persona, Homer, rather than like the rhapsode), renders the epigrammatic monument’s effect as akin to that of the Muses. This inspired moment, in turn, guarantees the truth of the kleos that the monument seeks to promote. I would like to close with a brief quote from Greenblatt’s essay, “Resonance and Wonder”, in which he defines those two terms: By “resonance” I mean the power of the object displayed to reach out beyond its formal boundaries to a larger world, to evoke in the viewer the complex, dynamic cultural forces from which it has emerged and for which – as metaphor or, more simply, as metonymy – it may be taken by a viewer to stand. By “wonder” I mean the power of the object displayed to stop the viewer in his tracks, to convey an arresting sense of uniqueness, to evoke an exalted attention. (1991: 42) A given work of art can and usually does exhibit characteristics of both terms, and, as Greenblatt is at pains to show, the context of the work of art 42  I find much in common with Lorenz 2010, who argues, “This dialectic situation, then, is a process of re-negotiation not only between different media but also between shifting identifications: it is not only the monument which is constantly modified between a uniform and an individual body but also the recipient, who finds identification in a generic body and subsequently can modify the individualising epigram to apply to his own life, but who is simultaneously always pushed out of identifying with the body because of its individualised writing” (146). 43  In my forthcoming book, I will compare the multiple voices of the epigrammatic site to the invocation of the Muses before the Catalogue of Ships in Il. 2.

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can highlight one or the other pole. The authority of ancient epigrammatic monuments lies in their ability to effect resonance through the wonder they engender in and through their sites. The aura of epigram fuels these machines of kleos. Bibliography Arrington, N. 2010. “Topographic semantics: The location of the Athenian public cemetery and its significance for the nascent democracy.” Hesperia 79: 499–539. Baumbach, M., Petrovic, A., and Petrovic, I., eds. 2010. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram. Cambridge and New York. Benjamin, W. 1969. “The work of art in the age of mechanical reproducibility.” In H. Arendt, ed. and H. Zohn, trans., Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, 217–51. New York. Bolter, J. D. and Grusin, R. 2000. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA. Bowie, E. 2010. “Epigram as narration.” In M. Baumbach, A. Petrovic, and I. Petrovic, eds., Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, 313–77. Cambridge. Breuer, C. 1995. Reliefs und Epigramme griechischer Privatgrabmaler: Zeugnisse burgerlichen Selbstverstandnisses vom 4. bis 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Vienna. Brodersen, K., Günther, W., and Schmitt, H., eds. 2011. Historische griechische Inschriften in Übersetzung. Darmstadt. Butler, S., trans., 1898. The Iliad of Homer. London. Collins, D. 2005. Master of the Game: Competition and Performance in Greek Poetry. Cambridge, Mass. Day, J. W. 1989. “Rituals in stone: Early Greek grave epigrams and monuments.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 109: 16–28. Day, J. W. 2010. Archaic Greek Epigram and Dedication: Representation and Reperformance. Cambridge. de Jong, I. 2006. “The Homeric narrator and his own kleos.” Mnemosyne 59: 188–207. Elmer, D. 2005. “Helen Epigrammatopoios.” Classical Antiquity 24: 1–39. Fearn, D. 2013. “Kleos versus stone? Lyric poetry and contexts for memorialization.” In P. Liddel and P. Low, eds., Inscriptions and their Uses in Greek and Latin Literature, 231–54. Oxford. Finkelberg, M. 2007. “More on ΚΛΕΟΣ ΑΦΘΙΤΟΝ.” Classical Quarterly 57: 341–50. Ford, A. 1992. Homer: The Poetry of the Past. Ithaca, NY. Goldhill, S. 1991. The Poet’s Voice: Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature. Cambridge. Graziosi, B. 2002. Inventing Homer. Cambridge.

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Greenblatt, S. 1991. “Resonance and wonder.” In I. Karp and S. Lavine, eds., Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display, 42–56. Washington, DC. Grethlein, J. 2008. “Memory and material objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 128: 27–51. Herington, J. 1985. Poetry into Drama: Early Tragedy and the Greek Poetic Tradition. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Holtorf, C. 2000–2008. Monumental past: The Life-histories of Megalithic Monuments in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (Germany). Electronic monograph. University of Toronto: Centre for Instructional Technology Development. Available at http://hdl .handle.net/1807/245. Irwin, E. 2005. Solon and Early Greek Poetry: The Politics of Exhortation. Cambridge. Keesling, C. 2006. “Heavenly bodies: Monuments to prostitutes in Greek sanctuaries.” In C. Faraone and L. McClure, eds., Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World, 59–76. Madison, WI. Lorenz, K. 2010. “‘Dialectics at a standstill’: Archaic kouroi-cum-epigram as I-Box.” In M. Baumbach, A. Petrovic, and I. Petrovic, eds., Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, 131–48. Cambridge. Martin, R. 1989. The Language of Heroes. Ithaca, N.Y. McLuhan, M. 1964. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. New York. Murray, P. 1981. “Poetic inspiration in Early Greece.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 101: 87–100. Muth, S. and Petrovic, I. 2013. “Methodische und theoretische Überlegungen über die Bilder und Texte in ihrer Funktion als historische Primärquellen.” In B. Christiansten and U. Thaler, eds., Ansehenssache. Formen von Prestige in Kulturen des Altertums, 281–318. Munich. Nagy, G. 1996. Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond. Cambridge. Nicosia, S. 1992. Il segno e la memoria: Iscrizioni funebri della Grecia antica. Palermo. Nora, P. 1989. “Between memory and history: Les lieux de mémoire.” Representations 26: 7–24. Nora, P., ed. 1997. Les lieux de mémoire. 3 vols. Paris. Pearson, M. 2010. Site-Specific Performance. New York. Petrovic, A. 2016. “Archaic funerary epigram and Hektor’s imagined Epitymbia.” In A. Efstathiou and I. Karamanou, eds., Homeric Receptions across Generic and Cultural Contexts, 45–58. Berlin. Richter, G. 1970. Kouroi: Archaic Greek Youths. 3rd ed. London. Rotstein, A. 2012. “Mousikoi agones and the conceptualization of genre in Ancient Greece.” Classical Antiquity 31: 92–127. Scodel, R. 1992. “Absence, memory, and inscription: Epic and the Early Greek epitaph.” Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica 10: 57–76.

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chapter 7

Writing, Women’s Silent Speech Michael A. Tueller At the beginning of the Hellenistic era, a few poets bequeathed to literary epigram a set of questions that was to occupy the genre for the next hundred years; on their foundation would be built masterpieces of misdirection by Callimachus, Theocritus, Asclepiades, Posidippus, and others.1 These foundational poets were particularly concerned with the ability of writing to construct reality, and with whether an artistically constructed object can be said to be, or only to represent, its model. They explored these ideas by making enigmas out of the formerly conventional questions of inscribed epigram: “Who is talking?” “Who is being addressed?” “What is the object to which they point?”2 Two things about this foundational moment are clear. First, it is significant that epigram, unlike other Greek genres, is inherently literate, as only a literate genre can allow these questions to be asked non-trivially. And second, the early, foundational epigrams that were most influential in promoting these themes are ascribed to women: to Nossis, Anyte, Moero, and especially Erinna. What drew female authors to explore the characteristics of literacy?3 In this chapter we will see that, by the mid-4th century BCE, the peculiarities of writing were already beginning to be gendered, and that the epigrams of Erinna played a key role in adjusting the relationship between the writer, the written, and woman.

1  The name of Meleager should not be omitted, as he also deals significantly with these themes, though he came later than the authors to which he is best compared. 2  All these are issues I explored in some depth earlier (Tueller 2008; 2010). 3  Erinna’s authorship of the epigrams attributed to her is a matter of dispute, so we might equally well ask “What caused explorations of the characteristics of literacy to be attributed to a female author?”.

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1 Antiphanes In Antiphanes’ comedy Sappho, we find the following: ⟨Σάπφω⟩ ἔστι φύσις θήλεια βρέφη σῴζουσ᾽ ὑπὸ κόλποις αὑτῆς, ὄντα δ᾽ ἄφωνα βοὴν ἵστησι γεγωνὸν καὶ διὰ πόντιον οἶδμα καὶ ἠπείρου διὰ πάσης οἷς ἐθέλει θνητῶν, τοῖς δ᾽ οὐδὲ παροῦσιν ἀκούειν ἔξεστιν· κωφὴν δ᾽ ἀκοῆς αἴσθησιν ἔχουσιν. … ⟨Βʹ⟩ ἡ μὲν φύσις γὰρ ἣν λέγεις ἐστὶν πόλις, βρέφη δ᾽ ἐν αὑτῇ διατρέφει τοὺς ῥήτορας. οὗτοι κεκραγότες δὲ τὰ διαπόντια τἀκ τῆς Ἀσίας καὶ τἀπὸ Θρᾴκης λήμματα ἕλκουσι δεῦρο, νεμομένων δὲ πλησίον αὐτῶν κάθηται λοιδορουμένων τ᾽ ἀεὶ ὁ δῆμος οὐδὲν οὔτ᾽ ἀκούων οὔθ᾽ ὁρῶν. ⟨Σάπφω⟩ …  πῶς γὰρ γένοιτ᾽ ἄν, ὦ πάτερ, ῥήτωρ ἄφωνος; ⟨Βʹ⟩ ἢν ἁλῷ τρὶς παρανόμων. ⟨Βʹ⟩ …  καὶ μὴν ἀκριβῶς ᾠόμην ἐγνωκέναι τὸ ῥηθέν. ἀλλὰ δὴ λέγε. ⟨Σάπφω⟩ θήλεια μέν νύν ἐστι φύσις ἐπιστολή, βρέφη δ᾽ ἐν αὑτῇ περιφέρει τὰ γράμματα· ἄφωνα δ᾽ ὄντα ⟨ταῦτα⟩ τοῖς πόρρω λαλεῖ οἷς βούλεθ᾽, ἕτερος δ᾽ ἂν τύχῃ τις πλησίον ἑστὼς ἀναγινώσκοντος οὐκ ἀκούεται.

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⟨Sappho⟩ There is a female creature that keeps her offspring safe in her folds,4 and although they are voiceless, they raise a loud shout

4  Or “babies safe under her breasts”, Rosenmeyer 2001: 96. Olson 2007: 201 is surely right that the primary meaning here is “beneath the fold of her garment,” but the meaning “at her breast” cannot be excluded. “Sappho”’s solution to the riddle, in which a letter would take the form of a folded tablet or a scroll, also fits perfectly well.

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both across the sea’s swell and through all the land to whatever person they wish, and not even those who are present can hear them, since their perception of their sound is muted. 5 … ⟨Speaker 2⟩ The creature of which you speak is the polis. The offspring it nurtures within itself are the speakers. When they howl they bring overseas revenue, both out of Asia and from Thrace, back here, and while they are dealing to 10 themselves and constantly insulting, the people sit nearby and neither hear nor see anything. ⟨Sappho⟩          … But how could a speaker be voiceless, father? ⟨Speaker 2⟩   When he is caught violating nomos three  times. ⟨Speaker 2⟩          … Hmm. I thought I knew 15 what you were saying exactly. Well, anyway, tell me the answer. ⟨Sappho⟩ The female creature is a letter (epistolē), and it carries its offspring, letters (grammata), wrapped up inside it: Although they are voiceless, they chatter to those far off, whomever they want, and another person, even if he happens 20 to be standing next to the one reading, does not hear him. This passage has long held the attention of those who track the advent of silent reading, and certainly it provides interesting evidence for that practice. But it also deserves consideration as evidence for the social and philosophical position of writing as a medium. In particular, we should note the emphasis “Sappho” places on writing as feminine. Of course, it is true that the word epistolē is grammatically feminine, but “Sappho” also gives it a womb, in which it carries babies. It is especially important that her male interlocutor answers “Sappho”’s riddle in a markedly masculine vein, full of public speakers and

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political maneuvering,5 while “Sappho” was looking for a response that emphasized the private over the public – in other words, an answer much more compatible with women’s social sphere.6 In interpreting this passage, the standard feminist critiques of writing, such as those of Helene Cixous, are not much help: certainly there is no indication here that writing itself is an inherently masculine sphere, and the text is not directly addressing the idea of women writers in any case, but rather characterizing the written as feminine. More helpful is the Freudian line of criticism pursued by Page DuBois, in which a woman is conceived as surface that receives writing – especially inscribed writing, in which that surface is penetrated.7 The equation of women and written text can be seen in the fact that letters at times serve to represent women on stage in Euripides,8 and in the following lines from the female chorus in Aeschylus’ Suppliants:9 Χορός ⟨Βασιλεύς⟩ Χορός Βασιλεύς Χορός

εἰ μή τι πιστὸν τῷδ’ ὑποστήσεις στόλῳ— τί σοι περαίνει μηχανὴ συζωμάτων; νέοις πίναξι βρέτεα κοσμῆσαι τάδε. αἰνιγματῶδες τοὔπος· ἀλλ’ ἁπλῶς φράσον. ἐκ τῶνδ’ ὅπως τάχιστ’ ἀπάγξασθαι θεῶν. Aesch. Supp. 461–5

Chorus If you don’t support our company with some guarantee … King What do you mean to accomplish with these jury-rigged sashes? Chorus To fit these statues with new tags (pinakes). King Your words are riddling – speak clearly. Chorus To hang ourselves from these gods, without delay.

5  Olson 2007: 202 notes that “already by the late fifth century the noun [ῥήτορες] has the more specific sense ‘habitual speakers, politicians.’” See also Ceccarelli 2013: 253. 6  Ceccarelli 2013: 246. 7  DuBois 1988: 130–66. See also Zeitlin 1996: 245–47 on the deltos specifically. The tattooing of the Thracian women in Phanocles fr. 1 (ed. Powell) provides important support to the idea of the penetration of women’s bodies with semantic significance – though they receive pictures rather than words in their skin. 8  “Iphigenia and Phaedra are embodied in their letters to such an extent that the letters may be seen as representing them on stage” (Rosenmeyer 2001: 96). 9  DuBois 1988: 142 referred to this passage also, along with many other examples.

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The women themselves, hanging from the statues, become pinakes: implicitly inscribed objects, especially in the context of the use of the word pinax elsewhere in the play.10 To this foundation may be added characteristics drawn from the ancient Greek stereotype of women as creatures who plot in secret, invulnerable to discovery even by those nearby. Charles Segal perhaps best summed up the connection between writing and the feminine in his observations on Euripides’ Hippolytus: In tragedy, writing often serves as a motif or a figure around which the poet can crystallize the ambiguous attitudes of the culture toward the female and especially toward female desire. In the Hippolytus, writing appears as a duplicitous silent speaking that can subvert the authority of king and father. As a concentrated form of seduction and persuasion, such ‘female’ writing is doubly a threat to the masculine ideal of straightforward talk and forthright action.11 A closer look at Euripides’ play bears out Segal’s summation, but also focuses it. When Hippolytus accuses women of plotting in secret and carrying out their plots through intermediaries, he means that accusation to apply to the nurse:12 but it does not apply to her as directly as he believes, since she acts largely on her own: rather, it applies most directly to the movement of Phaedra’s inscribed wax tablet, which stands in for her, passing its message silently out of the house to the hands of its intended recipient, Theseus.13 2 Plato The first response to Antiphanes’ theme comes very soon, in Plato’s Phaedrus. The dating of Plato’s works in general is shifting and much-trodden ground, 10  Ceccarelli 2013: 195–96. 11  Segal 1986: 93–94. Rosenmeyer 2001: 96 confirms: “The letter is frequently aligned with the female rather than the male, or if the male, then a tricky or lying male voice: it is a document of secrecy and protection, in contrast to the conventionally direct, oral communicative mode associated with men and military command. As such, it can also be a document of deceit, another trait commonly connected with women.” Bassi 1998: 90–91, in her analysis of Plato’s Phaedrus, makes similar points. 12  Eur. Hipp. 649–50. 13  This tablet, or deltos, also forms a clear connection between the inscribed surface and the female body, as elaborated by Zeitlin 1996: 245–47; see also DuBois 1988: 136.

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and the Phaedrus in particular has been dated very variously; shortly I will justify my belief that Plato is the follower here, but let us first see the separate grounds for dating Phaedrus and Antiphanes’ Sappho. First, Antiphanes. He had a long career, but the Sappho fragment – especially the indications of revenue from Asia and Thrace in line 9 – gives some fairly secure indications. From these, Wankel and Ceccarelli give it a terminus post quem of 367 BCE,14 and we may reasonably think that it was written not too long after that date. At the very least, a date between 370 and 350 seems secure.15 Now, Phaedrus. G. J. De Vries, situating the dialogue after the Republic and in the vicinity of Theaetetus and Parmenides, concludes that it was probably written just before 367, though he also says that “a date between 366 and 362 is not excluded” – and even admits an argument for that date.16 Harvey Yunis, in his 2011 commentary, is less sanguine about precision in this matter, but allows a date between 370 and 350, also noting that Gorgias and probably Republic precede it.17 (If one subscribes to the traditional periodization of Platonic dialogues, on which Yunis does not place much weight, these would likely push the date of Phaedrus toward the end of this range.) Holger Thesleff’s monumental 1982 study of Platonic chronology proposes that the Phaedrus was written in two parts; the second contained the reflections on writing that are relevant here; it was probably finalized “in the early 360s.”18 Thus, Plato’s Phaedrus and Antiphanes’ Sappho are close contemporaries. While no-one attempts to date the two relative to each other as I am doing here, the Phaedrus’ dates are on balance slightly earlier than Sappho’s. The difference is a matter of only a few years, however, and it is thus quite possible that Phaedrus shortly follows Sappho. In either case, we should not be surprised to find the two texts speaking in similar ways about the topic of writing, since they were written at about the same time, and one author could easily have had the other in mind. The relevant Phaedrus passage is almost comically well-known, but worth looking at in detail again: 14  Wankel 1991: 36; Ceccarelli 2004: 24. 15  This is the range given by Ceccarelli in her later book 2013: 244. Olson 2007: 201 dates it to the mid-360s. 16  de Vries 1967: 11. 17  Yunis 2011: 24. 18  Thesleff 1982: 172, 180.

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Σωκράτης δεινὸν γάρ που, ὦ Φαῖδρε, τοῦτ᾽ ἔχει γραφή, καὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς ὅμοιον ζωγραφίᾳ. καὶ γὰρ τὰ ἐκείνης ἔκγονα ἕστηκε μὲν ὡς ζῶντα, ἐὰν δ᾽ ἀνέρῃ τι, σεμνῶς πάνυ σιγᾷ. ταὐτὸν δὲ καὶ οἱ λόγοι· δόξαις μὲν ἂν ὥς τι φρονοῦντας αὐτοὺς λέγειν, ἐὰν δέ τι ἔρῃ τῶν λεγομένων βουλόμενος μαθεῖν, ἕν τι σημαίνει μόνον ταὐτὸν ἀεί. ὅταν δὲ ἅπαξ γραφῇ, κυλινδεῖται μὲν πανταχοῦ πᾶς λόγος ὁμοίως παρὰ τοῖς ἐπαΐουσιν, ὡς δ᾽ αὕτως παρ᾽ οἷς οὐδὲν προσήκει, καὶ οὐκ ἐπίσταται λέγειν οἷς δεῖ γε καὶ μή. πλημμελούμενος δὲ καὶ οὐκ ἐν δίκῃ λοιδορηθεὶς τοῦ πατρὸς ἀεὶ δεῖται βοηθοῦ· αὐτὸς γὰρ οὔτ᾽ ἀμύνασθαι οὔτε βοηθῆσαι δυνατὸς αὑτῷ. Φαῖδρος καὶ ταῦτά σοι ὀρθότατα εἴρηται. Σωκράτης τί δ᾽; ἄλλον ὁρῶμεν λόγον τούτου ἀδελφὸν γνήσιον, τῷ τρόπῳ τε γίγνεται, καὶ ὅσῳ ἀμείνων καὶ δυνατώτερος τούτου φύεται; Φαῖδρος τίνα τοῦτον καὶ πῶς λέγεις γιγνόμενον; Σωκράτης ὃς μετ᾽ ἐπιστήμης γράφεται ἐν τῇ τοῦ μανθάνοντος ψυχῇ, δυνατὸς μὲν ἀμῦναι ἑαυτῷ, ἐπιστήμων δὲ λέγειν τε καὶ σιγᾶν πρὸς οὓς δεῖ. Pl. Phdr. 275d4–276a7

Socrates That is what’s so scary about writing, Phaedrus, I think  – that is, how it’s really like painting. For the offspring (ekgona) of painting stand as if they are alive, but if you ask them something, they maintain an utter solemn silence. These speeches (logoi) are the same way: you would think that they say something with intention, but if you ask them anything about what they say, because you want to understand, they always respond with only one and the same signal. But every speech (logos) when it is once written, is buffeted about everywhere, likewise among those who listen and among those to whom it has no relevance, and it doesn’t know to whom it should and shouldn’t speak. If it goes wrong and is abused unjustly it always needs its father’s help, for it can neither defend nor help itself. Phaedrus You’ve said that quite rightly. Socrates  O K; do we see another speech (logos), its brother, but legitimate, both in the manner of its birth and how much it is naturally better and more capable? Phaedrus What is it? And how is it born?

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Socrates It is the one written in the mind and soul of one who understands. It can defend itself and knows to whom it should speak and keep silent. Both Antiphanes and Plato adopt the metaphor of family relationships when they describe writing, with the message itself being the children. Plato appears to be the follower here. While he does not mention Sappho or Antiphanes, he takes steps that are most easily seen as responding to “Sappho’s” claims. First, we should notice that he begins by talking about mothers. Writing (graphē) and painting (zōgraphiā) are both feminine nouns, and we hear instantly of their offspring (ekgona). “Sappho” had emphasized the feminine aspect of writing, even keeping the offspring within the womb. Plato’s character “Socrates,” on the other hand, moves as quickly as possible to a masculine emphasis, by using the word logos, which seems, especially in its first use, to be strangely employed, since it clearly refers to verbal expression recorded in writing, contrary to the default use of the term. “Socrates” next refers to the “father” of the logos, and then continues the masculine emphasis by claiming that written logos is illegitimate, and that its legitimately born brother is recorded in the mind. We should note here that the contrast between legitimate and illegitimate implies that the legitimate speech has a different mother, thus rejecting the motherhood of writing – though “Socrates,” meaningfully, does not designate any particular mother for this legitimate son. It is easy to see how Plato could have written this in the light of “Sappho”’s claims, devaluing the motherhood she invokes in favor of a) another, legitimate, mother, and b) a shift to masculine metaphors of fathers and sons.19 It is less easy to see the influence working in the other direction; admittedly, Antiphanes is writing comedy, not a philosophical argument, but it seems likely that, had he been faced with Plato’s claims, he would have had “Sappho” defend the legitimacy of epistolē as a mother. Second, there is the matter of the audience for writing. “Sappho” tells us, twice, that a letter addresses only its chosen audience – her point being that, while speech can be perceived by anyone within the radius of audibility, writing can be read silently and privately.20 But Plato’s “Socrates” refutes “Sappho”’s point directly. He observes that a piece of writing is recorded once, but then finds itself among multiple audiences, some less suitable than others, and cannot choose whom it will address. “Sappho”’s riddle had failed to deal 19  Also noted by Rosenmeyer 2001: 96. Bassi 1998: 90–91 explores the implicit gender dynamics. 20  See also Rosenmeyer 2001: 97.

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with the permanence of writing, which could cause it to outlast its initial purpose. It is not necessarily the case that Antiphanes would have responded to this idea if he was writing after Plato, but it nevertheless makes sense for Plato’s observations to be considered a response. This is especially the case because the other part of the argument in the Phaedrus – that writing responds to questions merely by repeating itself – is something Plato had said before (Prt. 329a), and which we find in inscribed epigram a century earlier (CEG 286, dated to c. 490–80 BCE). The expansion of Plato’s thinking here can be considered due to his reaction to Antiphanes. It is also worth noting that Plato’s statement occurs quite near his metaphorical use of the word κυλινδεῖται. This metaphor is unmotivated in Plato’s context, but a sea swell also appears in “Sappho”’s riddle in conjunction with the idea of the audience of writing, and there its use is contextually helpful, as it allows Antiphanes more easily to lead into his jibe about moneygrubbing politicians and their overseas rapacity. While Plato’s use of this metaphor does not necessarily require an explanation (a similar use occurs in Ar. Vesp. 492),21 it hints that Plato may be aware of Antiphanes. It should also be noted that Plato’s thinking about the persistence of writing, and its consequent tendency to fall into the wrong hands, is not a very good fit for a discussion of a written speech. While scholars today are most familiar with speeches that were circulated after their delivery, a typical speech did not meet this fate: it was written and then spoken by the same person; once delivered, it had had its effect, and the papyrus copy became scrap. Plato’s point here seems most easily to derive from an epistolary model, in which interception by parties other than the addressee was a persistent concern.22 The fact that Plato discusses a speech as if it were a letter gives us our strongest signal that he may have been responding to a discussion of letters elsewhere. We cannot be completely certain that that source is Antiphanes’ Sappho, but, given their other affinities mentioned above, it seems likely. Of course, we cannot discount the possibility that both Plato and Antiphanes are responding to some other text, or to discussions of writing that were in the air at the time. This does not diminish the importance of the points to come, as that source, whatever it was, must have contained the important element we find in Sappho: consideration of communication through metaphors of offspring, including a gendered tilt, in which writing was markedly feminine.

21  Nevertheless, Yunis 2011: 230 does seem to feel that a note of justification is required. 22  Ceccarelli 2013 passim (see index).

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3 Erinna The poets to whom we turn next, however, take their inspiration directly from the Sappho tradition, without any reference to Plato’s response. First, the epigrams of Erinna. Erinna is best known for her Distaff. Her dates are variously given, but the current consensus holds that Eusebius’ date for her is at least approximately correct, placing her in the 350s BCE. She is thus significantly earlier than the Hellenistic poets to whom she is most often compared. If this date is right, and if the epigrams attributed to her are genuine, then they, too, are near-contemporaries with Antiphanes’ Sappho and Plato’s Phaedrus. Her authorship of those epigrams, however, is a matter of dispute. There are only three of them, and we do not have a sufficient basis to compare their style to that of the Distaff. What is more, two of those epigrams contain subject matter that is clearly derivative from the Distaff. This sounds a cautionary note: they may have been composed by readers of the Distaff, as meditations or variations on it, rather than by its writer as an adjunct to it.23 In the argument that follows, the genuineness of the attribution is not a key issue; the connection of gender and writing will be important, but it may well be that the epigrams were attributed to Erinna because of those connections, rather than that she was exploring them as a woman writer herself. In either of those cases, the texts, and the fact that they are attached to her name, play the same role in the tradition. The date of the epigrams is more important but, if their authorship cannot be trusted, far more difficult to determine. If they are responses to Erinna’s work, they could well be early: Leonidas of Tarentum and Asclepiades, in the early 3rd century, were enthusiasts.24 Additionally, their overt consideration of writing as a medium, which has been thought to point toward a Hellenistic date, is in fact an indicator that they may date from, at the least, near the beginning of that era, and perhaps earlier. The theme is prominent in the very earliest Hellenistic epigrams, and appears in inscribed epigrams before the Hellenistic period,25 implying that their attribution to Erinna is not out of the 23  Neri 2003: 85 does not consider this reason to be dispositive, though he admits that the epigrams still strongly give that impression (2003: 88) and counts sufficient other factors (2003: 86–88) to consider the epigrams doubtful. 24   Anth. Pal. 7.11, 13. 25  Tueller 2008: 141–45. Consciousness of the nature of writing would be much more unusual in epic; the increased sensitivity of Erinna’s Distaff to the private sphere, and references to the silence of the dead, are hints at its written nature – but much more subtle ones (Rayor 2005: 60, 68).

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question. In what follows, then, I will proceed with the tentative assumption that these epigrams date from somewhere between the mid-4th century and the early 3rd century BCE. For convenience, I will still refer to their author as “Erinna.” Let us turn then to Anth. Pal. 6.352: ἐξ ἁπαλᾶν χειρῶν τάδε γράμματα· λῷστε Προμαθεῦ, ἔντι καὶ ἄνθρωποι τὶν ὁμαλοὶ σοφίαν. ταύταν γοῦν ἐτύμως τὰν παρθένον ὅστις ἔγραψεν αἰ καὐδὰν ποτέθηκ᾽, ἦς κ᾽ Ἀγαθαρχὶς ὅλα. Anth. Pal. 6.352, Erinna 3 G-P

These grammata come from tender hands: great Prometheus, humans, too, are equal to you in wisdom! In fact, if the person who drew this maiden so truly had added also a voice, she would be Agatharchis complete! The first sentence is worth a thorough analysis. The adjective ἁπαλός, generally translated “soft” or “tender,” might in many cases be rendered “vulnerable” in Homer; it usually describes the neck, as a site on the body that may easily be pierced;26 modifying “hands,” it emphasizes that they are ineffectual.27 But for Sappho, there are things soft hands can do: σὺ δὲ στεφάνοις, ὦ Δίκα, πέρθεσθ’ ἐράτοις φόβαισιν ὄρπακας ἀνήτω συναέρραισ’ ἀπάλαισι χέρσιν…. Sappho fr. 81b.1–2

Put garlands around your lovely locks, Dica, and tie together sprigs of dill with your tender hands….28 Erinna recalls this passage as she gives the tender hands another product – grammata. But what exactly are these? The reader’s first impression would be that they are letters. This is the most common meaning of the word, and certainly would not be out of place in an epigram. This is also the word’s meaning 26   Il. 3.371 (pressed by a chinstrap), 13.202, 17.49, 18.177, 19.285, 22.237; Od. 22.16. 27   Od. 21.149–51. 28  Aeschylus (Pers. 537) also assigns activity to tender hands – but the opposite activity: tearing veils in mourning. This raises the possibility that Erinna may have been alluding to mourning activity in Anth. Pal. 6.352. Such an allusion, if it exists, does not bear on the question of writing I address in this paper.

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when it is used by “Sappho” in Antiphanes’ play. But it quickly becomes clear that the word refers to a painted figure, and that that figure lacks the usual ability granted by grammata – speech. This failure is surprising for two reasons. The first relates to genre – images had long had the ability to speak, simply by virtue of having an epigram inscribed on them, and an epigram is ostensibly attached to an image here.29 The second reason relates to gender: women, as seen in DuBois’ examples, are the locus of inscription, and thus their mute bodies have a greater ability to speak than their living voices. The image of a woman whose epigram granted her speech was cited in Plato’s Phaedrus as well-known, proclaiming “I am a bronze maiden, and I sit on the marker of Midas” (Anth. Pal. 7.153; Pl. Phdr. 264d). Writing here, then, fails to function: first, even the word grammata itself fails as a signifier, and then the epigram fails to deliver speech, as writing should. The “tender hands” of the female author are ineffectual, and the female subject of the epigram is left in silence.30 Erinna makes her point more securely in the following epigram: στᾶλαι καὶ Σειρῆνες ἐμαὶ καὶ πένθιμε κρωσσέ, ὅστις ἔχεις Ἀΐδα τὰν ὀλίγαν σποδιάν, τοῖς ἐμὸν ἐρχομένοισι παρ᾽ ἠρίον εἴπατε χαίρειν, αἴτ᾽ ἀστοὶ τελέθωντ᾽ αἴθ᾽ ἑτεροπτόλιες· χὤτι με νύμφαν εὖσαν ἔχει τάφος, εἴπατε καὶ τό· χὤτι πατήρ μ᾽ ἐκάλει Βαυκίδα, χὤτι γένος Τηλία, ὡς εἰδῶντι· καὶ ὅττι μοι ἁ συνεταιρὶς Ἤρινν᾽ ἐν τύμβῳ γράμμ᾽ ἐχάραξε τόδε. Anth. Pal. 7.710, Erinna 1 G-P

29  Tueller 2008: 150–51. 30  Thus, in the end, Homer’s tender (i.e. ineffectual) hands win out over Sappho’s. MännleinRobert 2007: 256, in explicating the double meaning of grammata, emphasizes the ability of poetry (in this case, Erinna’s own poem) to grant speech, which painting cannot do. She notes parenthetically that “ironically and perhaps in order to underline the painting’s deficiency, she [i.e. Erinna] refrains from exploiting her medium’s potential by allowing Agatharchis’ voice to speak.” Given that Anth. Pal. 6.352 is an epigram, and therefore would be expected by generic convention to endow the statue with speech, this statement of inability should not be parenthetical, but rather should be the primary impression given by the poem.

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Pillars, and my sirens, and you, sorrowful urn, who hold the little ash of Hades, speak greetings to those who go by my tomb, whether they turn out to be townsmen or from another city. Say this too: that the grave holds me, bride though I am, that my father called me Baucis, and that my clan was from Telos, so that they may know – also that my companion Erinna carved this gramma on my tomb. Here Erinna carves on the tomb – again the word gramma makes an appearance – but again this fails to grant speech to either the tomb or Baucis – the two standard speakers of sepulchral epigram.31 This failure is particularly ironic, because we hear, or rather overhear, Baucis’ speech – the entire epigram is in her voice – but she lacks all confidence in her ability to communicate, and begs every surrounding object to speak on her behalf.32 We are here very far from the woman’s body as tablet. Erinna cannot create a feminized speaking object; Baucis refuses to be that object.33 Erinna’s key contribution in her epigrams is to move away from the idea of a feminine speaking object, and insist that women displace their speech onto other objects. In this sense, her epigrammatic women cease to behave with the boldness accorded images (e.g. Midas’ bronze maiden), and exhibit the same silence – or, better, displaced speech – that actual women possessed. In this way, Erinna duplicates the move made by Euripides’ Hippolytus, in which Phaedra abandons the bolder conventions of stage women and adopts those of real Athenian society, communicating with men only through intermediaries.34

31  Tueller 2008: 16, 18, 20. See also Tueller 2008: 32 and 35. 32  Rayor 2005: 67 supports this reading most of the way; in slight contrast to her, I would emphasize the importance of the fact that the reader overhears the voice, rather than simply hearing it. 33  It is also worth noting that Baucis does not ask the passer-by to speak, even though the presence of passers-by is acknowledged in the epigram itself, and inscribed epigram often found this person to be a handy nearby speaker (Tueller 2010). Perhaps this reticence arises from the presumed male gender of the passer-by. On the other hand, Anth. Pal. 7.712 (Erinna 2 G-P) commissions speech from the passer-by and τὰ σάματα. 34  In fact, as Kivilo 2010: 190 points out, it is likely that Antiphanes’ Sappho featured a promiscuous Sappho, so her words about traveling letters may have been reminiscent of Hippolytus as well. The two plays have an intertextual connection; see below.

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4 Aratus Aratus absorbs Erinna’s point, but reacts in a much more masculine vein: Ἀργεῖος Φιλοκλῆς Ἄργει καλός, αἱ δὲ Κορίνθου στῆλαι καὶ Μεγαρέων ταὐτὸ βοῶσι τάφοι· γέγραπται καὶ μέχρι λοετρῶν Ἀμφιαράου ὡς καλός. ἀλλὰ λίθων γράμμασι λειπόμεθα; τῷδε γὰρ οὐ πετραῖ᾽ ἐπιμαρτυρεῖ ἄλλα, Ῥιηνὸς αὐτὸς ἰδών· ἑτέρου δ᾽ ἐστὶ περισσότερος. Anth. Pal. 12.129, Aratus 1 G-P35

Argive Philocles is beautiful at Argos, and the pillars of Corinth and tombs of Megara shout the same thing. It has been written as far as the baths of Amphiaraus that he is beautiful. But do we linger among writing on stones? For it is not more writing on rocks that confirm his beauty, but Rhianus, who saw him personally – and he exceeds the other one. At first, this epigram seems to be granting great force to written sources, but an allusive note of irony is sounded already in line 2: does writing really “shout”? Not ordinarily; but it did in Euripides’ Hippolytus: Theseus uses the word (877) of the inscribed tablet bearing Phaedra’s false accusations.36 By the end of the epigram, writing is left behind in favor of a personal witness. We must pay just as close attention, however, to what this epigram doesn’t say. Though it invokes the speech of pillars and tombs, just as Erinna did, it pays no attention to whom those inscriptions represent. In fact, since the writing to which it refers is nothing more than kalos graffiti, it has broken free of the usual conventions that assign voices to pillars and tombs: its voice is that of a nameless scrawler. The poem thus absorbs Erinna’s message, that things cannot be people. This point is driven home by the third inscribed source – the baths of Amphiaraus. Amphiaraus, who speaks from beyond the grave, might be expected to have a genuine voice, but again, “Philocles is kalos” cannot possibly emanate from that voice. The epigram departs from Erinna, however, by 35  In lines 4 and 5 I adopt the emendations of Gärtner 2007: 13–15, with a change in punctuation of my own. The points made in my argument here, however, are not dependent on this reading; the views of the epigram on the reliability of written matter are quite clear regardless of the corrections adopted. See, for instance, Bing 2002: 47–48. 36  Also noted by Ceccarelli 2013: 252.

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moving beyond the attempt to assign speech to objects, and turning to direct witness and oral transmission – an inevitably masculine sphere that Erinna could not enter. It is fitting that this is done in an epigram that is populated exclusively by masculine characters, as opposed to the exclusively feminine characters of Erinna’s epigram. 5 Callimachus Callimachus follows Erinna’s lead much less ironically. τὸ χρέος ὡς ἀπέχεις, Ἀσκληπιέ, τὸ πρὸ γυναικὸς Δημοδίκης Ἀκέσων ὤφελεν εὐξάμενος, γιγνώσκειν· ἢν δ᾽ ἆρα λάθῃ καὶ ⟨δίς⟩ μιν ἀπαιτῇς, φησὶ παρέξεσθαι μαρτυρίην ὁ πίναξ. Anth. Pal. 6.147, Callimachus 24 G-P

Notice: Asclepius, you have taken payment for the debt that Aceson incurred by the vow he made for his wife Demodice. If you forget and dun for it again, this tablet declares that it will serve as a receipt. Let us first note the resemblance to Erinna’s epigrams: speech is displaced onto an object, a pinax, which does not seem to be equated with either of the people named in the epigram (or, for that matter, with Asclepius or a passerby). But in most respects Callimachus is more clear than Erinna. He does not have a character assign speech to the tablet, which would, itself, be a form of speaking – a problem that we face in Erinna’s epigrams. Rather, the object asserts for itself its role as a speaker. Not for nothing was Callimachus called a “wooden mind”37 – he, as only women before him, could identify a poetic voice with an inscribed object. We also see much more clearly the gendering of this act: both a man and a woman are in the epigram. In the worship of Asclepius, men and women seem to have participated on a fairly equal basis, and dedications made by women are quite common.38 We would not have been surprised to see Demodice making the vow to Asclepius, or fulfilling it with a dedication. If we may trust the placement of the poem in the Palatine Anthology, which, in this case, seems to 37   Anth. Pal. 11.275, attributed to Apollonius of Rhodes. 38  The evidence is from Athens: Dillon 2002: 27.

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go back to a single-author collection,39 the reader may have been led to expect a dedication by a woman as well: it occurs between two dedications by women.40 But in this epigram, Demodice’s husband takes both these functions from her: he makes the vow, and he fulfills it on her behalf. She is left silent, not even naming the illness from which she was cured, while her husband settles the accounts. In no other epigram in Anth. Pal. 6 does a man make a dedication for, or fulfill a vow for, a woman; here the displacement of her voice emphasizes her feminine silence. In another epigram, Callimachus brings out the peculiarities of the speaking object: φησὶν ὅ με στήσας Εὐαίνετος (οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγε γιγνώσκω) νίκης ἀντί με τῆς ἰδίης ἀγκεῖσθαι χάλκειον ἀλέκτορα Τυνδαρίδῃσι· πιστεύω Φαίδρου παιδὶ Φιλοξενίδεω. Anth. Pal. 6.149, Callimachus 25 G-P

Evaenetus, who set me up, claims (for my part, I don’t know) that I, a bronze rooster, have been dedicated to the Tyndarides in return for my own victory. I believe the son of Phaedrus son of Philoxenus. Here Callimachus is broadly parodying the idea of assigning speech to an object.41 But there is a gendered dimension to his critique. Callimachus signals the masculinity of the speaking object with an allusion: it is an ἀλέκτωρ, the very word that Aristophanes put into the mouth of “Socrates” when he wanted an overtly masculine word (Nu. 666). This hints that Callimachus again understands – and argues against – the gendering of the written source as female. In this way, he aligns himself with Plato, who spoke of writing in masculine terms, and was concerned about its parentage. The rooster aligns itself perfectly with Plato’s view of writing: it does not know anything on its own, not even whether it really won a cock-fight. In order to speak, it must call upon its 39  Gutzwiller 1998: 36–39. 40  The dedication immediately preceding, Anth. Pal. 6.146, is for a healthy childbirth; since some of Asclepius’ fame seems to have come from assisting with problem pregnancies (IG IV2 1, 121, nos. 1 & 2), this may have made it even more likely that a woman’s dedication would have been expected. 41  As I examined earlier (Tueller 2008: 191–93), in this epigram, Callimachus questions the extent to which a mind lies behind the voice that epigram assigns to objects. See also Bettenworth 2007: 83–85.

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“father,” Evaenetus – and to drive home its point, it invokes Evaenetus’ father and grandfather as well! It is probably no accident that one of them is named “Phaedrus.” 6 Conclusion And so we have come to the conjunction of Plato and Callimachus. Whenever we consider the reflections of the ancients on writing, these two figures loom large – one theorizing, and the other twisting and playing. But we must not let these men occupy the stage alone: the questions provoked by writing were gendered, and women – both as subjects and then as writers – figured prominently in their consideration. The Greek cultural preference for oral communication, and the consequent feminine gendering of the written, provided a seed. Erinna, reacting against that tradition, and within a genre that easily accepted the equation of a person with an object, drove a wedge between the women in her poems and the objects that are allowed to speak. She showed a clear desire to reveal the silence of women, and not to downplay that silence by acting as if objects are a sufficient substitute – all in all, not an unfitting subject for the author of the Distaff, a poem named for the feminized speaking object par excellence. Later, Nossis would create a Magritte-like series of epigrams that questioned the identification of women with their representations, and Anyte and Moero would show how silence about important details can lead to an interpretive impasse.42 Though Callimachus would prove a master of these techniques, he was not their creator: he owed a debt to epigram’s founding mothers. Bibliography Bassi, K. 1998. Acting Like Men: Gender, Drama, and Nostalgia in Ancient Greece. Ann Arbor. Bettenworth, A. 2007. “The mutual influence of inscribed and literary epigram.” In P. Bing and J. S. Bruss, eds., Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram, 69–93. Leiden. Bing, P. 2002. “The un-read Muse? Inscribed epigram and its readers in antiquity.” In A. Harder, R. F. Regtuit, and G. C. Wakker, eds., Hellenistic epigrams, 39–66. Leuven.

42  See Tueller 2008.

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Ceccarelli, P. 2004. “Écriture féminine, écriture épistolaire, parole des rhéteurs: à propos du fragment 194 K.-A. de la Sappho d’Antiphane.” In L. Nadjo and E. Gavoille, eds., Epistulae antiquae 3, Actes du IIIe colloque international “L’épistolaire antique et ses prolongements européens”, 11–32. Louvain. Ceccarelli, P. 2013. Ancient Greek Letter Writing: A Cultural History (600 BC–150 BC). Oxford. Dillon, M. 2002. Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion. London. DuBois, P. 1988. Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women. Chicago. Gärtner, T. 2007. “Textkritische Bemerkungen zu erotischen Epigrammen der Anthologia Palatina.” Scripta Classica Israelica 26: 1–18. Gutzwiller, K. J. 1998. Poetic Garlands: Hellenistic Epigrams in Context. Berkeley. Kivilo, M. 2010. Early Greek Poets’ Lives: The Shaping of the Tradition. Leiden. Männlein-Robert, I. 2007. “Epigrams on art: voice and voicelessness in ecphrastic epigram.” In P. Bing and J. S. Bruss., eds., Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram, 251–71. Leiden. Neri, C. 2003. Erinna: testimonianze e frammenti. Bologna. Olson, S. D. 2007. Broken Laughter: Select Fragments of Greek Comedy. Oxford. Rayor, D. J. 2005. “The power of memory in Erinna and Sappho.” In E. Green, ed., Women poets in ancient Greece and Rome, 60–71. Norman, OK. Rosenmeyer, P. A. 2001. Ancient Epistolary Fictions: The Letter in Greek Literature. Cambridge. Segal, C. 1986. Interpreting Greek Tragedy: Myth, Poetry, Text. Ithaca, New York. Thesleff, H. 1982. Studies in Platonic Chronology. Helsinki. Tueller, M. A. 2008. Look Who’s Talking: Innovations in Voice and Identity in Hellenistic Epigram. Leuven. Tueller, M. A. 2010. “The passer-by in Archaic and Classical epigram.” In M. Baumbach, A. Petrovic, and I. Petrovic, eds., Archaic and Classical Greek epigram, 42–60. Cambridge. Vries, G. J. de. 1969. A Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato. Amsterdam. Wankel, H. 1991. “‘The Hypereides principle’? Bemerkungen zur Korruption in Athen.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 85: 34–36. Yunis, H. 2011. Plato: Phaedrus. Cambridge. Zeitlin, F. 1996. Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature. Chicago.

chapter 8

Hard Verses and Soft Books: The Materials of Elegy S. J. Heyworth Recent decades have seen an apt and increasing attention to the place of epigram in Latin elegy.1 This paper continues these investigations by concentrating on one related aspect: the extraordinary variety of materials by which the elegists (primarily Propertius in my account) figure the presentation and preservation of words, both theirs and others’. Elegy may be inscribed on hard stone, as the fitting meter for sepulchral epigram; but its nature is soft, as the poets repeatedly admit, and they foresee transmission and immortality as dependent on materials far less permanent, and even insubstantial. 1

Sepulchral Memorials in Propertius 1 and 2

From his first lines2 epigram plays a significant part in Propertius’ early books.3 As death becomes a substantial theme, so does memorialization. Book 1 ends with two ten-line poems:4 1.22 is a sphragis that serves as a gloss on the previous poem, implicitly identifying as a relative of the poet (mei … propinqui, 7) the dead and unburied speaker of the quasi-sepulchral 1.21. As we expect in the case of an unusual death, this epigram tells the story behind it: Propertius’ relative has died after escaping through Caesar’s lines during the

1  E.g. Schulz-Vanheyden 1969; Fedeli 1989; Yardley 1996; Ramsby 2007; Videau 2010: 71–130; Keith, ed., 2011; Houghton 2013; Nelis-Clément & Nelis 2013; forthcoming as I write is Bettenworth 2016. 2  1.1.1–4 famously imitate Meleager’s Myiscus poem, Anth. Pal. 12.101; for detailed analysis see e.g. Keith 2011, at 105–6 and n. 32. 3  The texts of Propertius are drawn from my OCT (Heyworth 2007a), and the translations mainly from Heyworth 2007b, where explication of the choices made can also be found. The sources of earlier conjectures can be found in Smyth 1970. 4  On these, and the next few Propertian passages to be discussed, see Ramsby 2007: 50–57. However, Ramsby’s book pays surprisingly little attention to the carmina epigraphica, except in setting general “Hellenistic influences” in opposition to “the traditional and welldocumented Roman practice that honoured the dead with poetic inscriptions” (47), as if Greek sepulchral epigram were not also a strong and influential tradition, e.g. on Propertius 1.21 and 3.7: see e.g. Schulz-Vanheyden 1969.

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battle of Perugia. Line 7 gives us the name of the dead soldier,5 line 6 perhaps the name of his sister (Acca, if Scaliger’s conjecture is correct), and 1.22 shows Propertius to be another relative. Thus some regular functions of sepulchral epigram are discharged, and we may observe that one purpose of the poem is to celebrate the man whose death could not be marked by a proper tomb. We might try to imagine the words inscribed on a cenotaph, but the final couplet denies the possibility (1.21.9–10): et, quaecumque super dispersa inuenerit ossa montibus Etruscis, haec sciat esse mea.6 The final half-line plays on the common opening hic situs est, but here the deictic haec points to the bones, which are necessarily absent from any cenotaph. Thus instead of something that might be cut into stone, we have the words of a dead man, speaking not as if from an everlasting grave, but under the temporary circumstances of the siege of Perugia; the words are imagined by a poet and given permanence not by hard-wearing marble but by their inclusion in a poetic book, copied and recopied as generations pass. The use of the imagined spoken word to celebrate the dead begins in the Iliad, with Hector’s fantasy about the words of a sailor passing the tomb of the Greek challenger he expects to kill in single combat.7 It is a repeated motif in the Propertian corpus.8 It marks the poet’s own tomb-to-be already at 1.7.23–4: nec poterunt iuuenes nostro reticere sepulchro: “ardoris nostri magne poeta, iaces?”9 5  Even if, as I suspect, Gallum is the result of assimilation to the addressee of 1.20, it is likely that the lost word was the correct name. 6  “And, whatever bones she finds scattered up on the Etruscan hills, let her know that these are mine.” 7  Iliad 7.87–91, nicely explored as a foundational moment for the tradition of sepulchral epigram by Thomas 1998. 8  See Fedeli 1989: 93–94. 9  “Nor will the young men be able to keep quiet at my tomb: ‘Great composer of our passion, do you lie dead?’” Cf. Tib. 1.3.55 hic iacet … Tibullus (“here lies Tibullus”; see Maltby 2002 ad loc., for further 3rd-person instances, including Ov. Am. 3.9.39 iacet ecce Tibullus; and Houghton 2013: 353); CLE 441.1 (= Courtney 1998 [MLAP in following notes] 176.1) Innocuus Aper ecce iaces (“Here you lie, innocent Aper”); CLE 467.4 (= MLAP 177.4) iaces annis iam uiduata tuis (“you lie, robbed of the years due to you”). Yardley 1996: 273 notes the similarity to CLE 441.1 and other passages (and later the sepulchral usage of transire at 2.11.5); he also has a good discussion (268) of the chronological issues in adducing such parallels, responding to

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and 2.1.77–78 (addressed to Maecenas): taliaque illacrimans mutae iace uerba fauillae: “Huic misero fatum dura puella fuit.”10 The absence of such speech is foreseen for Cynthia’s tomb (if Propertius ceases to write about her), at 2.11.5–6: et tua transibit contemnens ossa uiator, nec dicet “cinis hic docta puella fuit.”11 In each instance the context and phrasing imitates that of sepulchral epigram (as my footnotes illustrate); the placing of the words in the pentameter reinforces the evocation of epigram. Once again we may find implied a strong contrast between the potential engraved form of expression and the apparently fleeting (but in fact long-lasting) words that Propertius gives us. It is true that Lissberger 1934, and concluding that “at least some of the terms of phrase and wording that we find recurring in later funerary contexts probably predated the elegists”. This is the assumption that lies behind my discussion too. 10  “And weeping cast such words as these to the mute ash: ‘A hard-hearted girl was the fate of this poor soul.’” Cf. Rodriguez Herrera 1999; and CLE 1111.8 (= MLAP 123.8) nunc sum defleti parua fauilla rogi (“now I am a little ash from the tearful pyre”); 1234.1 Hic lapis ossa tegit miseri collecta Philonis (“This stone covers the gathered bones of poor Philo”); 1065.4 nunc iacet ecce miser (“here now lies poor …”); 995.13 (= MLAP 180.13) crudelia fata (“cruel fates”); 434.10 (= MLAP 70.10) si non infelix contraria fata habuissem (“if in my misfortune I had not had adverse fates”). CLE 512.1 hic ego qui taceo uersibus meam uitam demonstro (“Here I who am silent reveal my life in verse”) has a similar paradox: the man who has joined the silent dead speaks through the words written for the tombstone, or to be spoken by the passing Maecenas. 11  “And the traveler will ignore your bones as he passes, and not say, ‘This ash was once a poetic girl.’” Cf. CLE 123.1 frequens uiator saepe qui transis, lege (“Frequent traveler who often pass, read”); 1452 dic, rogo, qui transis, “sit tibi terra leuis” (“Passer-by, please say ‘May the earth be light on you’”); 484.2 (= MLAP 130.2) meos uersus dum transeo perlego et ipse (“while I pass, I read through my own verses”); 434.1–2 (= MLAP 70.1–2) uiator/ siste, rogo, titulumque meum ne spreueris, oro (“traveler, please stop, I pray, and do not ignore my inscription”); CLE 409.5 (= MLAP 172.5) sum deinde cinis de milite factus (“then I was turned from soldier to ash”); 1532.2 (= MLAP 59.2) mortua hic ego sum et sum cinis (“here I am dead and ash”); 20.9 docta, erudita paene Musarum manu (“an educated girl, taught almost by the hand of the Muses”); 1111.8 (n. 10), and 11–12 (= MLAP 123.11–12) quondam ego … doctus (“once I was educated”); 960.3 si quaeris quae sim, cinis en et tosta fauilla (“If you ask who I am, look: ash and burned embers”); 219.9–12 (= MLAP 131.9–12) hic cinis/ pueri sepulchrum est Xantiae, / qui morte acerba raptus est/ iam doctus (“this ash is the tomb of the boy Xanthias, already educated when snatched by bitter death”).

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in the two instances from book 2, the words of the passer-by could be thought of as read from an inscription12; but the hypothetical status of each tomb stands against that, as does the emphasis on speech. In two of the three poetry is to the fore (magne poeta, 1.7.24; docta puella, 2.11.6), and 2.1 is an avowedly programmatic poem. It is also a poem in which the material of text is a persistent theme. Already in the first couplet the book is described as mollis (2.1.1–2): Quaeritis unde mihi totiens scribantur amores, unde meus ueniat mollis in ora liber.13 We might read the epithet as purely a reference to emotional content, and not evoking the form of text at all. But various observations should discourage that limited reading. The first is that liber implies a physical object, and in ora can mean “into view” (OLD s.v. os, 10). Then we may note that in verses 41–42 the antithetical durus is used to describe what the evocation of the Aeneid implies to be epic: nec mea conueniunt duro praecordia uersu Caesaris in Phrygios condere nomen auos.14 The placing of that epithet in the hexameter, in contrast to mollis in the pentameter of the opening couplet, particularly strengthens the formal aspect. But most significant are verses 5–6: siue illam Cois fulgentem incedere cerno, totum de15 Coa ueste uolumen erit.

5

Here begins the list of ways in which Cynthia’s behavior will be encapsulated in the work the poet produces: her wearing of Coan cloth will lead to poetry 12  As happens in Theocritus’ epithalamium for Helen, at Idyll 18.47–48 γράμματα δ’ ἐν φλοιῶι γεγράψεται, ὣς παριών τις/ ἀννείμηι Δωριστί, «σέβευ μ’, Ἑλένας φυτόν εἰμι» (“Letters will be written on the bark so that a passer-by may read in Doric: ‘Revere me: I’m Helen’s plant.’”), which is relevant to the erotic inscriptions I shall move on to. See also Schulz-Vanheyden 1969: 97–100, and Keith 2011: 108, on the epigrammatic aspects of the close of 2.1. 13  “You ask how it happens that so often I write of love affairs, how my book comes in elegiac form on to people’s lips.” 14  “Nor does my heart suit the composition of Caesar’s name back to his Phrygian ancestors in epic verse.” 15   totum de ϛ: hoc totum e Ω. The paradosis gives the appropriate sense “entirely of Coan cloth” but lacks the required point that de provides: “If I observe her out for a walk gleaming in Coan silks, the whole roll will be ⟨both⟩ about Coan cloth ⟨and made of it⟩.”

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about, and thus made of, Coan cloth.16 What fabric could be softer than silk? The poet’s imagination thus brings the content and material of his text into perfect alignment. Hardness recurs towards the end of the poem, not only in the description of Cynthia as dura,17 but also in the couplet that introduces the closing invitation to Maecenas (2.1.71–72): quandocumque igitur uitam me Fata reposcent, et breue in exiguo marmore nomen ero, …18 Here Propertius does envisage his tomb as marble, and inscribed, but the diction diminishes the importance of such a monument: the name will be brief19, the marble small – what matters is how he will be defined by his lifelong love for Cynthia and his poetry, and thus he ends the poem (in 2.1.77–78, cited above) by extracting tears and a characteristically elegiac pentameter from the man who has earlier been depicted as seeking epic from him. 2

The Permanence of Nomina

In the case of 1.7 it is not the surrounding poem that gives weight to the play between poetic and sepulchral memorialization but the allusion to Catullus: nec poterunt … reticere (“they shall not be able to keep silent”, 23) recalls the opening line of Catullus 68B (41–50): Non possum reticere, deae, qua me Allius in re iuuerit aut quantis fouerit officiis, ne fugiens saeclis obliuiscentibus aetas illius hoc caeca nocte tegat studium: sed dicam uobis, uos porro dicite multis

45

16  The notion has been touched on less directly at 1.2.1–2 Quid iuuat … tenues Coa ueste mouere sinus, in a passage about Cynthia’s love of adornment that is easy to read as an allegory of the poet’s elegy: see Ross 1975: 58–59. 17  For such paradoxical play as a feature of Propertian style see Heyworth & Morwood 2011: 31–32 (including comments on mollis and durus). 18  “Therefore, whenever the Fates demand life back from me, and I am a brief name on a small piece of marble, …”. 19  The phrasing “points to the lack of titles and political offices that will appear on his tomb”: so Ramsby 2007: 55.

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milibus et facite haec charta loquatur anus. ⟨. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .⟩ notescatque magis mortuus atque magis, nec tenuem texens sublimis aranea telam in deserto Alli nomine opus faciat.20 Allius’ acts of kindness are to be kept visible through the conversation of the poet to the muses, then of the muses to thousands, and of the papyrus to readers (45–46). haec charta figures the papyrus leaf as the one the poet writes on, but also the one that every reader listens to. anus expresses the endurance of the material, presenting the papyrus as a gossipy old woman, but also hints at the antiquity that poems can win, while the sequence dicam, dicite, loquatur implies the repetitions of gossiping, but also the tradition of copying that secures such permanence. Contrasted with this repeated process is the decay that can attend physical monuments, symbolized in 49–50 by the work of the spider covering up the name of the benefactor. sublimis has been doubted21, but the sense “aloft” may help us picture the name of a dedicatee inscribed on a building’s entablature, where it comes to be neglected as well as hidden by spiders’ webs. nomen22 is quickly evocative of an inscribed name in such a context,23 and it returns in the corresponding lines at the close of the poem (149–52): hoc tibi, quod potui, confectum carmine munus pro multis, Alli, redditur officiis, 20  “I cannot keep quiet, goddesses, on the way in which my Allius aided me, or with what kindnesses he supported me, lest time fleeing through forgetful generations cover this concern of his in dark night; but I shall tell you, and you in turn are to tell many thousands and make this paper speak as it grows old. ⟨………………………..⟩ and may he grow more and more famous when dead; and may the spider weaving its fine web aloft not do its work on the neglected name of Allius.” 21   subtilis Nisbet 1978: 107–8 (= 1995: 94–95), accepted by Trappes-Lomax 2007, ad loc. Despite nomine Nisbet seems to think there is an evocation of imagines, and is willing to see the spider as a symbol of decay only on the small scale, despite citing Propertius 2.6.35 uelauit aranea fanum. 22  It appears also to be an ironic pointer to the use of an invented name for the benefactor, whom Catullus gives us clues to read as Manlius, the addressee of 68A: n.b. me Allius in 41, Malia in 54. 23  So Kroll 1959, ad loc.: “C. denkt an eine Inschrift, die Allius’ namen enthält.” Cf. Propertius’ phrasing when he is defining the possibilities for his burial at 3.16.30 non iuuat in media nomen habere uia (“I do not want to have my name on the public road”); on nomen in “The Public Eye”, see Jenkyns 2013: 11–12, 50–52; on nomina in the Augustan era, Nelis-Clément & Nelis 2013: 320–26.

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ne uestrum scabra tangat robigine nomen haec atque illa dies atque alia atque alia.24 Again the physical expression of nomen is clear. Here the potential name is not incised in stone (as at Propertius 2.1.72), but conceived of as metal, whether letters fixed on with dowels, or a metal tablet like those in the tabularium of the Parcae at Ovid, Met. 15.808–14 (Jupiter addressing Venus) ex aere et solido rerum tabularia ferro … tuta atque aeterna … incisa adamante perenni fata tui generis (“universal records of bronze and solid iron …, safe and eternal … the fates of your race incised in the everlasting adamant”).25 Catullus 68B at the end leaves implicit the contrast between the monument that depends on physical form, and that is thus liable to decay, and the poem itself. But Ovid, having stressed the mass, strength and permanence of the Fates’ record office26 will close his poem sixty lines later with another creation that need not fear physical destruction (Met. 15.871–72, 875–79): Iamque opus exegi, quod nec Iouis ira nec ignis nec poterit ferrum nec edax abolere uetustas…. parte tamen meliore mei super alta perennis astra ferar, nomenque erit indelebile nostrum, quaque patet domitis Romana potentia terris, ore legar populi, perque omnia saecula fama, siquid habent ueri uatum praesagia, uiuam.27

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24  “This gift, which was what I could manage, made up of a poem, is proffered to you, Allius, in return for many kindnesses, lest this or the next or one or other future day touch your family name with roughening rust.” 25  For discussion of the archaeological evidence, see e.g. Williamson 1987, and Haensch 2009 (see “Bronzetafel” in index). 26  What are we to make of this construction when Ovid sets his own poem up as an alternative image of permanence? Is Jupiter misled about the strength of the building (with implications for the threat to Augustan buildings too)? Or are we to see that as a fiction, in contrast to the reality of the poem’s existence? Or should we perhaps follow the lead of Nelis-Clément & Nelis 2013: 338–39; they note the imitation of the scene between Venus and Jupiter in Aeneid 1, and take fata tui generis not merely as a pointer to that scene but to the Aeneid as a whole, a work that is constructed in a far more monumental fashion than the fluid Metamorphoses, and yet shares its prospects of eternity. 27  “Now I have finished a work, which neither the anger of Jupiter nor fire nor iron can blot out, nor gnawing old age…. However, in the better part of myself I shall be carried alive above the lofty stars, and our name will be indestructible, and where Roman power extends on the conquered earth I shall be read by the voice of the people, and in fame through all centuries, if the prophecies of poets have any truth, I shall live.”

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His nomen will not be liable to deletion (876) because it is found in multiple copies: it is not fixed in one place as an inscription would be, but lives all over the empire (877) on the lips of the people (878), and, perhaps, for all time. 3

Breath and Tears

The Metamorphoses is not elegiac Ovid, but its closing words reprise a motif from one of the earliest extant couplets in Latin, Ennius’ epigram on himself (FLP 46 = Var. 17–18 Vahlen): Nemo me lacrimis decoret nec funera fletu faxit. cur? uolito uiuu’ per ora uirum.28 The poet himself is figured as the breath of speech. From the first then Latin elegiacs are associated with tears and borne on air. This is taken further in Catullus’ version of a Callimachean epigram (29 Pfeiffer = Anth. Pal. 5.6): ὤμοσε Καλλίγνωτος Ἰωνίδι μήποτ’ ἐκείνης ἕξειν μήτε φίλον κρέσσονα μήτε φίλην. ὤμοσεν. ἀλλὰ λέγουσιν ἀληθέα τοὺς ἐν ἔρωτι ὅρκους μὴ δύνειν οὔατ’ ἐς ἀθανάτων. νῦν δ’ ὁ μὲν ἀρσενικῷ θέρεται πυρί. τῆς δὲ ταλαίνης νύμφης ὡς Μεγαρέων οὐ λόγος οὐδ’ ἀριθμός.29 Catullus imitates the structure of the first three lines, but then, for his different circumstances, incorporates an extraordinary version of an old gnome (70): Nulli se dicit mulier mea nubere malle quam mihi, non si se Iuppiter ipse petat. dicit; sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, in uento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.30 28  “No one is to adorn me with tears nor make a funeral with weeping. Why? I fly living through the mouths of men.” 29  “Callignotus swore to Ionis that he would never hold a male or female beloved above her. He swore; but men say truly that oaths in love do not enter the ears of the gods. Now he burns with a male passion; and of his poor bride there is, as of the Megarians, ‘no count or reckoning’.” 30  “My woman says she would prefer to marry no one than me, not if Jupiter himself were to court her. That’s what she says; but what a woman says to an eager lover one ought to write on wind and fleeting water.”

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Callimachus’ reference to oaths has apparently triggered reminiscence of a verse attributed to Sophocles (fr. 811 Radt): ὅρκους ἐγὼ γυναικὸς εἰς ὕδωρ γράφω (“I write the oaths of a woman on water.”).31 But Catullus has added an even more fleeting and insubstantial surface, by adapting the common image of winds carrying off words, which he himself uses at 30.10 uentos irrita ferre (“the winds bear unfulfilled”).32 The expression here may help support the transmitted text at 68.2 conscriptum hoc lacrimis mittis epistolium (“you send this letter written with tears”). Schrader’s conspersum (“spattered”) has been revived by Trappes-Lomax 2007, and seems possible, but it is hardly a necessary conjecture, given the interest Catullus shows elsewhere in metaphors to describe texts. Here of course the metaphor of tears changes the ink not the surface. We shall return to tears, but for now let me note in passing that Ovid (following Tib. 1.6.19–20, 1.10.32) has fun replacing ink with wine: Am. 1.4.20 uerba notata mero (“words marked in wine”); 2.5.17–18 conscriptaue uino / mensa (“or a table written with wine”); Ars am. 1.571–72; Her. 1.31–36, and especially 17.87–88: orbe quoque in mensae legi sub nomine nostro quod deducta mero littera fecit “amo”.33 4

Wood and Trees

Wood is a surface used to express love in other ways too in the elegiac tradition. Vergil, Eclogues 10.52–4 comes in the midst of Gallus’ soliloquy: certum est in siluis inter spelaea ferarum malle pati tenerisque meos incidere amores arboribus: crescent illae, crescetis, amores.34 31  Ellis 1876, ad loc., cites also Anth. Pal. 5.8.5 (Meleager = G.-P. 4352) νῦν δ’ ὁ μὲν ὅρκιά φησιν ἐν ὕδατι κεῖνα φέρεσθαι (“Now he says those oaths are being carried on water”; γράφεσθαι Polak), and Plato, Phaedrus 276c7 οὔκ ἄρα σπουδῆι αὐτὰ ἐν ὕδατι γράψει μέλανι (“it is not for no reason then that he will write them in water, black water”) where the epithet “black”, implying ink, seems to correct the nevertheless lasting impression of futility, in a wonderfully ironic passage concerned with the superiority of “living” to written discourse. 32  For further parallels, see e.g. Maltby 2002 on Tibullus 1.4.21–26 and 1.5.35–36. Wind and water are combined also at Prop. 2.28.8, Ov. Am. 2.16.46, and already at Theoc. Id. 22.167– 68. The words to vanish into thin air are specifically elegiac at Ov. Am. 2.14.41, Her. 1.79. 33  “On the round of the table I have also read beneath my own name, which letters drawn in wine made, ‘I love.’”. 34  “I’ve decided rather to endure in the woods amid the lairs of wild beasts and to cut my loves in the tender trees: they shall grow; grow too, loves.” Vergil also has a herdsman talk of writing on bark at 5.13–15: Immo haec, in uiridi nuper quae cortice fagi/ carmina

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The lines are almost certainly a version of a Gallan imitation of the words spoken in the woods by the love-sick Acontius of Callimachus, Aetia fr. 73: ἀλλ’ ἐνὶ δὴ φλοιοῖσι κεκομμένα τόσσα φέροιτε γράμματα, Κυδίππην ὅσσ’ ἐρέουσι καλήν.35 These lines are spoken by Acontius, citing his own inscribed words (κεκομμένα … γράμματα), which are themselves presented as speaking (ἐρέουσι).36 The play between written and spoken is thus already manifest in this foundational moment for Latin love elegy. In Vergil’s imitation some37 have seen amores not just as “expressions of love”, indicating the topic, but as the title of Gallus’ work, and thus implying whole books of love poetry. The trees are apt for such writing, in that they are teneri: “soft”, and thus easy to cut, “youthful” and thus likely to grow, “tender” and thus suited to erotic subjects. The repetition crescent … crescetis brings out the difference between stone and living wood as a surface for inscription. In 1.18 Propertius too frequents the woods, and echoes his three predecessors by repeatedly cutting Cynthia’s name into the bark of the trees beneath which he sings (1.18.19–22): uos eritis testes, si quos habet arbor amores, fagus et Arcadio pinus amica deo. a quotiens tenera resonant mea uerba sub umbra, scribitur et uestris cynthia corticibus!38

20

descripsi et modulans alterna notaui, / experiar (“or rather I shall try these verses, which I recently wrote down on the green bark of a beech and marked out arranging them in couplets”). On this, and other signs of textuality in the Eclogues, see Breed 2006: 15, and e.g. 71 on the tree inscription for Helen at Idyll 18.47–48 (cited in n. 12). 35  “And cut in your bark you are to bear as many letters as will say that Cydippe is beautiful.” 36  See Harder 2012, ad loc., for good comments on the “different levels and kinds of ‘text’”. A rather different kind of graffiti is promised by another poet-lover at Catull. 37.9–10: namque totius uobis/ frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam (“I shall scribble phalluses all over the front of your tavern”). 37  E.g. Hollis 2007, on FRP 139a = Serv. ad Bucolica 10.1 amorum suorum de Cytheride scripsit libros quattuor. 38  “If there is a tree that knows love, you will be witnesses, beech, and pine, mistress of Pan. How often my words resound below the soft shade, and Cynthia is written in your bark!”.

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Amores picks up the key word from Eclogue 10 (and probably Gallus39 too). Fagus and pinus recall the first verses of Vergil’s Eclogues (Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi, 1.1: “Tityrus, resting under the cover of the spreading beech”) and Theocritus’ bucolic Idylls (Ἁδύ τι τὸ ψιθύρισμα καὶ ἁ πίτυς, αἰπόλε, τήνα, 1.1: “Sweet is the whistling, goatherd, and the pine there”; mention of Pan follows in verse 3). They thus mark a move into the pastoral genre to match that from the streets of Rome into the wooded landscape; and this is then reinforced by the reference in 21 to umbra, so dominant a word and motif in Vergil’s book. But the substance goes back to Callimachus40, and so does the use of the second person to address the trees. More relevant for our purpose is that once again Propertius combines evocation of written text and spoken word, just as Callimachus has done in Acontius’ soliloquy. We may combine this observation with awareness of the tactical incoherence of the poem’s existence, as manifested already in the opening lines (1.18.1–4): Haec certe deserta loca et taciturna querenti, et uacuum Zephyri possidet aura nemus. hic licet occultos proferre impune dolores, si modo sola queant saxa tenere fidem.41 The lover seeks an empty landscape where he can safely rehearse his complaints without fear of being overheard by those who will broadcast his emotions; the poet on the other hand publishes his emotions. The paradox is brought out by the juxtapositions taciturna querenti and occultos proferre. But such countryside is notoriously full of echoes:42 at 4.572–93 Lucretius explains “how in the wilderness rocks (per loca sola saxa) return matching forms of words in order” (573–74), and his account of echoes goes on to include phrases such as loca deserta (“deserted places”, 591) and taciturna silentia (“quiet 39  On another aspect of Gallus relevant to this paper, the hint at monumental inscriptions in the Qasr Ibrîm fragment, see Gómez Pallarès 2005. 40  See Cairns 1969: 131–34, who teases out the implications for Callimachus of Aristaenetus’ paraphrase at Ep. 1.10 = Callim. fr. 75b Harder. The Acontius and Cydippe story features another material used as a surface for elegiac composition, the apple on which the youth inscribed the vow by Artemis to marry him; this will recur indirectly in the final pair of Ovidian letters, Her. 20–21 (n.b. 20.9–12, 209–16, 237–40; 21.107–10, 145). 41  “This place at least is deserted and quiet in response to my complaints, and Zephyr’s breeze is the master of the empty wood. Here I may bring out my hidden passion with impunity, if only the lonely rocks can keep faith.” 42  Cf. e.g. Cic. Arch. 19 saxa atque solitudines uoci respondent, Hor. Carm. 1.17.10–12, Ovid, Met. 3.393–94, Plin. HN 36.100, 126.

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silence”, 583). Propertius hopes for silence from both wind and rocks (though the use of resonare at 21 brings out the inevitability of echo). However, rocks may keep words not just to themselves, but also as inscriptions, a point implied not only by the written bark in 22, but also by the diction of the final couplet (1.18.31–2): sed qualiscumque es, resonent mihi “Cynthia” siluae nec deserta tuo nomine saxa uacent.43 Deserta and saxa reprise the opening line, but here the emphasis is on celebration, not silence. The words resonent … “Cynthia” siluae aptly echo Ecl. 1.5 resonare doces Amaryllida siluas. We have already seen woods used as the site for inscriptions, and the phrasing nec … nomine saxa uacent suggests another way in which the poet might memorialize his beloved. Further twists are added to the theme by Ovid, in the letter of Oenone to Paris, Her. 5.21–32:44 incisae seruant a te mea nomina fagi, et legor oenone falce notata tua, et quantum trunci, tantum mea nomina crescunt. crescite et in titulos surgite recta meos! popule, uiue, precor, quae consita margine ripae hoc in rugoso cortice carmen habes: cvm paris oenone poterit spirare relicta, ad fontem xanthi versa recvrret aqva. Xanthe, retro propera, uersaeque recurrite lymphae! sustinet Oenonen deseruisse Paris.45

25

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43  “But, however you behave, let the woods echo my ‘Cynthia’ and the deserted rocks never be empty of your name.” 44  The intertextual complexities are well explored by Knox 1995, ad loc. He also shows that 23–24 populus est, memini, fluuiali consita riuo, / est in qua nostri littera scripta memor, omitted here (as in the oldest manuscript, P), is a manifest interpolation: a doublet of 27–28, marked as inauthentic by the unOvidian treatment of the final -a of littera before the triple consonant at the start of scripta. 45  “Beeches inscribed by you bear my name and I am read as Oenone, signed by your sickle, and as much as the trunks grow, so does my name. Rise and grow straight, names, to promote my glory! Poplar, live, I pray, you who are planted at the edge of the bank and have this epigram on your creased bark: ‘When Paris can abandon Oenone and yet breathe, the water of Xanthus shall flow back to its source.’ Xanthus, hurry backwards, and flow with reversed streams! Paris has managed to leave Oenone.”

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First we have inscriptions on pastoral beech trees, as in Propertius 1.18, but the phrasing of 24 allows an Ovidian ambiguity. At first “My name Oenone is read, signed by your sickle”.46 But I suspect there is an obscene pun here too: effectively “I am read as Oenone drilled by your (i.e. Paris’) tool”.47 The equation of tree and inscription in Eclogue 10 is repeated here, but in the present tense: the inscribed words continue to grow even when the man who wrote them is far away. The pun is now on the growth of Oenone’s “name” = “fame” (though it is, of course, rather her association with the lover of Helen that will bring her fame). There is an oddity in verse 26, where we might expect crescite to be addressed to the trunci, seeking fulfilment of their part of the equation; but if so, we get no indication of the change of addressee before the proleptic adjective recta marks the subject of the parallel surgite as neuter, and thus nomina: “rise and grow straight, names, to promote my glory”. However, the adjective itself would apply more easily to trees (even if Oenone might hope that the inscription would grow straight and thus legible).48 It is tempting to see trees and names now combined as one notion, and the neuter used partly because it scans, but also because the nearer noun often determines gender in such cases;49 in that case the phallic imagery of 24 might be seen as transferring too, as the trees grow to do honor to the nymph.50 Oenone then goes on to report a further inscription, a whole couplet (29– 30), which revisits the interplay between the fixity of text and the fluidity of water. That water does not flow upstream is a firm truth, but one that is denied by Paris’ continuing to live after abandoning the nymph. Her watery identity complicates the claim. The previous couplet specifies not only the precise tree, a poplar, on the edge of the river-bank, but also the roughness of the bark used 46  This seems preferable to taking tua as part of the inscription, equivalent to Paridis, as Burman proposed: that isolates falce. 47  See Adams 1987: 24 on falx; and 199 on verbs like maculo, to which noto (“brand”, “stain”, etc.) is obviously akin. 48  The grammar would be more straightforward if we could accept a conjecture of Heinsius’, also suggested to me by Peter Thonemann: secta for recta (later MSS have impossible alternatives such as erecta, rite, lecta). Cf. Juv. 14.291 concisum argentum in titulos faciesque minutas, “silver cut up into titles and tiny faces” (of coinage). The sense would then be “Grow and rise, what has been cut to promote my glory”; but secare is used of cutting marble veneers (as at Hor. Carm. 2.18.17 secanda marmora) rather than inscribing letters: for bibliography and further discussion of the verb, see Horsfall 2006 on Aen. 3.464 secto elephanto. 49  See e.g. Hofmann & Szantyr 1965: 435. 50  For surgere in this sense Adams 1987: 252 cites Ov. Am. 2.15.25 mea membra libidine surgent, Mart. 12.86.2 nec surgit mentula, 12.97.9, Apul. Met. 7.23.2 in Venerem nullo modo surgere.

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as a writing surface. rugoso implies age of a poplar, as it would for a human being; and this gives greater poignancy to Oenone’s urging the tree to live (uiue, 27), as is appropriate for an oath and a memorial. Events have been set in train, however, that will lead to the death of both the writer and the recipient of the letter. But on what is the nymph herself writing, we might wonder? Perhaps bark, or liber? 5

The Materials of Writing in Propertius 3 and 4

Propertius cites epigrams in fantasizing about his own funeral at 2.13.35–36,51 in marking a celebratory offering to Venus at 2.14.25–28,52 and likewise in thanking Jupiter for Cynthia’s prospective recovery from illness at 2.28.43–44; but in none of these cases is material or permanence a marked feature. Book 3 offers a little more for our exploration, for example the evocation of Vergil and Catullus in 3.1.5–8 (addressed to Callimachus and Philitas): dicite, quo pariter carmen tenuastis in antro? quoue pede ingressi? quamue bibistis aquam? a ualeat, Phoebum quicumque moratur in armis. exactus tenui pumice uersus eat.53

5

tenuastis (5) is a metaphor from spinning,54 and thus constructs poetry as woven cloth. The verse of 8 is exactus, “finished off”, like a completed monument: the allusion to Horace, Odes 3.30.1 Exegi monumentum aere perennius (“I have finished constructing a monument more lasting than bronze”) is clarified by further echoes in verses 4 and 34, and especially the related poem 3.2.55 However, tenui pumice provides an allusion to a rather different poem, Catullus 1, with its stress on freshness, elegance and charm in verses 1–2 Cui dono lepidum 51  We may compare the inscribed stone that marks Tibullus’ grave at Tib. 1.3.55–56, and the list of other examples given ad loc. by Maltby 2002, including Verg. Ecl. 5.42–44 (discussed by Breed 2006: 62–63). Ramsby 2007: 79 sees Propertius as responding to Tibullus’ motif. 52  Again there was a Tibullian model: 1.9.83–84. 53  “Tell me, in what glen did you together refine your song? or with what foot did you begin? or what water did you drink? Ah, farewell to any who keeps Phoebus long under arms: let the verse flow, completed by the polishing of a fine pumice-stone.” 54  As in the carmen deductum (“fine-spun song”) of Verg. Ecl. 6.5 and at Hor. Epistles 2.1.225 tenui deducta poemata filo (“poems spun on a fine thread”). 55  3.2.19–26 make the immortality of the poems, monuments to Cynthia’s beauty, dependent on their immateriality: see Houghton 2013: 359–60.

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nouum libellum/ arido modo pumice expolitum? (“To whom do I give the charming new little book, freshly smoothed off with dry pumice stone?”). Given that pumice was used for smoothing the surface of the scrolls on which poetry was published, as is clear in the Catullian context, the phrasing also re-establishes papyrus as the material of the book.56 Towards the end of the book, in poem 3.23, papyrus is replaced by wax writing-tablets.57 They have been lost, we are told (3.23.1–8): Ergo tam doctae nobis periere tabellae, scripta quibus pariter tot periere bona! has quondam nostris manibus detriuerat usus, qui non signatas iussit habere fidem. illae iam sine me norant placare puellas atque eaedem sine me uerba diserta loqui; non illas fixum caras effecerat aurum: uulgari buxo sordida cera fuit.58

5

The poet plays in verse 1 and later with the idea of an occasional poem, but 3.23 is not in fact tied to specific circumstances. The lost writing tablets are presented as a physical object in verse 3, where Propertius notes the damage the tablets have endured through repeated usage, and in 8, with its talk of dirty wax and cheap boxwood. But elsewhere, e.g. 2 scripta tot bona, and 6, they are the symbol for his whole poetic output. The announcement of the loss clearly symbolizes the impending end of the book and the affair with Cynthia, which they have promoted and recorded. The penultimate couplet (21–22) plays on the contrast between the physical value of the tablets – simply wood (ligna) – and the gold which Propertius uses to give material expression to his valuation of his writing:

56  There are of course lots of references in elegy to writing on papyrus: pagina appears 5 times in Propertius, 6 in Ovid; charta once in Tibullus, at 2.5.17 of the Sibylline books, 19 times in Ovid, and once at [Tib.] 3.1.11 (this poem is much concerned with the materiality of texts). 57  For focus on the poetic use of writing tablets, see also Catull. 42, 50.2. 58  “Our writing tablets have gone then, learned as they were, and along with them so much fine writing has gone. The frequent usage of our hands wore these away long ago, and instructed them to maintain credit even when not sealed. They know by now how to placate girls in my absence, and they know too in my absence how to speak polished utterances. Gold fixtures had not made them valuable: the common box-wood contained dirty wax.”

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quas si quis mihi rettulerit, donabitur auro: quis pro diuitiis ligna retenta uelit?59 The poem ends, however, in 23–24, visualizing a very different form of writing, a graffito notice on a column, advertising a reward for the return of the tablets. Ovid imitates this poem with a pair, Amores 1.11–12, in the first of which he sends off Nape, Corinna’s maid, with a message. He speculates on possible positive responses, and promises if they return with the simple instruction ueni (“come”) to garland the tablets with laurel and dedicate them to Venus – or perhaps he will replace the cheap maple wood with a more expensive replica. In 1.12, the tablets have returned with a negative response, and he curses them now as inutile lignum (“useless wood”). In Propertius 4 we move from an epigram set on a statue’s base at the end of 2 to a letter blotted by tears at the start of 3, which in turn ends with the promise of a dedicatory inscription;60 in 7 and 11, the insubstantiality of voices from the dead are set against the physical durability of words on a tomb. When in 4.7 the poet is visited by Cynthia’s ghost shortly after her funeral, after affectionate reminiscence and long complaints about his behavior, she gives him instructions, including at 77–78 a firm command to burn the poetry61 written in her name (which opens his first poem, Cynthia prima, 1.1.1): this order envisages the verses as something single and combustible. When she moves on to the memorials she wants, this includes not just a tomb poetically adorned with ivy (79–80), but a column at Tivoli equipped with a short but prominent inscription (83–86): hic carmen media dignum me scribe columna, sed breue, quod currens uector ab urbe legat: hic sita Tibvrna iacet avrea Cynthia terra accessit ripae lavs, Aniene, tvae.62

85

She has composed the inscription herself, and it contains both her name and the word laus (praise), which recalls and inverts 78 laudes desine habere meas 59  “If anyone returns them to me, he will be rewarded with gold: who would want wood retained instead of wealth?” 60  On inscriptions in book 4, see Ramsby 2007: 61–70. 61  This recalls the puella’s vow in Catullus 36, and Tibullus’ thoughts at 1.9.47–50 of destroying his poems in praise of Marathus with fire or water. 62  “Here on a public column inscribe a poem worthy of me, but a short one, such as a traveler hastening from the city may read: here in the earth of tibur laid there lies cynthia golden:/ glory is added now, anio, to your bank.”

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(“cease to keep your praises of me”). The precarious material of the poetic book is set against epigraphic permanence; but it is the poetic book that survives and records this hypothetical inscription. And all this is spoken by the voice of a fleeting and insubstantial ghost. Another ghost speaks in 4.11, Cornelia, the ideal matron, uniuira, mother of three, and step-daughter of Augustus. Unlike Cynthia’s visiting of Propertius in his bed, Cornelia’s words are connected at the start with her tomb (1: “Cease, Paullus, to burden my tomb with tears”); then she describes herself as in the Underworld (15–18) and addressing the court that sits in judgement on the dead (19–28). On one level the poem is figured as a defense speech (ipsa loquor pro me, 27: “I speak for myself”), but the notion of a sepulchral epigram returns explicitly in 35–36: iungor, Paulle, tuo sic discessura cubili ut lapide hoc uni nupta fuisse legar.63 In asserting her identity as uniuira, she describes her formulation uni nupta as a title that can be read on “this stone”, that is in the sepulchral inscription.64 6

Letters and Blots

Propertius 4.3 on the other hand is figured throughout as a letter, written by a Roman matron, Arethusa, to her husband Lycotas, who is commanding forces in the East. Though there is no specific reference to the material on which she writes, when in verses 3–4 she attributes any blots to her tears it is clear that she is writing with ink: Haec Arethusa suo mittit mandata Lycotae, cum totiens absis, si potes esse meus. si qua tamen tibi lecturo pars oblita derit, haec erit e lacrimis facta litura meis; aut si qua incerto fallet te littera tractu, signa meae dextrae iam morientis erunt.65

5

63  “I am joined to your bed, Paullus, only to leave it in such a way that I may be read on this stone to have been married to one husband.” 64  See further Lowrie 2009: 349–59. 65  “These instructions Arethusa sends to her Lycotas, if, when you are so often away, you can be mine. For all that, if, as you read, you find any part is blotted out and missing, this will

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Interest in the physical composition of her text continues in the next couplet, where she uses the feeble form of her letters to communicate the feeble state of her health. A number of aspects of this passage will be revisited by Ovid, for example the play between litura and littera, the effect of the circumstances of composition, such as weeping, on the appearance of a text, and the complicated notion of how that can be valid for a letter that is a poem destined for immediate and repeated copying. The opening of Heroides 3, Briseis’ letter to Achilles, is the most concentrated reworking of these themes and words (Her. 3.1–4):66 Quam legis, a rapta Briseide littera uenit, uix bene barbarica Graeca notata manu. quascumque adspicies, lacrimae fecere lituras; sed tamen hae67 lacrimae pondera uocis habent.68 Ovid, typically, adds further complications: in verse 4, though the tears were shed out of Achilles’ sight and have dried by the time he reads, yet they communicate their emotion through the blots they have created. They thus have weight, but paradoxically the weight of voice: voice, unlike tears, is a phenomenon that does not literally have weight. Verse 2 is also concerned with form: Briseis, unlike Arethusa, is a barbarian using a language with which she is not comfortable – not of course Latin, which Achilles would not understand, but Greek: this explains the uncertainty of her script; but read another way, “Greek badly written in a barbarian hand” may explain why her Greek comes out as Latin: after all she comes from north-western Asia Minor, like Aeneas, the first Latin poet.69

be a blot caused by my tears; or if you cannot make out some feebly written letter, it will be a sign that my hand is failing.” 66  Cf. also Her. 11.1–4, 15.97–98, Tristia 3.1.15–16 (and 1.1.13–14, discussed below). 67   hae EGω: et Pς. Not every tear has the expressive power of voice, but these do, because they have blotted Briseis’ words. For the homoeoteleuton, cf. Her. 5.74 has lacrimas. 68  “The letter you read has come from Briseis who has been snatched away, Greek badly written by a barbarian hand. Tears made whatever blots you will see; yet these tears have the weight of voice.” 69  He shows off his skills at Aeneid 3.288 aeneas haec de danais victoribvs arma (“Aeneas ⟨dedicates⟩ these arms from the victorious Greeks”), a dedicatory hexameter that encapsulates the theme and the opening words of the epic: cf. Barchiesi 1995: 5–6, Nelis-Clément & Nelis 2013: 327.

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The Materiality of Ovidian Epigrams and Elegies

We have now seen from several instances how Propertius’ concern with materiality (like much else in his work70) serves as an inspiration and a model for Ovid. In particular Ovid revisits the fragility of writing on papyrus or wax, especially in the Heroides and his exile poetry. He too scatters his corpus with sepulchral epigrams, very often commenting on their form or scope, e.g. at the end of Amores 2.6, where the introductory couplet 59–60 (like Propertius at 2.13.35–36) picks up on the Callimachean tradition of playing with the concept of brevity in epigrams:71 ossa tegit tumulus, tumulus pro corpore paruus72, quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet: colligor ex ipso dominae placvisse sepvlcro. ora fvere mihi plvs ave docta loqvi.73 Moreover, from the very first Ovid’s corpus parades itself as having material form, whether we regard its start as Amores 1.1.1–4, where the metrical feet have physical existence that makes them liable to be stolen, or the prefatory epigram that marks what we have as a second edition, reduced from five books to three: Qui modo Nasonis fueramus quinque libelli, tres sumus; hoc illi praetulit auctor opus. ut iam nulla tibi nos sit legisse uoluptas, at leuior demptis poena duobus erit.74 Though praetulit means “has preferred” (OLD s.v. praefero 5), we should not miss the pun on the prime sense “cause to be carried in front”, which comments on the placing of this work, the epigram, at the physical start of the first book. Even though Ovid does not discuss aspects of book production with 70  See e.g. Heyworth 2009. 71  Cf. Callimachus, Epigr. 11 Pf. See also Houghton 2013: 357–58. 72   paruus Heinsius: magnus codd. Fedeli 1989: 95–96 adduces a number of inscribed epigrams that similarly bring out issues of length. 73  “A mound covers his bones (a small mound to match his body), and on it a little stone has a poem that matches its size: ‘From my tomb itself I can be gathered to have pleased my mistress: my mouth was trained to say more than a bird [or hail].’”. 74  “We, who were recently the five books of Naso, are now three; the author has preferred this work to that. Though you get no pleasure in reading us, at least now the pain is two books less.”

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the regularity of a Catullus75 or a Martial76, such awareness of the details of published form keeps recurring, whether explicit (as in the examples to be explored) or implicit.77 The first book of poetry from exile is a collection that celebrates both the precariousness and the indomitability of the poet and his products. Tristia 1 is presented as written on the journey from Rome to Tomi, on the Black Sea; letters to his wife and friends mingle with accounts of his current circumstances. And 1.1 sends the book back to Rome, where the poet himself cannot set foot. The familiar pun on pes is hinted at in 2 (quo domino non licet ire tuo, “the place to which your master is not allowed to go”), and reprised explicitly in the final word of verse 16 (contingam certe quo licet illa pede, “I shall touch those places at least with that foot with which I may”). Verses 3–14 describe and explain the material aspect of the book in some detail: as the work of an exile, it should look uncared for, incultus (3), nor should it be given a final polish with pumice (in 11–12) unlike Catullus’ libellus; it should not have brightly colored adornment (5–8). The poet is happy for the text to be blotted (13–14): neue liturarum pudeat: qui uiderit illas, de lacrimis factas sentiat esse meis.78 These blots have a point, like those made by Arethusa’s and Briseis’ tears: readers will think that weeping is what has caused the mess (though this is not necessarily the right explanation). Tristia 1.7 is addressed to a friend who has a picture of Ovid; he is pleased by this, but wishes rather for attention to his poetry, especially the Metamorphoses, the recent publication of which he then goes on to authorize. In despair over his exile he had burned the poem, he claims (15–16), forgetting that there were a number of copies (24) and that it would therefore survive his attempt at destruction. The point seems clear, and loaded: though Ovid’s books have material form, they cannot simply be destroyed, for they survive in too many copies; the same must be true of the Ars amatoria, along with the mysterious

75  Besides the passages discussed in other parts of this paper I think of poems 1, 14, 22, 44, 95, as well as the fleeting addressing of writing material at 35.2 (papyre) and 36.1 (cacata charta). 76  E.g. 14.183–96; 1.2–3, 107; 2.1, 8; 4.72, 89; 7.11; 10.2; see also Fowler 1995. 77  See e.g. Barchiesi 1997: 190–91. 78  “Feel no shame about blots: the man who sees them may understand they were made by my tears.” For further discussion of the physical book in Tristia 1.1, see e.g. Martelli 2013: 156–60.

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error, one of the two causes of the relegation:79 though Augustus may banish the poet, he will not succeed in extirpating every copy of the wicked text. The sense of the material permanence of poetry is partly conveyed by the imagery of 29–30, where composition is figured as the work of a blacksmith at an anvil or smoothing off rough edges with a file (lima): ablatum mediis opus est incudibus illud, defuit et coeptis ultima lima meis.80

30

At its end the poem returns to reflection on book-form, when it offers the reader three couplets to add to the frons of book 1 of the Metamorphoses (encouragement surprisingly neglected by editors of the poem). The final poem of the book, 1.11, is (with 1.2, 1.4) one of three set in a storm at sea. There is a vivid evocation of the poet’s fearful situation as he writes, and a contrast to his wonted manner of composition (37–38), in his garden, lying on his familiar couch. Instead “I am tossed on the untameable deep on a midwinter’s day, and the very paper is struck by the dark sea-waters” (39–40): iactor in indomito brumali luce profundo ipsaque caeruleis charta feritur aquis.

40

So now the reader knows the real source of those blots that he is to imagine on his copy of the text. The poet uses his art to create a material effect, and thus to counterfeit his own emotion. The Ars amatoria, the poem for which Ovid was exiled, also has passages on writing, with advice to his pupils on how to keep up a suitably seductive correspondence; and my final passage comes from book 3, addressed to would-be female lovers. Verses 619–24 give advice on how writing can be done in secret (“when the time comes for douching”, 620), how tablets and bits of papyrus can be hidden away by the go-between (in the bosom of her dress81 or beneath her foot); 627–30 suggest the use of invisible inks, fresh milk and linseed oil82; and 625–26 makes a fitting close to this assemblage of elegiac materials:

79   Tristia 1.1.105–16; 2.1–8, 207–12; 3.1.3–4. 80  “That work was snatched from the very anvil, and the ultimate polish is lacking to what I began.” 81  This recalls one of the few moments when Tibullus presents non-epigraphic text as material: 2.6.45–46 lena … furtim … tabellas/ occulto portans itque reditque sinu (“the lena comes and goes secretly carrying tablets hidden in the folds of her dress”). 82  Reading semine lini in 629, with Diggle 1972: 31–33; acumine lini codd.

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cauerit haec custos, pro charta conscia tergum praebeat, inque suo corpore uerba ferat.

625

“If the guardian is aware of this, let a confidante offer her back in the place of papyrus and carry words on her body.” 8 Conclusion In short, elegy presents itself as written with stylus or pen and ink, a chisel or a knife, tears, charcoal or milk; and on bronze, marble, bark, apples, papyrus, silk, wax, water, air, and human skin.83 The mixture of soft and hard matches the genre’s play on durus and mollis. Moreover, though epic is regularly identified as hard, elegy itself contains the dactylic hexameter of epic, and so the duality of material equates to a duality of form. And the range of substances also brings out the realities of elegiac writing: the couplet is used for permanent memorials, inscribed in stone, but also as a token of love, breathed into the fleeting air or cut into the flesh of an apple; and of course it is written on wax and papyri to be copied, once and again, and for ever after, and thus secures a monument for the author and those he celebrates. Bibliography Adams, J. N. 1987. The Latin Sexual Vocabulary. 2nd ed. London. Barchiesi, A. 1995. “Genealogie: Callimaco, Ennio e l’autocoscienza dei poeti augustei.” In L. Belloni, G. Milanese, and A. Porro, eds., Studia classica Iohanni Tarditi oblata. vol. 1, 5–18. Milan. Barchiesi, A. 1997. “Endgames: Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15 and Fasti 6.” In D. H. Roberts, F. M. Dunn, and D. P. Fowler, eds., Classical Closure, 181–208. Princeton. Bettenworth, A. 2016. Hoc satis in titulo. Studien zu den Inschriften in der römischen Elegie. Münster. Breed, B. W. 2006. Pastoral Inscriptions: Reading and Writing Virgil’s Eclogues. London. Cairns, F. 1969. “Propertius 1.18 and Callimachus, Acontius & Cydippe.” Classical Review 19: 131–4. 83  Latin poetry features other striking tools and surfaces for writing that do not make it into elegy, such as Io’s hoof in the dust at Metamorphoses 1.649–50 and the flowers inscribed with the names of kings at Eclogue 3.106–7.

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Courtney, E. 1995. Musa Lapidaria: A Selection of Latin Verse Inscriptions. Atlanta, GA. [= MLAP] Diggle, J. 1972. “Ouidiana.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 18: 31–41. Ellis, R. 1876. A commentary on Catullus. Oxford. Fedeli, P. 1989. “Il poeta lapicida.” In M. Piérart and O. Curty, eds., Historia Testis. Mélanges d’épigraphie, d’histoire ancienne et de philologie offerts à Tadeusz Zawadzki, 79–96. Fribourg. Fowler, D. P. 1995. “Martial and the book.” Ramus 24: 31–58. Gómez Pallarès, J. 2005. “The ‘Reading of Monuments’ in Cornelius Gallus’ fragment.” Philologus 149: 104–9. Gow, A. S. F. and Page, D. L. 1965. The Greek Anthology. Hellenistic Epigrams. 2 vols. Cambridge. Haensch, R., ed. 2009. Selbstdarstellung und Kommunikation: die Veröffentlichung staatlicher Urkunden auf Stein und Bronze in der römischen Welt. Munich. Hall, J. B. 1995. Ovid, Tristia. Stuttgart and Leipzig. Harder, A. 2012. Callimachus, Aetia: introduction, text, translation, and commentary. 2 vols. Oxford. Heyworth, S. J. 2007a. Sexti Properti Elegi. Oxford. Heyworth, S. J. 2007b. Cynthia: a companion to the text of Propertius. Oxford. Heyworth, S. J. 2009. “Propertius and Ovid.” In P. E. Knox, ed., A Companion to Ovid, 265–78. Chichester. Heyworth, S. J. and Morwood, J. H. W. 2011. A commentary on Propertius, Book 3. Oxford. Hofmann, J. B. and Szantyr, A. 1965. Lateinische Syntax und Stilistik. Munich. Hollis, A. S. 2007. Fragments of Roman Poetry c.60 BC–AD 20. Oxford. Horsfall, N. 2006. Virgil, Aeneid 3: a commentary (Mnemosyne suppl. 273). Leiden. Houghton, L. 2013. “Epitome and eternity: some epitaphs and votive inscriptions in the Latin Love Elegists”. In P. Low and P. Liddell, eds., Inscriptions and their uses in Greek and Latin Literature, 349–64. Oxford. Jenkyns, R. H. A. 2013. God, space, & city in the Roman imagination. Oxford. Keith, A., ed. 2011. Latin elegy and Hellenistic epigram. Newcastle upon Tyne. Keith, A. “Latin elegiac collections and Hellenistic epigram books.” In A. Keith, ed., Latin elegy and Hellenistic epigram, 99–115. Newcastle upon Tyne. Knox, P. E. 1995. Ovid, Heroides: Select Epistles. Cambridge. Kroll, W. 1959. Catull. 3rd ed. Stuttgart. Lissberger, E. 1934. Das Fortleben der römischen Elegiker in den Carmina Epigraphica. Diss. Tübingen. Lowrie, M. 2009. Writing, Performance, and Authority in Augustan Rome. Oxford. Maltby, R. 2002. Tibullus: Elegies. Text, introduction and commentary. Cambridge. Martelli, F. K. A. 2013. Ovid’s Revisions: the Editor as Author. Cambridge.

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Nelis-Clément, J. and Nelis, D. 2013. “Furor epigraphicus: Augustus, the poets, and the inscriptions.” In P. Low and P. Liddell, eds., Inscriptions and their uses in Greek and Latin Literature, 317–47. Oxford. Nisbet, R. G. M. 1978. “Notes on the text of Catullus.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 24: 92–115 (= 1995. Collected Papers, 76–100. Oxford). Ramsby, T. R. 2007. Textual permanence: Roman elegists and the epigraphic tradition. London. Rodriguez Herrera, G. 1999. “Propertius 2.1.71–8 and the Latin epitaphs.” Mnemosyne 52: 194–97. Ross, D. O. 1975. Backgrounds to Augustan Poetry. Cambridge. Schulz-Vanheyden, E. 1969. Properz und das griechische Epigramm. Diss. Münster. Smyth, W. R. 1970. Thesaurus criticus ad Sexti Propertii textum (Mnemosyne suppl. 12). Leiden. Thomas, R. F. 1998. “‘Melodious tears’: sepulchral epigram and generic mobility.” In M. A. Harder et alii, eds., Genre in Hellenistic Poetry, 205–23. Groningen. Trappes-Lomax, J. M. 2007. Catullus: a Textual Reappraisal. Swansea. Videau, A. 2010. La poétique d’Ovide, de l’élégie à l’épopée des Métamorphoses. Paris. Williamson, C. 1987. “Monuments of bronze: Roman legal documents on bronze tablets.” Classical Antiquity 6: 160–83. Yardley, J. C. 1996. “Roman elegy and funerary epigram.” Echos du monde classique 40: 267–73.

section C Architectural Spaces

∵

chapter 9

The Power of the Absent Text: Dedicatory Inscriptions on Greek Sacred Architecture and Altars Ioannis Mylonopoulos The Avenger descends himself from heaven to behold his own honors and his splendid temple in the Forum of Augustus. The god is huge, and so is the structure: no otherwise ought Mars to dwell in his son’s city. The shrine is worthy of trophies won from giants; from its might the Marching God fitly opens his fierce campaigns, whether an impious foe shall assail us from the eastern world or whether another will have to be vanquished where the sun goes down. The god of arms surveys the pinnacles of the lofty edifice, and approves that the highest places should be filled by the unconquered gods. He surveys on the doors weapons of diverse shapes, and arms of lands subdued by his soldiery. On this side he sees Aeneas laden with his dear burden, and many an ancestor of the noble Julian line. On the other side he sees Romulus carrying on his shoulders the arms of the conquered leader, and their famous deeds inscribed beneath the statues arranged in order. He beholds, too, the name of Augustus on the front of the temple; and the building seems to him still greater, when he reads the name of Caesar.1

∵ 1  An early version of the paper was presented in the form of a keynote lecture at the conference on “The Materiality of Text” organized by Ivana Petrovic, Andrej Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas at Durham University in September 2012. Later versions were presented at Columbia University and the University of Pennsylvania in 2014. In its present form, the paper profited tremendously from the discussions I had with the audiences in Durham, New York, and Philadelphia. Special thanks have to go to Angelos Chaniotis and Eftychia Stavrianopoulou who discussed with me various aspects of the paper, Emma Stafford who graciously allowed me to read her article on the Livia inscription on the architrave of the Nemesis temple at Rhamnus before its publication in Kernos 2013, and Klaus Hallof who long before the final publication of Der Neue Overbeck. Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen sent me the pages relevant to the artist’s signature on the Gigantomachy-frieze of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi. I am very grateful to Lars Karlsson, James R. McCredie, Dieter

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_011

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Were it not for one important piece of information and one often neglected detail, Ovid could have been describing a Greek god visiting and admiring his Greek temple. The poet’s reference to the Forum of Augustus and the prominent dedicatory inscription on the architrave of the temple of Mars Ultor, however, make clear that the context is a profoundly Roman one. Even if the 23-cm. tall letters were not as prominent as those on the architrave of the Pantheon, which are nearly 70 cm. high, the inscription on the façade of the temple was sufficiently conspicuous to be noticed by Mars and referred to by Ovid as an element that made the building appear even “greater” to the visiting god. The Pantheon, the temple of Mars Ultor in the Forum Augusti, and the temple of Castor and Pollux in the Forum Romanum are but three of the most wellknown Roman temples with dedicatory inscriptions on their architraves. The height of the letters and the fact that they were often crafted of gilded bronze made dedicatory inscriptions an indispensable aspect of a Roman temple’s decorum and enhanced the prestige of the Imperial family member responsible for the dedication.2 Compared to the omnipresence of dedicatory inscriptions on the architraves of Roman temples, the vigorous resistance of the Greeks to placing similar texts on their temples is all the more noteworthy.3 In ancient Greece, visitors to sanctuaries and other public places were surrounded by countless visual and textual messages. Although it is hard to imagine that someone would have consciously chosen to set up an inscription, a statue, or a relief in a truly obscure location, both the visibility of images (most notably the Parthenon frieze4) and the readability of inscriptions5 in Greek contexts have been questioned by modern scholars. Despite the delightful scene in Euripides’ Ion in which the chorus discusses the sculptural decoration Mertens, and the late André Laronde for allowing me to reproduce photographs and drawings from their publications. I am profoundly thankful to Irina Oryshkevich for improving my English. All mistakes remain the author’s. Except where otherwise indicated, all translations are the author’s and all dates are BCE. The paper was submitted for review in late September 2014. Bibliography after that was consulted only in the case of the cave at Pharsalus: Wagman 2015.   Ov. Fast. 5.551–68 (J. G. Frazer). 2  Alföldy 2003. See also Horster 2001: 10–20. 3  Although I reach different conclusions, Umholtz 2002 remains a fundamental study of the phenomenon I am examining in this paper. 4  See, most recently, Marconi 2009. 5  Focussing on epigrams, Bing 2002 argued that ancient readers reacted indifferently to the great mass of inscribed texts. On the contrary, Chaniotis 2012a makes a strong case for inscribed texts as an important means in a powerful and multifaceted network of communication that required their being read.

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of the temple at Delphi,6 the sheer number and variety of images and inscriptions in a sanctuary would have made a museum-like observation of these objects absolutely impossible; indeed many of them must have truly deserved to have been designated as “wasted” messages. This paper will not address the innumerable dedicatory, honorific, documentary, or regulatory inscriptions and the issue of their precise placement in the spatial fabric of a sanctuary, though the question as to whether the distribution of inscriptions in a sanctuary was haphazard or governed by a specific, albeit today unknown set of regulations has rarely been addressed.7 Instead it will focus on a specific type of inscription that is placed on a prominent part of a sacred structure (temple, altar, or auxiliary buildings, such as banquet houses and treasuries) in order to identify it as a dedication. Thus texts, such as the priest lists found inscribed on the interior and outer walls of the antae of the temple of Hecate in Lagina,8 will not be considered here. The paper will then attempt to demonstrate that, most probably following the example of the Hecatomnids, Alexander the Great and even more so his Hellenistic successors initiated a significant change in the interconnection between inscription and temple building or, more generally, between inscription and sacred architecture. Nowadays, it is rather common to find inscriptions of an explanatory nature on the façades of buildings. While crossing Columbia University’s quad, for example, one sees in the frieze above the architrave of Low Library the words: “The Library of Columbia University” (fig. 1). This kind of explanatory or rather denominating text9 is found only once on ancient Greek architecture, although it was common in statuary dedications and funerary monuments, as the late Archaic statue of Aristodicus demonstrates.10 In addition, the friezes of the Archaic Siphnian treasury at Delphi, which contain a significant number 6  Eur. Ion 184–208. See also Athanasaki 2009: 306–16. 7  To my best knowledge there is no monographic study on this topic. See, however, Sosin 2005 and Lombardi 2009. For the placement of honorific statues and their inscriptions, see most recently Ma 2013: esp. 67–151. For the placement of state decrees in Athens, see Liddel 2003. The formula according to which a decree or a statue (usually honorific) is to be placed at the ἐπιφανέστατος τόπος (“most prominent place”) of a city or sanctuary is not helpful either, because none of the cases allows a clear definition of the nature of these “most prominent places.” In addition, the honoree is occasionally allowed to define “his” very own ἐπιφανέστατος τόπος, see Mylonopoulos 2013: 136–37. 8  On these lists, see van Bremen 2010: 488–93. 9  Ma 2007: 205–8 addresses this kind of inscriptions with respect to Hellenistic honorific statues as “dictionary entries.” 10  On the semantics of the inscription on the base of the Aristodicus statue, see Karusos 1961: 35–39.

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New York. Columbia University’s Low Library © Media Center, Columbia University, Art History and Archaeology Department (G. Rodriguez)

of denominating inscriptions,11 remind us of the obsession among Archaic vase painters to name nearly everything and everyone depicted on their vases.12 An inscription reading “Temple of Athena Polias” on the eastern architrave of the Erechtheum, however, seems to have been unthinkable. Nevertheless, a puzzling exception is a text dating to the fourth or third century that was found inscribed on the threshold of the temple of Apollo Pythius in the Attic deme of Ikarion. The inscription simply states: The Pythium of Ikarion.13 There are, however, altars from as early as the Archaic period that are inscribed in this rather explanatory manner, such as an early sixth-century poros limestone altar for Athena Nike, a dedication by Patroclides.14 A more elaborate example is the long altar of Amphiaraus at Oropus, where the various parts that were meant to serve the sacrifices of different divinities were inscribed with the name of the respective deities in the genitive.15 In the 11  Brinkmann 1985; 1994: 95–99. 12  Wachter 1991. See, in general, Lorber 1979 and Wachter 2001. 13   I G II2 4976; SEG 32.249c: Ἰκαριῶν τὸ Πύθιον. Buck 1889: 174 fig. 27; Buck notes on p. 175: “it is very unusual for a Greek temple to be labelled in this way.” 14   I G I3 596, mid-sixth century. 15  Petrakos 1968: 96–98; 1997: 184–85 n. 280–81.

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Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods, hundreds of altars at Epidaurus were inscribed either with the name of the divinity in the genitive, according to the formula “[altar of] X,” or with texts that explicitly identified them as dedications.16 This form of explanatory inscription, however, was rarely placed on the principal altar of a sanctuary. Indeed, dedicatory inscriptions on the primary altars of Greek sanctuaries remained rare throughout Greek antiquity, despite the fact that countless altars for so-called visiting gods in major cult sites were clearly marked as dedications. 1

Greek Evidence before Carian Labraunda

With one notable exception, there are no inscriptions on the architraves of temples built between the Archaic and Late Classical periods. In Metapontum, a very fragmentary architrave inscription with letters between 10 and 15 cm. in height identifies the so-called temple A 2, erected in the second half of the sixth century as a dedication, probably to Hera.17 According to the preserved text,18 an unknown but certainly powerful and very wealthy citizen dedicated the temple “for his own and the sake of his genos.”19 To my best knowledge, this strong sense of appropriation of a temple building – even by its sponsor – remained unparalleled for centuries. In Syracuse and Delphi, we encounter a different, more cautious, and spatially perhaps more sophisticated way of indicating an individual’s or a community’s close association with a sacred building. The Archaic temple of Apollo in Syracuse20 – built around 580/70 – is the oldest temple structure securely associated with a specific individual on the basis of an inscription that it bears.21 The text is nearly 8 meters long and its letters are 20 cm. in height. The dedicatory inscription lies, however, not on the architrave, but on the stylobate: “Cleomenes, the son of Cnidieidas, made (this temple) for Apollo, and celebrated columns, all beautiful things (or alternatively: and other things)” (fig. 2).22 For a long time, scholars were not certain how to interpret the verb 16  Mylonopoulos 2003, 57–58 n. 59. 17  Mertens 1985: 654–64 (here, temple A is still attributed to Apollo). 18  Manni Piraino 1968: 424–26 leaves the question about the exact nature of the block (part of a building, an altar or even a statue base) open. See also Arena 1996: 91–92. 19  …αὐτο͂ι καὶ γένε[ι… De Siena 1999: 236–38; Carter 2006: 207–8 fig. 5.13–14. 20  Cultrera 1951. 21  Gruben 2001: 286–90; Mertens 2006: 104–10. 22   I G XIV 1, first half of the sixth century. Dubois 1989: 90–92; Arena 1998: 117. I follow here H. Engelmann’s (1981: 91–94) reading: Κλεο[μέν]ες: ἐποίεσε τὀπέλονι: hο Κνιδιε[ί]δα: κἐπικλε͂ στύλεια: κα[λὰ] ϝέργα (or κἄλα ϝέργα). It is important to note that the temple is the first

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Syracuse. Temple of Apollo, after Monumenti Antichi 41, 1951, 827–28 fig. 101

ἐποίησεν in this case; most believed that Cleomenes was either the architect or the epistates of the entire project.23 Without excluding previous claims, H. Svenson-Evers suggested that Cleomenes – a person otherwise unknown – may have been the sponsor and dedicator of the temple.24 Despite the interpretive problems associated with the dedicator’s identity, the size of the inscription and its placement on the actual architecture of the temple reveal a proud dedicatory action eternalized by the inscribed stylobate. We have to wait nearly a century for a similarly impressive inscription on the stylobate of the Hall of the Athenians at Delphi (fig. 3).25 Although Pausanias links the erection of the Hall to the Peloponnesian War,26 most scholars date one in the Greek colonies to have stone columns, which is something the inscription was celebrating as well. 23  See, for example, Holloway 1991: 73–74. 24  Svenson-Evers 1996: 461–67. 25   Syll.3 29 = IG I3 1464, first half of the fifth century: Ἀθεναῖοι ἀνέθεσαν τὲν στοὰν κα̣ὶ τὰ hόπλ̣ [α κ]αὶ τἀκροτέρια hελόντες το͂ν πολε[μίο]ν (“The Athenians dedicated the stoa and the [ships’] tackle and stern ornaments after they took them from their enemies”). 26  Paus. 10.11.6: ᾠκοδόμησαν δὲ καὶ Ἀθηναῖοι στοὰν ἀπὸ χρημάτων ἃ ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ σφίσιν ἐγένετο ἀπό τε Πελοποννησίων (“from the spoils from the war against the Peloponnesians, the Athenians built also a stoa”).

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both the building and the inscription to the late Archaic or rather early Classical period, to some point between 480 and 470.27 Perhaps the dedication of the stoa is bound to the capture of Sestus in the Hellespont. The inscription refers explicitly to the dedication of the hall and the weaponry and decoration of the ship sterns that the Athenians had looted from their enemies. Admittedly, this otherwise unattested occurrence of architectural inscriptions in Syracuse and Delphi is difficult to interpret. As early as the first half of the sixth century, a foreign sovereign became involved in the erection of a major temple at a sanctuary in Asia Minor. According to Herodotus, the Lydian king Croesus dedicated to Artemis “many 27  Kuhn 1985: 269–86; Bommelaer 1991: 147–50.

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of the columns” of her temple.28 Of these “many” columns, four marble base moldings beneath the feet of the relief figures have thus far been excavated that bear identical formulaic dedicatory inscriptions: Βασιλεὺς Κροῖσος ἀνέθηκεν (“king Croesus dedicated [this]”).29 The layout of Croesus’ inscriptions appears quite simple when compared to the following case. For a long time, scholars considered the fairly numerous small niches in the columns of the temple of Hera at Olympia (fig. 4) as receptacles of now-lost painted images of the female victors at the Heraea who, like their male counterparts in the festival of the Olympia, were given the right to dedicate their portraits to the sanctuary.30 In an article published in 1999, however, F. Ruhmscheid demonstrated that these notches by no means contained paintings, but rather dedicatory inscriptions.31 Based on the well-known fact that the original wooden columns of the temple were gradually replaced by ones made mostly of local stone, Ruhmscheid hypothesized that the construction of the individual stone columns was funded by wealthy members of Elean society and dedicated to the goddess. This is indeed an attractive hypothesis, since it adds a further option to the repertoire of a sacred structure’s parts that could bear dedicatory inscriptions associated with their construction. Nonetheless, one needs to keep in mind that even if Ruhmscheid’s hypothesis were correct, the texts would only have documented the dedication of the columns and not of the entire building. In contrast, as has already been demonstrated, the inscriptions in Syracuse, Metapontum, and Delphi proclaimed entire structures as dedications. Based on the aforementioned archaeological evidence from Ephesus and Olympia, the tradition of funding individual architectural elements – especially columns – of a sacred structure and that of commemorating such an act by means of a small but nevertheless visible inscription on these has early origins. Usually, however, this act was remembered through inscriptions that were set up separately.32 Apparently, a number of treasuries in Delphi and Olympia bore inscriptions that clearly identified them as dedications. In Delphi, six blocks of the 28  Hdt. 1.92.1: Κροίσῳ δὲ ἐστὶ ἄλλα ἀναθήματα ἐν τῇ Ἑλλάδι … ἐν δὲ Ἐφέσῳ ἅ τε βόες αἱ χρύσεαι καὶ τῶν κιόνων αἱ πολλαί (“there are some other dedications by Croesus in Greece … in Ephesus there are the golden oxen and many of the columns [of the temple]”). 29   I.Ephesos 1518. Umholtz 2002: 265 claims that inscriptions were placed on bases rather than on the actual objects, so that the surfaces of the votive offerings would not be “cluttered or damaged.” 30  See, most recently, Sinn 2004: 82. 31  Rumscheid 1999: 40–42. 32  Meier 2012: 151–55.

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Olympia. Column of the south pteron of the temple of Hera © Ioannis Mylonopoulos

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Delphi. Architrave of the treasury of the Cnidians © École Française d’Athènes (19.623/D. Laroche)

epistyle of a small building have been convincingly associated with the Cnidian treasury.33 A badly preserved boustrophedon inscription on four of these blocks identifies the building as a dedication to Apollo by the Cnidians34 or, according to slightly different reconstructions, the damos or the polis of the Cnidians (fig. 5).35 In the first half of the fifth century, the Corinthians had a text inscribed on the architrave of the Delphic treasury, which Cypselus had allegedly dedicated. The text documents that the sanctuary granted them promanteia.36 Though problematic, there is a hypothesis that a fragmentary inscribed epistyle originally belonged to the Massaliot treasury in the precinct of Athena Pronaea.37 The inscription Σεκυώνιοι on the anta of the Sicyonian treasury in Olympia is also a problematic case, which, contrary to G. Umholtz’s assertion,38 should be included among those that identify treasuries as dedications. The use of the nominative most probably indicates that the inscription is referring to the Sicyonians as the dedicators of the building. According to Pausanias, a shield crowned the treasury of the Megarians at Olympia that was inscribed with a text, which identified the building as a dedication by the Megarians financed with the booty they had taken from the Corinthians after a victorious 33  Salviat 1977: 23–36. 34   F D 3.1: 289. 35  Pouilloux and Roux 1963: 67–68 and F. Salviat 1977: 35–36 are skeptical about the restoration δᾶμος but leave the question open. Partida 2000: 219–21 argues for ἡ πόλις instead of ὁ δᾶμος. 36  Bousquet 1970. Partida 2000: 178–81 argues convincingly that the fragments did belong to an epistyle. 37  Partida 2000: 235–37. 38  Umholtz 2002: 271.

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Olympia. Roman inscription on the architrave of the Megarians © Ioannis Mylonopoulos

battle.39 Only in the Roman Imperial period was an inscription in the form of the simple genitive Μεγαρέων placed on the central block of the treasury’s architrave (fig. 6).40 The fact that Pausanias does not refer to the inscription cannot be used as an argument for its date, since the ancient periegetes does not mention the inscription of the Sicyonian treasury either. Although entirely different in its nature, the artist’s signature on a giant’s shield in the Gigantomachy frieze of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi represents a remarkable and early case of a human being intruding through textual means into the upper parts of a structure in a sanctuary (fig. 7).41 It is not only a unique example of an early sculptor of architectural decoration signing his

39  Paus. 6.19.13. 40  Dittenberger and Purgold 1896: 667–68 no. 653. 41   S EG 52.538. Viviers 2002: 53–85 restores the name of the Chian artist Boupalos. According to Klaus Hallof (DNO 1: 126–27 no. 209), this hypothesis cannot be substantiated. Based on the alphabet used, Hallof excludes an artist from Siphnos, Paros or Delphi and considers the possibility of an Attic background.

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Delphi. North frieze of the treasury of the Siphnians (detail) © Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY

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work42 but also of an artist who by doing so is claiming possession – at least as creator – of a building’s important element that belonged in its entirety to a divinity. Compared to the cases discussed thus far, and despite the prominent example of the Hall of the Athenians in Delphi, the citizens of Athens seem to have been rather unwilling to accept dedicatory inscriptions on any kind of sacred architecture in their city, even in cases where it was privately funded. Interesting in this respect are the activities of a Peisistratid. In the last quarter of the sixth century, Peisistratus the Younger, son of Hippias, dedicated an extremely important religious monument at a very prominent location of the Athenian urban fabric, the Agora. We are referring to the Altar of the Twelve Gods, an edifice surrounded by a parapet wall that marked out the boundaries of a rather small temenos.43 Despite its seemingly humble form, the sanctuary of the Twelve Gods was the focal point for calculating distances from and to Athens and one of the most important places of refuge within the city.44 Peisistratus dedicated the altar at some point between 522/21, the year in which he was archon, and 519, when the Plataean envoys took refuge at the altar after arriving in Athens to ask for the city’s support against Thebes.45 In addition, according to Thucydides, Peisistratus dedicated not only the Altar of the Twelve Gods but also one to Apollo Pythius.46 Both monuments bore inscriptions that explicitly commemorated Peisistratus’ dedicatory act. Nonetheless, while the inscription on the Altar of the Twelve Gods was defaced by the Athenian demos when the monument was enlarged, the inscription on the altar of Apollo could still be read and cited almost verbatim by Thucydides in the late fifth century.47 Thus we are not dealing with mobile dedicatory inscriptions, but rather with texts permanently incorporated into the constructions. The case of the Altar of the Twelve Gods clearly demonstrates the unwillingness of the Athenians to preserve a dedicatory inscription; the moment they saw a chance to eliminate the text from the surface of the altar, they did so, even though it would have been rather easy to have inscribed the original text anew after construction 42  Three letters (-εσε-) on a fragment of a wheel of a chariot belonging to the sculptures of the West pediment of the Archaic temple of Apollo Daphnephorus in Eretria could be either part of Theseus’ name or the end of an artist’s signature, see Touloupa 1986: 144. 43  Gadbery 1992: 447–89 offers intriguing arguments for a re-evaluation of the temenos’ history. 44  Hdt. 2.7.1–2; IG II2 2640, fifth century. 45  Hdt. 6.108.4. 46  Thuc. 6.54.6–7. 47   I G I3 948. Thuc. 6.54.7: μνῆμα τόδ᾿ἧς ἀρχῆς Πεισίστρατος Ἱππίου υἱὸς θῆκεν Ἀπόλλωνος Πυθίου ἐν τεμένει (“this memorial of his office Peisistratus, son of Hippias, dedicated in the temenos of Apollo Pythius”).

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work was completed.48 In the case of the altar of Apollo, Thucydides makes it clear that the inscription was badly preserved,49 presumably because no one had bothered to take care of it. As for the aforementioned early Archaic altar of Athena Nike on the Athenian Acropolis, we are unfortunately unable to reconstruct the circumstances of its dedication or the exact identity of Patroclides, its dedicator and possibly maker.50 Perhaps the most striking example of a primary altar of a major Greek sanctuary to be explicitly identified as a dedication is the altar of Apollo at Delphi, dedicated by the Chians. Herodotus addresses the altar as an offering made by the Chians,51 and an inscription on the white marble cornice of the restored monument seems to confirm the literary account (fig. 8).52 P. Amandry has demonstrated, however, that there were two Chian altars in Delphi. The first one – probably associated with the temple of the Alcmaeonids – was seen by Herodotus, while the structure preserved today is an Early Hellenistic replacement of the Archaic altar, which must have been severely damaged in 373.53 The altar reveals the continuing interest of the island of Chios to fund the construction of a primary cultic focus in a Pan-Hellenic sanctuary. It also demonstrates the willingness of Delphi’s administration to accept a permanent commemoration of a dedicatory act on the monument itself. For the Late Classical period, evidence of textual intrusion onto the fabric of sacred architecture is rather scarce. Much later sources, such as Porphyrius,54 refer to an inscription at the sanctuary of Asclepius in Epidaurus stating that only those who were pure not only in corporeal but also in mental terms should feel free to enter.55 Clemens of Alexandria is more specific and informs 48  Thuc. 6.54.7: καὶ τῷ μὲν ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ προσοικοδομήσας ὕστερον ὁ δῆμος Ἀθηναίων μεῖζον μῆκος τοῦ βωμοῦ ἠφάνισε τοὐπίγραμμα (“and when later the Athenian demos enlarged the altar on the Agora they eliminated the inscription”). 49  Thuc. 6.54.7: δῆλόν ἐστιν ἀμυδροῖς γράμμασι (“it says in faded letters”). Immerwahr 1990: 76 no. 454 suggested that the inscription was re-cut in the late fifth century, after Thucydides had already seen it with faded letters. Recently, a further inscribed fragment of the altar was found re-used in a structure probably dating to the fourth century in the area of the Itonian Gates, see Banou 2013: 293. On this passage, see Zadorojnyi in this volume, above, p. 51 with note 12. 50  See n. 14. 51  Hdt. 2.135. 52   F D 3.3: 212. 53  Amandry 1986: 205–18. 54  Porph. Abst. 2.19.22–25: ἐν γοῦν Ἐπιδαύρῳ προεγέγραπτο, ἁγνὸν χρὴ ναοῖο θυώδεος ἐντὸς ἰόντα ἔμμεναι· ἁγνεία δ’ ἐστὶ φρονεῖν ὅσια (“in Epidaurus it is prescribed that you have to be pure when you enter the incense smelling temple; purity is to have a pious mind”). 55  Chaniotis 1997b: 152–54; 2012b: 128–30.

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Delphi. Altar of the Chians © École Française d’Athènes (L 4.187–043/P. Amandry)

his readers that the inscription was situated at the entrance to the temple.56 His words, however, do not clarify whether or not the text was actually inscribed on the temple (on the architrave or one of the antae). Thus it is possible that the inscription was a freestanding stele erected by the entrance into the temple. A second century-CE text with similar content, however, from the sanctuary of Zeus Lepsynus at Euromus has been identified as a so-called sacred law that was placed directly on one of the antae of the temple,57 so that one could argue that the Epidaurian text was inscribed on one of the temple’s antae as well.

56  Clem.Al. Strom. 5.1.13.3: ἐκεῖνος ὁ ἐπιγράψας τῇ εἰσόδῳ τοῦ ἐν Ἐπιδαύρῳ νεώ· ἁγνὸν χρὴ νηοῖο θυώδεος ἐντὸς ἰόντα ἔμμεναι· ἁγνείη δ’ ἐστὶ φρονεῖν ὅσια (“he who inscribed at/near/besides the entrance to the temple in Epidaurus: you must be pure when you enter the incense smelling temple; purity is to have a pious mind”). 57   S EG 43.710; 48.1329. Voutiras 1995; 1998. I thank Andrej Petrovic for pointing out to me that LSAM 51 (late first century), a so-called sacred law from the sanctuary of Artemis Kithone in Miletus concerning issues of purity before entry into the temple, was also inscribed on one of the temple’s antae. It would be interesting to explore whether or not regulations concerning purity before entering a temple were usually inscribed on the structure’s antae; for the texts’ visibility, they were certainly most suitable places.

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Caves as ‘Dedications’

The situation at the well-known cult cave near Vari in Attica is remarkable. A small entry leads down twelve steep steps into the spacious interior of the cave. Additional steps guide the visitor into two large rooms full of areas on their walls that were equipped to receive small dedicatory reliefs. Inscriptions identify several sacrificial areas and altars. Near the entrance, an inscription from the late fifth or early fourth century refers to the Theran architect Archedemus who, as a nympholeptos (someone seized by the Nymphs), shaped (ἐξηργάξατο) the cave. Most likely, he fixed the interior arrangement, so that the cult of the Nymphs could be accommodated in an appropriate manner.58 In another inscription, however, Archedemus claims that he has also built (ἐχσοικοδόμεσεν) a dance site for the Nymphs,59 while in a third, cut into the reverse of the block bearing the previous text, he refers to the fact that he has also planted a garden (κᾶπον ἐφύτευσεν) for them.60 The stone with these two inscriptions was found inside the cave but originally stood at its entrance. W. R. Connor convincingly argued that the inscriptions would have prepared visitors for what – most probably the statue of the Nymph – they would encounter when entering and descending into the cave.61 K. Hallof suggested that the face of the stele bearing the text on the garden’s creation faced the area outside the cave in which the garden must have stood, while the face with the text on the dance area faced the cave and referenced the space inside the cult site.62 The cave as a whole was dedicated not only to the Nymphs but also to the Muses, the Graces, Apollo, and Pan. Most probably, Archedemus had a decisive role in the introduction of the cult of the Nymphs in a cave that was already used as a cult site. In any case, a sacred place bearing this many inscriptions naming an individual as its builder and maker is exceptional and can only be compared with the temenos that Artemidorus, son of Apollonius from Perge, founded – probably in honor of Homonoia – in the city of Thera in the second half of the third century.63 58   I G I3 980. 59   I G I3 977A. I do not follow here Connor 1988: 172 who reads χόλον δοχεύς (the recipient of bile) instead of χο⟨ρ⟩ὸν ὀ⟨ρ⟩χεστὲ[ς]. 60   I G I3 977B. 61  Connor 1988: 185–87. 62  Schörner and Goette 2004: 54. 63  In a rather small hypaethral temenos, Artemidorus dedicated seven altars, three rockreliefs, and at least two statues, and his name is omnipresent. Artemidorus even had his portrait in profile placed in the form of a relief next to a dolphin – also in relief – dedicated to Poseidon. For his activities, Artemidorus was granted Theran citizenship and

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Even more impressive is a naïve relief in the cave that depicts Archedemus with the tools of his profession. As humble a site as a cave may have been, a painted or sculptured depiction of a human being within the temple of a deity remained an extraordinary honor until the late Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods.64 The seemingly anomalous situation in Vari is most likely bound to the type of space – a more or less natural site65 – and the cultic features of the worshipped deities, as the case of Pantalces reveals who claimed to have made a similar contribution to the shaping of a cult cave near Pharsalus.66 The cave in Pharsalus was already in use in the late sixth century,67 but an early Classical inscription carved on the interior of the cave documents Pantalces’ dedication of “this work” (τόδ᾿ ἔργον) – probably the cave and its interior arrangement – to the Nymphs.68 A further inscription dating to the fourth century and carved directly into the walls of the cave confirms that even in antiquity Pantalces was generally considered the founder of the cult.69 3

The ‘Absent’ Evidence

One might easily assume that the foundation of new cults and their sanctuaries led to a more open and thus a more visible propagation of the relationship between sacred and more specifically temple architecture and its sponsors. Quite the contrary is the case. The small temple initiated and financed by Themistocles in honor of Artemis Aristoboule in the demos Melite shortly after the Persian Wars represents an important private dedication of a temple after the establishment of a new cult. In June 1958, the temenos with its humble temple was excavated to the west of Theseion Square.70 Significantly, no clearly visible architrave inscription commemorated the act of dedication. was proclaimed a hero after his death, see Hiller von Gaertringen and Wilski 1904: 89–102; Graf 1995: 107–12. 64  See, for example, the placement of portrait statues around the statue of Artemis in the Artemisium of Messene, Themelis 1994: 107–22; Connelly 2011: 324–29; Mylonopoulos 2013: 124–26, 141. 65  On the use of natural spaces as cult sites, see Mylonopoulos 2008a: 51–75. More specifically on the cultic use of caves, see Sporn 2007: 39–62; 2013. 66  Pache 2011: 52–55; Wagman 2015. 67  Wagman 2015: 53–56. 68  Decourt 1995: 88–90 no. 72; Wagman 2015: 57–65. 69  Decourt 1995: 90–94 no. 73; Wagman 2015: 66–93. Wagman considers a date in the first quarter of the third century also possible, but argues more strongly for a date in the fourth century. 70  Threpsiades and Vanderpool 1964. See also the critical remarks in Amandry 1967/68.

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Instead, a fourth-century dedicatory inscription on a votive pillar helped identify the small temple as the one dedicated by Themistocles to the goddess.71 Fragments of votive miniature kraters (krateriskoi) confirm a foundation date in the early fifth century.72 That the Athenians understood the sanctuary to be private rather than a public shrine – albeit one funded with private money – is suggested by the fact that the site was abandoned after Themistocles’ exile and the temple probably destroyed or severely damaged. Even so, Themistocles wished not to provoke his fellow citizens further by placing his name on the architrave of “his” temple. Around 330, the sanctuary was re-established or rather renovated and re-instituted, and a new temple was erected.73 In terms of the transfer of the cult of Asclepius from Epidaurus and its installment on the southern slope of the Athenian Acropolis, we possess a detailed document, the so-called stele of Telemachus, fragments of which are dispersed among museums in Athens, London, Padua, and Verona.74 Luigi Beschi was the first scholar to combine the scattered fragments of the reliefs and the inscription and offer an intriguing reconstruction of the monument.75 He was also able to demonstrate that two more or less identical monuments had once existed, since a small portion of the text is preserved in two slightly different copies.76 According to Jürgen Riethmüller, one of these must have stood either near the temple or rather at the propylon, while the other one was probably set up in the vicinity of the altar.77 We are dealing with a relatively long and surprisingly thorough text with exact dates according to the eponymous archons that refers to the procedure of bringing the cult of Asclepius to Athens, the foundation of the deity’s new sanctuary on the southern slope of the Acropolis, and its architectural design. A small relief frieze and a relief crowned the stele, which simultaneously functioned as a support for a large separately created relief. The scenes depicted in the reliefs relate to certain details noted in the inscription. The entire monument thus serves as an important example of the joint use of textual and visual media to convey a message. The inscription’s concise text reports that Telemachus claimed to be not

71   S EG 22.116. 72  Threpsiades and Vanderpool 1964: 33–35. 73  Threpsiades and Vanderpool 1964: 35. 74  Clinton 1994. 75  Beschi 1967/68; 1982. See also Mitropoulou 1975. Mitropoulou presents well-founded criticism of Beschi’s first reconstruction of the relief, but the alternative she offers is equally unsustainable. 76   I G II2 4960a–b and 4961 were originally part of the one and IG II2 4960c of the other copy. 77  Riethmüller 2005: 250.

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simply the founder, but moreover the first founder of the sanctuary and the altar for Asclepius, Hygeia, and Asclepius’ sons and daughters.78 Telemachus’ claim of being the first founder of the sanctuary, its altar, and the sacrifices honoring the god is further emphasized by an epigram from the first half of the fourth century,79 which Riethmüller suggested was originally part of the altar.80 This recalls the already mentioned inscriptions by Peisistratus on the two Athenian altars and Patroclides on the Archaic altar of Athena Nike. All the same, one needs to keep in mind that despite Telemachus’ omnipresence in the sanctuary through two long and visually enhanced inscriptions that designate him “first founder” as well as an epigram possibly directly on the altar that repeated this claim, the temple, which, contrary to earlier scholarly claims, was already in existence shortly after the foundation of the cult in Athens, remained most probably unmarked by texts claiming either possession or dedication. The iconography of one of the most remarkable reliefs from Classical Athens, the votive relief of Xenocratia from the small sanctuary of Cephissus at Neo Phaleron, demonstrates the significance of young Athenian boys and girls to and in the religious life of their city, while the text of its inscription reveals the exceptional role that women could play in religion.81 According to the inscription, Xenocratia was the founder of the sanctuary of Cephissus.82 She, the mother of Xeniades, dedicated the relief to the personified river and his symbomoi theoi on behalf of her son. The votive relief shows Xenocratia presenting her little boy to Cephissus. The three central figures are surrounded by a group of deities, most probably the symbomoi theoi of the text.83 Recently, Emmanuel Voutiras suggested that Xenocratia’s original plan to dedicate her son to the river god was disrupted by the Spartan invasion of Attica; in order to keep her promise to Cephissus, Xenocratia initiated the sanctuary’s foundation at a site where the river still flowed within the area protected by the Long Walls and performed there the dedication-like presentation of her child to the deity.84 78   S EG 25.226, ll. 1–6: [Τ]ηλέμαχος ἱδ[ρύσατο τὸ ἱ/ε]ρὸν καὶ τὸν βω[μὸν τῷ Ἀσ/σκλ]ηπιῷ πρῶτ[ος καὶ Ὑγι/είᾳ], τοῖς Ἀσσ[κληπιάδαι/ς καὶ τ]αῖς Ἀσσ[κληπιο͂ θυγ/ατράσιν] (“Telemachus was the first to found the sanctuary and the altar of Asclepius, and Hygieia, and the sons and daughters of Asclepius”). 79   I G II2 4355. 80  Riethmüller 2005: 265. 81  Walter 1937: 97–107. On Xenocratia’s foundation in general, see Purvis 2003: 14–30. 82   I G I3 987, ll. 1–3: Ξενοκράτεια Κηφισοῦ ἱερ/ὸν ἱδρύσατο καὶ ἀνέθηκεν / ξυμβώμοις τε θεοῖς (“Xenocratia founded and dedicated the sanctuary of Cephissus and to the gods who share [with him] the altar”). 83  Beschi 2002: 29–36. 84  Voutiras 2011.

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Most probably, her son’s dedication took place within this small cult site, and the relief was meant to eternalize the act. Just as in the case of Telemachus and his foundation of the cult of Asclepius, so too Xenocratia’s initiative is presented in conjunction with an elaborate votive relief, and not with a dedicatory text on the site’s permanent architecture. Admittedly, the archaeological research at the sanctuary of Cephissus was short-lived and not particularly intense, so we cannot be sure whether or not a temple or any kind of a cult edifice ever existed at the small sanctuary. The excavator of the site emphasized that no architectural remains were unearthed during the brief exploration.85 Most probably, the sanctuary was a hypaethral cult site. Be that as it may, Xenocratia dedicated the altar as well, which definitely bore no inscription that identified it as a votive, though a list of deities found inscribed on a stone block may have been associated with it.86 In his Anabasis, Xenophon refers to an inscription set up next to the temple (παρὰ τὸν ναόν) of Artemis Ephesia at Scillus, the one he had founded himself on his estates at some point between 392 and 371.87 If the text of the original inscription has been transmitted by the literary source correctly, then it does not name Xenophon as the founder of the cult but rather identifies the site as sacred to Artemis and defines regulations pertaining to sacrifices and the maintenance of the temple building. We have to presuppose that as in the case of the foundations of Xenocratia and Telemachus, so too in this one Xenophon must have set up a document – though most probably not on the building itself – that named him as the founder of the cult.88 4

Change of attitude

Interestingly enough, the attitude towards inscribing dedicatory texts on sacred buildings in sanctuaries began to change dramatically in the second quarter of the fourth century outside Greece, more specifically in a cult site controlled by a non-Greek dynastic family, the sanctuary of Zeus at Labraunda in Caria. In the Archaic and Classical periods, this was probably a fairly humble architectural complex that consisted of a sacrificial area, a large sacred grove of plane trees – as noted by Herodotus89 – and a small temple in antis. The latter 85  Stais 1909: 239–44. 86   I G II2 4547. 87  Xen. An. 5.3.13: καὶ στήλη ἕστηκε παρὰ τὸν ναὸν γράμματα ἔχουσα (“and a stele stands next to the temple bearing the [following] text”). 88  On Xenophon’s foundation, see Purvis 2003: 61–116. 89  Hdt. 5.119.

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was most likely built towards the end of the fifth century.90 Between 377 and 352, however, Maussolus initiated an ambitious program that transformed the local sacred site into a Greek-looking sanctuary. He oversaw the completion of a stoa and a lavish andron and began work on a peripteral temple. His brother and successor, Idrieus, completed the temple between 351 and 344, adding at least one more andron as well as a monumental propylon.91 Six out of seven structures at the sanctuary (the temple, two andrones, the oikoi, the propylon, and a ‘sacred house’) bore inscriptions immediately identifying the person responsible for the erection and dedication of each building on their most prominent architectural element, the architrave.92 Only the dedication of the north stoa by Maussolus was documented in an inscription carved onto one of the antae.93 On the temple’s architrave, which extended 12.98 m., the inscription was originally over 7.07 m. long (fig. 9). Furthermore, the letter cutters made sure that the inscription was aesthetically pleasing. In Jonas Crampa’s words, the letters “are very elegantly cut, sometimes with slight curves in the strokes and with slightly thickened finials.”94 An inscription on an architrave block found in the 19th century reveals that Idrieus was also active at the sanctuary of Artemis at Amyzon, where he financed and dedicated either the propylon or more probably the temple.95 Around the time of Idrieus’ activity at the sanctuary of Zeus, the Archaic long altar of Apollo in Cyrene was restored and lavishly faced with slabs of Parian marble.96 On the north end of the sacrificial table a large inscription identifies Philon, son of Annikeris, and paternal great-uncle of the poet Callimachus, as the dedicator of the marble altar: “Philon, son of Annikeris, dedicated the marble altar” (fig. 10).97 By using the adjective λύγδινος (of white marble), Philon proudly made clear that the material was exquisite marble from Paros. On the southern and northern ends of the area that leads to the steps before the altar, Philon placed two smaller inscriptions further emphasizing his dedicatory action but in simpler words: “Philon, son of Annikeris, dedicated to Apollo.”98 The arrangement of these two inscriptions indicates 90  Hellström and Thieme 1982: 41–42. 91  Westholm 1963: 106–12; Hellström 1996. 92  Crampa 1972: 5–18; Umholtz 2002: 273–76. 93  Crampa 1972: 8–9. 94  Crampa 1972: 13. 95   I.Amyzon 1, 351/50–341. Recently, Hellström 2009: 276 argued that the architrave block could have been part of the temple. 96  Laronde 1987: 111–12. 97   S EG 9.85, fourth century: Φ[ίλ]ων Ἀννικέριος / τὸ[ν β]ωμὸν ἀνέθηκε τὸν λύγδ[ινο]ν. 98   S EG 9.86, fourth century: Φίλων Ἀννικέριος / Ἀπόλλωνι ἀνέθηκε.

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Labraunda. Dedicatory inscription on the temple’s architrave © Labraunda Excavations

figure 10 Cyrene. Dedicatory inscription on the altar of Apollo © André Laronde

that there must also have been a now-lost counterpart to the large inscription on the southern end of the sacrificial table. Although impossible to prove, the attitude of the dynastic house of Halicarnassus towards the erection and dedication of temples as well as the prominent documentation of these acts may have influenced Alexander the

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Great, as some scholars have already suggested.99 Alexander is closely associated not only with the temple and altar of Zeus Olympius in Sardis and the architectural enhancement of the sanctuary of Athena in Ilion,100 but also with the temple of Athena in Priene. Although the celebrated architect Pythius, a native of Priene, planned the temple around the middle of the fourth century, it was not completed for another three hundred years. Apparently, the first parts to be finished were the cella, the East Portico and its pediment, and the first four columns on the long north and south sides.101 All of this was accomplished with the financial support of Alexander, whose dedicatory inscription was placed on the topmost block of the northeast anta of the temple (fig. 11).102 The work was finally completed under Augustus, when an inscription documenting the dedication of the temple to Athena Polias and Augustus by the demos of Priene was placed in the center of the east architrave (fig. 12).103 The Roman emperor was likewise to be worshipped in the temple.104 In this period, the old altar of Athena was re-dedicated in order to incorporate Augustus, the new cult recipient. A text identical to the one on the temple was inscribed on the architrave of the altar.105 That in the late fourth century such a prominent commemoration of the benefactor behind the dedication of a temple was not yet common is revealed by the reaction of the Ephesians to Alexander’s offer to pay for a new temple to Artemis after the destruction of the older building in a fire in 356. According to literary sources, priestly authorities elegantly rejected the offer, which came with a demand for an inscription documenting the act, most probably, as in Priene, on the building itself.106 There is evidence of secondary buildings funded by non-royals in major sanctuaries of the Greek mainland shortly before and during Alexander’s reign. According to Pausanias, Leonidas from Elis paid for and dedicated an 99  Schmidt-Dounas 2000: 281–90. 100  Sardis: Arr. Anab. 1.17.5–6. Ilion: Strabo 13.1.26. 101  Rumscheid 1998: 132. 102   I.Priene 156. Crowther 1996: 219 with n. 87 follows the traditional view that “Alexander’s dedication belongs to the period immediately after the battle of Granicus.” On the contrary, Arena 2010: 253–66 argues that the dedication cannot be dated before 332. 103   I.Priene 157. 104  Steuernagel 2010: 248–50. 105   I.Priene 158. Price 1984: 150 assumes that only the architrave was re-dedicated to Augustus. Besides the fact that this hypothesis does not take into account the contemporary rededication of the altar, one should also note in a more general sense that in all cases in which only a part of a temple is dedicated to a divinity, the divine owner of the edifice and the recipient of, for example, a column, as in Ephesus or in Pergamum, are identical. 106  Strabo 14.1.22.

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figure 11 Priene, Athena Polias. Dedicatory inscription of Alexander the Great © German Archaeological Institute, Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-R17211)

figure 12 Priene, Athena Polias. Dedicatory inscription of Augustus © German Archaeological Institute, Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-R27320)

impressive guesthouse at Olympia, which was – probably later – named after him.107 The structure bore identical inscriptions on two sides – presumably on the architrave over its north and south entrances108 – that to some extent confirm Pausanias’ account. Leonidas, however, was not a native Elean but a Naxian.109 A rather unusual solution for the site of a dedicatory inscription on a building was discovered at the sanctuary of Amphiaraus at Oropus. Here, the letters of a dedicatory text were inscribed individually – as if decorative elements – on the metopes of the Doric frieze of the large stoa,110 traditionally dated to around 360.111 Based on the extremely fragmented text, J. J. Coulton 107  Paus. 5.15.2. 108  Mallwitz 1972: 248. 109  Here, I follow the restoration suggested in Svenson-Evers 1996: 383: Λ[ε]ωνίδ[η]ς Λεώτου Νάξιος ἐπόη[σεν ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων Διὶ Ὀλυμπίῳ] (“Leonides, son of Leotes from Naxos made [= dedicated] this with his own funds for Zeus Olympius”). 110   I.Oropos 339. 111  Petrakos 1968: 77–84; Coulton 1976: 269.

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suggested that the stoa had been funded and dedicated by the people either of Oropus or Thebes.112 After Alexander’s death and possibly because of his support of Priene’s poliadic sanctuary among others, the ruling house of Macedonia exhibited interest in the funding of architectural projects in Greek sanctuaries for a brief period. Between 323 and 320, Philip III Arrhidaeus and Alexander IV dedicated a small hexastyle Doric building of unknown function on the eastern hill of the sanctuary of the Great Gods on Samothrace.113 An inscription on its partly preserved architrave explicitly identifies the building as a royal dedication.114 More problematic is the case of the so-called altar court, a monumental sacrificial area built atop an older simple rock altar at some point between 340 and 330.115 A hypaethral courtyard with four Doric columns on its façade enclosed a large stepped altar. The architrave on the west side bore a dedicatory inscription. While some scholars claim that the now-fragmented text testifies to the financial involvement of Arrhidaeus, Alexander’s half-brother and successor to the Macedonian throne,116 others have reconstructed an otherwise unknown benefactor by the name of Adaeus (“Adaios” in its ancient Greek form).117 Either way, the monumental altar court was not only the result of a private financial effort, but also bore the documentation of such an action on a prominent element of its architecture. All in all, the sanctuary on Samothrace attracted the attention of several Hellenistic dynastic houses and most prominently that of the Ptolemies. Ptolemy II financed and dedicated a monumental and lavish propylon with an Ionic eastern (fig. 13) and a Corinthian western façade. Both sides displayed identical dedicatory inscriptions on their architraves.118 During her marriage to Lysimachus, Arsinoë II, another member of the Ptolemaic dynasty, dedicated to the Great Gods of Samothrace the largest tholos of the ancient Greek world – to be surpassed later by the Roman Pantheon – and documented this act with an impressive dedicatory inscription on the architrave of the exterior gallery with Doric columns (fig. 14).119 Several other buildings in the sanctuary of the Great Gods have been associated with either the Macedonian or 112  Coulton 1968: 182–83. 113  McCredie 1968: 222–30. 114   S EG 29.800. 115  Lehmann and Spittle 1964. 116  For example, Lehmann 1953: 18–21. 117  See, for example, Fraser 1960: 121–23 no. 65; Bringmann and von Steuben 1995: 492 no. 429 [A] (for additional comments, see also 261 no. 233 [E]). 118  Frazer 1990: 94–95. 119  Roux and Williams Lehmann 1992.

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figure 13 Samothrace. Restored eastern elevation of the propylon dedicated by Ptolemy II © Institute of Fine Arts Excavations in Samothrace

figure 14 Samothrace. Restored elevation of the Arsinoëum © Institute of Fine Arts Excavations in Samothrace

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Ptolemaic dynasties.120 The material preserved, however, does not allow us to determine whether or not these bore dedicatory inscriptions. Although absent from the sanctuary of the Great Gods, the Attalids dedicated buildings of significant size in Athens and Delphi. While the two-storied stoa in the Agora of Athens belongs to the fairly common building type dedicated by Hellenistic monarchs in Greek cities both on the Greek mainland and in Asia Minor,121 the stoa dedicated by Attalus I in Delphi represents a significant alteration in the sanctuary’s eastern section and seems to have been a reaction to the stoa of the Aetolians to the west.122 Unfortunately, the inscriptions here are not preserved and we have no idea how the dedication of the building was documented. In Pergamum, the Attalids were active at the sanctuary of Athena Polias and even more so in the sanctuary of Demeter. The architrave inscription of the propylon in the sanctuary of Athena identifies the building as a dedication by Eumenes II.123 Fragmentary architrave inscriptions from both the double-aisled north and the simpler east stoa also identify the two structures as dedications by the Pergamene ruling family.124 Shortly after the establishment of the Attalid dynasty, Philetaerus and his brother financed and dedicated the small distilos-in-antis temple and the large altar of Demeter.125 Inscriptions on the architrave of the temple’s eastern façade as well as on the eastern side of the so-called altar A document that the two brothers performed this deed in honor of their mother Boa.126 According to the preserved architrave inscriptions, Attalus’ I wife, Apollonis, paid for and dedicated the propylon as well as the so-called west stoa and the banquet rooms behind it.127 Based on an extremely fragmentary text, the great Pergamene altar might have been identified as a votive offering to Zeus and Athena through an inscription placed directly on the epistyle of the monument.128 More than in the case of any other sanctuary in Pergamum, the sacred sites dedicated to Demeter and Athena seem to have been primarily the products of dynastic benefaction; the rulers involved publicized this through inscriptions on architecturally significant parts of the buildings and altars that they sponsored.

120  Schmidt-Dounas 2000: 209–12. 121  Schmidt-Dounas 2000: 23–50. 122  Schalles 1985: 104–16; Mylonopoulos 2006: 89–91. 123  Bohn 1885: 49–56. 124  Bohn 1885: 42–45. 125  Botz 1981: 40–48. 126  Hepding 1910: 437–38 nos. 22–23. 127  Hepding 1910: 439–42 no. 24. 128  Fränkel 1890: 54–55 no. 69.

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In the second century CE, Claudius Silianus Aesimus, a wealthy Pergamene and city official, privately financed the erection of a marble pronaos, which did not replace the Hellenistic antechamber of the temple but was placed before it. Aesimus’ dedicatory act and, more importantly, the fact that he had himself paid for the construction, were commemorated through a long inscription prominently cut into the architrave of the new pronaos.129 That private individuals could dedicate parts of temples at Pergamum is attested already in the Hellenistic period. A typical example is a column fragment from the sanctuary of Athena Polias that has been attributed to the temple’s pronaos130 and is simply inscribed with a dedicatory text identifying its bearer as the offering of Deïppus, son of Artemon to Athena.131 Oddly enough, Athena is not identified by name but by the epic epithet “Tritogeneia,” which in this case should not be understood as a cult epithet.132 5

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Though uncommon, the practice of inscribing various texts on the architectural fabric of a building was not unheard of in Greek antiquity. We must recall that the Great Code of Gortyn was from the very outset part of a building.133 Theaters, such as those in Athens, Oeniadae, or Sparta and later in Ephesus, Miletus, or Aphrodisias were spaces for the placement of official and semiofficial documents.134 Individuals could fund buildings of a political character, and an inscription on the structure could document their activity as patrons.135 For example, the bouleuterion of Miletus was funded by Timarchus and Heraclides and given to the city as a gift in honor of Antiochus IV; two identical inscriptions on the architrave of the east side of the meeting hall and the architrave of the central propylon proudly bore witness to this act.136 Large 129  Fränkel 1890: 442–44 no. 25. 130  Fränkel 1890: 2 no. 2. 131   S EG 28.962. Peek 1978: 700 was the first to identify the name of the dedicator as Δήι[π]πος. 132  Ohlemutz 1940: 18. The poetic ambitions of the dedicator who chose to address the divinity with an epigram suggest that Tritogeneia is used here as an allusion to the Homeric poems rather than as a cult epithet. 133  On the spatial context of the inscription, see Willetts 1967: esp. 3–4. For evidence from Gortyn, Axus, and Drerus, see Perlmann 2004. 134  On theaters as stages of public life, see Chaniotis 1997a: 219–59; 2007: 48–66. The most recent monographic study on this subject, Villacèque 2013, has a specific geographical and chronological perspective, Classical Athens. 135  See, in general, Meier 2012: 141–60. 136  Knackfuss 1908: 95–99.

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porticoes became the favorite means for Hellenistic monarchs to demonstrate their patronage of a community and often bore inscriptions to document their association with the ruler who had funded them.137 In the sixth century CE, a wealthy citizen of Aphrodisias, Albinus, paid for the restoration of the Western Portico of the so-called Agora. Inscriptions on the nineteen preserved columns refer to Albinus by name,138 occasionally addressing him as ktistes of the stoa.139 Before Albinus, probably in the later fifth century CE, several donors, among them Philip, son of Herodian, had already financed the restoration of the Southern Portico of the so-called Agora.140 All the same, inscribing sacred architecture in a way that identified it as a dedication remained a rather unusual act before the Hellenistic period.141 This is all the more surprising, if one recalls that each and every temple was in fact a dedication to a divinity either by a community or a wealthy and influential personage. Most of the gargantuan temples of the Archaic period, be it the Ephesian peripteros, the Samian dipteros, or the Athenian Olympieum, were associated with individuals, mostly tyrants, who used temple architecture to engage in creative international competition with other members of the Archaic elites across the eastern Mediterranean.142 Nevertheless, not a single one of these structures bears a dedicatory inscription that links it to its sponsor. Thus the dedication of the temple at Metapontum and the dedicatory inscription on its architrave appear all the more unusual. The explicit reference to the genos of the unknown dedicator transforms the monumental Metapontine temple into a private dedication. The act of using the architrave of a temple as a blackboard for commemorating a dedication, as seen in Metapontum, remained unparalleled until the Hellenistic period. The Syracusan temple of Apollo and the Hall of the Athenians at Delphi are identified as dedications, but on account of inscriptions carved 137  Of course, the most obvious example is the stoa of Attalus on the Athenian Agora. In 299, Antiochus, the son of king Seleucus I funded the erection of a large stoa in the city of Miletus. The building was dedicated to Apollo, and the city had to give the money earned from renting the building to the sanctuary of the god in Didyma, see I.Didyma 479. 138  Roueché 1989: 125–36. 139   S EG 34.1051. 140  Roueché 1989: 108–9. 141  G. Umholtz 2002: 276–78 claims that inscriptions on funerary stelae that assume the form of a naiskos could be the missing link between the few early examples of the Archaic and Classical periods and the Hellenistic ones. Even if at times funerary stelae imitate architecture, they cannot be considered either formally or functionally architecture. At least functionally the same applies, in my view, to choregic monuments, which Umholtz 2002: 284–86 chose to include in her analysis. 142  In this respect, Archaic Samos is a typical example. See Kienast 2004: 69–78.

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onto the stylobate. The placement of dedicatory texts directly on buildings is – as emphasized here – unusual, but in their case, we may observe how ancient architects took into consideration the specifics of topography. The Hall of the Athenians in particular demonstrates a highly conscious anticipation of the viewing modes of visitors to the sanctuary in Delphi. Although there were several gates to the sanctuary, the main one was always situated on the southeast. From here, where the “war of monuments” started – as I have elsewhere called this kind of aggressive communication among votive offerings – the processional way led the visitor by the countless dedications and treasuries up to the temple plateau.143 While ascending to the temple, she or he would have encountered at eye-level the stylobate inscription on the Hall of the Athenians and would have continued reading it until standing directly before the building. Although the surroundings of the Syracusan temple of Apollo have changed dramatically, the area around the temple was and remains relatively flat. Thus one cannot presuppose a viewing situation similar to that at the Delphic Hall of the Athenians, which made the setting of the dedicatory inscription on the stylobate a more attractive alternative than an inscription on its architrave.144 Despite such topographical differences, one may nonetheless assume that the placement of the inscription on the stylobate of the temple in Syracuse had to do with viewing modalities. Placed at a height of approximately 1.50 meters right next to the central ramp leading up to the pronaos, and covering nearly the entire length of the right half of the stylobate, the inscription with its high (c. 20 cm.) and most probably color-enhanced letters would have been at eyelevel to anyone approaching the front of the temple, and thus not only visible but also, and more importantly, legible (fig. 15). It is interesting that the placement of dedicatory inscriptions on prominent architectural elements of sacred buildings, such as architraves, becomes for the first time nearly canonical at a sanctuary that was transformed from an indigenous, more or less hypaethral sacred space into a Greek or at least Greeklooking cult place within a few decades by a non-Greek dynasty. Regarding the architectural dedicatory inscription from the sanctuary of Zeus Labraundus, Umholtz is certainly right when she claims that “their formulas are in no way unusual for or inconsonant with Greek traditions.”145 But the significant point here is not the formulaic character and content of the Labraundan inscriptions, 143  Mylonopoulos 2006: 88–89. 144  I would like to thank Clemente Marconi who in an email (24.04.13) confirmed to me that the area around the temple is level and cannot be compared to the topographical situation in Delphi. 145  Umholtz 2002: 276.

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figure 15 Syracuse. Inscription on the stylobate of the temple of Apollo © Dieter Mertens

but their number and situation on the architrave. In this respect, they are indeed unique and seem to initiate a new epigraphic habit. At the sanctuary in Labraunda, Maussolus and his brother Idrieus put up elegant Greek dedicatory inscriptions on at least seven buildings, including the peripteral temple of Zeus. By doing so, they did not simply and explicitly proclaim to whom the sanctuary belonged, but also claimed a Greek cultural identity for themselves and their territory. Beyond these inscribed texts, the conscious and all-encompassing use of Greek architectural forms – the andrones, for example, incorporated Ionic columns combined with a Doric frieze in their façades – added further weight to the Hecatomnids’ desire to become part of the Greek world.146 Even today, inscriptions are often used as both a textual and visual means to promote a specific cultural and intellectual identity. 146  Mylonopoulos 2008b: 73–74. Hellström 1996: 137–38 suggested that while Maussolus wished to address an international audience, Idrieus instead had the Carians in his mind. More recently, he hypothesized that Idrieus’ building activity in Labraunda already started while Maussolus was still alive (Hellström 2011). According to this assumption, Idrieus stayed as his brother’s hyparchos in Mylasa (hence the use of the ethnic Mylaseus in the Labraundan dedicatory inscriptions), when Maussolus moved as the Carian satrap to Halicarnassus.

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figure 16 New York. Columbia University’s Butler Library © Media Center, Columbia University, Art History and Archaeology Department (T. Trombley)

At Columbia University, for example, the frieze of the main library displays the names of six famous Greek (Homer, Herodotus, Sophocles, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes) and two Latin (Cicero, Vergil) intellectuals from antiquity (fig. 16). In the west, the frieze bears the names of Horace, Tacitus, St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Dante, while the eastern architrave presents to the viewer/reader the names of Cervantes, Shakespeare, Milton, Voltaire, and Goethe.147 By doing so, the university (like many other similar institutions around the world) demonstrates its claim of being the continuator of a glorious tradition in a very obvious manner. Within a strictly Greek cultural context, Hellenistic rulers were those who brought back the extremely rare Archaic tradition of setting a dedicatory inscription on the architrave of a sacred building, doing so in both their own territories and in sanctuaries of a Pan-Hellenic nature. In contrast, our evidence suggests that Alexander the Great still followed (or was ‘advised’ to follow) – though in a modified form – the reluctance of Classical and Late Classical Athens and, more generally, Greece to place names of mortals on a temple. Admittedly, the inscription documenting Alexander’s involvement in the 147  It would be interesting to know why these names were chosen and the exact reasons for the imbalance that obviously favours Greek authors and more specifically the six mentioned in the inscription on the façade. It seems that Nicholas M. Butler, the president of Columbia University between 1902 and 1945, was the one who chose the names of the eighteen intellectuals, see Loveland 2005.

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financing of the temple of Athena Polias was not placed on a separate monument, as in the cases of Telemachus, Xenocratia, or Themistocles, but on one of the antae of the temple. All the same, the text on the anta was not as visible behind the colonnade of the peristasis as was an inscription on an architrave, although it would have been visible enough for those who were in the pronaos and wished to enter the building’s cella. How strikingly different is the Roman, rather brazen approach to advertising the dedication of temples – usually in the form of a monumental inscription across their architraves – is demonstrated not only by the temples of Rome, but also by ones in Roman Greece and Asia Minor, such as the Roma-andAugustus temple on the Athenian Acropolis148 or the one dedicated to Zeus and Domitian at Aezani in 92 CE.149 Even more remarkable are cases in which already existing Greek temples were re-dedicated in the Roman Imperial period, and inscriptions were added on their architraves to document the dedicatory act. In addition to the aforementioned case of the temple of Athena Polias in Priene (fig. 12),150 the inscriptions commemorating or even celebrating the re-dedication of the temple of Nemesis in Rhamnus to Livia,151 of Meter at Olympia to Augustus,152 and of Apollo in Clarus to Tiberius153 are examples that clearly show how important the placement of a dedicatory inscription on a temple’s architrave was considered by the Romans and how quickly the Greeks adopted this habit, at least for new or re-dedicated cult structures. Though differing in content, the inscription on the eastern architrave of the Parthenon, which commemorates in 14-cm. high gilded bronze letters the dedication of a statue of Nero on the Athenian Acropolis by the council of the Areopagus, the Council of the 600, and the people of Athens in 61/2 CE,154 must be noted 148  Fouquet 2012: 79–84. 149  Posamentir and Wörrle 2006. 150  See above p. 253. 151  Stafford 2013. 152  Hitzl 1991: 19–24. 153  Ferrary 2000: 368–70 follows Robert and suggests that only a part of the pronaos was dedicated to Tiberius. In 135 or 136 CE, Hadrian probably funded restoration work at the temple. The emperor commemorated his involvement through a monumental inscription on the architrave of the façade in which he appears as the dedicator of the temple to Apollo, see Ferrary 2000: 370–76. 154  Carroll 1982. Carroll argues that the inscription does not refer to the dedication of a statue, but rather to Nero’s crowning. His argument that, if it were indeed referring to an honorific statue, the inscription should have been on the statue base is problematic. In Priene, for example, a decree documents the dedication of a statue in honor of the Ephesian neokoros Megabyxus (I. Priene 3), while a more cursory inscription was placed on the base of Megabyxus’ statue (I. Priene 231). In addition, as in the text from the Parthenon’s east architrave, inscriptions often refer to the honored person in the accusative when they

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here, as it reveals a way in which a temple could be appropriated for a Roman emperor, even if the building was not re-dedicated. What then is the reason why Greeks were generally so unwilling to place dedicatory inscriptions on sacred architecture? Whether anecdotal or not, a passage in Plutarch’s Life of Pericles does seem to summarize the general Greek attitude to inscriptions on sacred buildings that identified them as dedications by individuals or collectives: Thucydides and his party kept denouncing Pericles for playing fast and loose with the public moneys and annihilating the revenues. Pericles therefore asked the people in assembly whether they thought he had expended too much, and on their declaring that it was altogether too much, “Well then,” said he, “let it not have been spent on your account, but mine, and I will make the inscriptions of dedication in my own name.” When Pericles had said this, whether it was that they admired his magnanimity or vied with his ambition to get the glory of his works, they cried out with a loud voice and bade him take freely from the public funds for his outlays, and to spare naught whatsoever.155 A dedication implies that the ownership of the dedicated object has shifted from dedicator to divinity. Although Greeks were deeply aware of the fact that every temple was a dedication by either the community or a wealthy individual, the act of placing a dedicator’s name on a temple created a rather distorted relationship between human dedicator and divine recipient. It is important to recall that with the possible exception of the Parthenon frieze and some other rather problematic Archaic cases, topics and scenes from everyday human life, including ritual scenes, were not part of the repertoire of architectural sculpture.156 This is further indication that when it came to temple structures some sort of visible distance needed to be maintained between the human and divine sphere. Displaying the name of a dedicator on the architrave of a temple would have seriously disturbed that balance. This notion of balance, usually respected in the Classical and Late Classical periods, was cast aside at least three times in the Archaic period and often abandoned entirely in Hellenistic times. Apparently, the attempts of Archaic tyrants to associate themselves with the gods in a more direct way and, even more so, Hellenistic rulers’ identification imply the dedication of a statue portraying that person (e.g. I. Priene 186). Admittedly, this formula is usually found on statue bases. 155  Plut. Per. 14.1–2 (B. Perrin). 156  Marconi 2013; Mylonopoulos 2014: 343–45.

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with the gods created an intellectual framework that made conspicuous placement of dedicatory inscriptions on temples’ architraves possible.157 Strangely enough, altars bearing dedicatory inscriptions – and here we refer only to those that were the principal altars in sanctuaries – appear more frequently in the Archaic period than later. From Athens, we have the altars dedicated by Peisistratus the Younger and, more importantly, the altar of Athena Nike, a dedication by the otherwise unknown Patroclides. The case of the altar in the Athenian Asclepium is problematic since it is uncertain whether or not the stone on which a dedicatory epigram was inscribed really belongs to the altar. On the other hand, the altar in the sanctuary of Apollo at Cyrene offers a clear case, since its inscriptions were found in situ. As mentioned, the Archaic period was a time when members of the elites in particular considered themselves closely associated to the gods. Peisistratus’ triumphant return to Athens accompanied by Athena (whether anyone actually believed that the woman at Peisistratus’ side was Athena is another story) speaks for itself.158 In my view, Philon’s nearly exhibitionistic inscriptions most likely indicate his and his family’s claim of being direct descendants from Battus, the heros oikistes of Cyrene.159 A deeply personal bond between Telemachus and the god he helped bring to Athens could explain Telemachus’ inscription on the altar – if Riethmüller’s hypothesis is correct. Based on the dedications and inscriptions from his Athenian sanctuary, Asclepius remained a relatively approachable hero/god who attracted worshippers from a variety of social strata.160 Yet the fact that Telemachus could claim that he had been the ‘bringer’ of Asclepius to Athens seems to have been even more important than his indubitably close connection to the god. It remains puzzling why the Delphic authorities allowed the dedication of the main altar of the sanctuary by the people of Chios to be commemorated – not once but twice – through an inscription carved directly on the monument. One should note, however, that it is unclear whether the inscription on the Hellenistic altar commemorates the involvement of the

157  Archaic tyrants, such as the Athenian Peisistratus, the Corinthian Cypselus, or the Milesian Amphitres incorporated mythical heroes and/or kings in their constructed family trees, see de Libero 1996: 50, 138–39, 356 n. 5, 391. On the well-studied cult of Hellenistic rulers, see most recently Günther and Plischke 2011; Iossif, Chankowski, and Lorber 2011; Caneva 2012. 158  Connor 1987: 42–47. 159  On the family history of the poet Callimachus, a descendant of Annikeris and relative of Philon, see most recently Petrovic 2011: 283–84. 160  Aleshire 1989: 52–71.

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Chians in the funding of the later monument as well or is simply a copy of the original inscription on the Archaic altar.161 Compared to sanctuaries with temples, the caves at Vari and Pharsalus reveal a different, more direct connection between the divine and human spheres. Here, however, we are dealing with mortal beings associated with the Nymphs. Corinne Pache has recently argued that especially in the case of nymphs and perhaps in that of some heroic cults as well, the dividing line between worshipper and worshipped was more fluid.162 This might partly explain Archedemus and Pantalces’ inscriptions in the caves at Vari and Pharsalus, which eternally commemorated their involvement in the transformation of the respective cult spaces in Attica and Thessaly. Like Telemachus, Archedemus and Pantalces claimed to be initiators of new cults and not simply founders of sanctuaries, but, in addition, as nympholeptoi, they acted on behalf of the Nymphs and not ‘independently.’ Although we cannot be sure how many visitors to the Athenian Acropolis, Delphi, Olympia, or Delos would actually have read the countless dedications, accounts, or honorific decrees before them, the inscriptions on the stylobates, columns, architraves, or altars were certainly meant to be read. The architrave of a temple in particular became a favorite place on which to inscribe a dedicatory text in the Hellenistic and later the Roman Imperial period. This was the one place in Greek temple architecture that was always left without decoration and in addition was prominent enough to bear an important text. Alexander claimed the Parthenon on the Athenian Acropolis not by placing an inscription on its architrave, but by strategically adorning the eastern façade with fourteen gilded Persian shields, spoils from the battle at Granicus.163 It is tempting to assume that he chose the eastern façade not only because it was the main entrance to the cella, but also because it held a depiction of the Gigantomachy on its metopes (each single shield was carefully placed beneath a metope), and he was thus able to create a connection between the Olympians and ‘his’ Greeks. By occupying the eastern architrave of the Parthenon, Alexander quite literally imitated the way in which the Athenians had claimed the temple of Apollo at Delphi when they displayed the captured Persian shields on its eastern

161  Although de Libero 1996: 312 n. 9 remains skeptical, and Herodotus explicitly refers to the Archaic altar as a dedication of the Chians (see n. 51), one could hypothesize that the Archaic monument was originally a dedication of the Chian tyrant Stratis that was later reclaimed by the people of Chios (comparable to the case of the Corinthian treasury in Delphi, see above p. 240). 162  Pache 2011. 163  Hurwit 1999: 253–54 with n. 35.

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architrave.164 Around half a century later, shortly after 279, the Aetolians followed the same tradition by placing the captured shields of the Gauls on the southern and western architraves of the Delphic temple.165 When Alexander the Great offered to help the Ephesians with the erection of their new temple, one of them explained to him why they had to refuse by stating: “it is not fitting that one God should build/create offerings for other Gods.”166 Strangely enough, Alexander’s knowledge of Greek mythology seems to have failed him, since he could have replied easily that some of the most important attributes of a Greek divinity or hero’s nature and appearance were divine gifts as were Athena’s aegis, Apollo’s lyre, Artemis’ bow and arrows, or Perseus’ winged cap and boots.167 It was thus quite appropriate for one god to make a gift to another. This is, however, exactly what occurred when the new gods in the Greek panthea of the post-Alexander era, the kings and queens of the Hellenistic kingdoms, started placing their names on the architraves of the temples they had funded and dedicated: gods began making offerings in the form of temples to other gods. While it takes a wealthy community or individual to fund and dedicate a temple, publicizing this act of dedication by carving a monumental inscription on the temple brings this act to a whole new level. Dedications were deemed part of a god’s property, and temples were dedications, but they were much more than that168 to be treated as simple votive offerings. This changed in the Hellenistic era, when men-turned-to-gods started presenting them as gifts. Until this period of time, if anyone then the gods presented temples as gifts to themselves or other gods; after all, one should not forget that the financial resources used by Greek communities for the erection of temples usually originated in the gods’ own sacred funds.169

164  Paus. 10.19.4. Habicht 1979: 36–39 convincingly demonstrates that Pausanias made a mistake when he claimed that the shields were captured during the battle in Marathon; they must have been spoils from the battle at Plataea. 165  Paus. 10.19.4. Flacelière 1937: 108 with n. 5. 166  Strabo 14.1.22: ὡς οὐ πρέποι θεῷ θεοῖς ἀναθήματα κατασκευάζειν (“it is not appropriate for a god to make [= dedicate] offerings to [other] gods”). 167  Mylonopoulos 2010: 176–77, 183. 168  In the past, scholarship (including the author of this article) over-emphasized the importance of the altar over the need or not for a temple. Temples have been increasingly addressed as treasuries, storage rooms, necessary shelters for cult statues, and monumental, almost theatrical backgrounds for altars. The unwillingness of the Greeks to treat their temples as if they were any other votive offering, however, implies that we need to rethink our approach to the religious and symbolic value of temples in Greek antiquity. 169  Although geographically (Asia Minor) and chronologically (Hellenistic and Roman times) clearly defined, Dignas 2002 is a fundamental overview on the use of sacred funds.

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chapter 10

Re-Appraising the Value of Same-Text Relationships; a Study of ‘Duplicate’ Inscriptions in the Monumental Landscape at Aphrodisias Abigail Graham 1

What is an Inscription? Ancient and Modern Perspectives*

S. Panciera’s recent article ‘What is an Inscription’, which offers an enlightening and thoughtful treatment of epigraphy as a discipline, has called into question not only how we define the term ‘inscription’ but how we treat this evidence, as epigraphers, historians and archaeologists.1 One of his key factors in defining an inscription is the public nature of the display and the intention of portraying this writing to the largest possible readership (even if a reading of the monument was not a primary expectation).2 It is the appearance, the visibility, and presentation of epigraphic information in a public context, according to Panciera, that makes an inscription.3 In addition to questioning modern definitions, he also considers the way our modern ‘lens’ and methodologies can shape and at times distort our views, especially regarding the perspective *  This paper was first presented at an Oxford Epigraphy workshop (February 4th 2012), and I am very grateful for the helpful comments and observations offered by C. Crowther, J. Ma, F. Millar, and F. Marchand. In addition, I would like to thank C. Roueche, G. Bodard and J. Reynolds and R. R. R. Smith for their generosity with their research, their time and their images. Finally, I would like to thank E. Thomas and M. Graham for their enlightened comments and support in the research of this work. Any mistakes in these texts are the author’s own. 1  Panciera 2012: 1–10. 2  P. considers the Roman aspiration of ‘putting oneself before the eyes of all’ (Sartori 2007: 47–53), focusing on the presentation of information and the intentions of the benefactor: “I would identify the specific quality of epigraphic communication in addressing whatever information it is meant to communicate, at least in intention, erga omnes, or at least to the greatest number of potential readers …” (Panciera 2012: 5). 3  “I would propose to regard as an ‘inscription’ any particular type of written human communication of the sort that we would today call unidirectional … not being addressed to a person or to a group but to a collectivity, and for this reason is made with the location, writing technique, graphic form and impagination, mode and register of expression chosen because they are most suitable to the attainment of its intended goal.” (Panciera 2012: 8).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_012

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of the ancient audience. When studying an inscription, we are often focused on recreating the message and the environment in which it was set. As such, our research can be dominated by the need to restore the text, date the building, and ascertain whether the named individuals are linked prosopographically to other projects. We use epigraphic evidence, as we should, to help fill in the many gaps in our knowledge of the ancient world. In doing so, however, we must not forget that many of the questions we ask are not necessarily the same questions or set of values that were applied by ancient viewers. The ancient audience, who were viewing the monument whole, may have been asking different questions and/or seeing (not necessarily reading) different things; such as the presentation of the information (e.g. the letter forms, letter size, arrangement of the text, the use of architectural space, relationship between text and images). The limitations of the modern ‘lens’ are particularly evident in the modern publication of ‘duplicate’ inscriptions with one or more ‘copies’. When publishing a large volume of inscriptions, the primary concern is often recording as complete a catalogue as possible, a priority with which few would disagree. As a result, ‘duplicate’ or multiple inscriptions are often published in a single version, with a short reference to a further ‘copy’. This modern editorial process, though entirely understandable, potentially overlooks important aspects of this type of evidence. The terms ‘copy’ and ‘duplicate’ are problematic insofar as they imply, first, that texts are identical when in fact there are often important differences between them and, secondly, that there is an identifiable ‘original’ version of text from which others were derived, which is not often the case.4 The difficulty of applying modern concepts and terminology to the ancient world has been well documented.5 Describing as ‘copies’ two inscriptions with the same or similar wording would appear to be a further instance of this phenomenon. If a ‘copy’ is regarded as a derivative or secondary example, this can tend to diminish the value of this type of evidence. On the other hand, by examining each ‘duplicate’ as an inscription in its own right, and drawing comparisons with other inscriptions containing the same or similar text, we can enhance our understanding of the text itself and the historical environment in which it was created. If we regard same-text inscriptions as ‘copies’, we would overlook all the insights that can be gained, and can only be gained, from this type of analysis. It is submitted therefore that so-called ‘copy’ inscriptions, far 4  Indeed the Greek word “antigraphon” was applied both to an archive and a public version of Greek documents with “no derogatory implication that a ‘copy’ is not authoritative” (Thomas 1989: 47 and especially n. 106). 5  For a parallel discussion on the use of modern epigraphic terminology cf. Panciera 2012: 2 n. 4.

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from being a source of derivative or secondary importance, can offer a unique and important insight into the ancient world, if each of the ‘copies’ is analysed as an inscription in its own right. In a similar way, bilingual texts, which also offer two versions of the same text, do not necessarily record ‘equal’ messages or present a ‘balanced’ image of both languages, a phenomenon which has been well-documented elsewhere.6 To focus our attention solely on one version of two ‘copies’ can lead to similar assumptions about the parity of these texts with respect to presentation, message, location and function. As observed in bilingual dedications, similarities in the text may not translate to similarities in the presentation of inscription to the viewer. To further understand the phenomenon of same-text inscriptions, we need to explore how these texts were presented in the monumental context. The similarities and differences between two versions of a monumental dedication can include monumental appearance (e.g. letter sizes, arrangement of the text, type of architectural space), grammatical differences (e.g. abbreviations or omission of letters or indeed entire words) and location within a building or within the urban landscape more generally. A holistic analysis which encompasses these discrepancies can provide insight into the priorities of the dedicator as well as the dynamic creative process by which an inscription was conceived and executed. Where, for example, certain words or phrases in the text are omitted, abbreviated, or reduced in size or positional prominence relative to other parts, this can be suggestive of relative value judgments. These issues are addressed further in a specific case study of ‘duplicate’ building dedications at Aphrodisias. This paper will focus on a series of three examples of monumental sametext dedications at Aphrodisias. All inscriptions are from the Imperial period (from the 1st century to the mid-second century CE). Two examples come from the Sebasteion, where a series of ‘duplicate’ dedications record the construction and restoration of the projects undertaken by Eusebes and Menander (the propylon and the North Portico). The final example is a pair of dedications from the north and south doorways of the East Court at the Hadrianic Baths. Following on from Panciera’s concept of an inscription as writing in a public context, set up for maximum readership, regardless of whether or not the text was meant to be read, this work will focus on aspects of physical presentation of the inscription: the formula and order of the text, its arrangement on the space, the use of decorations.7 The purpose of this work is to examine more closely how copies of inscriptions were presented to the ancient audience and 6  Adams 2003: 30–32; Burrell 2009: 69–95; Graham 2013: 383–412, Kearsley 1999: 147–55. 7  A similar methodology has been applied to monumental dedications in Ephesus (Graham 2013).

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how they interacted with each other, with the aim of increasing our understanding of how and why ‘copies’ of inscriptions (described in this work as ‘same-text dedications’) were used in the monumental context. The following discussions and observations will be facilitated by the IAph website, which will allow the reader to view and manipulate images of many of the inscriptions discussed.8 2

Same-Text Relationships at Aphrodisias

Aphrodisias is an informative case study, not only in terms of the number of inscriptions that survive but also with respect to the quality of the material evidence and the impressive record of sculptural, archaeological and epigraphic scholarship, which includes several interactive websites.9 Work on monumental reconstructions continues every year and the past two seasons (2010–2011 and 2011–2012) have seen dramatic reconstructive efforts in both the buildings discussed here: the Sebasteion and the Hadrianic Baths.10 These systematic studies of architecture, sculpture, and epigraphy provide a unique opportunity to reconstruct monumental dedications directly within the urban context in which they were set. The large volume of inscriptions surviving at this site is likely a product both of the high level of preservation and of the city’s proximity to local quarries. The availability of resources was likely a key factor in the production of inscriptions at Aphrodisias and may also explain why multiple versions of inscriptions appear to happen more frequently at Aphrodisias. It is also worth noting that the same-text dedications discussed in this work are not the first or the only instances of this practice at Aphrodisias.11 8  Unless otherwise stated, text references correspond to IAph2007 citation numbers. Links to further publications are recorded on the IAph2007 website (including a concordance). All texts and translations are based on texts and translations by Reynolds, save one instance, where a more complete version of the text (discussed and translated by Reynolds) was published by De Chaisemartin (cf. infra n. 27). The most complete collection of inscriptions from the Sebasteion is published in R. R. R. Smith’s 2013 monograph (though a few corrigenda are required in these versions). 9  Systematic publication of inscriptions and archaeological finds are recorded in yearly reports by R. R. R. Smith in the American Journal of Archaeology, supplemented by The Aphrodisias Papers 1–4. Epigraphic publications (including a concordance) are provided on IAph2007: http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph2007/index.html). NYU website: http://www .nyu.edu/projects/aphrodisias/home.ti.htm. 10   Recent excavation reports: http://www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/fineart/academics/aphrodi sias/aphrodisias.htm. 11  A double dedication recording Zoilus’ work survives on two architraves at the theatre (IAph2007 8.1 & 8.5). IAph2007 8.1 was carved in a different (possibly later) hand, perhaps when columns, entablature and veneering were added to the stage building in the 2nd

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2.1 Same-Text Dedications at the Sebasteion Located off the city’s cardo maximus on the East, lying adjacent to the civic center of city (the North Agora (map 1, no. 8), the Sebasteion offered a dramatic and dynamic set of imagery and architecture to the passer-by, including statues of Aphrodite ‘Prometor’ and Aeneas (IAph2007 9.34 and 9.35), as well as sculptural decorations such as theatrical masks, which recalled the triumviral architecture of the theatre in a different context.12 The Sebasteion building included a propylon, two three-storey porticoes (north and south) and a temple (fig. 1). Viewing of this building was facilitated by the arrangement of the adjacent East entrance to the North Agora, which was set back by about 40 meters, creating significant viewing space.13 While the building complex, its sculpture, and its inscriptions have been the subject of much scholarship and reconstruction, these studies have not always been integrated.14 As a result, many of the beautifully carved and decorated inscriptions have not been examined within the urban context until recently. The construction and subsequent restorations of the Sebasteion was a collaborative effort by two of Aphrodisias’ leading families. The temple and South Portico are associated with Attalus, son of Menander and Attalis Apphion, daughter of Menecrates.15 The propylon and North Portico are the work of Eusebes philopatris and Menander, who have been associated with at least one other public building in Aphrodisias: the Eusebian Baths.16 In terms of dating, archaeological and epigraphic studies agree that the propylon and the North Portico were a little earlier or contemporary with the temple building, followed by the South Portico, sometime in cent. CE by T. K. Zelos (IAph2007 8.85) (Reynolds 1991: 17–19). As a result, one cannot be certain that this inscription was originally a ‘double’ dedication. Multiple column dedications by Eumachus at the Temple of Aphrodite (IAph2007 1.4–1.6) also represent three inscriptions carved in different hands, at least one of which was carved significantly later (3rd–4th cent. CE). 12  Smith 1987: 88–138; 1988: 50–77 and De Chaisemartin 2006: 34–36. 13  Smith 2013: 11. 14  For archaeological and sculptural studies, see Smith’s 2013 wonderfully comprehensive monograph (cf. supra n. 8). Epigraphic studies include Reynolds 1980: 74–84; 1981: 317–27; 1986: 109–117, 1996: 41–50 and IAph2007 (supra n. 8). Previously, no inscriptions were included in reconstructions of the building (e.g. fig. 1 and other reconstructions by U. Outschar in the same work 1987: 118 (Abb. 5)). De Chaisemartin’s reconstruction (2006) of the propylon included the exterior dedications and parts of the interior text that were inscribed behind the exterior façade. However, blocks without sculptural decoration or a face on the exterior façade were omitted. 15  Attalis’ name and patronymic appear in a column dedication from the Temple of Aphrodite (IAph2007 1.7). 16  The Eusebian baths, adjacent to the Temple of Aphrodite at the west end of the South Agora were later remodelled as the Hadrianic Baths (the name by which they are more commonly known) (cf. infra n. 20).

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STADIUM NORTH TEMENOS HOUSE TEMPLE OF APHRODITE / CATHEDRAL TETRAPYLON SCULPTORS' WORKSHOP “BISHOP S PALACE” BOULEUTERION NORTH AGORA WATER CHANNEL AREA ATRIUM HOUSE SEBASTEION CRYPTOPORTICUS HOUSE

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13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

THEATER TETRASTOON THEATER BATHS “GAUDIN'S FOUNTAIN” “GAUDIN'S GYMNASIUM” TETRAKIONION /TRICONCH CHURCH BASILICA HADRIANIC BATHS SOUTH AGORA AGORA GATE MUSEUM EXCAVATION HOUSE

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Reconstructed plan of Aphrodisias Published by the New York Institute of Fine Arts

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Reconstruction of the exterior of the Sebasteion by U. Outschar from “Betrachtungen zur kunstgeschichtlichen Stellung des Sebasteions in Aphrodisias” in J. de La Genière and K.T. Erim (1987) eds., Aphrodisias de Carie, Colloque du Centre de Recherches archéologiques de l’Université de Lille III, 13 novembre 1985, Paris, Recherches sur les Civilisations, 115, fig. 2. Courtesy of the New York University Excavations at Aphrodisias.

the first decade of the reign of Tiberius (14–25 CE).17 The question as to when the building was completed is more complicated. It remains unknown if these projects were undertaken or completed by the earthquake of 18 CE, but sub­ sequent restorations of the South Portico during Claudius’ reign (IAph2007 9.25),18 undertaken by the progeny of the original benefactors, suggest a later earthquake in 40 CE (IAph2007 9.25) may have been responsible.19 Restorations on the adjacent North Portico and the propylon are presumably roughly contemporary, dating to the Julio-Claudian or perhaps the early Flavian period.20

17  This chronology is supported by sculptural (Smith 2013: 1; De Chaisemartin 2006: 34–36) and epigraphic evidence (Reynolds 1986: 116–17). 18  Reynolds 1981: 318–20. 19  Reynolds 1986: 116–17, De Chaisemartin 2006: 38, Smith 2013:18. 20  Reynolds 1981: 318–320. Smith 2013: 18. The restoration of the Eusebian Baths (IAph2007 5.6) has been given a Flavian date due to prosopography and titles (Reynolds 1986: 153–60).

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2.2 The Epigraphic Landscape at the Sebasteion It is not often that a building survives with such a complete record of its building dedications, which are exceptional not only in their preservation but in their quality and beauty. The monumental dedications of the Sebasteion portray qualities in dedicatory formula and monumental appearance, which set these dedications apart from their Late Hellenistic/Augustan predecessors.21 At the beginning of the 1st century CE there is a shift towards a ‘recipient first’ formula, giving the recipients, who were previously listed towards the end of the text (if at all), first billing.22 While sometimes this process is associated with a dissemination of ‘Roman’ epigraphic culture,23 it is important to note that the inclusion of Imperial recipients was second in order to the local goddess. In the case of the Sebasteion, this should be factored into our understanding of the building, which appears to have been as much a precinct of ‘Aphrodite Prometor’ as a shrine to the Sebastoi.24 That this shift in formula occurred during a generation at Aphrodisias is demonstrated by two dedications: a column ‘benefactor first’ dedication (probably Augustan)25 by Attalus of Menander (IAph2007 1.7–8) and his posthumous ‘recipient first’ dedication of the temple at the Sebasteion (IAph2007 9.112) (c. 14–25 CE).26 21  Late Hellenistic/Early Augustan monumental dedications at Aphrodisias generally employed a ‘benefactor first’ formula of dedication, listing the benefactor’s name first (e.g. the monumental dedications of Gaius Julius Zoilus (IAph2007 1.1 (temple of Aphrodite) 8.1 (the theatre)) and his contemporaries (IAph2007 1.4–9). 22  This formula and use of decorative and/or spatial distinctions is evident on Julio-Claudian building dedications at the Sebasteion (IAph2007 9.1, 9.25, 9.112), the South Agora Gate (IAph2007 4.4) and the theatre (IAph2007 8.111–3). Similar changes have been observed for building dedications at Ephesus (Burrell 2006: 437–42; Graham 2013: 383–412). 23  See Keppie 1991: 42–43. Examples in Rome include an honorary inscription to Lucius Caesar (2 BCE) (CIL 6. 36908) and the dedication on an obelisk (ca. 14 CE) (CIL 6. 882). 24  Aphrodite is the first recipient of all Sebasteion dedications (IAph2007 9.1, 9.25), save the fragmentary temple dedication (IAph2007 9.112). The role of Aphrodite as the primary recipient in the dedications is noted by Reynolds, who argues for the restoration of Aphrodite’s name on the temple dedication (IAph2007 9.112) (1986: 110–12). See also Chaniotis 2008: 61–62. 25   IAph2007 1.7: Ἄτταλος Με|νάνδρου τοῦ |Ἀττάλου καὶ |Ἀτταλὶς Μενεκρά|τους Ἄπφιον οἱ ἱε|ρεῖς τῆς Ἀφροδεί|της θεᾷ Ἀφροδεί |τῃ καὶ τῷ Δήμω. The Aphrodision appears to have been built in stages between the late 1st cent. BCE and the early 1st cent. CE (Smith and Ratté 1995: 43 and Smith 2013: 1). This dating is supported by epigraphic evidence such as Zoilus’ dedication of the naos (IAph2007 1.1), which Reynolds believes is ‘posthumous’ and therefore postdates his project at the theatre (c. 28 BCE) (Reynolds 1990: 37–40). 26   IAph2007 9.112: [··?·· Αὐτοκράτορι Τιβ]ερίῳ Καίσαρι θε[οῦ Σεβα]στο[ῦ ὑιῶι Σεβαστῶι καὶ Ἰ] ουλίαι Σεβαστῆ̣[ι νέαι] Δημητρ[ὶ ··?··]| [··?·· Ἀτ]ταλὶς Μενεκρ[άτους Ἄ]πφιο[ν ··c. 12·· ὑπὲ]ρ Ἀττάλου τοῦ Μ[ενάνδρ]ου τοῦ ΑΝ[··?··]|[··?··] τὸν νάον καὶ τ[ὸν βῶμ]ον [··c. 15··] vac. ὑπὲρ τοῦ [··c. 5··]ου vac. [··?··]

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This survey of same-text dedications will consider how these changes were viewed in the urban landscape. 2.3 Case 1: The Dedication of the Propylon The propylon, an aediculated two-story structure facing onto the street (fig. 1), created a unique architectural space with two protruding porches that were reminiscent of the scaenae frons of the Roman theatre.27 As a result of this architectural feature, the two dedications (one internal, one external) were placed on two different types of monumental space (fig. 2). The external inscription, visible to all who passed on the city’s cardo maximus, was a slightly abbreviated version of the text, which was arranged carefully onto the two fasciae of the north and south porches) (figs. 4a–b). The interior inscription, in contrast, was longer and ran continuously across the back of the propylon, where it was inscribed on the entablature and one fascia (figs. 3a–b). Already it is clear that the two dedications, were not exact ‘copies’ in terms of the text or the way in which the inscription was presented to the viewer.28 2.4 The Internal Propylon Dedication As a longer and more fragmentary version of the text, the interior inscription has been the subject of more discussion than illustration.29 The text is beautifully rendered with serif decorative letterforms (e.g. legged rhos and upsilons) as well as decorations and spaces to distinguish certain parts of the text (figs. 3a–b). 1 vacat Ἀφρο[δί]τηι [v?] Θεοῖς Σ[εβ]α[στ]οῖς stop τῶι δήμῳ stop τὸ πρόπυλον stop καὶ τάς ἐν αὐτῶι τιμὰ[ς vacat] 2 [vacat] Εὐσέβης Φιλό[π]ατρις star καὶ Μένανδρος οἱ Μενάνδρου τοῦ Εὐνίκου stop καὶ Ἀπφιὰς Μενάνδρου γ[υν]ὴ Εὐσεβοῦς.

27  De Chaisemartin 2006: 38. 28  At least one instance in which a longer building dedication is abridged on the monumental landscape, has been studied at the library of Celsus in Ephesus (I. Eph. 5.11.2 5112 and 5101) (Graham 2013: 8–14). 29  This version of the text is based largely on Smith 2013: 15–16, but also involves elements of translation and text from other published versions (Line 1: Reynolds 1986: 110–11. Line 2: Reynolds in Van Bremen 1996: 239–40 and sections of text published in De Chaisemartin 2006: 38, 47 and 50 and Erim 1984: 112).

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Reconstruction of the Sebasteion highlighting the location of its monumental building dedications. Smith 2013: Figure 7 p. 14 (Sebasteion. Inscribed building dedications: distribution plan) Courtesy of the New York University Excavations at Aphrodisias

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figure 3a A poorly preserved fragment of the interior propylon dedication illustrating the use of a decoration between benefactors on line 2. Photo taken by author, courtesy of NYU excavations

figure 3b A well preserved fragment (Block 2) of the interior propylon dedication illustrating the use of vacats and decorations (circles) between recipients and sections of text on line one. Photo by courtesy of the NYU Excavations

To Aphrodite, the Divi Augusti and the demos, the propylon and the honorary statues (were set up by) Eusebes philopatris and Menander, sons of Menander, the son of Eunicus and Apphias, the daughter of Menander, wife of Eusebes.30 30  Slight alterations have been made to the text in Smith 2013: 14–15. The word demos, which is included in Smith’s translation, is omitted from the published text after the definite article that precedes it. The word is clearly evident in other versions of the text (cf. n. 29). There is also a decorative star evident between the name Eusebes Philopatris and Menander, and a decorative circle to signify a stop after the word propylon and the name Eunicus.

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Divisions between roles of individuals (recipient vs. benefactor) are clearly expressed in the spatial division of the text between lines 1 and 2. The first line records the recipients and objects dedicated, with at least one space between the Divi Augusti and the demos (fig. 3b), and probably another between Aphrodite and the Divi Augusti (fig. 3a).31 A decorative circle as a stop mark signals the distinction between the list of recipients and the two objects dedicated (fig. 3b). The benefactors, whose names are no longer the first word of the inscription, are clearly distinguished as the sole subject of the second line. A star marks the separation between Eusebes and his brother Menander (fig. 3a), and a decorative circle is placed between the family names of the male benefactors and the role of Apphias. This longer version of the text, including definite article οἱ and Apphias’ role as Eusebes’ wife, ran from behind the south porch beyond the north porch (Ded 2 on fig. 2). 2.5 The External Propylon Dedication The external propylon dedication was placed on a different architectural venue: an aediculated façade (Ded 1 on fig. 2), which had the effect of visually dividing and presenting the text in a different manner.32 The reconstruction of the propylon façade also presents the information in a different order on the north and south porches (fig. 1). North aedicula Ἀφροδίτηι Θεοῖς Σεβαστοῖς v. τῶι δήμῳ τὸ πρόπυλον καὶ τὰς ἐν αὐτῶι τιμὰς South aedicula [Εὐσ]έβης Φιλόπατρις vac. καὶ Μένανδρος [Μεν]άνδρου τοῦ Εὐνίκου καὶ [᾿Α]πφιὰς Μ[ενά]̣νδρου North aedicula To Aphrodite, Divi Augusti and the demos The propylon and the honorary statues on it. 31  Text is damaged and the photo less than pristine, but there is clearly a space and it looks like small impressions that may have been points on a star between Aphrodite and the imperial recipients. 32  This reconstruction reflects the order of the porches presented in Smith 2013: 15. The order of the texts on the propylon is presented differently in De Chaisemartin 2006: 42, but Smith’s presentation is both more convincing and more consistent with epigraphic convention.

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South aedicula Eusebes philopatris and Menander, sons of Menander, the son of Eunicus and Apphias, daughter of Menander.33 Assuming the audience read from left to right, the north aedicula dedication, which appears to stand on its own literally and architecturally, records the recipients and the objects dedicated first (fig. 4a). A more faithful replication of its interior counterpart, this version of the text demonstrates the benefit of the aediculated space: isolating and drawing attention to two parts of the text. The two lines are used instead of a stop mark to distinguish the recipients from the objects dedicated. The line breaks on the southern aedicula are also used to create distinctions: the male benefactors are given the primary position with a vacat between their names on line 1, while their patronymics and Apphias’ role appear crowded on the lower line (fig. 4b).34 This type of space also presented certain constraints. Omissions such as Apphias’ role as Eusebes’ wife, the nominative plural form of the definite article, and the crowding on lower line are the products of limited architectural space on the south aedicula (and the fact that line 2 of the interior text was longer than line 1). These limitations may have resulted in diminished use of decorations and vacats (only two vacats are observed in the exterior texts), which are observed in other dedications at the Sebasteion and elsewhere at Aphrodisias.35 Conclusions on Case Study 1: The Propylon Dedications at the Sebasteion The function of architectural space, line breaks and decorations in these texts play a significant role in conveying the monumental message, revealing an intimate relationship between text and space. Overall, these inscriptions present similar information conveyed with similar aesthetic goals, particularly regarding the emphasis of certain parts of the text. However, the manner in which these aims are achieved and expressed in the monumental context vary, 2.6

33  This text is also based on Smith 2013: 15 with some minor alterations. The definite article at the start of line 2 on the south aedicula has been removed in this version, as it seems quite unlikely that there would be room for the extra letters in the crowded space. Vacats have also been noted between the Imperial recipients (north aedicula, l. 1) and the benefactors (south aedicula, l. 2). 34  In this case it is Apphias’ relationship to her husband that is deemed omissible by the editor of the monumental inscription. 35  Cf. supra n. 22.

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Photographs of the exterior building dedication of the propylon. Smith 2013: Plate 3. Ded 1: Propylon Dedication, West Courtesy of the New York University Excavations at Aphrodisias

demonstrating a dynamic and meticulously planned approach to monumental expression. The differences in the presentation of these inscriptions are the result of deliberate choices and planning, rather than accidents and unintended omissions. A closer analysis of text and space illustrates both how these discrepancies were portrayed and why certain editorial choices might have been made. 2.7 Case Study 2: Restoration of the Propylon and the North Portico After an earthquake and/or aftershocks at some point in the first half of the 1st century CE, numerous restorations were required at the Sebasteion.36 The extent of these repairs is unknown, but, like the original dedications, the works undertaken by Apphias (Eusebes’ wife), her daughter Tata and her grandchildren Eusebes and Menander are recorded in two monumental dedications. With one dedication (IAph2007 9.1) on the North Portico (later reused in the city wall) and the other found by the propylon, it is possible, though not explicit, 36  For further discussion on the dating of the building and the nature of the restorations, see Smith 2013: 18. Cf. supra n. 20.

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that each text represented a part of the restoration.37 Again, we have two versions of the same text framed within different architectural spaces (Ded 3 and Ded 4 on fig. 2).38 2.8 North Portico Restoration The most widely available version of this text (IAph2007 9.1) is the fragmentary version of the text from the North Portico, which was carved in one continuous line on the entablature of the North Portico in large (9 cm.) and well-rendered letters (fig. 5, Ded 4 on fig. 2). [?Ἀφροδίτῃ θεοῖς Σεβαστοῖς Ὀλυνπίοις καὶ τῷ δήμῳ] | star Εὐσέβης φιλό[πατρις καὶ Μένα]ν̣δρος οἱ Μ | ενάν[δρου τοῦ Εὐνί]κου [καὶ Ἀπ] | φίας Μενάν[δρου γυνὴ Εὐσε]βοῦς stop ἀνέθη̣ [κ]α̣ν ἐκ τῶ | ν ἰδ[ίων] star ὑπὸ σεισ̣ [μῶ]ν δ[ὲ κατενεχθέντα καὶ ἀχρηω]θέν|[τ]α πά[λ]ι ̣ν ἐκ τῶν ἰ|δίων stop Ἀπφίας v. σὺν | καὶ Τάτᾳ τῇ θυγα|τρὶ v. καὶ Μενάνδρῳ | κ[α]ὶ Εὐσεβεῖ τοῖς ἐγ|γόνοις τελέσασα | ἀποκαθέστησεν | vac. For Aphrodite, for the gods Augusti Olympians, for the People]: Eusebes philopatris, and Menander, the sons of Menander the son of Eunicus and Apphias daughter of Menander, wife of Eusebes set (this) up at their own expense. After it was thrown down and made useless by earthquakes, again at their own expense Apphias completed and set it up again, in company with Tata, her daughter, and Menander and Eusebes her grandsons. The continuous space of the entablature on the North Portico, combined with a dramatic setting of mythological and historical reliefs, did not offer the same opportunities for spatial juxtaposition of terms (e.g. line breaks or separate spaces). As a result, distinctions between various elements in the text had to be made by decorations or vacats, like those on the parallel dedication of the South Portico (IAph2007 9.25). While the fragmentary text has some limitations,39 a few distinctions emerge in the use of decorations. Stars are used to mark the transitions from the list of recipients to the names of the original benefactors and from the original dedication to the restoration 37  Text is cited in Smith 2013: 17–18, Reynolds 1986: 110–11. An image is published in Smith 2013: Plate 5. 38  The North Portico dedication on the West end of the propylon is the same, save for the omission of Apphias’ filiation (IAph2007 9.1). Both texts are published in Smith 2013: 17–18. 39  One can only speculate about the first part of the text, but it is worth noting that hastae marks have been used in the propylon text between the Imperial recipients, the demos, and Eusebes’ name.

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Reconstruction of the North Portico of the Sebasteion. “Sebasteion – Aphrodisias” Photo by wneuheisel – http://www.flickr.com/photos/ wneuheisel/7471669758/. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

(fig. 6a). Hasta marks highlight divisions between the original benefactors and the verb of dedication (fig. 6b) as well as the description of the restoration and list of restorers (fig. 6c). The decorations, frequently incorporated near a benefactor’s name and the phrase ‘ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων’, draw attention to who is paying for the monument, reflecting the values most important to the benefactor. While the length of this inscription would have made it difficult to read,40 the use of decorations to distinguish between original and subsequent projects played a fundamental role in viewing and understanding the inscription. 2.9 Restoration Dedication found near the Propylon The other restoration text, arranged over three lines (one line on the frieze of the entablature and two lines on the fascia), bears a resemblance to the architectural layout of the original interior propylon dedication (Ded 3 on fig. 2). The longer restoration version, however, is unable to achieve the same separations with line breaks (e.g. the patronymic of Eusebes and Menander carries into 40  The long space of the North Portico probably did not allow the viewer to see the whole inscription at once.

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figure 6a Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment c 1978 Reproduced courtesy of C. Roueché

figure 6b Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment d 1978 Reproduced courtesy of C. Roueché

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figure 6c Photograph of IAph2007 9.1 cited as fragment f 1981 Reproduced courtesy of C. Roueché

line 2, and the restoration description into line 3, where an epsilon is omitted from Eusebes: Εὐσεβῖ instead of Εὐσεβεῖ).41 1 Ἀφροδίτῃ θεοῖς Σεβαστοῖς Ὀλυνπίοις stop καὶ τῷ δήμῳ stop Εὐσέ[βη]ς φι[λ]όπατρις καὶ Μέναν̣δρος οἱ Μενάνδρου vac. 2 τοῦ Εὐνίκου stop καὶ Ἀπφίας γυνὴ Εὐσεβοῦς ἀνέθη̣ καν ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων star ὑπὸ σεισμῶν δὲ κατενεχθέντα καὶ ἀχρηωθέντα vac. 3 πάλιν ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων star Ἀπφίας σὺν καὶ Τάτᾳ τῇ θυγατρὶ v. καὶ Μενάνδρῳ καὶ Εὐσεβῖ τοῖς ἐγγόνοις τελέσασα ἀποκαθέστησεν. For Aphrodite, for the gods Augusti Olympians, for the People: Eusebes philopatris, and Menandros, the sons of Menandros the son of Eunicus and Apphias wife of Eusebes set (this) up at their own expense. After it was thrown down and made useless by earthquakes, again at their own expense Apphias completed and set it up again, in company with Tata, her daughter, and Menandros and Eusebes, her grandsons. There is a clear spatial hierarchy and order, where recipients and the original benefactors are recorded on the first line, followed in the second line with Apphias’ role, and the subsequent repairs, which fall onto the last line with the names of the benefactors. Distinctions between individuals and sections of the text are achieved, as in the North Portico text, through decorative elements such as stop marks between the divine recipients and the demos (fig. 7), between the list of recipients and the benefactors (l. 1) and a stop before Apphias’ name (l. 2). There is not, as in the North Portico text, a stop between Apphias name and the verb of the original dedication in l. 2 (her filiation has been 41  Perhaps the initial ordinatio intended to fit the patronymic Eunicus on the top line, starting with Apphias’ name on lines 2 and 3 (there are vacats at the end of each of these lines, indicating extra space).

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Photograph of the restoration dedication from the North Portico. Smith 2013: Plate 5. Ded 3: North Building dedication, West End

omitted here) and space appears to have been consolidated. Stars are used to signify the end of the original dedication (l. 2) and (in this version) at the start of the restoration inscription (l. 3) before Apphias’ name. As a link between the original and restoration works, Apphias’ role is highlighted in both texts by decorations and (in this version) a spatial juxtaposition (ll. 2 and 3). This emphasis records how the money “from their funds” was inherited by Apphias. The rest of the family – Tata and her grandsons, Eusebes and Menander (a nice way to connect the start and finish of the benefactors section of the text) – appears to have been included to further the dynastic message, which was probably quite fitting in a monument where statues and sculpture commemorate the family dynasties of Aphrodite and her Julio-Claudian descendants. The monument, like its dedications, can be seen to function on a number of levels, conveying complex relationships between Gods, Emperors and local dynasties.42 42  Kajava 2011: 553.

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2.10 Conclusions on Case Study 2: the Restoration Inscriptions Perhaps not as dramatic a juxtaposition, the restoration inscriptions illustrate how similar elements of monumental inscriptions were emphasised in different ways on different architectural venues, from the original dedications of the propylon to the subsequent restorations. Because it is not known where the second restoration inscription was located (perhaps on the upper register of the interior propylon gate?), it is difficult to determine how it would have been viewed with the other dedications. Again, however, one can see that it would have been difficult (if not impossible) to view both the restorations in their entirety at the same time. This reveals the nature of same-text dedications as objects that (at least in this context) they were not piled on top of each other gratuitously but placed in different venues, where they would be seen and associated with different parts of the structure. When taken out of context and/or viewed as a published text, the variation and interaction of these texts may not seem striking. However, when viewed within the monumental context, one can observe the vital relationship between text and monument, as well as the complex relationships that could exist between two versions of an inscription. 2.11 Case study 3. Dedications from the East Court of the Hadrianic Baths Having focused on similar texts with different architectural venues, the final case study will consider two inscriptions that are almost identical and that were carved on the same type of architectural space: the north and south doorways of the East court at the Hadrianic Baths (map 1 no. 20) (fig. 8) (IAph2007 5.207 and 5.208). These inscriptions fit more closely (in theory) with the idea of same-text inscription being a “duplicate” or a “copy”. Unlike the pairs of dedications from the Sebasteion, however, these inscriptions seem to have been carved in different hands and are arranged differently on the space. This study will consider how flexible the ordinatio of an inscription was when the text and architectural space were the same. 2.12 The North Doorway Dedications This text is somewhat fragmentary but beautifully carved and arranged. The upper level, which protruded over the two lower fasciae, contains two lines, while the two lower levels carried one line each (fig. 9). No decorations are used, but line breaks serve to create spatial divisions between the recipients (ll. 1–2) and the benefactors’ work (ll. 3–4). Indentations at the margins of lines 2 and 4 further highlight sections of the text, particularly distinctions between the recipients, the benefactor and his role in paying for the monument.

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Plan of the Baths of Hadrian Courtesy of R. R. R. Smith

IAph 2007 5.208 1 θεᾷ Ἀφροδείτῃ καὶ Αὐτοκράτορι Καίσαρι θεοῦ Τραϊανοῦ υἱῷ θεοῦ Νέρβα vac. υἱωνῷ Τραϊανῷ Ἁδριανῷ Σεβαστῷ καὶ τῷ δήμῳ vac. Περείτας Ζήνωνος τοῦ Ζήνωνος Ἄτταλος τὸ περιφλίωμα ἀνέθηκε 4 vac. ἐ[κ τῶν] ἰδίων vac. To the goddess Aphrodite, to the Imperator Hadrian Augustus son of the god Trajan, grandson of the god Nerva, to the People: Pereitas Attalus son of Zeno the son of Zeno dedicated the (?)decoration of the doorway at his own expense. 2.13 The Dedication over the South Doorway of the East Court The second dedication uses the same space but is carved over three lines; the uppermost fascia carries one rather than two lines of text. The ‘striking hand’ notable for its uneven letter sizes and small circular letter forms (omicrons,

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Photograph of IAph2007 5.208 Reproduced courtesy of C. Roueché

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figure 10 Photograph of IAph2007 5.207 By the author

omegas and thetas) (IAph2007 5.207), looks crowded in line 1.43 There is also a notable difference in letter size, where the letters on the upper fascia are 5.5 cm. and those on the lower fascia are 4 cm. in height. The visual product is a text, which offers particular prominence to the first line of the text through both a protruding entablature and larger letters. Since a different layout did not afford the same opportunities for spatial distinction in line breaks, decorations have been added. Stars mark Aphrodite and the Imperial recipients (l. 1) (unlike its counterpart) and the distinction between recipients and benefactors (l. 2). The verb of dedication ἀνέθηκεν has been moved to the end of the inscription where it is highlighted with a scroll and preceded with a vacat (l. 3). The form of payment ἐκ{κ} τῶν ἰδίων (l. 3) is indented, as it is on 5.208, with a hole (rather less grand) and a vacat. Regardless of quality, the ways in which the text has been manipulated reveal the fundamental role textual organization and presentation played in portraying the monumental message (fig. 10).

43  This description is from the commentary on IAph2007 5.208 (cf. supra n. 9).

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IAph2007 5.207. 1 θεᾷ Ἀφροδείτῃ star καὶ Αὐτοκράτορι Καίσαρι θεοῦ Τραϊανοῦ υἱῷ θεοῦ Νέρβα [υἱ]ωνῷ Τραϊανῷ Ἁδριανῷ Σεβαστῷ καὶ τῷ δήμῳ star Περείτας Ζήνωνος τοῦ Ζήνωνος vac. Ἄτταλος τὸ περιφλίωμα hole ἐκ{κ} τῶν ἰδίων v. ἀνέθηκεν scroll. To the goddess Aphrodite, to the Imperator Hadrian Augustus son of the god Trajan, grandson of the god Nerva, to the People: Pereitas Attalus son of Zeno the son of Zeno dedicated the ?decoration of the doorway at his own expense. While the carver has tried to make the best of the text, it is clearly not as well arranged. One possible explanation for the difference between these two versions is that the carver, who began with regular sized upsilons and thetas, realized (perhaps sometime after ‘καί’ and the decorative star on line 1) that he was meant to carve two lines on the space he had carved one. Too late to start over, he kept the arrangement of the first line, barely fitting it into the space due to the larger letters. The second line was similarly crowded but in smaller letters, so as to fit as much of the text on the middle fascia as possible (half of IAph2007 5.208’s third line on the middle fascia). The suggestion that adjustments were made during the process is supported by the variations in the size of the omicrons, omegas and thetas, which began as nearly normal in size at the start of lines 1–2, generally growing smaller towards the end of the line. These forms on line 3, where space is no longer scarce, are more equal in size. 2.14 Conclusions for Case Study 3 These monumental dedications demonstrate how even similar texts and space can suffer from difficulties of arranging monumental inscriptions. In observing how these adversities are addressed by the carver, one has a unique opportunity to assess the values of dedication from the perspective of the ancient audience: which elements of the monumental message were considered most important and how are these conveyed to the viewer. The fact that two theoretically ‘identical’ texts with the same architectural setting can look so different in practice should remind us, as readers and as viewers, how dynamic and complex both the process and the product of monumental expression could be.

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Conclusions on ‘Same – Text Relationships’ at Aphrodisias

To say that the same-text inscriptions studied here are ‘copies’ is to treat them in isolation as texts or documents that record the same information. While this approach is useful in some respects, it does not treat inscriptions as part of the urban context, as objects whose location and presentation played a fundamental role in viewing and interpreting the information they provided. It is clear in the aforementioned cases that the two versions of each inscription were located in places where they could not have been viewed at the same time nor with the same monumental associations. These factors represent further ways in which same-text dedications could have be seen differently from the perspective of the ancient viewer. Such discrepancies provide significant obstacles in defining these inscriptions as ‘copies’ or determining which text, if any, was the ‘original’. To examine same-text dedications is to observe both what differs in the presentation of the text and how various methods are used to achieve similar monumental effects, highlighting certain elements of the monumental message. The increased complexity of the new formula resulted in a different textual order as well as a need to make the roles of different individuals more explicit, especially the benefactor, whose name was longer listed in the primary part of the inscription. It is probably not coincidence that use of spaces, line breaks and decorations in monumental inscriptions becomes more common at a time when monumental messages are increasing in complexity, assuming not only an aesthetic purpose but a functional role in identifying certain aspects of the text. The repetition of these visual distinctions in the monumental landscape may have created a viewing audience that came to look for these elements, as part of reading/viewing the text. This repetition served a further purpose, for once a person could read one monumental dedication, he/she had the necessary components to understand the monumental language throughout the city (and elsewhere) on buildings, statue bases and even coins. As the inscriptions that survive today represent only a fraction of those that were originally produced, it is difficult to gauge how common the practice of same-text dedications was in the ancient world. While the inscriptions examined here are the most straightforward examples of this process, they are by no means the only examples. Other examples exist at Aphrodisias, some of which appear to have been subsequently recarved, which may provide an ‘original’ text, but add a further level of complexity to the process, and a degree of

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uncertainty as to how many inscriptions were originally included in the dedication.44 The question of why different versions of a monumental dedication were created remains unanswered. Was it simply a matter of quantity, where a benefactor sought to set his name in as many places as possible? It does not necessarily follow that two dedications would be read twice as much, but the idea of visually repeating one’s name in the urban context, as observed in modern graffiti and billboards, does succeed in achieving greater visibility. Perhaps, despite all the accolades our ancient sources pay to the immortality of stone, the ancient audience knew, as we do, that not all stones are forever. Either way, it would seem that our understanding of same-text relationships, especially as inscriptions in the urban landscape, merits further consideration. Bibliography Adams, J. N. 2003. Bilingualism and the Latin Language. Oxford. Burrell, B. 2006. “False Fronts: Separating the Imperial Cult from the Aedicular Façade in Roman Asia Minor.” American Journal of Archaeology 110: 437–69. Burrell, B. 2009. “Reading, hearing, and looking at Ephesus.” In W. A. Johnson and H. N. Parker, eds., Ancient Literacies: The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome, 69–95. Oxford. Chaniotis, A. 2008. “Twelve buildings in search of a location: Known and unknown buildings in the inscriptions of Aphrodisias.” Aphrodisias Papers 4 New Research on the City and its Monuments ( Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary series 70), 61–78. Ann Arbor. De Chaisemartin, N. 2006. “La frise ionique à masques scéniques du propylon du Sébasteion d’Aphrodisias.” Revue archéologique 41: 33–82. Erim, K. T. 1984. Aphrodisias: City of Venus and Aphrodite. London. Erim, K. T. et al. 1989. “Aphrodisias: La cité de Venus retrouvée.” Les Dossiers d’Archeologie. Paris. Graham, A. S. 2013. “The Word is not Enough. A new methodology for assessing monumental inscriptions: A Case Study in Ephesus.” American Journal of Archaeology 117: 388–412.

44  Cf. supra n. 11.

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Kajava, M. 2011. “Honorific and Other Dedications to Emperors in the Greek East.” In P. Iossif & al., eds., More than Men, less than Gods: Studies in Imperial Cult Worship Proceedings of the International Colloquium Organized by the Belgian School at Athens (1–2 November 2007), 553–92. Leiden. Kearsley, R. A. 1999. “Bilingual inscriptions at Ephesos: The statue bases from the Harbour Gymnasium.” In H. Freisinger and F. Krinzinger, eds., 100 Jahre österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos. Akten des Symposions Wien 1995, 147–55. Vienna. Keppie, L. 1991. Understanding Roman Inscriptions. Baltimore. Panciera, S. 2012. “What is an inscription? Problems of definition and identity of an historical source.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 183: 1–10. Ratté, C. and Smith, R. R. R. 1995. “Archaeological Research at Aphrodisias in Caria 1989–1992.” American Journal of Archaeology 99: 33–58. Reynolds, J. 1980. “The Origins and Beginnings of the Imperial Cult at Aphrodisias.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 206: 70–84. Reynolds, J. 1981. “New Evidence for the Imperial Cult in Julio-Claudian Aphrodisias.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 43: 317–27. Reynolds, J. 1982. Aphrodisias and Rome. London. Reynolds, J. 1986. “Further information on the Imperial cult at Aphrodisias.” Studii Clasice 24: 109–17. Reynolds, J. 1990. “Inscriptions and the building of the Temple of Aphrodite.” In C. Roueché and K. T. Erim, eds., Aphrodisias Papers 1, 37–40. Ann Arbor. Reynolds, J. 1991. “Epigraphic evidence for the construction of the theatre: 1st to mid 3rd c. AD.” In K. T. Erim and R. R. R. Smith, eds., Aphrodisias Papers 2, 15–28. Ann Arbor. Reynolds, J. 1996. “Ruler-cult at Aphrodisias in the late Republic and under the Julio-Claudian emperors.” In A. Small, ed., Subject and Ruler, Journal of Roman Archaeology. Supplement 17: 41–50. Roueché, C., Reynolds, J., and Bodard, G., eds. 2007. The Inscriptions of Aphrodisias online publication (http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph2007/index.html). Sartori, A. 2007. “Parole per tutti o comunicazione mirata ed esclusiva?” In A. Sartori, ed., Parole per tutti? (Atti 3° Incontro di Dipartimento sull’Epigrafia), 47–53. Milano. Smith, R. R. R. 1987. “The imperial reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.” Journal of Roman Studies 77: 88–138. Smith, R. R. R. 1988. “Simulacra gentium: the ethne from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.” Journal of Roman Studies 78: 50–77.

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Smith, R. R. R. 2013. The marble reliefs from the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion: Aphrodisias VI. Darmstadt. Thomas, R. 1989. Oral tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens. Cambridge. Van Bremen, R. 1996. Limits of Participation: Women and Civic Life in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Amsterdam.

chapter 11

Layers of Urban Life: A Contextual Analysis of Inscriptions in the Public Space of Pompeii Fanny Opdenhoff Even today, some walls facing the streets of Pompeii show densely filled surfaces that give the passer-by the impression of being surrounded by writing. This is conditioned not only by their sheer number but also by the unique spectrum of epigraphic evidence: besides monumental, carved inscriptions, there are attested graffiti and dipinti, which are to be found almost exclusively in the settlements buried by Vesuvius in 79 CE.1 By dipinti, we understand notices that have been painted with fluid, typically red or black paint and a brush or other utensil.2 Graffiti, however, are mainly scratched with a sharp item directly into the plaster.3 The content of the writings ranges from official decrees to public announcements to private messages. The dipinti can be divided into two main groups: firstly the programmata, i.e. posters in support of candidates running for public offices, and secondly the edicta munerum, i.e. announcements of upcoming spectacles. In the majority of cases, both kinds of dipinti follow patterns that include certain elements necessary to achieve the intended result, such as details of the events or candidacies.4 The graffiti, on the other hand, are far less well-defined in content and form: they can consist of no more than a name, as well as an epigram or part of a dialogue.5 1  This paper results from a project funded by the DFG – Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft with the title “Beschriebenes und Beschriftetes im öffentlichen Raum. Die sich wandelnde Präsenz von Schriftlichkeit in den Städten der griechischen und römischen Welt.” It is led by Dr. Jens-Arne Dickmann and forms a part of the Sonderforschungsbereich 933 Materiale Textkulturen: www.materiale-textkulturen.de.   Inscriptions on objects like amphorae could also become temporarily public, but will be omitted from this study because it is hardly possible to estimate the timespan in which they were present at a certain location. 2  As for the presence of painted inscriptions in public places, cf. Fioretti 2012. 3  Usually charcoal writings are included in this group as well. Cf. Benefiel 2011: 41 n. 2. 4  These are parts of the content such as the date, the names of the editores or the candidates and the office they applied for. Cf. Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 116–19; Mouritsen 1988: 31. 5  For a statistical overview of the contents of the graffiti that are published in CIL IV suppl. 3, cf. Langner 2001: 22–24. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_013

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Another significant difference between graffiti and dipinti is the number of individuals involved in their production. For the graffiti, we can assume that usually only one man or woman did the writing and was responsible for all the specifics of it, such as content, location and layout.6 In contrast to this, the production of the formulaic and carefully painted dipinti involved several parties. First, they were produced by professionals who occasionally signed their work.7 Second, in many cases the recommendation for the respective candidates was given in the name of another person, mentioned in the nominative as rogator. Finally, the candidates themselves (who are mentioned in the accusative) and their supporters are likely to have organized the posting of these advertisements, as Henrik Mouritsen has shown.8 Unlike their presentation in many publications and in present-day museums, however, the inscriptions were of course not isolated or separated according to their fabric or content.9 Instead they were part of structures formed by multiple writings and drawings on the same façade and of the ensemble of buildings, artefacts, animals and humans that formed the material environment of the urban space.10 The focus on the context as well as the notion of inscriptions as material evidence opens the perspective to questions that may not arise when concentrating on their content alone. As is apparent in James L. Franklin’s case study on a neighborhood in the old part of the town11 or in Rebecca Benefiel’s analyses of graffiti in private dwellings,12 questions about

6  For this aspect, see especially Solin 1979: 278. 7  This is proved by many dipinti that mention different operations carried out by different persons, e.g. CIL IV 1190: scr(ipsit) / Secundus / de albante Vic(tor)e / adstante / Vesbino /. em … tore /.. ri … o (cited according to Franklin 1986: 322). Cf. Franklin 1980: 24–25; Mouritsen 1988: 47; Cooley/Cooley 2004: 125. 8  Mouritsen 1988: 59. 9  In CIL IV the inscriptions are divided by their making, the nature of their support and the content. The order follows topographical criteria only within these subdivisions. Cf. Franklin 2001: 3–4. Authors of detailed studies followed their specific interests and accordingly concentrated on epigraphic evidence relating to a particular social field, such as, for example, Henrik Mouritsen and James L. Franklin’s analysis of the elections or Patrizia Sabbatini Tumolesi’s work regarding the gladiatorial games. One particularly important complement to CIL IV Suppl. 3 is the review by Heikki Solin, in which he points out several problematic readings. However, none of these refers directly to the contexts that are treated in this paper: Solin 1973. 10  This has been emphasised by Rebecca Benefiel in two recent studies on graffiti in two different Pompeian houses: Benefiel 2010: 60–61; 2011: 24. 11  Franklin 1986. 12  Benefiel 2010 and 2011.

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the exact location, size and interrelations concern the use of urban and domestic space as well as the practice of writing.13 One particular aspect of this notion of writing, especially in public space, is the complex spatial arrangement characterised by dense accumulation and overlapping, or the hiding of one inscription by another. This phenomenon is closely related to the reuse and overwriting of the surfaces available for writing, and we can observe this phenomenon both when it comes to texts alone, and when texts are accompanied by pictures. The layering of electoral inscriptions can be used to establish a relative and absolute chronology among the candidates for the different offices, as Franklin has shown in his study on electoral campaigning.14 The main focus of this paper is not so much on the reconstruction of this sequence as on the spatial aspect of communication that results from multi-dimensional relations between several inscriptions on the one hand, and between inscriptions and their surroundings on the other. The practice of clustering and overwriting older texts or images is quite common in Pompeii; examples can be seen at several places around the town, but they are especially prevalent along one of the main through roads of the town, the Via dell’Abbondanza.15 In this paper, some of these façades are presented and analysed as case studies by following questions that concern communication and the meaning of writing in public as well as its technical aspects. The notion of context applied here is not so much based on the assumption of vici or any sort of administrative district, but rather on aspects of physical proximity and visibility, which also formed local identities and neighborhoods. As in the first example, the two fronts facing each other may or may not have been considered as belonging to different vici, but the presence of amenities such as a public fountain or the fact that both sides of the road were in the visual range of the passer-by could just as well have created spatial units.16 Their dimensions, of course, depended on various factors, such as the perception of the individual or the velocity of a person driving or walking along the Via dell’Abbondanza or temporarily occurring obstacles, such as traffic.

13  See also Emanuele Santamato’s study on graffiti-lists with a special regard to their contexts: Santamato 2014: esp. 314 and 333. 14  Franklin 1980: 33–69. 15  The distribution of wall inscriptions and especially its correlation with street activity is treated in Viitanen et al. 2013: 70–76. See also Spinazzola 1953: 250. 16  Laurence 2007: 57. The existence of a kind of boundary between two vici is suggested by the presence of two shrines on the north side of the insulae I 11 and I 12 (Laurence 2007: 42).

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Around the Casa di Trebius Valens (III 2, 1)

In the course of the excavations of the Casa di Trebius Valens, 33 inscriptions on its façade were recorded. These are in large part visible on photographs from 1915, 1916 and 1918 (fig. 1).17 Compared to other parts of the Via dell’Abbondanza, the occurrence of writings on these walls is comparatively high, which resulted in the overwriting of existing notices by new ones. The house faces one of the main through roads of the town and the traffic volume surely was one of the main reasons for painters, rogatores and candidates to choose this area for the advertisements (fig. 2).18 Across the road is a public fountain and two shrines are located nearby: one at the northeast corner of insula I 11, the other at the northeast corner of insula I 12. House number I 12, 1.2 served largely as a bakery19 and two solidly built benches stood in front of its entrances. The shops’ entrances opened widely to the road. House I 12, 1.2 stands back from the curb about 1 meter farther than the neighboring ones20 and just in front of it the elevated pavement forms a small space where people could stand while waiting for access to the fountain or for baked goods from the bakery and spend some time watching and reading the dipinti across the street as well as the ones on its south side.21 The façade of III 2, 1 was horizontally divided into two zones: the lower part appeared as a painted black sockle and orthostats, whereas the wall approximately 2 m. above was covered with beige-red plaster.22 According to Matteo

17  The larger part of the dipinti no longer survives or has faded. Cf. the preface by Salvatore Aurigemma in Spinazzola 1953: XXV–XXVI fig. 8. 11; García y García 2006: 51–53. The available photographic material has been collected by Antonio Varone and Grete Stefani in Stefani and Varone 2009. 18  Cf. Franklin 1980: 88. 19  Described in Mayeske 1988: 150–51. 20  This occurs several times along the Via dell’Abbondanza and in side streets, particularly often in combination with public fountains near the houses, e. g. IX 11, 1; I 10, 1; IX 7, 17; VI 16, 28; VI 3, 20; IX 8, 1 and at the SE corner of insula VI 14. Thus were formed small public open spaces. 21  According to Laurence 2007: 45, 49, there seems to be a close relation between local identity, public shrines and fountains, as these two kinds of facilities were located close to each other where possible. 22  Spinazzola 1953: 281. At least two layers of plaster can be distinguished: at the far-right end of the wall, one can see two dipinti written on an older layer of plaster (CIL IV 7633, 7634), but this was certainly not visible contemporaneously to the others in 79 CE. For the relative chronology of this façade, compare Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 146 n. 8. The lower layer lies on the wall belonging to III 2, 2, which is also visible because of the different textures; as for the façade of III 2, 1, it is not discernible whether there was an older layer.

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Façade of III 2, 1, Casa di Trebius Valens (Stefani – Varone 2009: 234)

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Surroundings of III 2, 1 (Della Corte 1914, 103 fig. 1)

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Della Corte, a projecting roof protected the wall.23 On both sides of the entrance there are several dipinti of very different sizes.24 The ones in the upper part – considerably above eye level – were written in large letters, the tallest of which measure 49, 48, 45 and 37 cm.25 The majority of the dipinti can be identified as programmata, easy to distinguish by the accusative and the abbreviation of the contested office such as IIvir or Aed(ilis),26 but among them are also three edicta munerum as indicated by the reference to the causa muneris or the names of the munerarii in the genitive followed by details referring to the games to be held.27 The edicta munerum especially stand out due to their elaboration and precise alignment. Meanwhile, most of the programmata are written smaller and in a simple form of the actuaria: the letters stand close to each other, the baseline is uneven and the serifs appear to have been added subsequently to the other lines. This is best visible in the advertisement for Q. Postumius Modestus (7629) (fig. 3). Still, there are some programmata that are written carefully in tall and easily distinguishable letters: the recommendations for Audius Bassus (CIL IV 7613),28 C. Iulius Polybius (CIL IV 7621), M. Holconius (CIL IV 7622) and D L V f (D. Lucretius Valens Filius) (CIL IV 7626). Most of the dipinti were painted in red. Only three programmata were completely black – others, such as the first line of Nigidius’ edictum to the west of the entrance (7991), were partly in black.29 Therefore, at least in the lower part of the wall, the surface had to be whitewashed before the scriptores could apply the dark paint. Five graffiti scratched into the wall’s surface were counted between the dipinti, but have perished completely due to the destruction

23  Della Corte 1914: 103; Bragantini 1991: 341. 24  The dipinti that have been recorded on this façade are: to the left of the entrance: CIL IV 7610, 7611, 7612, 7613, 7614, 7615, 7616, 7617, 7618, 7619 and 7991; to the right of the entrance: CIL IV 7621, 7622, 7624, 7627, 7628, 7623, 7629, 7992, 7625, 7626, 7630, 7631, 7620, 7993, 7632, 7633 and 7634. To facilitate the reference to the individual inscriptions, the CIL numbers are used throughout the text. 25   C IL IV 7993, 7992, 7991 and 7613. 26  Mouritsen 1988: 31. 27  Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 116–17. Three edicta on one façade is a rather high density, since in the whole town only about 80 have been found; cf. Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 113. 28  In addition to its size, this programma attracted attention due to the peculiar form of the letter B that exceeded the height of the other letters in this inscription. 29  Completely black: 7618, 7625, 7631; partially black: 7627, 7991, 7992 and 7993. Compare Spinazzola 1953: pl. 9.

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Façade east of entrance III 2, 1 (Stefani – Varone 2009: 238. 239)

in 1943.30 The CIL indicates overlaid programmata on both sides of entrance 1.31 Franklin recorded eight incidences in the list of layering of the programmata.32 These cases have served to establish the relative chronology and have been taken into account by Franklin and Mouritsen in establishing the absolute chronology.33 Close to the right doorpost of the entrance to III 2, 1 the poster in favour of the candidate for the office of duumvir, M. Holconius Priscus (7622), partially covered the poster for C. Iulius Polybius (7621), who was seeking the aedileship (fig. 3). M. Holconius Priscus must have been a candidate for the duumvirate in 79 CE since there are no signs that cover his posters for this office.34 C. Iulius Polybius was a candidate in the last decade before the town was buried, but as he stood for the duumvirate as well, his campaign for the lower office of aedile 30  The graffiti are CIL IV 8815, 8816, 8817, 8818 and 8819. They are not visible on any photograph in the compilation by Antonio Varone (Varone 2012). 31  7612 under 7611, 7615 under 7614, 7617 under 7616, 7625 under 7992 and 7631 under 7630. In some cases, where the photographic material does not permit us to verify inscription overlays, the only and not always sufficiently precise indications are the descriptions in CIL, in which the word sub is employed to specify the location. 32  Franklin 1980: 51–52. 33  Franklin dates seven of the ten candidates involved to specific years (Franklin 1980: 61–68, 79), whereas Mouritsen is less optimistic, and, with a few exceptions from the year 79 CE, allows for only relative datings: Mouritsen 1988: 37–42. 34  Franklin 1980: 61; Mouritsen 1988: 41–42.

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must have had taken place some years before 79 CE.35 Whenever this was, it means that M. Holconius Priscus’ poster did not cover any programma referring to a current candidacy. The painters apparently did not want to affect the memory of the former candidate on purpose, since his name was still readable, whereas the abbreviation of the aspired-to office was no longer fully visible. Nor did they make a great effort to make the new advertisement stand out amongst the older letters, as they could have done, for example by repainting the whole part of this façade. What they did do was to whitewash just the surface they needed to make sure that the new sign was clearly legible. Another interesting detail that cannot be analysed with sufficient accuracy by means of the available photographs is the area next to Holconius’ programma (7622). The surface seems to have been whitewashed in preparation for a new poster that in the end had not been painted. It is, however, not discernible how big this field was. Nevertheless, this is a further indication of how the painting was organised:36 as implied by dealbante in CIL IV 1190, a limer did the whitewashing, whilst others, who were more specialised, painted the letters – or in this case did not. In any case, the fact that several of the dipinti were out of date had apparently not caused any systematic actions to cancel them in order to reuse the whole wall for writing. The limers did not prepare large areas in advance but worked as and when required. These examples of layering seem to provide little more than a stratigraphic corroboration of the chronology, whereas the question of whether the partial overlap of 7621 and 7622 was caused by any conscious decision can hardly be clarified. The constellation of the programmata of the two candidates and the surrounding ones suggests that the coexistence and simultaneous visibility of writings that had been placed with a certain intention at a certain time was tolerated, even though at least one of them would no longer be understood in the same way as when it had first been posted. The candidacy of C. Iulius Polybius and the election he had taken part in were over, and the programma – having outlived its temporal context – changed its meaning, both the way it was perceived and the reactions it provoked. Thus the seemingly obsolete notice had not been systematically painted over, but it was not kept deliberately as a document of past events either, since important details such as the office that was sought or the possibly existing name of a rogator had been overwritten. In opposition to this, the capacity of publicly displayed writings to preserve and perpetuate the awareness of one’s otherwise only ephemeral commitment comes to the fore in the following example, which concerns three 35  Mouritsen 1988: 191 n. 183. 36  Cf. Cooley and Cooley 2004: 125.

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dipinti in the center of this same wall. These had been painted very close to each other, and 7626 (D·L·V·f·aed·d·r·p) even touches the third line of 7992 (D·Lucreti·Satri …). 7992 is an edictum muneris, whereas 7620 and 7626 are both programmata. The edictum tells the names of the two munerarii, D. Lucretius Satrius Valens and D. Lucretius Valens Filius. In line 2, which is written much smaller than the first line, we discover a much-discussed detail about D. Lucretius Satrius Valens: that he had been flamen Neronis Caesaris Augusti filii perpetuus.37 Programma 7620 (Satrium/quinq·o·v·f ) recommends a man called Satrius for the duumviratus quinquennalis and 7626 is an advertisement for Decimus Lucretius Valens Filius as aedilis. The height in 7992 is up to 48 cm. in the first line, while the second and third lines are much smaller, at 11 and 19 cm. Based on palaeographic observations, Mouritsen and Gradel assume that 7992, 7626 and the edictum 7995 a few blocks down the road had been painted by the same painter, which seems conceivable but not conclusive.38 Among the inscriptions on this façade, these three dipinti therefore stand out due to links in terms of content. D. Lucretius Valens filius, who was commonly designated as son throughout his electoral notices in the town, occurs as munerarius and as candidate. The nomen Satrius also appears twice: in the edictum, as part of the name D. Lucretius Satrius Valens, and in the programma, standing on its own. D. Lucretius Satrius Valens and D. Lucretius Valens filius were members of an influential family at Pompeii. Many relations between persons figuring in Pompeian inscriptions remain unclear. In this context it is relevant that Decimus Lucretius Satrius Valens was a natural son of the gens Satria and had probably been adopted by a member of the gens Lucretia.39 Decimus Lucretius Valens filius is in all likelihood his natural son. 37  The emperor’s name had been erased but can been deduced from the edicta, CIL IV 1185 and 3884. There are altogether four edicta munerum with D. Lucretius Satrius Valens figuring as munerarius and flamen. Because he is entitled flamen Neronis filii, Sabbatini Tumolesi dates all four of them to the years between 50 and 54 CE: Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 25. It is not very likely, however, that it would have been preserved in such good condition for 25 years or more, and as Mouritsen argues, the title need not have expired after 54 CE and might have been carried on as an honorary one afterwards: Mouritsen 1988: 35, 208 n. 434; Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 149–51. 38  Cf. Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 147. 7992 and 7995 (on the exterior wall of III 6, 2–3) are very similar, but the D in 7626 is rather different from that in 7995 (cf. Della Corte 1936: 318 fig. 7) and seems to be closer to the D in 7993. 39  It is also possible that the second nomen, Satrius, came from his maternal side. However, as Olli Salomies states, there are no cases of this combination, praenomen nomen (paternal) nomen (maternal) cognomen, that can be dated with certainty before the 2nd century CE. Thus the explanation that the two nomina are his original nomen and his adoptive nomen seems likely. Cf. Salomies 1992: 26–30, 61–74.

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The candidate Satrius in programma 7620 can hardly have been his homonymous natural father but was probably related to the flamen in another way, for example as a nephew.40 The discussion of the dates of the three inscriptions is closely related to their interpretation, since exact dating is not possible on the basis of any external criteria. Owing to the reference to Nero, the edictum can, at the latest, have been posted in 68 CE or thereabouts, as the state of preservation indicates.41 Satrius’ candidacy probably took place in 75 CE.42 Henrik Mouritsen’s and Ittai Gradel’s paper focuses on the family’s considerations on behalf of the electoral campaign in favour of D. Lucretius Valens filius. Whether or not programmata 7626 and 7992 had been written by the same painter, it is very likely that the candidate himself and his family deliberately took advantage of the existing edictum, which reminded everybody of his merits, or that they had even organized the games immediately before he ran for office with the intent to support him.43 On the other hand, this example may shed light on the significance that the Pompeians ascribed to writing itself, its materiality and its presence in the public space of their town. The context in which edictum 7992 first stood was quite different from the one in the year 79 CE. Possibly there had been other programmata around it that in the meantime were painted over, but almost all of the documented dipinti in this context originate from the town’s last decade.44 And it is likely that 7992 was not the first edictum on this wall since 7993; the edictum of Cn. Alleius Nigidius Maius, beginning with dedicatione, must date some years earlier. His games featured no gladiators but offered other remarkable entertainment like athletae, which indicates that they took place after the fight between Pompeians and Nucerians in 59 CE and before the abolishment of the restrictions that had been its consequence.45 As four very similar edicta of this type 40   Cf. Castrén 1975: 109, 186, 217; Franklin 2001: 101–6, 64, 130. Franklin considers M. Satrius Valens, the candidate for the office of duovir quinquennalis, to be the natural father and the aedilis of 33/34 CE, D. Lucretius Valens, the adoptive father of D. Lucretius Satrius Valens. This is rejected by Mouritsen and Gradel, who believe the Tiberian aedilis and the flamen to be the same person and that M. Satrius was not his natural father, as this would not fit with the dating of his candidature in 7620: Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 148 n. 12. Volker Weber suggests that Satrius in 7620 might be the flamen’s natural nephew in the addenda et corrigenda to CIL IV 1185 in the fourth supplement. 41  Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 154. Because they employed gladiators, an earlier date would have to be before 59 CE so that the dipinto would have been older than 20 years by 79 CE. 42  Franklin 1980: 67. 43  This is the scenario described by Mouritsen and Gradel: Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 154–55. 44  Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 146. 45  Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 41.

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had survived, it is improbable that they date before the earthquake of 62.46 The Lucretian games, in contrast, came up with as many as 30 pairs of gladiators and are likely, as argued above, to have been announced towards the end of the Neronian period. How the materiality of writing was exploited can be seen by means of a comparison between the first lines of the two edicta. In both, the first line is written in extraordinarily large and carefully painted letters, whereas the following two lines are about one-sixth or one-fifth in height. In 7993 the first line is occupied by the causa muneris – dedicatione – which is specified below. In 7992 this place is taken by the name of the munerarius in the form of praenomen and both his nomina, likewise followed by the details. Apart from announcing games and the honor and obligations linked to this event, this type of edictum47 provided a socially sanctioned opportunity to write his own and the family’s name in large letters onto a wall in the public space. The letters were 48 cm. high and hence more than twice the size, for example, of the letters in the dedicatory inscription of the Building of Eumachia, which measured 23 cm.48 Since not only the height but also the form of the single letters seeks monumentality, it seems legitimate to consider these inscriptions as a compensation for the lack of officially granted or sponsored honors, which some families could not achieve. That the reference between the programma 7626 for D L V f and the edictum was calculated is obvious, and it is paralleled by the situation at III 6, 2 with almost identical epigraphic evidence: an edictum for the games of D. Lucretius Satrius Valens and D. Lucretius Valens filius, joined by a programma for the latter.49 At III 2, 1 the reference is even materialized, as the two inscriptions touch one another: the F of D L V f reaches the A of Apr(ilis). Mouritsen and Gradel had assumed that 7620, the programma for Satrius, the quinquennial duumvirate candidate, might be of an earlier date than the others.50 This is very unlikely, since it is at a height of about 2.50 m. above ground level, which would have necessitated the use of a ladder. If it really had been one of the first dipinti among the known ones, the painters could have chosen almost any spot and might have found a more convenient one at a lower level, or he would at least have taken advantage of the available space and written in larger letters. 46   C IL IV 1177, 1178, 3883 and 7993. 47  This type of edictum with the name of the munerarius in the first place occurs about 23 times: Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 116. 48  Wallat 1997: 34. pl. 12, fig. 18. 49   C IL IV 7995 and 7757. 50  Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 146.

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Apart from these considerations, evidence from other contexts suggests that Satrius was probably a candidate for the quinquennial duumvirate in 75 CE.51 The strategy in electoral campaigns is one aspect of this juxtaposition that requires analysis. On the other hand, we can observe a dynamic shift in the meaning(s) of the displayed inscriptions themselves. This is more than apparent with regard to the name of Nero. First it had been part of the titles and as such was meant to increase the honor of the one so designated. Later on, it was considered as counterproductive and the family felt the need to erase it or was encouraged to do so.52 This shows – since of course everybody knew what had been erased – that the act of painting it over was meant to have the desired effect and to keep up the positive statement; the family could thereby explicitly express their recent disapproval. This shows that a high value was attributed to the material appearance of the inscription. In this case, the persistence of the writings was also used to create chronological references and evoke the memory of a family’s achievements. In this process, the inscription itself changed as well. If it had first been an announcement of games, it was later considered to be an important demonstration of the family’s merits even though the details as to the date and location of the games had become functionally obsolete. Yet not only the meaning attributed to the inscriptions by the viewer or passer-by, and with it the way it would affect his or her actions, changed – its sheer visibility was subject to temporal change. Even if not painted over or faded away, the visibility was altered because of changes in the context. Maybe one of the two edicta was the first dipinto on a new coat of paint or plaster and thus stood out particularly clearly. A few months or years later, however, it was one among many; its visibility changed due to alterations in context and owing to the growing competition among dipinti for the viewer’s attention. On both doorposts, carved into the black surface of the plaster, graffiti were found, four of which consist of greetings, fragments of names, or numbers. 8815, however, could be understood as some sort of electoral notice as well, as its content and language are strongly reminiscent of this group of texts (fig. 4). It reads: Valens Ceium ac Trebium Valentem aediles.53 Compared with the usual programmata, it is uncommon that the rogator in the nominative is mentioned first and that – at least for us – it is possible to perceive him as one of the recommended candidates himself: Trebius Valens. However, the cognomen Valens 51  Franklin 1980: 67. 52  Mouritsen and Gradel 1991: 154–55. 53  This graffito is part of the evidence used by Della Corte to attribute the house III 2, 1 to Trebius Valens: Della Corte 1926: 126–27.

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figure 4 Graffito CIL IV 8815 (CIL IV Suppl. 3, 918)

was used by more than one family at Pompeii and for contemporaries it might have been quite obvious whether it was the candidate himself or another man. As for the actual candidates, however, the graffito fits into its context. According to Mouritsen’s analysis, the electoral programmata of Trebius Valens for the aedileship cluster mainly along and around the Via dell’Abbondanza: one was found on the southern façade of insula III 2 and three just across the street.54 Ceium might refer to L. Ceius Secundus, who stood for the offices of aedilis and duumvir in Flavian times,55 but this is not certain, since other Ceii occur in Pompeian inscriptions. In any case, Trebius Valens and Ceius are not known to have run as joint candidates. Instead it is remarkable that Trebius, who is often referred to in the programmata on this façade in another form than that of rogator,56 appears as such in 7627 for L. Ceius Secundus. This graffito therefore seems to be not necessarily coherent with any campaign of the two men mentioned. It may rather have been a joke inspired by the context and abundant (mis)use of Trebius’ name in its surroundings. With regard to its materiality, the most striking difference is that this graffito was far less visible and readable than the dipinti. It cut into the whitewash of one of the dipinti (CIL IV 7624) with a thin line and according to CIL did so in “litteris minutis.” The painted notices on the other hand stand out by their clear writing, with sharp contrast between the letters and the ground. Whereas this graffito was surely meant to be related to the others in the context, it must have been perceived in a totally different way. It was certainly not visible to those rushing by or standing on the other side of the street, and the letters probably needed a while to be deciphered. In the CIL, Della Corte reports that someone had apparently tried to delete it by scratching it out with a sharp utensil. Regardless of whether the writer or anyone who became annoyed by it – for example, Trebius Valens, who in all likelihood lived in III 2, 1 – had done this, it means that the posting of this graffito was regarded as not, or no longer appropriate – with regard not to its existence but to its content. 54   C IL IV 7610, 7426, 7432 and 7438. Mouritsen 1988: 52, 53 and fig. 5. CIL IV 7633 may be a programma for Trebius Valens but is definitely on the older layer of plaster. 55  Mouritsen 1988: 130–31. 56   C IL IV 7614, 7617, 7618, 7619, 7624, 7627, 7630 and 7632.

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These insights into detailed areas of the frontage of III 2, 1, where a high density of graffiti and dipinti can be noted, have shed light on some aspects of the presence of writing in this neighborhood. As for the layering of older notices, this context does not seem to reflect a pattern or, at most, suggests that there probably had not been any concerted action but that the painters worked according to current needs. A closer look at the three dipinti that had been posted in the center of the wall on behalf of the family of D. Lucretius Satrius Valens showed how the persistence and continued visibility of single inscriptions could impinge upon calculated political actions such as support in an electoral campaign. But this ensemble also indicated that the function and meaning of an inscription altered along with changes in the context with regard to its physical and content-related properties. Graffito 8815 was one example of overlaps between the different material types of inscriptions and the contents that were habitually linked with them. Some of these aspects also occur in connection with other contexts, two of which will be compared with the surroundings of the Casa di Trebius Valens (III 2, 1) below. 2

Around the Casa di Paquius Proculus (I 7, 1) and the North Side of the Palestra Grande (II 7)

A similar context can be found around the Casa di Paquius Proculus (I 7, 1), on the same street but some 150 m. further towards the Forum. This area was excavated in November 1911 and is described in the corresponding Notizie degli Scavi by Della Corte.57 The area (fig. 5) shows some similarities with the neighborhood of III 2, 1. There too was a public fountain on the opposite side of the street and a compitum, accompanied by a painting of the twelve gods who are represented on the wall next to the altar.58 Around the fountain and the shrine, the pavement broadens, forming a small, wider area. As in the context described above, inhabitants and visitors of the town could have had several reasons to stop here and have a look at the walls. The photographs from the time of the excavation show the frontage of I 7, 1 in a condition that is no longer visible.59 The inscriptions have by now all faded, as has the paint. A projecting roof, which is attested by several beam holes, covered the frontage. The façade itself was covered with plaster, which 57  Della Corte 1911: 417–32. 58  According to Thomas Fröhlich, this painting dates to around 20 BCE and is therefore relatively old among the shrines in Pompeii: Fröhlich 1991: 34–35, 335–37. 59  Stefani and Varone 2009: 69–79.

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Surroundings of I 7, 1 (Della Corte 1911: 417 fig. 1)

was painted with black orthostats for the lower two meters.60 Della Corte recorded several dipinti on either side of the entrance, but whereas there were only three to the west of the entrance and two in the vestibulum, the wall to the east (fig. 6) was almost entirely covered with texts, as was the façade to the east of entrance I 7, 3.61 On this wall (between entrances 1 and 2), many examples of layering can be observed. The dipinti overlapped and hid older ones, which, in turn, showed through. Most of them were written on the upper area of the wall, which is again well above eye level. Without going into historical details about individual candidates, it can be stated that all candidates whose names are sufficiently legible to allow 60  Cf. Ehrhardt 1998: 21. 61   C IL IV 7196–7216; Della Corte 1911: 426–30; Stefani and Varone 2009: 70, 79.

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Façade east of entrance I 7, 1 (Stefani – Varone 2009: 76)

identification had run for the offices mentioned during the previous ten years,62 but some of the least visible programmata might even be a little older. Between the programmata have been recorded six graffiti, one of which is visible on the photograph underneath the notice for L. Popidius Ampliatus.63 The layering, combined with different sizes and variations in the shape of the letters, created a pattern of texts, which the passer-by could read in more than two dimensions. The dipinti are sometimes large and precisely painted; some are small and seem to melt into one another; and others again are half-hidden and only partially visible. To this third, admittedly very thin dimension, i.e. the depth of the paint, was added the temporal dimension that was created by references to or glimpses of past years provided by the layering. As the individual inscriptions become less distinct, the wall itself turns into a written surface. It 62  According to Franklin 1980: table 6: M. Holconius Priscus, G. Gavius Rufus for IIviri and Cn. Helvius Sabinus for aedilis in 79 CE; L. Ceius Secundus for IIvir and L. Albucius Celsus for aedilis in 78; M. Epidius Sabinus for IIvir in 77; L. Popidius Ampliatus for aedilis in 75; P. Paquius Proculus for IIvir in 74; C. Iulius Polybius for IIvir in 73; A. Vettius Firmus and L. Ovidius Veiento for aediles in 72. Mouritsen dates these candidates to Flavian times: Mouritsen 1988: 109–12. 63  Visible is CIL IV 8062 (vosq). The others are CIL IV 8060, 8061, 8063, 8064 and 8065.

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is questionable, though, what impact the writers hoped to achieve by writing on such a surface. Who would read these notices and what degree of awareness should be supposed? The external north front of the Palestra Grande and the southern walls of insulae II 2, II 3 and II 4 are an example of the other extreme, where the writers had vast and almost uninterrupted surfaces at their disposal. Six edicta munerum were distributed over these facing frontages, which is an extraordinarily high occurrence for a context within the town.64 The north side of the palaestra is also visible in the depiction of the “rissa nell’anfiteatro” from I 3, 23 and, as a detail at its eastern edge shows, the edicta that were painted on it apparently were considered to be typical in the eyes of the person(s) who had created this painting.65 The road between the façades is the prolongation of a decumanus minor, the Via di Castricio, and one of the main accesses to the amphitheatre.66 Especially visitors who came from the south or east and entered the town through the Porta di Nocera, but also Pompeians who lived in regio I, II or VIII would come this way – not to forget those who approached the area from Via dell’Abbondanza through Vicolo di Venere or Vicolo di Giulia Felice. We can, therefore, assume a high number of temporary passers-by with different interests even if the occurrence of doorways in this particular area was low.67 Thus, many people who went to or came from spectacles in the amphitheatre must have seen the edicta. The western part of the wall that was documented in photographs and a drawing (fig. 7 and 8) was covered with a light plaster, on which had been written several inscriptions: at least three edicta munerum and at least four, possibly five, programmata. The available surface allowed the painters to write the dipinti on this wall in exceptionally large letters: the tallest ones were about 70 cm. high. This is not so peculiar for edicta munerum which are often more than 40 cm. high, but programmata were usually smaller, as seen in the examples above. What is striking here is that even though the surface to write on was more than abundant, the painters placed the dipinti in such a way that some of them overlapped. One inscription seems to have remained unfinished and consists of only the word Augustalium.68 In the photograph that 64   C IL IV 7987, 7988d, 7989a, c. 7989b, 7990 and 9964. 65  Cf. Guzzo 2007: 143. 66  Cf. Van der Poel 1984: pl. 2. 67  Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980: 119; the street should thus be seen as one with a sporadically high density of interaction, cf. Laurence 2007: 106. 68  The word Augustalium (CIL IV 7988d) seems at first sight to be out of context. The single letters are very carefully painted and quite tall (45 cm. high). A closer look (Stefani and Varone 2009: 224) reveals at least three auxiliary lines: one, on which the word

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figure 7

Dipinti on the external northern front of the Palestra Grande, photograph from the excavation (Stefani – Varone 2009: 222) Photograph from the excavation (Stefani – Varone 2009, 222)

figure 8

External northern front of the Palestra Grande , drawing (Stefani – Varone 2009: 222) Drawing (Stefani – Varone 2009, 222)

was taken during the excavation, it seems that edictum 7889a had more or less faded away; however, as Della Corte states, it had been covered with a layer of Augustalium itself stands, and two below, which suggests that the task was accurately planned and that the word Augustalium had been meant to be followed by further smaller lines. The work was obviously not completed. For the contemporary Pompeian, the genitive plural, as well as the size and form of the letters, was probably sufficient to show that it had been set up as a kind of announcement for an event donated by the Augustales, since it was a common formula in such announcements as the edicta munerum to give the name of the ‘sponsor’ in the genitive and in the first line. The Augustales acted as a collective in CIL IV 1731 (as rogatores) and in CIL X 977 (as donors).

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whitewash, which was removed during the course of excavation.69 This location and the height, at which the new inscription was to be posted, were apparently regarded as a very good place to post notices. 3 Conclusions Pompeians used the wall surfaces in public spaces as billboards over several years, but the frontages were not written with equal density all over the town. Apparently there were other criteria for where to put a poster than just the availability of free space. The painters, therefore, seem to have followed practical needs rather than any rule. This created concentrations on certain walls where we can observe layering in terms of material and information, meaningful juxtapositions and responses among consecutively added notices. Due to the spatial relations, different fields intermingled with others in the recipient’s as well as the author’s eyes. Older writings that quite often had not been systematically painted over or erased after the indicated event or election were still visible and more or less legible, so that the events and the persons involved were visually kept in mind. In a way, the dipinti especially remained relevant for only some months or weeks – just until the spectacles or elections had taken place. However, the fact that they had been left there shows that they took on a new meaning after those events, which was closely related to their continuing presence and visibility. Thus, on the one hand, written communication on a wall in a public space implies a diachronic aspect for author and viewer, as the notices had been written one after the other and they pointed to past events. On the other hand, the synchronic aspect lies precisely in their coexistence. What was written on the wall was basically visible at the same time as newer and older notices. The recipient, therefore, had to reassess the ensemble in every instance. In this process, his or her interpretation of older notices could be modified when new messages appeared next to them, and the same applies vice versa. This implies that the meaning and function of the inscriptions was not static. Instead it was the result of how the viewer or reader perceived them in their current and specific surroundings which changed continuously.

69  Della Corte 1939: 308; the photograph (Stefani and Varone 2009: 223) shows almost the opposite, but was taken later: 7989a appears to be slightly darker than 7988d.

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Bibliography Benefiel, R. 2010. “Dialogues of Graffiti in the House of Maius Castricius in Pompeii.” American Journal of Archaeology 114: 59–101. Benefiel, R. 2011. “Dialogues of Graffiti in the House of the Four Styles at Pompeii (Casa Dei Quattro Stili, 1.8.17, 11).” In J. A. Baird and C. Taylor, eds., Ancient Graffiti in Context, 20–48. New York and London. Bragantini, I. 1991. “III 2, 1. Casa detta di Trebius Valens.” In I. Baldassare, ed., Pompei. Pitture e mosaici, 3. Regiones II, III, V, 341–42. Rome. Castrén, P. 1975. Ordo Populusque Pompeianus. Polity and Society in Roman Pompeii. Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 8. Rome. Cooley, A. E. and Cooley, M. G. L. 2004. Pompeii. A Sourcebook. New York, London. Della Corte, M. 1911. “Scavi e scoperte di antichità avvenute durante il mese di novembre.” Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità 5.8: 417–32. Della Corte, M. 1914. “Pompei. Continuazione degli scavi sulla via dell’Abbondanza.” Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità: 103–12. Della Corte, M. 1926. Case ed abitanti a Pompei. Pompei. Della Corte, M. 1936. “Pompei. Nuove scoperte epigrafiche.” Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità 14: 299–352. Della Corte, M. 1939. “Pompei. Le iscrizioni della Grande Palestra ad occidente dell’Anfiteatro.” Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità 64: 239–327. Ehrhardt, W. 1998. Casa di Paquius Proculus (I 7, 1.2), Häuser in Pompeji 9. Munich. Fioretti, P. 2012. “Gli usi della scrittura dipinta nel mondo romano.” In P. Fioretti, ed., Storie Di Cultura Scritta. Studi per Francesco Magistrale, 409–25. Spoleto. Franklin, J. L. 1980. Pompeii. The Electoral Programmata, Campaigns and Politics, A.D. 71–79, Papers and Monographs of the American Academy in Rome 28. Rome. Franklin, J. L. 1986. “Games and a Lupanar: Prosopography of a Neighborhood in Ancient Pompeii.” The Classical Journal 81: 319–28. Franklin, J. L. 2001. Pompeis Difficile Est. Studies in the Political Life of Imperial Pompeii. Ann Arbor. Fröhlich, T. 1991. Lararien – und Fassadenbilder in den Vesuvstädten. Untersuchungen zur ‘volkstümlichen’ pompejanischen Malerei, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung, Suppl. 32. Mainz. García y García, L. 2006. Danni di guerra a Pompei. Una dolorosa vicenda quasi dimentica. Con numerose notizie sul “Museo Pompeiano” distrutto nel 1943, Studi della Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei 15. Rome. Guzzo, P. G. 2007. Pompei. Storia e paesaggi della città antica. Milan. Langner, M. 2001. Antike Graffitizeichnungen. Motive, Gestaltung und Bedeutung, Palilia 11. Wiesbaden.

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Laurence, R. 2007. Roman Pompeii. Space and Society. 2nd edn. New York and London. Mayeske, B. J. 1988. “A Pompeian Bakery on the Via dell’Abbondanza.” In R. I. Curtis, ed., Studia Pompeiana & Classica in Honor of Wilhelmina F. Jashemski 1, 149–165. New Rochelle. Mouritsen, H. 1988. Elections, Magistrates and Municipal Èlite. Studies in Pompeian Epigraphy, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Suppl. 15. Rome. Mouritsen, H. and Gradel, I. 1991. “Nero in Pompeian Politics. Edicta Munerum and Imperial Flaminates in Late Pompeii.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 87: 145–55. Sabbatini Tumolesi, P. 1980. Gladiatorum Paria. Annunci di spettacoli gladiatorii a Pompei, Tituli. Pubblicazioni dell’istituto di epigrafiae antichità greche e romane dell’università di Roma 1. Rome. Salomies, O. 1992, Adoptive and Polyonymous Nomenclature in the Roman Empire, Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum 97. Helsinki. Santamato, E. 2014. “Per una interpretazione dei graffiti privati e dell’ economia quotidiana a Pompei (con particolare riguardo alle liste di prezzi).” Ancient Society 44: 307–41. Solin, H. 1973. “Review: Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. 3. Lieferung: Inscriptiones Pompeianae parietariae etvasorum fictilium by Matthaeus Della Corte; Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. 4. Lieferung: Inscriptiones Pompeianae parietariae et vasorum fictilium annis 1951–1956 repertae by Fulcherus Weber; Pius Ciprotti.” Gnomon 45: 258–77. Solin, H. 1979. “Le iscrizioni parietali.” In F. Zevi, ed., Pompei 79. Raccolta di studi per il decimonono centenario dell’eruzione vesuviana, 278–88. Naples. Spinazzola, V. 1953. Pompei alla luce degli scavi nuovi di Via dell’Abbondanza (anni 1910– 1923). Rome. Stefani, G. and Varone, A. 2009. Titulorum Pictorum Pompeianorum qui in CIL vol. IV collecti sunt imagines. Studi della Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei 29. Rome. Van der Poel, H. B. 1984. Corpus topographicum pompeianum 3, The RICA Maps of Pompeii. Rome. Varone, A. 2012. Titulorum graphio exaratorum qui in C.I.L. vol. IV collecti sunt imagines. Studi della Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei 31. Rome. Viitanen, E.-M., Nissinen, L., and Korhonen, K. 2013. “Street Activity, Dwellings and Wall Inscriptions in Ancient Pompeii: A Holistic Study of Neighbourhood Relations.” In A. Bokern, M. Bolder-Boos, S. Krmnicek, D. Maschek, and S. Page, eds., TRAC 2012. Proceedings oft he Twenty-Second Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference which took place at Goethe University in Frankfurt 29 March–1 April 2012, 61–80. Oxford. Wallat, K. 1997. Die Ostseite des Forums von Pompeji. Frankfurt am Main.

chapter 12

Damnatio Memoriae Inscribed: The Materiality of Cultural Repression Ida Östenberg In 96 CE, Domitian fell victim to a palace conspiracy. At the Senate’s meeting following the emperor’s murder, harsh sanctions were passed against his memory. The Senate’s directives were put into immediate effect. Suetonius describes the attacks on Domitian’s portraits and name thus: “They even had ladders brought and his shields (clipei) and portraits (imagines) torn down before their eyes and dashed upon the ground; finally, they passed a decree that his inscriptions should everywhere be erased (titulos eradendos), and all record of him obliterated (memoriam abolendam).”1 The quote from Suetonius testifies to the two major procedures by which Roman memory sanctions were executed: damage applied to inscriptions and to images.2 In this volume on the materiality of texts, the present chapter will focus predominantly on the attacks on Roman inscriptions. The term materiality encourages us to look at inscriptions as physical objects, and I shall explore the material aspects of erased texts in two interconnected ways. First, through selected case studies, I aim to show the importance of the physical material of the erased inscriptions for our understanding of the phenomenon commonly termed damnatio memoriae.3 The form and context of the inscriptions will also play a central role in the analysis.

1  Suet. Dom. 23: …, scalas etiam inferri clipeosque et imagines eius coram detrahi et ibidem solo affligi iuberet, novissime eradendos ubique titulos abolendamque omnem memoriam decerneret. Cf. Dio Cass. 68.1. For the memory sanctions against Domitian, Flower 2006: 234–71. 2  Krüpe 2011: 40–64. Other forms of memory sanctions imposed on Roman individuals include the destruction of the person’s house, the confiscation of property and the prohibition for the family to use the condemned person’s praenomen. 3  Central works on damnatio memoriae are: Vittinghoff 1936; Hedrick 2000: 89–170; Flower 2006, cf. Cooley 2012: 311–19. These authors all note that the term is not ancient, and Flower avoids it systematically. Scholars have occasionally explored other terms, such as transformatio memoriae, memoria abolita and abolitio nominis. Hedrick 2000: 93 is one of few who prefers damnatio memoriae, but he too stresses that it is neither a technical nor a juridical term. I use damnatio memoriae in the article as a matter of convenience and in lack of a suitable alternative.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_014

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Second, materiality will be used as a theoretical concept. Erased inscriptions were often left for public view, where they continued to take an active part in the daily communication between people, cityscape and society. In line with the work of Alfred Gell and others, this paper aims to approach the changed, attacked and erased inscriptions as agents that transmitted novel messages of the past and present to their viewers.4 This aspect of damnatio memoriae has only been little noted and discussed in the scholarly literature, where, in my view, the intent and purpose of memory sanctions have taken priority over its effects.5 That is, most analyses of attacked images and texts consider the phenomenon from the perspective of those involved in the political process of the damnatio, emperor, Senate and their targets. Much less has been written about the material message of the altered texts themselves and their interaction with their viewers. The concept of materiality is very useful for such an analysis. As an extended introduction, which should be read as a discussion per se, the paradoxical nature of Roman memory sanctions will be outlined. The central question is: Did erasures abolish or accentuate the targeted person’s memory? 1

The Paradox of Roman Memory Sanctions

At first glance, the purpose and process of the so-called damnatio memoriae seem clear. The Senate or the emperor decided to impose memory sanctions on an individual. Sanctions were mostly posthumous and often formed part of the prosecution of treason, in which the person charged was judged as an enemy, a hostis, of the Roman state. As a result, the targeted person’s name was erased and his or her portraits removed. In some cases, such as that of Caligula, demolition and erasure occurred without formal condemnation.6 The results too, were seemingly very effective. Thus, Tiberius’ verdict meant the almost total extinction of Sejanus. His inscriptions were demolished, and none of his portraits has survived, even though he was for many years 4  While Gell 1998 maintained that material agency is only secondary (things act out human intentions), Bruno Latour (Actor Network Theory, ANT) argued that objects have the capacity to perform primary agency, separated from the original human intentionality. According to ANT, objects are mediators, the outputs of which cannot be predicted by their inputs. Hodder extends the ideas of Latour, stating that things possess primary agency independent of humans and intentionality; Hodder 2012, esp. 215–16. 5  Hedrick 2000 is one of few scholars who has ventured to analyze the messages and meanings of erased inscriptions on public view in the cityscape. I discuss his interpretations below. 6  Flower 2006: 148–59.

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the virtual emperor of Rome.7 The memoria of Sejanus was truly and utterly both damnata and abolita. Among others efficiently eliminated are those proscribed by Sulla in 80 BCE. Very few names can be recovered, and Sulla effectively usurped their identities by freeing their slaves in his own name. Also targeted were quite a few of the imperial women, the Juliae and Messalina, whose names and images were successfully wiped out.8 Annihilation was most effectively processed by taking inscriptions and images out of society’s sight. Thus, large numbers of portraits of Caligula were thrown into the Tiber after his murder.9 On Philae in Egypt, the boastful trilingual inscription honoring the military deeds of the prefect and poet Cornelius Gallus was taken down after his fall.10 The text suffered no erasures. Instead, it was completely removed from sight by being integrated into an altar in front of a temple of Augustus. Augustus thus lifted Gallus’ name out of civic space by absorbing it into his own building project. This was a very effective abolition of memory through material consumption. Ironically, the portraits of Caligula recovered from the Tiber are among the best preserved today, and Gallus’ inscription was likewise handed down to us in such a good state as a result of his fall from favour. Despite these instances of removal, Roman memory sanctions seldom resulted in complete annihilation. As has been pointed out, ancient Rome lacked the control resources of modern totalitarian regimes, and the very systematic memory purge implemented in Stalin’s Soviet Union would have been impossible to carry through in premodern Rome.11 Still more noteworthy is the fact that the Roman memory sanctions seem not to have aimed at thorough eradication. Augustus permitted some images of Brutus and Cassius to stay on display.12 Antony’s name was erased on some inscriptions, on others not.13 7  The fall of Sejanus is intimated by Tacitus (Ann. 5.9) and described vividly by Juvenal (10.66–113). For the lack of preserved portraits, see Varner 2004: 92–93. 8  Flower 2006: 160–96. 9  Portraits thrown into the Tiber make an interesting parallel to the disposal of the corpses of criminals. Some portraits of Caligula were also stored in warehouses, while others were recarved. Flower 2006: 150–52. 10   C IL 3.14147, IGRom. I/II 1293, OGI II 654, Dessau, ILS 8995. Hoffmann, Minas-Nerpel and Pfeifer 2009. Literary testimony to the fall of Gallus: Ov. Am. 3.9.61, Tr. 2.445–46; Suet. Aug. 66.1–2, Gram. et rhet. 16; Dio Cass. 53.23.5–24.1; Serv. ad Ecl. 10.1. Flower 2006: 125–29. On the Vatican obelisk at Piazza S. Pietro, Gallus’ original inscription was replaced by a text honoring Augustus and Tiberius. Gallus’ inscription has been reconstructed by examining the spike holes from its bronze letters; Alföldy 1990. 11  Hedrick 2000: 92; Cooley 2012: 318. 12  Tac. Ann. 4.35. 13  Flower 2006: 116–21.

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Many of Nero’s inscriptions were damaged but many were not.14 Piso’s name remains in some inscribed texts, but has been wiped out in others.15 Also, while thorough removal might lead to elimination, erasures left traces. Inscriptions erased and left to stand in the cityscape often preserved rather than abolished memory. At times, a damaged name might be visible in spite of its erasure; at other times, the erasure has even accentuated the attacked name. Such is the case, for example, of the inscription from the barracks of the Vigiles in Ostia (fig. 1), on which the damaged letters highlight the name under attack, Marcus Opellius Antoninus Diadumenianus.16 In yet other instances, the damaged text is not easily deciphered, but the erasure itself stands witness and draws attention to the process undertaken. One example is a stele in the British Museum on which the names of Geta and Plautilla, Caracalla’s wife, have been erased (fig. 2).17 These examples reveal the paradox of the so-called damnatio memoriae. In many cases, the practice seems to have strengthened memory rather than abolished it.18 In fact, to anyone who gazes at the arch of Septimius Severus, the abolished name of Geta stands out as the most notable in the text (fig. 7). Inscribed into the stone are both the name of Geta and the process of erasure. 2

Absence and Presence

In a famed passage, Tacitus describes the funeral procession of Junia, sister of Brutus and wife of Cassius, in 22 CE. He remarks (Ann. 3.76):

14  Flower 2006: 212–23. 15  Kajava 1995; Flower 2006: 132–38; For the SCPP, see references listed in n. 50. 16   C IL 14.4393: M(arco) [[Opellio]] / Antonino / [[Diadumeniano]] / nobilissimo Caes(ari) / principi iuventutis / Imp(eratoris) Caes(aris) M(arco) [[Opelli]] Severi / [[Macrini]] Pii Felicis Aug(usti) / trib(unicia) potest(ate) co(n)s(ulis) design(ati) / II p(atris) p(atriae) proco(n)s(ulis) filio / Valerio Titaniano / praef(ecto) vig(ilum) em(inentissimo) v(iro) / curante / Flavio Lupo subpraef(ecto). As can be seen, the names of both Macrinus (emperor 217–28) and his son Diadumenian were attacked here. Interestingly, the attackers left the names Antoninus and Severus unharmed, possibly in honor of Caracalla. 17  Plautilla was condemned in 205 CE and Geta in 211/12, so their names are likely to have been erased on different occasions. 18  A further paradox of memory sanctions that cannot be investigated here is the role of literature. Many names condemned to oblivion were preserved in literature precisely because of these processes.

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CIL 14.4393 from the Vigiles barracks in Ostia Photo: Laura Maish. Published with the permission of the photographer

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Stele from the British Museum, Reg. no. 1805,0703.210 @The Trustees of the British Museum

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Viginti clarissimarum familiarum imagines antelatae sunt, Manlii, Quinctii aliaque eiusdem nobilitatis nomina. Sed praefulgebant Cassius atque Brutus eo ipso quod effigies eorum non visebantur. The masks of twenty of the most illustrious families preceded the bier, Manlii, Quinctii and other names of the same high rank. But Cassius and Brutus were the most conspicuous precisely because their portraits were not to be seen. Astonishingly, over 60 years after Philippi, the absence of those affected by memory sanctions still outshone those physically present.19 The Romans were of course well aware that political repression could nurture increased fame, augment the risk of martyrdom and resistance, and strengthen memory. Still, from the late Republic and throughout the empire they continued to practice sanctions against a person’s memory by erasing inscriptions that left traces of both the targeted person and the process of elimination. Why? A very utilitarian answer would be to stress the costliness of the material. Marble was valuable, and it was cheaper to recut than to substitute. No doubt, the expense of the stone was a factor, at least for privately erected monuments.20 Memory sanctions would have left most people with very few alternatives to leaving erasures open to view. As a general explanation to the practice of Roman memory sanctions, however, material costliness provides an unsatisfactory answer. This is particularly the case when we discuss the grand monuments of the city of Rome. The emperors and the Senate were equipped with immense political and economic powers, indeed with the capacity to destroy and rebuild whole areas of the city. They could have had inscriptional panels exchanged and monuments taken down or rebuilt (as did Augustus on Philae).21 Certainly, such procedures existed and are unknown to us simply because of their success. But in many cases, it seems clear that erasures were deliberately left to stand for public view. 19  Tacitus, again (Ann. 4.35), comments on the condemnation of the historian Cremutius Cordus that “it is pleasant to laugh at the foolishness of those who imagine they can destroy even the memory of the next generation by their present power,” quo magis socordiam eorum inridere libet qui praesenti potentia credunt extingui posse etiam sequentis aevi memoriam. 20  Corrections and additions were also commonly left in view; Cooley 2012: 310–11. 21  Cf. Cooley 2012: 312: “Firstly, erasure was not inevitable: as an alternative, the inscription could simply be reused so as to hide the offending text, removed to a warehouse, or entirely destroyed.”

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Another, very different answer has been proposed by Charles Hedrick, one of few scholars who have attempted to explain the paradox of memory sanctions performed as visible cuts in public inscriptions.22 He argues that damnatio memoriae was not meant to abolish memory at all, but the very opposite. Erasures were left in view to keep the memory of a traitor alive. They worked as reminders of the disgrace of a public enemy. Hence, in Hedrick’s view, the results produced by memory sanctions corresponded to their intent. The erasures were meant to expose shame and punishment, and the recut inscriptions filled that very purpose.23 There is much to say in favour of Hedrick’s proposal. Shame and disgrace were important features in Roman society, and they clearly constituted a factor in the process and procedures of memory sanctions. Besides, Hedrick is right in emphasising the visual effects of the damaged texts. Yet, the evidence does not support an interpretation of shame and dishonor as a universal explanation for the practice of damnatio memoriae in Rome. As we have seen, Gallus’ inscription on Philae was not erased. Rather, the entire stele was overthrown and incorporated into Augustus’ temple, leaving no signs of removal or disgrace. Similarly, when Claudius had images of Caligula disappear over night,24 the point was to leave no trace of the process. For those who woke up in a city emptied of Caligula’s portraits, it was if they had never existed. There were no reminders of shame, disgrace or punishment. 3

Materiality and Memory Sanctions

Roman memory sanctions are conspicuous and enigmatic, and it is tempting to search for an all-encompassing explanation. Hence, Hedrick underlines the exposure of shame, while others have emphasised that memory attacks against a condemned hostis were a way for the community to remove an unwanted person from civic space.25 The physical remains, however, suggest a varied procedure dependent on time, place and context. Indeed, the lack of a specific term in the Latin language to describe Roman memory sanctions is revealing, and suggests that they were complex processes that cannot be 22  Hedrick 2000: 89–170. 23  Hedrick 2000: 93: “The damnatio memoriae did not negate historical traces, but created gestures that served to dishonor the record of the person and so, in an oblique way, to confirm memory. Thus it is more accurate to describe the attack as a damnatio than an abolitio memoriae.” 24  Dio Cass. 59.30.1a, 60.4.5–6, cf. Joseph. AJ 19.185. 25  Exclusion from civic space: Flower 1998: 155.

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bound into one single comprehensive interpretation. In consequence, the value of studying materiality is not that it provides an all-inclusive disclosure of the function and meaning of so-called damnatio memoriae. Rather, aspects of materiality give further insights into Roman memory sanctions from less explored perspectives. Materiality gives voice to the physical context and the material used, and allows for the shape, form and placement of the attacked inscriptions to bear meaning. Moreover, the theoretical concept of materiality carries further implications. Developed within the field of archaeology in disapproval of the priority of the literary text in studying and interpreting (not to say ‘reading’) culture, it argues that a greater importance should be given to things, objects, as builders of society. Objects are not only results of cultural processes, the intentions and ideas of which we as historians strive to reconstruct. They are also agents, active participants in those cultural contexts that we endeavour to interpret.26 As a theoretical notion, therefore, materiality gives prominence to physical objects over literary content. This circumstance has perhaps hindered a discussion of the usefulness of the concept of materiality in analyses of texts. Hence, to this date, very little has been written about ‘the materiality of texts’ according to the theoretical implication of the term. Nevertheless, it is evident that the concept is valid, in particular for epigraphy. Inscriptions are defined by their material outlook; they can only be labelled ‘inscriptions’ if they are written, inscribed, incised, chiselled into or onto a physical object, such as a stone, a bronze tablet, a sheet of papyrus, a lead pipe, or a piece of pottery. The material itself communicates meaning, and the ancient viewer, whether literate or not, would have interpreted the letters presented on a coin or wooden tabula differently by virtue of their material setting. The inscribed text too, regardless of its content, carried a material message. Perfectly shaped, over-sized bronze letters set up in solitude high up on a monumental building signalled political power and financial resources, while graffiti hastily scribbled on a statue of Brutus or Caesar would have prepared the viewer for a message of political resistance, even before reading the text.27 Also very important in the concept of materiality is the insistence on the agency of the physical object. Thus, inscriptions were not only materialised results of historical processes, but also active participants in their contemporary public space. If this is applied to the so-called damnatio memoriae, erased inscriptions were certainly products of memory sanctions imposed by Senate 26  Olsen 2010 provides a useful introduction to the concept of materiality and its development. Boivin 2008 is also helpful. See also above, n. 4. 27  For political graffiti, see Zadorojnyi 2011; Hillard 2013.

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and emperor. But they were also independent bearers of meaning. As visible signs placed in the monumental cityscape, erased texts were themselves agents that communicated with people and contributed to shaping views and values.28 Material agency could be fed by intent, but could also work detached from original purposes. This is significant, as it might mean that, independently of the motives for damnatio memoriae, erasures could take on and transmit messages and meanings of their own. In the remainder of this chapter, various aspects of materiality will be discussed through three case studies: the treatment of the memory of Mark Antony; the senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre; and Caracalla’s sanctions against his murdered brother Geta. 4

Coherent Lists and Material Models: Suppressing Mark Antony

After his defeat at Actium, the Senate declared Antony hostis.29 His birthday was pronounced a day of ill-omen, the name Marcus was banned for the Antonii, and Antony’s name and portraits were attacked.30 On his return, Octavian restored some of his rival’s honors, and he had the name M. Antonius (both of the triumvir and his grandfather) reinscribed on the fasti consulares, where it had been cut out during his absence. Both recarvings, the initial erasure and the later reinsertion, are still visible on the fasti Capitolini (fig. 3).31 The attack on Antony’s name has been read along Hedrick’s line of exposing shame and punishment, while Octavian’s restoration has been interpreted as a way for the young victor to boast clemency.32 Both explanations are valid. A Roman viewer would have been able to read both Antony’s defeat with the Senate’s verdict and Octavian’s claim of mildness into the fasti inscriptions. Aside, however, from interpretations in degrees of punishment and clemency, aspects of materiality, form and context add to our understanding of Antony’s suppression. First, we should note that Antony’s name was not attacked in the parallel fasti triumphales (fig. 4, lines 14–15).33 Octavian and Antony had celebrated ovations for making peace with each other, and the fasti triumphales announce: 28  For a similar discussion concerning attacked portraits, see Elsner 2003. 29  Suet. Aug. 17.2; Plut. Cic. 49.4, Ant. 86.5; Dio Cass. 51.19.3. 30  Flower 2006: 116–21. Inscr. Ital. 13.1: 54–9, Tab. 38. 31   32  Punishment: Lange 2009: 136–40; Clemency: Flower 2006: 117. Inscr. Ital. 13 1 86–87. 33  

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figure 3

Fasti consulares Capitolini. The name Marcus Antonius, grandfather of the triumvir, was erased and later reinserted. Inscr. It. 13.1: 56–7, Tab. XXXVIII. Roma, Musei Capitolini, fragment XXIII

Imp. Caesar Divi f. C. f. IIIvir r(ei) p(ublicae) c(onstituendae) ov[ans an. DCCXIII] quod pacem cum M. Antonio fecit [– – –] M. Antonius M. f. M. n. IIIvir r(ei) p(ublicae) c(onstituendae) ovan[s an. DCCXIII] quod pacem cum Imp. Caesare feci[t – – –] It seems likely that Antony’s name was spared here as it shared entries with Octavian. An erasure would have affected the monumentalisation of the achievements of the young Caesar too. Hence, although placed in seemingly very similar settings, the fasti consulares and the parallel fasti triumphales, the name M. Antonius formed part of two very different contexts that decided whether memory sanctions were carried out or not. This circumstance underlines the problems of launching an all-inclusive interpretation of the so-called damnatio memoriae and encourages us to study the context of each specific case.

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Fasti triumphales Capitolini, Inscription recording Antony’s ovatio in 40 BCe, (lines 14–15). Inscr. Ital. 13.1 86–87, Tab. LI. Rome, Musei Capitolini, fragment XL

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Furthermore, while Octavian reinscribed Antony’s name on the fasti consulares, he did not restore all his former colleague’s honors. Antony’s name remained erased on other inscriptions, and his birthday, January 14th, continued to be inscribed in the calendar ( fasti anni) as a dies vitiosus.34 Why was Antony’s name reinserted on one central communal document, but left inscribed as enemy on another? Material form is, I would argue, central to this issue. The fasti consulares was a list, an inscribed series of magistrates that started at the birth of the Republic and continued through the reign of Augustus. It was a material manifestation of a continuum, a complete story of civic life, placed together with an inscribed sequence of military success, the fasti triumphales, on Augustus’ triumphal arch.35 This image of an unbroken Republic that culminated with the age of Augustus, a flawless Roma aeterna, tolerated no lacunae. Erasures such as that of the name Antonius damaged the very Republican idea, that of a continuous annual succession of magistrates. Hence, by reinserting Antony’s name, in a very material way, Augustus could be said to have repaired his restored Republic. The naming of Antony’s birthday as vitiosus in the fasti anni formed part of a completely different context. The birthday entry marked the 14th of January as a day of misfortune, an invalid, ‘faulty’ day.36 Antony’s name is set in a negative light, but, the entry still conserved and reproduced his memory. There are similarities, I believe, to the way in which the dies Alliensis, likewise a day of bad omina, marked the 18th of July in the fasti anni.37 Both dates transmitted a message of ominous events that had threatened the very existence of Rome. It could be argued that by inscribing them into the calendar, their negative powers were restricted to one single day and thus fenced off the remainder of the year.38 We might also note that while the fasti Praenestini and Verulani both name Antony (Antoni natalis), the fasti Caeretani and Maffeiani simply state that the day was vitiosus ex senatus consulto. As in the Res Gestae, it 34   Fasti Verulani: [V]itiosus ex (senatus) c(onsulto). Ant(oni) natal(is), Inscr. Ital. 13.2: 159. The fasti Caeretani, Maffeiani, Oppiani and Praenestini also give 14 January as vitiosus, Inscr. Ital. 13.2: 397; cf. Dio Cassius 51.19.3. 35  On the message and meaning of the fasti triumphales and the identification of Augustus’ arch, see further, e.g., Rich 1998; Nedergaard 2001; Östenberg 2009. 36  Interestingly, this is the only Roman day named vitiosus, Rüpke 2011: 151. This circumstance might be taken to suggest that Senate and princeps encountered a novel and particular situation in the case of Antony. The attack on his name, the later restoration and the general tendency to avoid spelling out his name point towards a certain indecision as to how best to handle memories of the unwanted. These are memory sanctions set at the very beginning of a new political system, a monarchy pretending to be a republic. 37   Inscr. Ital. 13.2: 484. 38  Östenberg 2014a: 260.

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seems that Antony’s memory was in places silenced by avoiding to spell out his name. Besides, even if the negative naming of Antony produced a very different setting from the fasti consulares and triumphales, a further reason to leave Antony’s name out might have been to avoid unauthorised, unwanted attacks and erasures. Returning to the restoration of Antony’s name in the fasti consulares, we should note that very few remains of Roman lists of magistrates and priests carry erasures of names.39 While building inscriptions and dedications were frequently attacked, there seems to have been a general reluctance to wipe out names on lists. The otherwise widely erased names of Caligula, Nero and Domitian are fully preserved in the acta of the Arval brothers.40 On the fasti Ostienses, Caligula’s name also remains, but was inscribed in a simplified form, C. Caesar.41 Nor has Domitian’s name been erased; instead he appears simply as Domitianus.42 The fasti-keepers in Ostia thus managed to keep their chronological list intact, while at the same time devesting Caligula and Domitian of their imperial titles and honors. At least in the case of Domitian, the years covered by the emperor would probably have had to be re-carved, involving considerable costs in both material and time. These examples all suggest that chronological lists, fasti, were composite monuments where the whole would have been damaged by attacks on the single parts. It could be argued that Augustus’ reinstatement of Antony’s name into the fasti consulares even set this trend. We know that Cicero twice suggested that the names of Antony, A. Gabinius and L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus should be erased from the fasti.43 There is no reason to think that his proposals were put into effect, but they nevertheless show that there existed at this time a conceptual possibility that names on fasti could be cut away.44 Later on, Tacitus writes that when Aurelius Cotta suggested that Cn. Calpurnius Piso’s name should be erased from the fasti, Tiberius stopped the proposal, on grounds 39  Cf. Kajava 1995: 202. 40  Flower 2000: 224. Flower notes that there are very few erasures in the Arval records, and that all pertain to the year 69, Flower 2000: 223–28. 41  Flower 2000: 157–58. Fasti Ostienses: Vidman 1982; Bargagli and Grosso 1997. 42  Flower 2000: 249–52. These cases, and that of the elder M. Antonius on the fasti consulares, indicate that the sanctions were performed against names as much as against individuals. In one case, a name was itself targeted (M. Antonius the Elder). In the other, no attacks against Caligula and Domitian were carried out, or at least no such erasures were left in view; only their imperial names were silenced. 43  Cic. Phil. 13.11.26, Sest. 14.33. 44  The fasti were, after Caesar’s calendar reform, very much an arena of political struggles and memory contests; see further Östenberg 2014b, 189–92.

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that even the names of such villains as Antony and Iullus Antonius remained.45 Augustus’ restoration of Antony’s name might thus have served as a norm that left little possibility for Tiberius to erase other names from the fasti. As Piso’s name was undoubtedly cut out of other inscriptions,46 this emphasises further the distinctively untouchable quality of the lists containing fasti. If Augustus’ actions set the standard, so too the restoration of Antony’s name on the fasti Capitolini might have served as a material norm. Indeed, on a local calendar as well, the fasti Colotiani, Antony’s name was first erased and later reinscribed (fig. 5).47 Aside from oral or written decrees that might have circulated, it is likely that the monumental fasti Capitolini themselves served as a model here, both for the initial erasure and for the later restoration. This would be a prime example of materiality, in which not just ideas and events but also physical objects placed in public settings contributed to people’s conceptions and actions. 5 Bronze Tabulae: The Case of Cn. Calpurnius Piso Pater One of the most well-known examples of so-called damnatio memoriae is the case of Cn. Calpurnius Piso.48 Accused of maiestas and involvement in the alleged murder of Germanicus in 19 CE, Piso committed suicide and was posthumously punished with a set of memory sanctions. Tacitus depicts the trial in some detail,49 but more important for the present discussions are the bronze tablets found in Spain inscribed with the Senate’s decision (fig. 6). The senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre (SCPP) describes the memory sanctions imposed on Piso. It decrees that his portraits should be removed from all places (utique statuae et imagines Cn. Pisonis patris, quae ubique positae essent, tollerentur …) and his name be taken down from a statue dedicated to Germanicus (utique nomen Cn. Pisonis patris tolleretur ex titulo statuae Germanici Caesaris). Piso’s image must also not be displayed in any funeral procession (ne imago Cn. Pisonis patris duceretur).50 Furthermore, the bronze tablets prescribe that the 45  Tac. Ann. 3.17–18. 46  Flower 2006: 132–38. 47   Inscr. Ital. 13.1: 273–75, Tab. 85. 48  Kajava 1995; Flower 2006: 132–38; For the SCPP, see references listed in n. 50. 49  Tac. Ann. 3.7–19. 50   S CPP 75–84. Much has been written about the SCPP. See e.g. Eck, Caballos and Fernández 1996; Griffin 1997; Flower 1998; Rowe 2002. In 1999, The American Journal of Philology published a special issue on the SCPP (no. 120.1), entitled “Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre: Text, Translation, Discussion.” For the fragment found in Geneva, see Bartels 2009.

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Fasti Colotiani. The name M. Antonius was erased and reinserted at four different places. Inscr. Ital. 13.1: 273, Tab. LXXXV. Rome, Musei Capitolini, NCE 7084

figure 6

Bronze tablet with the Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre Photograph courtesy of the Museo Arqueológico de Sevilla

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senatus consultum itself should be posted in every major provincial city and in the winter quarters of all legions.51 The paradox here has been pointed out: as Piso’s name was set up for reading everywhere, the sanctions memorialised rather than obliterated his person.52 Hedrick’s emphasis on shame and punishment is relevant in the case of Piso. The bronze tablets repeatedly mention Piso, but their contents and context leave no doubt that his name has been disgraced. Again, however, aspects of materiality add to the picture. In fact, it seems quite clear that both the material and the form of the SCPP are central to its understanding. As is well known, the Romans regarded bronze as a material of eternal duration.53 Consequently, texts of special importance in need of preservation, such as senatorial decrees, laws or indeed the Res Gestae, were incised into bronze.54 Now, in fact, what has not been noted in discussions of damnatio memoriae is that erasures seem not to have been performed on bronze inscriptions. While names inscribed in the stone of buildings, stelae and milestones were regularly attacked, there are to my knowledge no known erasures set in bronze. Again, the very nature of memory sanctions certainly allows for non-preserved examples, and bronze tablets that named condemned people might have been melted down, leaving no trace of the process. Still, it is significant that we possess such a large number of attacked stone inscriptions that were deliberately left in public view, while no examples of damaged bronze inscriptions remain. Preserved veteran diplomata also attest to the reluctance to leave scars in the bronze. A very large number of bronze diplomata have been preserved, and it is notable that none has left traces of erasures, even though many name condemned emperors such as Caligula and Domitian.55 According to Alison Cooley, Domitian’s name was preserved because of the legal status of the inscriptions,56 and Harriet Flower argues that soldiers preferred to keep their 51   S CPP 170–72. 52  Damon 2007: 600: “The senate-mandated erasure of the man accused of Germanicus’ murder is accomplished both by chiselling his name out of the dedication of a statue of Germanicus and by chiselling it into the empire-wide inscriptions on which the Senate’s verdict in his trial was recorded. The former deprives him of prime memory space; the latter assigns him space on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak.” 53  E.g. Hor. Carm. 3.30.1; Dion. Hal. 3.36.4. 54  Plin. HN 34.99 (usus aeris ad perpetuitatem monimentorum iam pridem tralatus est tabulis aereis, in quibus publicae constitutiones inciduntur, “The employment of bronze was a long time ago applied to securing the perpetuity of monuments, by means of bronze tablets on which records of official enactments are made”); CIL 8.17896: at perpetui/[t]atis memoriam aere incisus. See also e.g. Cooley 2012: 298–99; Corbier 2013: 19–25. 55  Flower 2006: 245–47. 56  Cooley 2012: 317.

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documents intact, as they were important proofs of their citizenships.57 I agree with both, but would add that erasing an emperor’s name from a bronze tablet was not even an option. From what the preserved sources tell us, bronze inscriptions were left intact. The material itself protected the texts from erasures. In discussing the paradox of Piso’s name being announced on a document that proclaims the erasure of his memory, the material form of the document also bears meaning. As has been shown by Elizabeth Meyer in her excellent study on Roman tabulae, the tablet carried significance as a shape, indicating stately and divine authority, validity and legitimacy.58 Texts of particular importance were recorded on tabulae, and the incision of laws, treaties and senatorial decrees was carefully supervised and executed. Tabulae were made for public view but also for posterity; they were records of historical and ritual significance, and copies were regularly stored in archives. The bronze tablet was considered particularly valid. Hence, the bronze tabula, on one hand, with the senatus consultum naming Piso, and the stone inscriptions, on the other, on which his name was erased, were completely different kinds of documents. Piso’s name was inscribed on a tabula in bronze to provide legal and moral justification and authority for his erasures in stone, a material regularly targeted by memory sanctions. The ancient viewer would, I believe, have understood the difference and viewed the documents as separate kinds of texts defined by their material and form. Few people probably would have stopped to read the Senate’s lengthy decree in its entirety. Yet, quite a number must have known its central message. The key words (senatus, consultum, Piso) were spelled out as a large-lettered title, which facilitated reading. We might also suspect that the text would at some point have been read out loud. The significance would have been clear from the tablet’s visual aspects too. The shape (tabula) of the senatus consultum and its material (bronze), together with its central location, signalled a document of powerful and legal importance. 6

Memory Sanctions and Power: Cutting Out Geta

The sanctions that the emperor Caracalla issued against his murdered brother Geta were particularly harsh and have left traces on various kinds of material 57  Flower 2000: 67. Flower discusses specifically a veteran diploma issued by Domitian to C. Gemellus and other sailors who had been stationed in Alexandria (CIL 16.32); Gordon 1983: 129–30. 58  Meyer 2004.

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remains all over the Roman Empire. Even papyri were censured.59 Another famous example is the painted tondo from Algeria, today in Berlin, showing Septimius Severus, his wife Julia Domna, and Caracalla.60 The portrait of Geta, once part of the family group, has been smeared out. In Rome, the two most conspicuous examples of Geta’s erasure are seen on the arch of the Argentarii and the arch of Septimius Severus. On the former, the removal of the image of Geta and also of Caracalla’s wife Plautilla and her father has left blank spaces on the panels. Their names were attacked too. This inscriptional space was, however, refilled with other letters presenting further honors for Caracalla in rather clumsy Latin.61 Thus, in this case, the removal of images simply eliminated the unwanted from the monument, whereas the erased text left visual holes that needed mending, regardless of the grammar and style of the inscription. It seems that Caracalla strived to force his brother’s memory into full oblivion, and that this aim drove him to take different measures for the images and the text on this particular monument. On the arch of Septimius Severus, the original text et / P(ublio) Septimio Getae nob(ilissimo) Caes(ari) was also changed into a fuller praise of Caracalla and of Septimius Severus, p(atri) p(atriae) / optimis fortissimisque principibus (fig. 7).62 The inscription on the arch was produced from bronze letters nailed into pre-chiseled letter-shaped moulds. Thus, the bronze was embedded flush with the surface, creating an image of a text that merged with its monumental setting. In order to erase Geta’s name, taking down its bronze letters did not suffice. Moreover, the surface of the arch itself around the text had to be recarved before new bronze letters could be inserted. This procedure has been interpreted as a true effort to destroy all remains of Geta,63 and I believe this to be correct. But did the result and effect of the procedure match the purpose of the erasure? After all, the process brought severe damage to the surface that left a blunt scar on the arch. The damage would have been fully visible, and would, as today, have attracted the viewer’s attention, encouraging him or her to ask questions about the original text and the causes for recarving. Besides, as the removal of Geta’s name would hardly have taken place unnoticed, the material attack itself would have formed part of the Roman collective memory for 59  de Jong 2007. 60  Berlin, Antikensamlungen, no. 31329. 61   C IL 6.1035; ILS 426. Cooley 2012: 314. 62   C IL 6.1033; ILS 425. Brilliant 1967: 91; Krüpe 2011: 228. 63  Flower 2000: 65.

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Recarved inscription set in the attic of the arch of Septimius Severus. The preserved holes reveal that Geta’s name was earlier shown in bronze letters. From Keppie 1991, fig. 22, p. 50. I am grateful to Lawrence Keppie for letting me use his original photo, taken from the scaffolding of the arch in 1988. Copyright: Lawrence Keppie

some time. Both the implemented memory sanction and the material reminder of the erasure of Geta’s name, set in the middle of the city, were powerful signs that would have served as a model for its viewers. The erasure, I believe, both showed that Geta’s name had been taken out, and also suggested that his name ought to be erased from other inscriptions. In this way, cuttings set in central Rome could promote further erasures. They would have acted as material models. Geta’s erased name signalled power. Damnatio memoriae might certainly be discussed as a memory game and exposure of a disgrace or shame, but was in Caracalla’s very blunt and clearly visible removal of his brother’s name also an explicit manifestation of the brutal and unrestrained power set in one man’s hands. The absent presence of Geta displayed both that Geta had been disposed of and that the emperor possessed that very power to eliminate both people and their names. His was the authority, capacity and ability to intrude on the life, death and memorials of others. Erased inscriptions were, in Rome,

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manifestations of an autocratic regime. The very systematic erasure of Geta’s name is a far step from Republican or even Augustan Rome, where the political system required, and also produced, subtler measures. 7

Cultural Repression and Material Remains

Execution and demonstration of power is, I believe, always an aim in the erasure of names. A damaged inscription on display also signalled that power to its viewers. Power was thus omnipresent in damnatio memoriae both as intention and as message. But the concept of materiality, as noted, also allows for objects to work as agents detached from intentionality.64 This could help to shed light on the seemingly conflicting nature of damnatio memoriae, in which erasures often strengthen rather than abolish memory. Attacked inscriptions did emphasise the memory of the person attacked and also of the process of erasure; this, though, does not automatically mean that such highlighting was the general purpose of erasure. The evidence suggests that the idea behind socalled damnatio memoriae was not always annihilation, but nor was exposure of disgrace a general objective. Procedures varied and were dependent on material, form, context and time. Viewers note suppressions, since they leave traces. Inscriptional erasures attract the attention of the eye and the mind, just as the absence of Brutus and Cassius was the most notable aspect of Junia’s funeral procession. This circumstance should not, however, lead us to conclude that damnatio memoriae was not an attack on memory. Although damnatio memoriae is not an ancient term, Latin sources link the destruction of inscriptions (nomina, tituli) and images (effigies, imagines, statuae) to the concepts of memoria and oblivio.65 The removal of portraits and the damage to inscriptions were at times either described as memoria abolita or discussed in terms of memoria damnata and memoriam accusare.66 The Romans were obsessively engaged in preserving their individual and family memories by creating physical reminders of names, careers and character, engraved in texts and sculptured in portraits. Conversely, to tear down images and cut away inscriptions could be seen as a very pragmatic, physical and almost ritualized attack on the material expressions of that memoria, a process 64  Above, n. 4. 65  Tac. Ann. 6.2, 11.38; SHA, Comm. 19.1; cf. SCPP 69; Dio Cass. 7.21.1. Krüpe 2011: 19. 66  Suet. Dom. 23.1; Cod. Iust. 1.3.23, 1.5.4.4, 7.2.2; Ulp. 24.1.32.7, 28.3.6.11. Vittinghoff 1936: 64–74; Varner 2004: 2.

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that might or might not lead to oblivion. Perhaps, we should not discuss damnatio memoriae in terms of remembering and forgetting at all. The most suitable term is probably cultural repression, to quote Jan Assmann.67 Repression sets the phenomenon in a political context, and is indifferent to the specific intent and result of each particular example. Indeed, cultural repression is not dependent on forgetting. One might perhaps endeavour to describe the Roman memory sanctions as cultural repression that targeted the material expressions of a person’s memoria as exposed predominantly in images and texts. Bibliography Alföldy, G. 1990. Der Obelisk auf dem Petersplatz in Rom: Ein historisches Monument der Antike. Heidelberg. Assmann, J. 1995. “Ancient Egyptian antijudaism: A case of distorted memory.” In D. L. Schacter, ed., Memory Distortion. How Minds, Brains, and Societies Reconstruct the Past, 365–76. Cambridge, MA. Assmann, J. 2011. Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination. Cambridge. Bargagli, B. and Grosso, C. 1997. I Fasti Ostienses: documento della storia di Ostia. Rome. Bartels, J. 2009. “Der Tod des Germanicus und seine epigraphische Dokumentation: Ein neues Exemplar des senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre aus Genf.” Chiron 39: 1–9. Boivin, N. 2008. Material Cultures, Material Minds: The Impact of Things on Human Thought, Society, and Evolution. Cambridge. Brilliant, R. 1967. The Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum. Rome. Chartier, R. 2007. Inscription and Erasure: Literature and Written Culture from the eleventh to the eighteenth century. Philadelphia, PA. Cooley, A. E. 2012. The Cambridge manual of Latin epigraphy. Cambridge. Corbier, M. 2013. “Writing in Roman public space.” In G. Sears, P. Keegan, and R. Laurence, eds., Written Space in the Latin West, 200 BC to AD 300, 13–48. London. Damon, C. 2007. “Review of H. Flower, The art of forgetting: Disgrace and oblivion in Roman political culture.” American Journal of Philology 128: 599–604. Eck, W., Caballos, A., and Fernández, F. 1996. Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre. Munich. Elsner, J. 2003. “Iconoclasm and the preservation of memory.” In R. S. Nelson and M. Olin, eds., Monuments and Memory, Made and Unmade, 209–31. Chicago. 67  Assmann 1995: 366, cf. Assmann 2011.

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Flower, H. I. 1998. “Rethinking damnatio memoriae: The case of Cn. Calpurnius Piso pater in AD 20.” Classical Antiquity 17: 155–86. Flower, H. I. 2000. “Damnatio memoriae and epigraphy.” In E. R. Varner, ed., From Caligula to Constantine: Tyranny and Transformation in Roman Portraiture, 58–69. Atlanta. Flower, H. I. 2006. The Art of Forgetting: Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture. Chapel Hill. Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency. An Anthropological Theory. Oxford. Griffin, M. 1997. “The Senate’s story. Review of W. Eck, A. Caballos and F. Fernández, Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre.” Journal of Roman Studies 87: 249–63. Gordon, A. E. 1983. Illustrated Introduction to Latin Epigraphy. Berkeley. Hedrick Jr., C. W. 2000. History and silence: Purge and rehabilitation of memory in late Antiquity. Austin. Hillard, T. 2013. “Graffiti’s engagement. The political graffiti of the late Roman Republic.” In G. Sears, P. Keegan, and R. Laurence, eds., Written Space in the Latin West, 200 BC to AD 300, 105–22. London. Hodder, I. 2012. Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Malden, MA. Hoffmann, F., Minas-Nerpel, M., and Pfeifer, S. 2009. Die dreisprachige Stele des C. Cornelius Gallus. Berlin. de Jong, J. 2007. “Propaganda or pragmatism? Damnatio memoriae in third-century papyri and imperial representation.” In S. Benoist, ed. (avec la colloboration d’Anne Daguet-Gagey), Mémoire et histoire. Les procédures de condamnation dans l’Antiquité romaine, 95–111. Metz. Kajava, M. 1995. “Some remarks on the erasure of inscriptions in the Roman world (with special reference to the case of Cn. Piso, cos. 7 B.C.).” In H. Solin, O. Salomies, and U.-M. Liertz, eds., Acta colloquii epigraphici Latini (Commentationes Humanorum Litterarum 104), 201–10. Helsinki. Keppie, L. 1991. Understanding Roman Inscriptions. London. Krüpe, F. 2011. Die damnatio memoriae: über die Vernichtung von Erinnerung. Eine Fallstudie zu Publius Septimius Geta (189–211 n. Chr.). Gutenberg. Lange, C. H. 2009. Res publica constituta: Actium, Apollo and the accomplishment of the triumviral assignment. Leiden. Meyer, E. A. 2004. Legitimacy and Law in the Roman World: Tabulae in Roman Belief and Practice. Cambridge. Nedergaard, E. 2001. “Facts and fiction about the Fasti Capitolini.” Analecta Romana Instituti Danici 27: 107–27. Olsen, B. 2010. In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects. Lanham.

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Östenberg, I. 2009. “From conquest to pax romana. The signa recepta and the end of the triumphal fasti in 19 B.C.” In O. Hekster, S. Schmidt-Hofner, and C. Witschel, eds., The Impact of Empire on the Dynamics of Ritual. Proceedings of the eighth Workshop of the international Network Impact of Empire, Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007, 53–75. Leiden. Östenberg, I. 2014a. “War and remembrance. Memories of defeat in ancient Rome.” In B. Alroth and C. Scheffer, eds., Attitudes towards the Past in Antiquity: Creating Identities, Proceedings of an international Conference held at Stockholm University 15–17 May 2009, 255–65. Stockholm. Östenberg, I. 2014b. “Triumph and spectacle. Victory celebrations in the late Republican civil wars.” In C. H. Lange and J. Vervaet, eds., The Roman Republican Triumph: Beyond the Spectacle, 181–93. Rome. Rich, J. W. 1998. “Augustus’s Parthian honours, the temple of Mars Ultor and the arch in the Forum Romanum.” Papers of the British School at Rome 66: 97–115. Rowe, G. 2002. Princes and Political Cultures: The new Tiberian Senatorial Decrees. Ann Arbor. Rüpke, J. 2011. The Roman Calendar from Numa to Constantine: Time, History, and the Fasti. Hoboken, NJ. Varner, E. R. 2000. “Tyranny and the transformation of the Roman visual landscape.” In E. R. Varner, ed., From Caligula to Constantine: Tyranny and Transformation in Roman Portraiture, 9–26. Atlanta. Varner, E. R. 2004. Mutilation and Transformation. Damnatio memoriae and Roman Imperial Portraiture. Leiden. Vidman, L., ed. 1982. Fasti Ostienses. Prague. Vittinghoff, F. 1936. Der Staatsfeind in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Untersuchungen zur damnatio memoriae. Berlin. Zadorojnyi, A. V. 2011. “Transcripts of dissent? Political graffiti and elite ideology under the Principate.” In J. A. Baird and C. Taylor, eds., Ancient Graffiti in Context, 110–33. New York and London.

chapter 13

Inscriptions between Text and Texture: Inscribed Monuments in Public Spaces – A Case Study at Late Antique Ostia Katharina Bolle 1

Investigating the Material Dimensions of Inscriptions

Inscriptions and inscribed monuments were ubiquitous in cities throughout the Roman Empire, especially after the time of the late Republic, when Roman citizens produced inscriptions written on walls, monuments, altars, statue bases, and plaques. These texts honored the emperor and commendable officials, identified buildings and sites, applauded notable forefathers, and kept the common past alive in current memory. They also defined spaces, served as illustrations, explained images, and functioned as aestheticizing decoration. Some inscriptions appeared in heavily frequented places and caught the viewer’s eye at once, while others were barely discernible or legible. The particular materiality and spatial presence of an inscription influenced to a large extent whether and how ancient citizens perceived it: an inscription written in gilded letters, for example, would have had a different effect on the viewer from one scratched into rough stone. Likewise, an honorific inscription presented in isolation would have been perceived differently than if it had been arranged with many other inscriptions. A monumental inscription carved on a public building that could have been viewed by many people differs qualitatively from an inscription in an inaccessible place that was visited only by an exclusive circle of recipients or at certain times. Traditional epigraphic research has rarely investigated these aspects, and seldom has the reception of inscribed texts by ancient viewers played a central role. Inscriptions have often been treated as disembodied texts, reprinted in modern typefaces, and edited without adequate information about their physical aspects. Gradually, however, the extra-textual dimensions of inscriptions have been increasingly drawing interest from epigraphers, historians, archaeologists, and philologists.1 Meanwhile, many disciplines have begun to realize 1  I would like to thank Ivana Petrovic, Andrej Petrovic and Edmund Thomas for inviting me to take part in the conference “The Materiality of Text – placement, perception, presence” (September 24–26, 2012) and all participants for the inspiring discussions. This paper is © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_015

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that investigating the materiality, texture, shape, and presence of inscribed monuments can offer insights that conventional content-based studies often lack. Considering an inscription not only as a mere text but as a material object enables us to understand it as part of Roman everyday existence. Taking its textural characteristics and spatial setting as a starting point, we can ask how ancient viewers may have experienced it and what meaning they ascribed to it. Thus, inscribed artefacts and monuments become a functional key to reconstruct bygone cultural environments. In this chapter, ancient Roman inscriptions are analysed from this perspective with a focus on their materiality. Epigraphic evidence from the Forum Baths at Ostia is used as a case study to assess the extent to which specific visual design and spatial arrangement of inscriptions contributed to their messages, meanings, and perception. Two different sets of inscriptions that were set up by the Roman officials Flavius Octavius Victor and Ragonius Vincentius Celsus are compared. Both men held the office of praefectus annonae in the 4th century CE and erected monuments on the occasion of renovation activities under their supervision within and around the bath facilities. The chapter argues that the look and presentation of the inscriptions was as important as their verbal content, and given that not all contemporaries possessed adequate reading abilities, the inscriptions activated the viewer’s visual senses in addition to their cognitive skills in order to make a lasting impression on the audience.

based on a chapter of my doctoral dissertation on the epigraphic habit in Late Antiquity and results from a project funded by the DFG – Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft with the title “Beschriebenes und Beschriftetes im öffentlichen Raum. Die sich wandelnde Präsenz von Schriftlichkeit in den Städten der griechischen und römischen Welt.” As part of the Collaborative Research Centre 933 “Materiale Textkulturen”, the project is led by Prof. Dr. Christian Witschel and investigates the transformation of epigraphic practice in Late Antiquity: www.materiale-textkulturen.de. All dates are CE, unless otherwise indicated.   On this point, see e.g., Bodel 2001: 25–30 on the visual impact of inscriptions; Corbier 2006 on the role of script and inscriptions in the Roman world with a special focus on their public presentation and their function as commemorative and communicative media; von Hesberg, Eck, and Gronke 2007 on the display of inscriptions on buildings in the Greek, Roman and Islamic world and Graham 2013 on the extra-textual dimension of monumental inscription with a case study from Roman Ephesus; Krumeich and Witschel 2009 on the location of inscribed statue bases at the Athenian Acropolis and their reception; Day 2010 on the hybrid character of archaic Greek dedicatory epigrams between literary texts and aesthetic objects; and Cooley 2012: 220–28 with general observations on Roman inscriptions as material objects. Quite revealing is also the recently published volume containing the proceedings of the XIV Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae, which deals with the inter­ actions between inscription, monument and publicity: Eck and Funke 2014.

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The first section presents a brief overview of Late Antique Ostia and the Forum Baths; it is followed by an introduction to the inscriptions with a closer look at their particular materialities. The third part is a comparison that explores further the initiators’ distinct intentions and the visual effects of their monuments by discussing the prevailing modes of spatial presentation. The conclusion summarises the ways in which the specific materiality of the inscribed monuments contributed to their intended messages and reflected different strategies of self-representation. 2

Late Antique Ostia and the Forum Baths

The Roman harbor town, Ostia, offers a promising area of study to investigate the materiality, presence, and perception of inscriptions, even with regard to Late Antiquity when the epigraphic practice had gradually begun to wane throughout the Roman Empire.2 In contrast to many other Roman cities, Ostia presents a comparatively rich Late Antique epigraphic culture,3 and moreover, we can form a detailed picture of Ostia’s city shape between the 3rd and 6th centuries. As recent archaeological research has demonstrated, the Ostians of this period invested an appreciable amount of money and effort to create an arresting public image of their city.4 To give it an impressive look, abandoned 2  From the middle of the 3rd century onwards the production and presentation of inscribed texts in the Roman Empire changed in both quantitative and qualitative terms. In general, the number of inscriptions decreased significantly, especially with regard to civic inscriptions in public space. At the same time, numerous inscriptions arose in the context of Christian spaces, including especially burial inscriptions and epitaphs in cemeteries and churches. Furthermore, we can observe an increasing number of metrical compositions among monumental and honorific inscriptions in the Roman East and among Christian dedicatory and funerary inscriptions in the Roman West. Significantly, too, the Late Antique epigraphic habit was characterized by a frequent re-use of older material, a decline in technical precision, and an altered aesthetic design with distinctive letter forms. On the transformation of the epigraphic practice in Late Antiquity, see Witschel 2006; Witschel 2010; Bolle, Machado, and Witschel 2017. 3  The number of inscriptions from Ostia and Portus totals more than 6500, of which approximately 200 date from Late Antiquity, including honorific inscriptions for the imperial family, aristocrats, and high officials, dedicatory inscriptions, public texts like edicts, decrees, and registers of corporations, and a large number of tombstones and epitaphs from burial contexts. A single compilation of all Late Antique inscriptions from Ostia is still outstanding. The material is published in various studies, especially in the volumes Scavi di Ostia, 1953-. For the vast number of burial inscriptions from Ostia (and Porto), see particularly Calza 1951; Marinucci 1991; Nuzzo 1996; Paroli 1999; Mazzoleni 2001; Helltula 2007; Torres 2008. 4  For the investigation of Ostia’s urban development in Late Antiquity, see especially the excavations and surveys by the “Kent-Berlin Late Antique Ostia Project” (http://lateantiqueostia.

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quarters were blocked or re-faced, while the city center underwent a significant monumentalization. Especially along the decumanus maximus decrepit structures were renovated, and several buildings and squares were newly erected, among them private domus, shops, guild seats, civic baths and imposing nymphaea. Some of these operations were also accompanied by the erection of inscriptions, as was the case with the theatre, where a huge marble slab told of its restoration by the emperors Diocletian and Maximian.5 Further Late Antique inscriptions were set up at public squares, such as the main forum. There, several inscribed bases and plaques in honor of the emperor, Roman officials, and local elites were discovered.6 The Forum Baths in the heart of the town also housed a whole range of inscriptions that were written on bases, plaques, and architectural elements, which date from the original construction in the 2nd century up to Late Antiquity. With an area of more than 3000 m.2, the Forum Baths were the largest baths at Ostia and extended to the southeast of the main forum (fig. 1). The grand building consisted of a northern rectangular complex with several bathing, transitional, and changing rooms and a southern palaestra that was surrounded by a porticus. The outer and supporting walls were built in massive brick, and the revetment, columns, capitals, and cornices were made of colorful marble. Some rooms were attractively decorated with geometric mosaics and marble sculptures.7 To judge from the masonry, a number of brick stamps, and various inscriptions from different periods, the baths were rebuilt several times. As a renovation inscription from the late 3rd or early 4th century suggests, the Roman magistrate Marcus Gavius Maximus, who had been praefectus praetorio during the reign of Antoninus Pius, established the facilities in the middle of the 2nd century CE. Obviously, the facilities bore his name, and in Late Antiquity they were still known as thermae Gavi Maximi: Vetustatis incur[ia—] conf[i]rm[atis – ther]mis Gavi Ma[ximi —] / dominorum nost[rorum —] aete[r] no[rum principum – loca proxi]ma fori et ian[—].8 wordpress.com) and the various studies by Axel Gering: Gering 2004; Gering 2010; Gering 2011a; Gering 2011b; Gering (in press). See also Paroli 1993; Gessert 2001, 308–56; Lavan 2012; Boin 2013. 5  C IL XIV 4402. 6  For example CIL XVI 4405, 4420, 4452, 4455 and 4721. 7  For the building history of the Forum Baths, see Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992, including also analyses of the architectural decoration, sculpture, and inscriptions with detailed reference to further bibliography. For the architecture and its decoration, see recently Pensabene 2007, 268–75 and also Poccardi 2006 on the Late Antique phase of the baths. 8  A E 1955, 287; Bloch 1953; Meiggs 1960: 415; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 216–19 C 106, fig. 148; Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010: 150–51, no. 28.2.2. The inscription was written on an architrave that is only partially preserved. The late dating of the inscription is based on

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Plan of the Forum Baths (after SdO XI)

In the following years, the baths were repeatedly restructured and renovated, particularly during the 4th century. Because the praefectus annonae of Rome administered Ostia in Late Antiquity, he was also responsible for overseeing the maintenance of public buildings there.9 For this reason, the Roman magistrates Flavius Octavius Victor and his successor Ragonius Vincentius Celsus initiated two rebuilding projects in which parts of the baths were renewed palaeographic considerations. Nothing is known about its find spot or original setting within the Baths. Apart from the architrave, a water pipe with Maximus’ name inscribed on it was found in the palaestra: M. Gavi Maximi pr(aefecti) pr(aetorio) e(minentissimi). For the fistula, see Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 222 C 109 α, pl. XIV, fig. 151; Bruun 1995: 58; CébeillacGervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010: 150, no. 28.2.1. For Marcus Gavius Maximus, see PIR2 G 104. 9  Ever since the middle of the 3rd century the praefectus annonae Urbis Romae was also curator rei publicae Ostiensium and took over the administration of the city. Cf. Meiggs 1960: 186; Gering 2004: 372–73 n. 163.

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and structural alterations were carried out. In the early 4th century, Flavius Octavius Victor ordered that the rectangular northern end of the frigidarium (fig. 1, room 6) be replaced by a wide apse that blocked the passing Via della Forica. In addition, various marble and granite columns were introduced to the southern porticus of the palaestra.10 Around 50 years later, Ragonius Vincentius Celsus closed the original approaches from the Via della Forica and established a monumental new entrance on the western side (fig. 1, room 1), so that from then onwards, visitors entered the baths through the main forum or from cardo maximus. During this work, the façade was also moved forward towards the square, and two arches spanning the Via della Forica were added to support the newly structured walls of the northern complex.11 Both Flavius Octavius Victor and Ragonius Vincentius Celsus commemorated their renovations by setting up several inscriptions within the baths and their surroundings – but, in doing so, they pursued very different strategies in order to keep their names alive in Ostia’s visual memory. The following comparison between the specific materiality and spatial arrangement of their monuments will show that Victor primarily tried to catch the viewers’ eyes by surprising uniqueness and high aesthetic attraction, whereas the inscriptions erected by Celsus were meant to operate through minimalism and unmistakeable clarity. 3

The Inscriptions of Flavius Octavius Victor and Ragonius Vincentius Celsus

Five inscriptions in total are ascribed to Flavius Octavius Victor12 and his restoration program at the Forum Baths: two opistographs on marble plaques; a small epigraphic fragment on a marble block; and two building inscriptions on re-used entablatures from the first phase of the baths. Although the inscriptions were not found in situ, are of uncertain provenance, or came to light as re-used building material outside of the baths, there can be little doubt that all of them were once set up in the Forum Baths by Flavius Octavius Victor. Evidence for this conclusion can be found on one of the building inscriptions, which speaks about repairs at bathing facilities and also includes a reference to 10  For the modifications in the early 4th century, see Meiggs 1960: 551; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 71–73; Pensabene 2007: 275; Lavan 2012: 659–62. 11  For the modifications in the late 4th century, see Meiggs 1960: 551; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 51; Pensabene 2007: 273; Lavan 2012: 654. 12   P LRE I 638 s.v. Fl. Octavius.

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a certain Victor (no. 5 below). Moreover, the measurements and decorative elements of both epistyles (nos. 4 and 5 below) correspond exactly to each other, as well as with other architectural elements that certainly belong to the Forum Baths. Further indications can be seen in at least one of the opistographs, which refers to a statue-group of a nymph and a seahorse (no. 2 below), marine creatures suited to enhance the ambience of baths. Finally, no evidence has been found that Victor was in charge of any other euergetic building program at Ostia that would indicate an erection of these monuments somewhere else in the city. 1. White marble plaque, inscribed on both sides, discovered at the Horrea dell’Artemide, measuring c. 34.5 × 49 × 3.5 cm., letters at the front side c. 3.5–4.5 cm., letters at the back side c. 4.5–5.3 cm. (figs. 2a and b):13 [—] / Im[—] / obseq[—] / Fl(avius) Octabius / Victor v(ir) c(larissimus) praef(ectus) / [ann(onae) c]uravit // [— praef(ectus)] ann(onae) / curavit. The inscription follows a conventional dedicatory formula on the front side and repeats the donor’s name and official title on the back side. The beginning of the text is only partially preserved. The object or sculpture referred to is lost. Considering that the slab was displayed in the Forum Baths, images of a deity, a personification, or an aquatic creature are equally conceivable. 2. Two fragments of a grey marble plaque, inscribed on both sides, discovered near the Grandi Horrea, measuring c. 88.5 × 28.5 × 3 cm. and 15.5 × 23 × 3 cm., letters c. 3–4 cm. and c. 4–5 cm. (fig. 3):14 Glauce[n v]ectat / equ(u)s tra[mi]ttens / aequora [n]ando, / quippe v[ehi remis] / copia nu[lla datur]. / Fl(avius) Octabi[us], / v(ir) c(larissimus), / praef(ectus) a[nn(onae)] / curavi[t] // Fl(avius) Oc[tavius / [Victor] v(ir) c(larissimus) / [praef(ectus)] ann(onae) / [cura]vit.

13  Stored in the depot of the Museo Archeologico di Ostia, inv. 7808. Zevi 1971: 466–67 n. 47; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 216 C 105. No entry in CIL or AE. 14  Stored in the depot of the Museo Archeologico di Ostia, inv. 11918. CIL XIV 4714 = CLE 2049 = AE 1920.94a; Zevi 1971: 466; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 216 C 105. English translation by Alison E. Cooley: Cooley 2013: 194.

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figures 2 a and b Fragment of a white marble plaque with dedicatory inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor on both sides Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma

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figure 3

Reconstruction drawing of dedicatory inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor on a marble plaque (after CIL XIV 4714)

A horse carries Glauce, going across the waters by swimming, seeing that no opportunity for being rowed across presents itself. Flavius Octavius Victor took charge // Flavius Octavius Victor took charge. The inscription on side a begins with a short epigram that refers to the dedication itself, after which Victor is identified as the benefactor of the monument. According to the text, the plaque accompanied a sculpture of the nymph Glauce, who was carried over the waves by a hippocamp. Again, Victor’s name and official title were also inscribed on side b. The fact that the plaques bear scripts on both sides demands an explanation of how they were displayed in the baths.15 An attachment on a wall, a pedestal, 15  The phenomenon of opistographs has been little investigated, and there have so far been no detailed studies of this sort of inscription. Usually, the second carving – sometimes repeating the text on the front in full, sometimes partially, sometimes totally differently – is

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or a base on which the sculptures referred to were erected, can be ruled out, because in this case one of the texts would have been hidden from the visitors’ eyes.16 The slabs were instead presented to the audience as freestanding installations, so that they could have been seen from two angles. Fausto Zevi proposed that at least the metrical opistograph of Glauce may have belonged to a balustrade of a pool17 – a convincing idea that provides an explanation for the double carving and at the same time a plausible suggestion for the location within the bathing complex. Most likely, the statue-group showing Glauce and her mount dated from earlier times and was already on display when Victor set up his inscription. To make use of already existing statues, and re-erect them in combination with freshly carved inscriptions that informed the viewer about the current benefactor, was a common practice in Late Antiquity.18 As in the present case, such texts gave the dedicator’s name and the verb curavit at the end to express that he “took care” and arranged the re-erection of an old monument within a new context. Therefore, Victor, too, might have made use of pre-existing decorative sculptures of the baths, adorned them with his own inscriptions, and set them up to appeal to the audience, most likely near one of the pools in the frigidarium, that is, within that part of the building which was reshaped under his supervision.

interpreted as re-use, repair, draft, or correction. Ivan Di Stefano Manzella, for example, offered some general observations on types of opistographs and explained the double carving as corrective measures or different drafts: Di Stefano Manzella 1987: 199–204. Likewise, Maureen Carroll interpreted the second inscription of a commemorative plaque from Portus as a rectification of the failed first one: Carroll 2006: 118–19. But on the other hand, slabs could just as well have been carved on both sides intentionally, for example, to be visually effective from different angles. Furthermore, writing could even have had symbolic meaning, such that the second inscription may have also had a protective function, especially in the case of opistographic epitaphs. Hence, opistographs could often be the result of an intentional and planned shaping. For this idea of “symbolic epigraphy”, see Beard 1985. 16  To judge from the conscientious carving, the inscriptions on side b were neither a first draft nor a better second version, but designed to be part of the monument and as such were also meant to be read. 17  Cf. Zevi 1971: 466. Supported by Cooley 2013: 194. 18  For the re-erection of older statues in Late Antiquity, see Brandenburg 1989; Curran 1994, Lepelley 1994, and Machado 2006: 179–85 especially for Rome; Bassett 2007 for Constantinople; Witschel 2007 for statues at fora in Italy and Africa.

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figure 4

Fragment of a white marble block with inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma

3. Small fragment of a white marble block, discovered in the Forum Baths, exact find spot unknown, measuring c. 16 × 15.5 × 21.5 cm., letters c. 4 cm. (fig. 4):19 Fl(avius) Oc[tavius] / Vict[or] Since nothing is known about the circumstances of the find, the type of monument the inscription accompanied and its location are unknown. 4. Fragment of a re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths, discovered in the Forum Baths, exact find spot unknown, measuring

19  Stored in the depot of the Museo Archeologico di Ostia, inv. 7247. Zevi 1971: 467 n. 47; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 216 C 105. No entry in CIL or AE.

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Fragment of a re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths with inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor Photo: author, with permission of Soprintendenza speciale per i beni archeologici di Roma

c. 54.5 × 55 × 34/31 cm., letters c. 5 cm. The script covers the central fascia directly below a Lesbian cymatium (fig. 5):20 [— cura]nte Fl(avio) Octavio V[ictore v(iro) c(larissimo) praef(ecto) ann(onae)].

20  Displayed in the Forums Baths at Ostia, inv. 7025. Zevi 1971: 466–67, pl. I, 3; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 216 C 105, fig. 147. No entry in CIL or AE.

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The measurements of the fasciae and the design of the cymatium coincide exactly with those of comparable architraves from the baths. Most likely the architrave was also located in the northern complex of the Forum Baths, maybe resting upon the columns that bordered the frigidarium. 5. Two fragments of another re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths, discovered in the Forum Baths, exact find spot unknown, now displayed in front of the northern basin of the frigidarium, measuring c. 45/43 × 193.5 × 43/37 cm. and 52 × 172 × 48.5/38 cm., letters c. 10 cm. In contrast to the former inscription, the text was written in Greek verses on the uppermost, largest fascia (figs. 6a and b)21. Λουτρὸν ἀλεξίπον[ον — δε]ιξεν Βίκτωρ ἀρχὸς ἐὼν κύδιμος Αὐσονίης. These Baths that allay sorrows were presented by Victor when he was the famous leader of Ausonia (poet. for Italy). Although not identified by his full name, the dedicator on the fragment is likely to be Flavius Octavius Victor – but this time represented only by his cognomen, with the probable intention of adhering to the poetic style and metrical rhythm of the distychon. The complete reconstructed architrave extended to a total length of roughly nine meters, which corresponds perfectly with the dimensions of the newly arranged apsidal pool in the frigidarium.22 Therefore, a safe assumption is that it rested upon the columns of this northern water basin (fig. 10). The complete text is unknown. Russell Meiggs and Maria Letizia Lazzarini closed a major part of the gap after they realised that a drawing of a fragmentary architrave with a Greek inscription by Luigi Gaetano Marini from the 19th century was related to the Ostian epistyle; thus they achieved the completion of at least the hexameter.23 However, the central segment of the architrave with the second half of the hexameter remains lost. Recently,

21  Displayed in the Forums Baths at Ostia, inv. 7100 a–b. IG XIV 1073 = SEG 33.773 = ILCV 1901; Lazzarini 1983: 301–10; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 219–20 C 107, figs. 149–150; Fagan 1999: 330 no. 291; Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010: 151, no. 28.2.4. 22  Cf. Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 219. 23  Meiggs 1960: 475; Lazzarini 1983. For the drawings of Marini, see MS Vat. Lat. 9071, no. 6. The record was first published by Angelo Mai in 1831 (Scriptorum veterum nova collectio e Vaticanis codicibus edita V, Roma 1831: 348 no. 5) and later edited in IG XIV 1073b. The original fragment of the architrave (shown in bold in Greek text above) is lost today.

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Two fragments of a re-used 2nd-century architrave from the Forum Baths with Greek verse inscription by Flavius Octavius Victor Photo: author

Stephan Busch proposed the following text: Λουτρὸν ἀλεξίπον[ον καμάτων τόδε καινὸν ἔδε]ιξεν Βίκτωρ ἀρχὸς ἐὼν κύδιμος Αὐσονίης.24 Even without the complete text, it is not difficult to recognise the elaborate nature of the inscription, and we can easily imagine that it required certain intellectual knowledge and competences from the reader: for example, the reader would need to have had a command of the Greek language and familiarity with reading poetry to comprehend the meter, and would also need to have been skilled in the field of Classical literature and poetic diction to understand the meaning of terms like Λουτρὸν ἀλεξίπονον (“healing baths”) and Αὐσονία (“Italy”). (This aspect will be addressed later, in the context of exploring the intended audience of the inscription.) All five inscriptions demonstrate a high quality of technical execution and considerable aesthetic aspirations. The carvings were made with precision and 24  Busch 1999: 121–22.

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indicate an accurate triangular shape. The arrangement of the script on the first marble slab discussed (fig. 2) was well planned with the use of guidelines that defined the height of each line. The height of the lines increases from top to bottom, so that Victor’s name and his merits were visually emphasized. The single letters feature a balanced design with slightly curved horizontal strokes and meticulously formed serifs. Moreover, word dividers in the form of small stylised hederae on the plaques (nos. 1–2, figs. 2–3) and on the marble block (no. 3, fig. 4) increased the elegant look of the monuments. It is often the case that Late Antique inscriptions failed to meet the artificial and technical standards of epigraphic monuments from the imperial period, resulting in the impression of a less ambitious work that lacked a striking aesthetic visual appearance. This is not, however, the case with Victor’s inscriptions, which are unique in this regard, particularly when contrasted with other contemporary inscriptions from Ostia. Among comparable examples from the 3rd and 4th century, decorative features like floral word dividers are sparsely documented. Likewise, hardly any carving was planned by the use of guidelines. Generally, very few inscriptions can rival the harmonic, elegant design of the script.25 In this respect, the Greek epigram (no. 5, Figs. 6a and b) is an especially extraordinary piece of work. It stood out by its sheer monumental size and was also impressive by its ornate shape, including markedly oblique horizontal strokes of the A and a bizarre look of the Ξ. Moreover, the use of the unfamiliar Greek alphabet was already an appealing aspect at first glance. It is easy to imagine an ordinary Roman visitor to the baths surprised when he saw the huge Greek script for the first time. This reaction would be expected, because preferring a foreign language to Latin was unduly exceptional, especially for civic inscriptions in public spaces. The monuments of Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, in contrast, serve as good examples of such publicly displayed inscriptions in Latin (although, as we will see later, they did not conform either). In comparison with Victor’s elegant monuments – elaborated both in their textual content and their material execution – the outward appearance of Celsus’ inscriptions seems to result from very different ambitions, aiming for boldness and simplicity rather than to fancy and artifice. When Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, praefectus annonae of the years 385–389,26 renovated the baths again, a building inscription and two inscribed

25  For imperial and other Late Antique inscriptions from Ostia, see Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010 with various examples and images. 26   P LRE I, 195 s.v. Celsus 9.

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bases for statue dedications were set up in commemoration. Notably, all the inscriptions were nearly identically worded: Curavit Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, v(ir) c(larissimus), praefectus annonae urbis Romae, et civitas fecit memorata de proprio. “Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, of clarissimus rank, prefect of the annona of the city of Rome, took charge, and [our] renowned city did [this] with its own funds.”27 6. Fragmentary gray, undecorated architrave, partly discovered in room 1 of the Forum Baths, partly in a Late Antique exedra on the Semita Horreorum, measuring: min. 468 × c. 24 × 40 cm., letters c. 5–6 cm. The inscription runs in one line on the central fascia (fig. 7).28 The titulus was written on a blank architrave, of which large parts were found in room 1 of the Forum Baths (fig. 1, room 1). Various small fragments came to light in a Late Antique exedra on the Semita Horreorum (I, XII, 3) where they were likely used in later times as building material.29 Since it was exactly the area around room 1 that Celsus had reshaped during his office, it is very plausible that the inscription was set up above one of the newly constructed entrances towards the main forum (fig. 10). One of the statue bases was discovered directly in front of the western façade of the baths, on the eastern side of the main forum. The other base, however, is part of the Vatican collection. Its uncertain provenance notwithstanding, there is no doubt that the base originally belonged to Celsus’ epigraphic set at the Forum Baths too, because it is almost identical to the Ostian base. 7. Statue base of white marble, discovered on the east side of the main forum, still in situ, measuring c. 135 × 63/69 × 50.5 cm., letters c. 5.5–6 cm.

27  Translation by Carlos Machado (LSA-Project). For the various ways of reading see the discussion at LSA-Project no. 2025. 28  Displayed in the Forum Baths at Ostia, inv. 19734; 7026; CIL XIV 4718; Calza 1927: 399–400; Zevi 1971: 465–66; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 165–66 C 1; Gering 2011b: 489. 29  The exedra was built on the ruins of an abandoned bakery. A local oven remained in operation for the production of limestone until Late Antiquity. Cf. Zevi 1971: 465; Gering 2004: 321–41.

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figure 7

Detail of the building inscription by Ragonius Vincentius Celsus written on an architrave Photo: author

(fig. 8).30 The base shows two fitting holes for a bronze sculpture on the top. 8. Statue base of white marble, unknown provenance, now displayed in the Vatican Museums, measuring c. 90 × 58 cm., letters c. 4–5 cm. (fig. 9).31 Only the front of the base survived, while the rest was rebuilt in modern times. The two bases bear a remarkable visual resemblance to each other. Both have a doubled framed epigraphic field on their fronts, and the text extends out over seven evenly spaced lines. Very similar to the building inscription, 30  Displayed on the eastern side of the main forum at Ostia, inv. 19720. CIL XIV 4717 = AE 1928, 131; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 166–67 C 1b; LSA-Project no. 2582. For the discovery see Calza 1927: 399. The base is damaged on the upper right corner and on the top of the right side. The sides are plain, and the back is very rough. 31  Displayed in the Vatican Museums, Museo Pio Clementino, Sala della Muse. CIL XIV 139; Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 166 C 1a; LSA-Project no. 1651.

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Statue base with dedicatory inscription by Ragonius Vincentius Celsus from the main forum at Ostia Photo: author

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Statue base with dedicatory inscription by Ragonius Vincentius Celsus from the Vatican Collection Image provided by the Vatican Museums

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their scripts lack a high artistic standard, instead displaying a typeface that is rather simple and somewhat irregular. Decorative elements were generally avoided. Only word dividers in the form of small crosses with bent arms on the titulus (no. 6, fig. 7) and curved horizontal strokes on the Vatican base (no. 8, fig. 9) suggest some efforts at upgrading the plain look of the script. In contrast to Victor’s elaborate and elegant monuments, they express a rather bold, simple, and unpretentious style – Celsus appears to have been satisfied with less technical efforts and aesthetic extravagances. This predilection is also revealed by several letters surviving at the frames of the epigraphic fields, which clearly belonged to previous inscriptions that were not systematically erased, so that some letters remained visible. The bases were clearly re-used by Celsus. However, the statues at the top were not changed, as evidenced by the single pair of fitting holes on the Ostian base. Celsus probably made use of monuments from abandoned sites and brought them to the baths where he arranged them to be re-inaugurated in a new context that was associated with his own person. As we have seen, to erect pre-existing statues under one’s own name was customary in Late Antiquity, sometimes even with reference to the provenance of the monument.32 Deities or personifications are the most probable subject to imagine here, because images of Celsus – in this case in the form of re-carved or replaced portraits of other magistrates – would not have been dedicated by him but by the city of Ostia. To judge from the find spot of the Ostian base, the monuments were displayed on the eastern side of the main forum, in close proximity to the western façade and the monumental building inscription, which would have been in the clear view of visitors who made their way from the Forum towards the baths (fig. 10). Yet, before the details of the arrangement are discussed, the very similar wording of the inscriptions deserves a closer look. The text is unusual in regard to both the building inscription and the statue dedications. Common terms like fecit, aedificavit, exornavit or restituit were omitted on the titulus, and phrases indicating the purpose of the renovation, such as vetustate corruptum, were also absent. The text of the re-erected statues diverges from the expected formula of stating the name and official title of the dedicator first and ending 32  Moving statues from abandoned areas to the city center was a common practice in Late Antiquity, as CIL VI 41394; CIL VI 41416; CIL VIII 20963 = ILS 5482; CIL X 3714 = ILS 5478 show for instance. For this topic cf. note 18. Also at the main forum at Ostia a re-inscribed marble base was found, of which the inscription tells the viewer that the praefectus annonae Publius Attius Clementius moved it from a squalid place in order to embellish the forum, and for public appearance: Translatam ex sor/dentibus locis / ad ornatum fori / et ad faciem publicam, / curante P(ublio) Attio / Clementino v(iro) c(larissimo) / praef(ecto) ann(onae) (CIL XVI 4721; LSA-Project no. 329).

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with the familiar verb curavit.33 Celsus’ inscriptions contradicted this common rule by changing the order and by adding the information that the city had paid for an activity, which is not explained further. To all appearances, the additional phrase at the end referred to the rebuilding program of the Forum Baths that was supervised by Celsus in his role as praefectus annonae, and which was financed by the people of Ostia. Celsus “took charge” during the renovation and arranged the erection of the commemorative building inscription and the decorative statue dedications in front of the restored building. The decision by Celsus in favour of the unusual wording, which was rather inappropriate in all instances, but making references to both sorts of monuments by maintaining one and the same text, provides evidence for his strategy to make a long-lasting impression on the audience. In contrast to Victor, the paramount aim of Celsus was to present simple and bold monuments that exerted their full effect characterized by conciseness and repetition. 4

Using the Forum Baths as a Stage – Presenting and Perceiving the Inscriptions

After having examined the material appearance of the two sets of inscriptions, we now clearly see their differences in terms of text and texture: Victor commemorated his deeds inside the baths by sophisticated monuments with inscriptions partially composed in verses which required a discerning, aesthetic eye and intellectual competencies to understand the intended meaning. In contrast, the inscriptions of Celsus had neither a complex content nor were they artistically creative or sporting ambitious adornments. Most notably, his inscriptions were textually and qualitatively similar and were presented as a set outside the Forum Baths. All of these features of presentation of Celsus’ monuments suggest an unavoidable, ostentatious display. The following discussion considers this basic disparity of presentation further and explores the monuments’ mise-en-scène, i.e. their apparent nature, spatial arrangement and interaction with other objects in their settings. To begin with Victor’s monuments, all of his inscriptions can be located within the area of the frigidarium, where they commemorated the conversion 33  Examples of such Late Antique inscriptions on re-used statue bases are preserved in large numbers, especially at the Forum Romanum. Note for instance CIL VI 1653, 31879, 31880, 37017 and 37108 as examples of re-dedications by the praefectus Urbi and consul Fabius Titianus, and 36956b, 37109 and 37110 as further examples. For re-erected statue bases in the Forum Romanum, see Machado 2006: 179–85.

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of the northern basin into an apsidal pool. According to Fausto Zevi’s suggestion, the opistographic plaques may have been integrated in balustrades or parapets that surrounded the local water basins.34 Positioned in this manner, both inscriptions on the front and back were visible to the bathers. Accordingly, the statues – likely depicting subjects similar to the statue-group of Glauce and the seahorse – are best envisaged within the wall niches alongside the pools where they evoked an enjoyable atmosphere with a maritime ambience. To underscore the idea of baths being places for relaxation and recreation, many Roman bathing facilities were equipped with decorative images of aquatic creatures and healing deities,35 and also not by chance at the Ostian Forum Baths, sculptures of Asclepios and Hygiea were put on display.36 It was not only the statuary monuments which appear to have contributed to creating a comfortable mood of well-being. The inscriptions by Victor functioned in a similar manner. The attractive appearance of their artistic designs had an aesthetic appeal. The bathers could then experience further delight in reading the epigrams, which evoked more cognitive emotional responses. These assumptions are encouraged by the Greek verse inscription on the architrave that advertised the baths as an amenity for physical and mental well-being, referring to them as Λουτρὸν ἀλεξίπονον, thus as healing baths that banish cares from the mind. As explained above, the epistyle with the Greek inscription was emblazoned in huge letters above the apsidal water basin, and appeared to the visitors when they entered the frigidarium at the very heart of the bathing complex (fig. 10). The conspicuous inscription, measuring more than nine meters in length, was erected in an opportune location to commemorate Victor’s donation. Moreover, the use of the Greek alphabet was so uncommon that any one visitor was highly unlikely to be unaware of its presence. In fact, civic monumental inscriptions worded in Greek continued to be extremely rare in the western part of the Roman Empire in Late Antiquity. Building inscriptions were written in Latin prose, particularly when they referred to public buildings and civic facilities.37 34  See above, n. 17. 35  For sculptural decoration of Roman bathing houses during the Imperial period, see Manderscheid 1981. Exemplary epoch-spanning studies conducted by Smith 2007 on the Hadrianic Baths at Aphrodisias; Auinger 2011 on the Ephesian bath buildings; and Finocchi 2012 on the Hadrianic Baths at Leptis Magna. 36  The statues are copies of Greek originals and date to the Antonine period. They were discovered in the passage between rooms 9 and 16. Their exact position in the baths is unknown. For further information, see Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 147–48, A3; A4, figs. 74–75. 37  Therefore, related examples can only be found in explicitly Greek contexts, for example, when eastern deities were worshiped or famous Greeks were honored. A mid-3rd century example of a Greek building inscription in a religious context is found at Aquileia

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figure 10 Location of the inscriptions within the Forum Baths and their surroundings Photo: Author

Thus, we can easily imagine that Victor’s monumental Greek inscription astonished all visitors of the baths and that many were challenged in reading and understanding the strange looking text. Only a smaller number of Greek-born immigrants and refined Romans had the specialized knowledge to comprehend the epigram in its full complexity. Given therefore that the inscription (Brusin 1991: 89–90, no. 184). At Ostia, there is evidence of two Greek inscriptions celebrating the poet L. Septimius Nestor of Laranda (Guarducci 1977: 19–21). Although Greek inscriptions are numerous among funerary inscriptions, this type of inscription does not belong to the sphere of civic inscription with public character and cannot be considered as comparable material. In the eastern part of the Late Antique Roman Empire, however, metrical building inscriptions like the Ostian one were commonplace. For examples, see the numerous collections by Louis Robert (Robert 1948).

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seemed to reach only an exclusive audience of capable readers, Victor’s preference for Greek is puzzling. The key to the issue may be found by thinking not only of the textual content but also of the inscription’s materiality and visual impact that were essentially derived from the use of the Greek alphabet. The Greek language and script evoked special connotations in the Roman world; thus it was often used symbolically for the purposes of propaganda. In the case of Victor, the Greek language was used to advertise the baths as a place of wellbeing and to make a name for himself as a sophisticated person. Greek language invited associations with medicine and hygiene and thus connoted physical and mental health, which is why healers even in the Latinspeaking West made use of Greek to promote their services.38 Furthermore, the Latin term for baths, balneum, was thought to be derived from the Greek word βαλανεῖον – a term that denotes something that allays grief.39 In the Greekspeaking East, numerous similar inscriptions explained the healing effects of baths and invited visitors to enjoy the local amenities.40 The use of Greek by Victor was therefore consistent with the idea of a soothing atmosphere of comfort and relaxation, even if some visitors were unable to understand its content in detail. Given the established association between Greek and the health effects of bathing, simply the presence of the Greek script in the facility could have evoked a cheerful, relaxing mood even among the less educated bathers who could not understand the text. Victor might also have been motivated to use Greek because of its status as the language of sophistication and education, which venerable literati, poets, and philosophers of the past had used to compose unrivalled works.41 In fact, assuming a prominent stance by announcing oneself as an admirer and connoisseur of Hellenic culture was in vogue especially among Roman aristocrats and members of the social elite. This phenomenon, described as “philhellenism”, had existed long before, and still in Late Antiquity Romans who were in need of social admiration tried to give themselves a Greek habitus 38  Cf. on this aspect Cooley 2012: 306–7. 39  Cf. Cooley 2013: 194. Evidence for this is found in Augustine of Hippo (Conf. 9, 12, 32), Isidore of Seville (Etym. 15, 2, 40), and the Commentum Einsidlense in Donati artem maiorem (GL 8, p. 237, 5, ed. H. Hagen, Anecdota Helvetica, repr. Hildesheim 1961). For further etymological observations see Busch 1999: 122 n. 60. 40  A compilation of such inscriptions is found at Busch 1999: 117–30. For information on the function of inscriptions and their related monuments to evoke a relaxing atmosphere within bathing facilities; cf. also Cooley 2013 with various other examples of baths as “written spaces”. 41  For the use of the Greek language in Latin contexts and its association with education, profession, and cultivation, see Adams 2003: 90–91; 356–67.

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by reading Greek literature, collecting Greek art and behaving like Greek intellectuals.42 Publishing his name in the form of a demanding Greek verse inscription thus allowed Victor to represent himself in an elitist manner, which distinguished him as a venerable man who deserved social acknowledgment and esteem. Whether or not he intended to reach a special type of well-educated audience is difficult to discern, because even recipients that did not belong to this elite group were likely to have been deeply impressed by the elaborate epigram and they probably also inferred Victor’s noble background – only a very sophisticated, refined dedicator would have set up such an inscription written in Greek verse. While Victor sought prestige by appearing as a generous benefactor affiliated with highbrow culture, Celsus’ inscriptions point to another strategy of self-representation. Instead of being textually sophisticated and artistically elaborate, his monuments looked much more functional and plain. In contrast to Victor’s idiosyncratic objects, Celsus’ inscriptions instead fulfilled the expectations and viewing habits of the audience by using established, widely known Latin formulas that even untrained readers were able to understand. Moreover, all inscriptions followed the same wording and were therefore easy to identify as a set of associated monuments that were erected by one dedicator on the same occasion. As the simple, generally intelligible content and the lucid, unadorned design suggest, they were mainly designed to reach a large audience and to make a long-lasting impact. Beyond this significant look, their prominent location outside the baths also guaranteed an extensive reception. As explained above, both the titulus and the bases were displayed at the western façade of the bath buildings and faced the main forum directly (fig. 10). According to the usual practice, Celsus connected the monumental inscription on the architrave with those parts of the building that were reshaped during his tenure. In view of the fact that several fragments of the architrave were discovered in room 1, the epistyle spanned one of the entries of the room through which the Forum Baths had to be entered because the approaches at the Via della Forica had been closed in the course of Celsus’ renovation program.43 In close proximity, the statue bases were erected, in fact very likely as a matching pair positioned adjacent to 42  For the phenomenon of philhellenism, see for example Rochette 1999; Anderson 1993; Follet 2004; Ferrary 2014. 43  Cicerchia and Marinucci 1992: 165; Pensabene 2007: 273. Fausto Zevi also suggested a position facing the direction towards the forum or the Caseggiato dei Triclini (I, XII, 1) (Zevi 1971: 457). The location at the entrance from the Via della Forica proposed by Herbert Bloch and Russell Meiggs (Bloch 1953: 414; Meiggs 1960: 551) must be rejected, because it was closed in the early 4th century in favour of a more monumental one at room 14.

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each other. As the find spot of the Ostian pedestal indicates, they stood at the junction, where the Via della Forica led into the main forum.44 Additionally, the Ostian base shows traces of being notched at the bottom, which suggests a position on at stairs or steps.45 The stylobate of the nearby Forum Porticus (I, II, 11) seems to be the most feasible spot for such a conspicuous setting, at least because the huge prestigious building would have offered an excellent stage on which to display Celsus’ dedications. Built as an imposing hall for various purposes in the 2nd century, the porticus remained in use until Late Antiquity and exhibited several statues of deities and personifications, and portraits of the emperor and magistrates.46 In the 4th century, this crossroads between the Forum Porticus and the Forum Baths was a heavily frequented urban junction, where the main forum was entered from the Via della Forica, which was an important street that connected the main forum and the Foro della Statua Eroica (I, XII, 2). Monuments that were erected at this prominent place would certainly have attracted high attention, especially if they were presented in an elevated position on steps. Displaying the inscriptions outdoors towards the forum thus afforded the opportunity to reach not only the bathers but also every passer-by who walked across the forum. Celsus’ strategy to communicate and promote his inscriptions publicly appears to have been fairly different from Victor’s concept. Unlike his predecessor, Celsus opted rather for optimal visibility and put greater value on perfect legibility to reach the widest possible audience. Moreover, he extended his stage to the exterior areas of the baths and took advantage of the bustling public business between the main forum and the Foro della Statua Eroica, including the appealing backdrop of the Forum Porticus. Ultimately, his monuments also signalled a different concept of selfrepresentation. Given the formulaic, unostentatious design of his inscriptions, Celsus apparently played the role of a conscientious magistrate who was anxious to fulfil his duties for the benefit of the public good. It is noteworthy that his texts mention the Ostian civitas and emphasize that the renovation works were financed by the city’s own funds. Beyond his role as a supervisor and public official, he showed no signs of distinguishing himself more than necessary – neither by a laudatory choice of words nor by bringing his name and deeds visually into prominence, which is in contrast to Victor’s ostentatious monuments. 44  Pensabene 2007: 273; Gering 2011b: 489; Lavan 2012: 655. 45  Gering 2011b: 489; Lavan 2012: 655 with n. 19. Because of the modern reworking of the Vatican base, it is unclear whether it was also prepared for a display at the steps. 46  For the building history and Late Antique usage of the Forum Porticus, see Gering 2011b: 460–73.

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Nonetheless, interpreting this strategy as evidence of personal modesty could lead to premature conclusions about his motivations. After all, Celsus sought an outstandingly high Roman office that promised great social honor and gave an excellent forum for image cultivation. From this perspective, his inscriptions were in essence media deliberately leveraged (to promote) his own image, as evidenced by their location where many people passed every day. His monuments were thus manifestations of his need for recognition. Instead, he aimed to fulfil a special kind of public image that especially emphasized his benefits in favour of the community – a deeply held attitude in Roman society in which personal commitment for the good of all was regarded as an essential virtue that magistrates and rulers had to accomplish. By upholding this virtue, he also distanced himself from his predecessor, Victor, who aspired to fame by promoting his individual deeds and personal uniqueness. 5 Conclusions This study set out to investigate the extent to which an extra-textual analysis of inscribed monuments can offer an understanding of their functions and meanings. Beyond their textual content, the specific material appearance of the inscriptions was visually effective. Before reading the inscription, the viewer was influenced by the particular way in which the text was presented. Physical characteristics such as size, setting, texture, shape, letter-design, and environmental relation to other objects collectively influenced the viewer’s perception. Dedicators utilized this phenomenological potential of scriptbearing monuments and arranged their inscriptions to convey visually what the text itself could not impart. Material features thus served the interest of functionality. This examination of the inscriptions set up by the Roman magistrates Flavius Octavius Victor and Ragonius Vincentius Celsus at the Forum Baths at Ostia has shown that the divergent materiality of their monuments resulted from the patrons’ different strategies of public communication and self-representation. Victor displayed elaborate monumental inscriptions, partly written in Greek and enriched with narrative symbols characterized by a high aesthetic standard. These manifestations hint at the personality of a sophisticated, refined man. In contrast, Celsus eschewed an overstated, artificial and technical execution, instead adhering to conventional Roman texts that were easy to read and understand. His inscriptions suggested a dutiful official without personal affectations who provided his performances especially for the collective

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good. Victor limited the circle of recipients to a smaller group of well-educated connoisseurs by choosing an elaborate Greek epigram, whereas Celsus used Latin stereotyped formulas that addressed the masses. He placed his monuments outside the bath to reach a large circle of viewers. In sum, this study provides an example of a hermeneutic analysis that focuses on inscriptions as corporal entities to draw reasonable assumptions about the motivations and intentions behind their creators. How exactly contemporaries perceived the monuments is unclear, and their reactions can only be speculated upon. Future research should therefore investigate the role that spectators played in the complex process of public communication by inscriptions. One account, however, of a bather’s reaction to Victor’s Greek epigram can be found in contemporary literature. Augustine of Hippo explains in his Confessions that when his mother Monica died in Ostia in 387, he went to one of the local baths, because he “had heard, baths were called balnea from the Greek balaneion, which means driving away care from the mind”.47 The conclusion is irresistible that he visited the Forum Baths, noted Victor’s Greek epigram in the frigidarium, and was so taken by the sentiment that he put this experience down in his writing. Unfortunately, such examples are as rare as they are beneficial, and for that reason the field is in need of further studies on the materiality of text. Bibliography AE = L’Année épigraphique, Paris. 1888–. CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin. 1863–. CLE = Anthologia Latina sive poesis latinae supplementum. II. Carmina Latina epigraphica, 1–2, ed. F. Bücheler, Amsterdam 1895–1897 et Supplementum, ed. E. Lommatzsch, Amsterdam 1926. ILS = Inscriptiones latinae selectae, 3 vols., H. Dessau, ed. Berlin. 1892–1916. LSA-Project = The Last Statues of Antiquity’ database. Available at: http://laststatues .classics.ox.ac.uk/ [Accessed 5/3/2015]. PIR2 = Prosopographia Imperii Romani. Saec. I. II. III. 2a ed. 1933–. PLRE = The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire. Cambridge. 1971–. SdO = Scavi di Ostia. Roma. 1953–. SEG = Supplementum epigraphicum Graecum. Amsterdam. 1923–1971; 1979–. 47  August. Conf. 9.12.32: Visum etiam mihi est, ut irem lavatum, quod audieram inde balneis nomen inditum, quia Graeci balaneion dixerint, quod anxietatem pellat ex animo.

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Poccardi, G. 2006. “Les bains de la ville d’Ostie à L’époque tardo-antique (fin IIIe–début VIe siècle).” In M. Ghilardi, ed., Les cités de l’Italie tardo-antique (IVe–VIe siècle), actes du colloque organisé à l’École Française de Rome du 11 au 13 mars 2004, 167–86. Roma. Robert, L. 1948. Hellenica. Recueil d’épigraphie, de numismatique et d’antiquité grecques IV: Épigrammes du Bas-Empire. Paris. Rochette, B. 1999. “Sur philhellèn chez Cicéron (Ad Att. I,15,1).” L’antiquité classique 68: 263–66. Smith, R. R. R. 2007. “Statue Life in the Hadrianic Baths at Aphrodisias, AD 100–600: Local Context and Historical Meaning.” In F. A. Bauer and C. Witschel, eds., Statuen in der Spätantike, 203–35. Wiesbaden. Torres, M. L. 2008. Christian Burial Practices at Ostia Antica: Backgrounds and Contexts with a Case Study of the Pianabella Basilica. PhD. University of Texas at Austin. Witschel, C. 2006. “Der ‘epigraphic habit’ in der Spätantike. Das Beispiel der Provinz Venetia et Histria”. In J. U. Krause and C. Witschel, eds., Die Stadt in der Spätantike. Niedergang oder Wandel?, Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums in München am 30. und 31. Mai 2003, 359–411. Stuttgart. Witschel, C. 2007. “Statuen auf spätantiken Platzanlagen in Italien und Africa.” In F. A. Bauer and C. Witschel, eds., Statuen in der Spätantike, 113–69. Wiesbaden. Witschel, C. 2010. “The Epigraphic Habit in Late Antiquity: An Electronic Archive of Late Roman Inscriptions Ready for ‘Open Access’.” In F. Feraudi-Gruénais, ed., Latin on Stone: Epigraphic Research and Electronic Archives, 77–97. Lanham, MD. Zevi, F. 1971. “Miscellanea Ostiense.” Rendiconti delle Sedute dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 26(5/6): 449–79.

chapter 14

Framing Late Antique Texts as Monuments: The Tabula Ansata between Sculpture and Mosaic Sean V. Leatherbury In the Late Antique world, the appearance and materiality of Greek and Roman building inscriptions had a significant impact on how these texts were read and interpreted by different audiences. Inscriptions had extra-textual powers: that is, the visual characteristics of inscribed texts – color, size, and script of letters, as well as abbreviations and ligatures; spatial arrangement; relationship of the text to its ground or support; and use of guidelines and/or punctuation and decoration – could privilege certain readings or interpretations over others, enhance their “iconicity”, emphasize magical or protective elements, or turn text into image or into ornament.1 These visual characteristics were operative for all viewers, whether highly literate, completely illiterate, or (as most Romans were) somewhere in between the two extremes.2 Still more important was (and is) the medium in or on which the text was written, which influenced not only the reading of the text but (in conjunction with the text’s architectural context) could signal the inscription’s type even before the passer-by began to read the text: for example, bronze tablets placed in public spaces often displayed legal inscriptions,3 while the gilt-bronze-filled letters (litterae aureae) of texts written on the attic stories of triumphal arches or other monuments proclaimed the names and titles of dedicators and dedicatees.4

1 This paper was completed during fellowships at the Bard Graduate Center in New York and the Kenyon Institute in Jerusalem. The author would like to thank Jaś Elsner and Michael Squire for their helpful comments.

Recent work on the material, visual, and spatial implications of Roman inscriptions includes Graham 2013; and Keegan, Sears, and Laurence 2013. On text as ornament, see James 2007. 2  See Harris 1989: 285ff; Beard et al. 1991; Bowman and Woolf 1996; Johnson and Parker 2009. On Late Antique literacy, see Browning 1978; Maxwell 2006: 88–117; Bagnall 1993: 246–60; Bagnall 2011. 3  E.g. Williamson 1987; Meyer 2004. 4  See especially Thunø 2007; Thunø 2011.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004379435_016

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Another visual component of inscribed text, the inscription frame, crucially influenced the ways in inscriptions were read as texts and/or viewed as images or objects.5 As were Roman inscriptions, the majority of Late Antique inscriptions are framed by stripped-down geometric shapes, sometimes elaborated by decorative elements such as patterned geometric borders or vines.6 Simple frames isolate the inscription from its (sometimes quite busy) background, drawing attention to the text as separate visual entity and increasing its legibility while incorporating it into the overall design of the artwork or monument. Geometric frames could also link inscriptions, associating texts that were meant to be read together.7 Some inscriptions spill out of their frames, while others are not framed at all. While they were decorative forms, the frames of Roman inscriptions often were more than empty text-boxes. Rather, certain forms of frames actively situated their texts within specific visual-cultural contexts, signifying affiliation or proclaiming the authority of tradition. Some inscription frames carried their own symbolic baggage that had accrued over the longue durée of GraecoRoman antiquity, and seem likely to have triggered particular associations for late Roman viewers. While the frames of images, particularly paintings, are enjoying something of a renaissance in terms of scholarly interest, the frames of inscriptions have largely been ignored because they fall into the very gap between epigraphy and the study of art and material culture that this volume aims to address. One particular frame that has been underserved by scholars is the tabula ansata, the “tablet-with-handles,” which in the period typically took the form of a rectangular tablet with attached triangular ansae.8 Unlike the other geometric shapes sometimes used to frame inscriptions – the circle or “shield”-shape, for example, which was used to frame both inscribed texts as well as images (especially the imagines clipeatae, portraits of famous individuals or donors) – the 5  On inscribed text as object, see Graham 2013: 385–86. 6  For one of the few (preliminary) studies of Late Antique inscription frames, see Kiilerich 2011. 7  As in the mosaics of Santa Eufemia in Grado, dated to the late sixth century: Caillet 1993: 226–27. 8  Fraser and Rönne 1957: 182. The earlier “Greek” type, which predates the “Roman” type (with triangular ansae), had rounded corners and circular ansae. The “Roman” type was in use by the Hellenistic period, as on the sarcophagus of Apollonios from Cyaneae, Lycia, which features the earliest extant tabula ansata carved on stone: Benndorf and Niemann 1889: 60 fig. 42; Jacobsthal 1911: 453–65, especially 455. The inscription on the sarcophagus is TAM 1.72, ed. Kalinka: “(Sarcophagus) of Apollonios, son of Herakleides son of Alexios,” (Ἀπολλωνίου / τοῦ Ἡρακλείδου / τοῦ [Ἀ]λεξίου).

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tabula ansata was used to frame text alone.9 Despite its popularity in many media, the tabula ansata and its uses have been largely ignored by current scholarship on the visuality of inscriptions and on the frames of ancient art.10 Because of the large number of surviving inscriptions of all types (dedicatory, funerary, labels, verse epigrams, etc.) and in all media that are framed by tabulae ansatae, never before counted but certainly numbering in the thousands, this paper considers several case studies in order to tease out the reasons for the popularity of the form. After considering questions of terminology and definition, I discuss the development of the tabula from its Greek origins to its popularity in the Roman period and examine how the frame’s movement across media impacted its function and reception. In three short case studies, I focus on the materiality, monumentality, and multidimensionality of the tabula ansata in Christian contexts in the fifth and sixth centuries CE. These case studies focus on the medium of mosaic due to the form’s overwhelming popularity in this medium in the period, but also because it is in this flexible medium that we are able to see the tabula’s range of contemporary resonances, many of which draw upon the rich Classical formal tradition of the tabula. While I concentrate on inscriptions from Christian contexts, I make reference to material from contemporary secular and Jewish buildings for comparison, as many of the same meanings and patterns of use extend across religions and between sacred and secular contexts. 1

The Invention of the “Tabula Ansata”

While the form was extremely popular as an inscription frame in antiquity, the label “tabula ansata” is in fact a modern one popularized by Theodor Mommsen and the other creators of that most famous corpus of Latin inscriptions, the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL).11 In fact, most of the language used by scholars to describe the forms of inscription frames is, to use terminology borrowed from anthropological scholarship, etic rather than emic.12 In 9  Several exceptions to this rule exist, including the tabula on the mosaic floor of the sixthcentury CE Church of St. Bacchus at Horvat Tinshemet in Palestine, where the tabula frames a cross: Dahari 1998: 67–68 (in Hebrew). On the clipeus generally, Bolton 1937: 38–55, 61–68; Grabar 1969: 73–74; Winkes 1969. 10  On the tabula, see Fraser and Rönne 1957: 179–82; Albert 1972: 1–34 and Katalog; Veyne 1983: 289–90; Pani 1986; Pani 1988; Schepp 2009. On the tabula as it appears on ivory consular diptychs, see Sartori 2007. 11  See Fraser and Rönne 1975: 179–82; Pani 1986: 430 n. 2. 12  These terms were developed by the linguist Kenneth Pike in the 1950s: Pike 1967.

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truth, we have no real idea what the Romans called the form, or even if they called it anything at all. Romans did use the word tabula (or its diminutive, tabella), literally “board,” “plank,” or even “table,” to describe a number of different kinds of rectangular tablets, from the wax-filled wooden tablets used for list-, note-, and letter-writing to panel paintings on wood.13 The term simultaneously referred to the surface of the inscription’s ground or support as well as the text of the inscription, as when the first-century BCE poet Tibullus refers to the numerous votive tabellae in the Temple of Isis in Rome, whose presence testifies to the healing powers of the goddess (Tibullus, Elegiae 1.3.27). Manufactured in more permanent materials such as bronze or marble, tabulae displayed the official treaties, laws and edicts of the state in public spaces in Rome and in other cities across the empire.14 So while the word had strong embedded cultural associations, these associations took the form of a range rather than a single fixed meaning: indeed, some Late Antique inscriptions even refer to a panel of mosaic as a “tabla” (τάβλα, a Hellenized form of the Latin tabula).15 To complicate things, inscriptions that we know were written onto tabulae ansatae are often referred to by Roman authors as tituli, another term with a broad range of meanings. In its primary sense, this term seems to have been used to refer to the text of the inscription as opposed to the ground or background: for example, Livy refers to an inscription on its board (presumably a metal one) hung up by the censor Marcus Aemilius above the gate to a temple dedicated to the sea gods, located in the Campus Martius in Rome, as a “tablet with a titulus” (tabula cum titulo) (Livy, 40.52.4). However, authors on occasion conflate the text with its support, so Pliny refers to the inscribed tabulae 13  Wooden examples from the period survive from Egypt, including in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, e.g. MMA 14.2.4a–d; on these types of tablets, see Galling 1971. A Roman wooden tabula survives from a fortress at Carlisle in England: see Caruana 1987. While few survive today, wooden tablets were probably the most common in antiquity: see Eck 1998. Ovid, among others, refers to paintings as tabulae, e.g. Met. 10.515–6, where the author describes paintings of cupids (“Qualia namque | corpora nudorum tabula pinguntur Amorum …”). On the origin of the term tabula and its various uses, see Meyer 2004: 21–29. 14  Williamson 1987; Meyer 2004: 26–27. This practice apparently continued in Late Antiquity, as the Ostrogothic ruler Theodoric is reported to have erected a bronze tablet in a public place in Rome to record his yearly gifts of grain and money for the rebuilding of the palace and the city walls that he made on the occasion of his tricennalia: Anonymi Valesiani pars posterior, 2.12.69, ed. Mommsen, Chronica minora, MGH, AA 9, 59: “The words of his promise, which had been spoken to the people, he commanded at the people's request to be written on a bronze tablet and placed in public” (Verba enim promissionis eius, quae populo fuerat allocutus, rogante populo in tabula aenea iussit scribi et in publico poni). 15  As in the fifth-century synagogue at Sepphoris: Weiss 2005: 216–19; Di Segni 2005: 209–11.

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ansatae borne by attendants in Roman triumphal processions, which proclaim the details of the triumph (its recipient and his praiseworthy military victories) as well as possibly the lists of captured booty, as “tituli.”16 While the term “tabula ansata” is and will remain problematic, I will continue to use it for lack of a superior alternative, especially as it is clear that Romans called the form any number of names (when they referred to it at all). However, as a result of this problem of description, any assessment of the form’s embedded meanings must be based on the patterns that emerge from surviving material evidence. The “materiality” of the material evidence is significant here, as from its origins the extra-textual messages conveyed by the tabula ansata (henceforth tabula) were inextricably tied to its medium. 2

Origin and Development

2.1 Early Stages The form of the tabula appears to have originated in Greece in the late Archaic period to satisfy a specific functional requirement of inscribed texts meant to be hung up and displayed in public. In the late seventh or early sixth century BCE, wooden votive plaques in the form of tabulae were hung up in temples, their “handles” (ansae) allowing the plaques to be fixed to a column or temple wall without damaging the inscription inside the main rectangular body of the frame.17 At some point also in the late Archaic or early Classical period, artists began to produce metal votive plaques (typically silver, or bronze or another alloy) in the same form as more durable gifts (and records) of dedications made to the gods.18 Very few of these early wood and metal tabulae survive, and it remains impossible to reconstruct fully the first few centuries of the life of the form. However, for our purposes it is more important to note that from its “original” jump from wood to metal, if that is in fact the direction in which the motif moved, the tabula was a form in motion between media and materials. Shortly thereafter, stonecutters began to use the form on stone 16  See Östenberg 2009: 68–69; Östenberg 2009b. Plutarch refers to the inscription-bearing plaques as “placards” (δέλτοι), e.g. Luc. 37.4: see Östenberg 2009: 69 n. 323. Confusingly, in Late Antiquity the term “titulus” was used to refer to the private estates of wealthy Romans who converted to Christianity, donating their properties in the process: see Hillner 2007. 17  See Fraser and Rönne 1957: 179–82; also Albert 1972: 1–34; Veyne 1983. On tabulae and votive practice in the Roman period, see Meyer 2004: 28; Mayer i Olivé 2012. On wooden tablets, see Eck 1998. 18  Albert 1972.

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monuments, including tombstones, to frame inscriptions that were funerary instead of votive in character.19 While it was a “Greek” invention, the tabula became truly popular only in the Roman period. By this point, the frame had lost its particular function as a votive frame, and was used to frame inscriptions of all types in practically all media. In the late Roman world, any person who strolled through the monumental heart of a city, went to a cemetery, or visited the villa of a wealthy citizen would have seen tabulae framing monumental dedications on buildings and triumphal arches, artists’ signatures, and funerary inscriptions.20 While the form continued to be used as a frame for votive dedications to the gods, especially in metal, the ansae had lost their functionality, to the point where holes were drilled into the main rectangle of the tabula in order to attach chains with which to hang the tablet at a sanctuary (fig. 1). As we have already seen, attendees of Roman triumphal processions would have seen tabulae held aloft on poles, framing inscriptions advertising the military victory being celebrated, as is depicted on the “Spoils from the Temple” relief on the inner wall of the Arch of Titus in Rome, set up around 81 CE to celebrate the suppression of the Jewish revolt in Jerusalem and the sacking of the Temple eleven years earlier (fig. 2).21 The tabula appears to have remained in use in military triumphs through at least the early fourth century CE, as attested by a relief from Caesarea (Cherchel) in Algeria, which depicts an inscribed tabula carried on a pole during a triumph celebrating Constantine’s victory over Maxentius in the Battle of the Milvian Bridge.22 These larger triumphal tabulae seem to have been echoed by smaller, elongated versions of the form that decorate the shields of the Roman soldiers on the Tropaeum Traiani at Adamklissi, built in 109 CE to celebrate the victory of Trajan over the Dacians.23

19  Fraser and Rönne 1957: 178. 20  See Leatherbury 2012: 190–92. On the “graffiti” tabulae preserved in Pompeii, which were also valued for their monumental character, see Kruschwitz and Campbell 2009: 59–70. 21  Ryberg 1955: 146, pl. 52, fig. 79b; Pfanner 1983: 50–65, 71–6, pls. 54–67. For the tradition of the Roman triumph in reality and art, see Beard 2007: 43–45, 151ff; Östenberg 2009: 111–19, who argues that the plaques held tituli proclaiming the identities of the booty and captives in the procession, or perhaps the actions accomplished, as with the famous titulus of Julius Caesar (“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Veni, vidi, vici), described by Suet. Iul. 37, also Östenberg 2009b. On the triumph itself, described by Joseph. BJ 7.123ff, see Beard 2003: 548–52. On the general military valence of the tabula, see Thomas 2007: 44–45. 22  The inscription is CIL 8.9356; on the relief, see Torelli 1982: pl. 5, 6; Mastino and Teatini 2001. 23   The metopes are now split between the Adamklissi Museum and the Istanbul Archaeological Museum: see Florescu 1965: 493, metope no. XXXII, inv. no. 28, fig. 210; Rossi 1972.

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figure 1

Bronze votive tabula to Serapis, second century CE The Metropolitan Museum of Art, MMA 21.88.17, Rogers Fund, 1921, www.metmuseum.org

figure 2

“Spoils from the Temple” relief, Arch of Titus, Rome, c. 81 CE Photo: author

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In addition to its use as a military frame, the tabula was also a particularly popular frame for Roman dedicatory and funerary inscriptions.24 While the form was common in Italy, it was also appealing to patrons in the provinces, who applied the tabula to sarcophagi as well as to architectural decoration.25 However, despite its clear appeal outside imperial centers, the frame never became “provincialized”: that is, even when used by provincials, the tabula appears to have maintained its “Roman-ness,” though it did sometimes frame texts in languages other than Latin or Greek, including Hebrew and Aramaic texts.26 As the tabula framed many different kinds of inscriptions in Greek and Latin, the form lost its specific links to votive practice and became a general commemorative frame for all sorts of texts in different media.27 From the fourth century onwards, the form remained popular throughout the empire as a frame for all types of Christian inscriptions, including the imagined “first” Christian titulus (called a τίτλον by John 19:19) in scenes of the Crucifixion, the sign on the top of the cross on which Christ’s name and Roman title were written in Latin: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews” (Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum).28 2.2 The Birth of Mosaic Tabulae Mosaicists began using the form in the late first or early second century CE to frame their own signatures as well as donation inscriptions. An early example of a mosaic tabula from the second-century villa mosaic of Apollo and the Muses from Mérida frames the names of two artists (or perhaps donors) in the border of the pavement,29 while a series of contemporaneous mosaics 24  See Thomas 2007: 192–94. 25  For example, tabula-framed dedicatory inscriptions erected by Romans of Lycian descent who brought the form to Asia Minor in the second century: Thomas 2007: 82–83. 26  For example the tabula-framed funerary inscription on the Tomb Tower of Elhabel at Palmyra, which is bilingual in Greek and Palmyrene: CIS 4134; also As’ad and Yon 2001: 104 no. 32. The tomb was destroyed by the Islamic State in 2015. 27  Though the tabula was no longer strictly a votive form, it continued to be used to frame pagan votive dedications through the third century, as is attested by a number of examples from the sanctuary of Jupiter Poeninus in the Poenine Alps: Walser 1984: nos. 1–4, 7–9, 17, etc. 28  For example, on the obverse of a lead pilgrim ampulla from Jerusalem, now at Dumbarton Oaks, BZ.1948.14: most recently published in Evans with Ratliff 2012: 91–92 no. 59. On this sign, reported in all four Gospels, see Millar 1995. 29  “Seleucus and Anthus made (the mosaic) in the colony of Emerita Augusta,” (C(olonia) A(ugusta) E(merita) f(ecerunt) Seleucus et Anthus): Donderer 1989: 105–7 no. 83; Gómez Pallares 1997: 57–58 no. BA2, pls. 11a–b; Lancha 1997: 213–18 no. 105, pl. 99.

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Mosaic from the Square of the Corporations advertising the services of caulkers and ropemakers (CIL 14.4.549.1), Ostia, second century CE Photo: author

from the Square of the Corporations in Ostia features graphic tabula-framed inscriptions which labelled areas as “booths” for commercial groups from different cities in North Africa, Sardinia and Gaul.30 These early examples were typically integrated into surrounding programs, as at Ostia, where the tabulae are outlined in black and are filled with white tesserae of the same color as the background of the panel, creating a flat and graphic two-dimensional effect (fig. 3). The form grew in popularity quickly after the second century, and was used to frame mosaic inscriptions on the floors and walls of Christian spaces in almost all regions of the early Byzantine world, although the frame was much more common in the eastern Mediterranean (in the provinces of Arabia, Palestine, Syria, and Lebanon, as well as in Greece) than in the west.31 Tabulae began to appear as frames for dedicatory and funerary inscriptions in the mosaic pavements of Christian and Jewish structures in the fourth century on both sides of the empire, from Hispania in the west to Arabia in the east.32 In the later fifth and sixth century, the form grew in popularity in Christian mosaics, though by 30  Becatti 1961: 64–85 nos. 83–138, 345–8, pls. 172–86; Pohl 1978: 332–34. 31  Leatherbury 2012: 195–97. 32  The earliest Christian examples in mosaic include tabulae from both west and east, including in a Christian building at Elche (La Alcúdia), Spain, dated to the first third of the fourth century: Gómez Pallares 2002: 26–29 no. A2, pl. 2; and a tabula from the church at Lod in Palestine, dated to the fourth century: Zelinger and Di Segni 2006.

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the sixth century the form was largely confined to the eastern Mediterranean.33 After the sixth century, the popularity of the mosaic tabula appears to have declined in tandem with the decline in mosaic production, though examples are extant from seventh – and eighth – century churches in the eastern provinces of the empire, primarily in regions under Islamic control.34 The vast majority of these tabulae frame donation inscriptions (some of which are votive, for some viewers perhaps recalling the original usage of the form), but the form also framed funerary inscriptions, invocations, biblical quotations, and prayers, as well as both prose and verse inscriptions. The precise reasons for the popularity of the frame in the medium of mosaic, as for its popularity in other media, are hard to isolate, though the simple iconicity of its geometric shapes (a rectangle, two triangles) that combine to draw attention to the text written inside without overly distracting the eye may have played a role.35 In any case, the very practice of the production of inscriptions must have contributed to the form’s popularity. The majority of Roman inscriptions (at least carved ones) were produced in a regularized manner by specialists often affiliated with workshops, and these carvers appear to have derived their decorative additions, including ornamental interpuncts (e.g. ivy leaves, the hederae distinguentes), ansae decorations, as well as frames, from familiar prototypes known from their training, from other carvers, as well as from copy-books.36 Within this culture of production, shared by artists across media, a frame such as the tabula became very popular very quickly. Whatever the processes through which the tabula grew in popularity, by the fourth century CE the frame had become strongly associated with monumental display. As imagined by late Roman and Late Antique artists (and presumably, by viewers), the tabula functioned as a monumental architectural element in the visual imagination of the period, even in miniaturized forms, as on fifth- and sixth-century ivory consular diptychs, where tabulae displaying dedicatory inscriptions are placed atop columns above portraits of enthroned consuls, creating a kind of imagined triumphal arch.37 Patrons took advantage 33  The only extant western examples seem to be outliers, for example the tabula-framed dedicatory inscription from the Justinianic church at Qasr el-Lebia in Cyrenaica (modern Libya): Reynolds 1980: 145–48. 34  E.g. in the eighth-century Church of St. Stephen at Umm al-Rasas, near Madaba in Jordan: Piccirillo 1989: 285–86, 291–92; Piccirillo and Alliata 1994: 242–58; Michel 2001: 391–93. 35  See Thomas 2007: 192–94, who follows Pani 1986 in considering the possibility that the triangular ansae recall the shape of the symbolic-magical asciae. 36  See Cooley 2012. 37  Examples on ivory include Sartori 2007; also a fourth-century gold-glass from Rome, where tabulae on top of columns bear the names of the martyrs depicted, now in the Museo Nazionale, Florence: Morey 1959: no. 240, pl. 26.

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of this visual association between form and “Roman” visual tradition, including in the mid-sixth-century Church of Saints Lot and Procopius at Khirbet Mukhayyat in Arabia (modern Jordan), near Mount Nebo, where a tabula frames the main dedicatory inscription in front of the steps up to the elevated sanctuary (fig. 4).38 This large tabula abuts the border of the main nave panel and faces east, ensuring that it (and its inscription) would have been noted by anyone approaching the sanctuary. However, while the frame is monumental in size, extending to almost the whole width of the nave, and is quite colorful – outlined by three lines of yellow, red, and black tesserae, while shell motifs in bluish gray decorate the ansae – because of its integration with the main nave panel (itself a masterwork of sixth-century coloristic variation) and its white ground that matches the ground of the surrounding pavement, the frame in this instance lacks any real sculptural quality. While this suppression of the form’s sculptural three-dimensionality did not happen in the sixth century – indeed, one can see it already in the Ostia mosaics – the mosaic tabula at Khirbet Mukhayyat exemplifies one strand of the evolution of the tabula frame, from sculpted form in metal or stone to flat mosaic, able to be integrated seamlessly into the overall programme. However, at least one other evolutionary branch of the form persisted into the sixth century: tabulae that resist the flattening impulse of the medium, either through their color, shape and orientation, or sheer formal monumentality. 3

Color and Dimensionality at Gerasa

Some Late Antique tabulae resisted the flattening impulse of mosaic through their vivid colors. In the mid-sixth century Church of Sts. Peter and Paul at Gerasa, a massive red tabula with stylized white ivy leaves in its ansae frames the main dedicatory inscription of the building at the east end of the nave in front of the sanctuary (fig. 5).39 Written in verse in white tesserae, the text proclaims the “beautiful wonders” brought to the people of the city by its bishops, of which the church, built and adorned by Bishop Anastasius, is one, “decorated 38  The dedicatory inscription in the tabula dates the mosaics to 557/8: Saller and Bagatti 1949: 182–202, 34 pl. 24; Piccirillo 1989: 185, 87–88; Piccirillo and Alliata 1998: no. 42; SEG 8.336; Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie 21, Jordanie 2, 97. 39  The church is dated to c. 540, and the mosaic inscription is now in the collection of the Yale University Art Gallery: Welles 1938: 484 no. 327; Merkelbach and Stauber 2002: 356; Rhoby 2009: 393–94; Evans with Ratliff 2012: 12, cat. 1.

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figure 4 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory inscription, Church of the Holy Martyrs Lot and Procopius, Khirbet Mukhayyat (Nebo), Jordan, 557/8 CE Sean Leatherbury / Manar al-Athar

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figure 5 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory epigram, Church of Sts. Peter and Paul, Gerasa, Jordan, c. 540 CE Photo © Yale University Art Gallery

with silver and colored stones” of mosaic.40 Indeed, the relationship between the “colored stones” of this frame and its inscription is the reverse of the one at Khirbet Mukhayyat: at Gerasa, the red ground of the frame both makes the inscribed text stand out and demands attention as an artistic form unto itself. This tabula draws attention to itself by playing with the idea of the third dimension. While integrated into the larger program of the floor, especially along its top edge, which aligns nicely with the border of the nave panel, the color and placement of the tablet at the edge of the nave signals its additive 40  The inscription is Rhoby 2009: 393–4; and Evans with Ratliff 2012: 12, cat. 1: [+ Ἦ μά]λα θαύματα καλὰ φέρ[ει πᾶ]ς ἱεροφάντης ἀ�̣ν̣θρώποις οἳ τήνδε πόλιν καὶ γαῖαν ἔχουσιν, οὕνεκεν οἶκον ἔδειμε μαθηταῖς πρωτοστάταις Πέτρῳ καὶ Παύλῳ, τοῖς γὰρ σθένος ἄνθετο Σωτήρ, ἀργυρέοις κόσμοισι καὶ εὐβαφεέσσι λίθοισιν κλεινὸς Ἀναστάσιος, θεομήδεα πιστὰ διδάσκων.  “+ Each high priest brings beautiful wonders to the people who inhabit this city and land, wherefore famous Anastasius, teaching faithful belief of God, built a house to the first of the apostles, Peter and Paul, for to them the Savior gave authority, (decorated) with ornaments of silver and vividly-dyed stones.”

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quality, as if the frame has been pasted on top of the white background. The tabula is installed above a line-up of Egyptian cities, including Alexandria (with its lighthouse, the Pharos) and Memphis, simultaneously acting as a kind of border and disrupting the imagined three-dimensional space in which the cities appear. This space is not naturalistic, but the buildings in it are represented in a mixed perspective that gives them an imagined volume.41 In its coloristic contrast with the white background, this three-dimensional tabula recaptures some of the visual impact that bronze votive tabulae had when attached to the walls or columns of temples. Instead of superimposing a frame in metal on top of a stone architectural element, the artists at Gerasa embraced a similar aesthetic within a single medium. Now, I do not mean to suggest that the mosaicists at Gerasa used ancient metal votive tabulae as a direct model, as these manifestations of the form appear to have gone out of popular use centuries earlier.42 In fact, the artists at Gerasa did not have far to look for the effect of superimposition, as the threedimensional aesthetic was not unique to this particular frame in antiquity, nor to the medium of mosaic. Both the suggestion of depth and trompe l’oeil elements were common to the Greco-Roman art of painting (especially secondstyle Roman wall-painting) and the mosaic emblema and pseudo-emblema, whose aim was to turn the floor into a “picture window” through which the viewer could glimpse a “real” scene.43 The emblemata aesthetic influenced the creation of illusionistic inscription frames that played with the tension between two-dimensional medium and imagined three-dimensional form, such as the second-century BCE signature of Hephaistion (“Hephaistion made (this)”) from the mosaics of a palace at Pergamon, in which the frame of the text – conceived as a piece of parchment – has come free from its wax and flips up at the lower right-hand corner, suggesting that it is pasted on top of the rest of the image.44 41  See Duval 2003. 42  The latest pagan votive tabulae seem to date to the third or early fourth century, including the tabulae from the Poenine alps: Walser 1984; Mayer i Olivé 2012. However, metal votive tabulae with Christian inscriptions continue to be produced through the end of the fourth century, including a bronze tabula found at Biertan, in Romania, which is inscribed, “I, Zenobius, have fulfilled my vow” (Ego Zenovius votum posui(t)): see Illyés 1988: 133–35. 43  The “true” emblema was a panel made in a workshop for export to a separate site, while pseudo-emblemata were assembled on-site to imitate emblemata: see Kondoleon 1994: 102–104. 44  Kawerau and Wiegand 1930: 63–65, pls. 16–19; Dunbabin 1999: 28–30, with further bibliography.

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However, by the sixth century CE the emblema and the pseudo-emblema had fallen out of fashion as mosaicists began to conceive of the floor and wall as unified flat planes or, in the case of the floor, “carpets,” one of the developments integral to the new Late Antique aesthetic.45 So why did the mosaicists at Gerasa choose to pack such a visual punch by turning the tabula red? I suggest that these artisans might have been influenced both by the trompe l’oeil history of the medium and by the Roman aesthetic of superimposition. This aesthetic was popular in the imperial period and can be seen in the mixedmedia brick and marble architectural decoration of the second-century Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana in Ostia, where the white marble tabula contrasts with the red brick, and continued to be popular in Late Antiquity.46 By vividly coloring the tabula so that it appears to be superimposed upon its background, the mosaicists at Gerasa highlighted the form in order to showcase the inscription within, but also to draw the viewer’s attention to the frame itself as a monumental symbol that drew attention to its own (imagined) three-dimensionality. 4

Defining Architectural Space in Rome

In addition to maximizing their color options, mosaicists exploited the flexibility of their chosen medium to experiment with the placement of the tabula. As at Gerasa, where the red tabula floats above important cities of Egypt and is placed directly in front of the sanctuary, the form was used on occasion to frame space and the experience of the viewer/reader as well as text. Earlier, in the Roman period, mosaic tabulae were often placed at significant points in the building, including in the borders of pavements between rooms, as at the villa at Mérida.47 Christian patrons maintained the same interest in defining, elaborating and even protecting boundary spaces with inscriptions as well as holy or magical symbols.48 When placed between the nave and the sanctuary, the form worked in tandem with other boundary elements such as steps and chancel screens to frame the boundary between earthly (nave) and sacred (sanctuary) space.49 45  On these developments in floor mosaics in the eastern Mediterranean, see Kitzinger 1965; Balty 1984. 46  The Horrea inscription is CIL 14.4709. 47   Supra n. 29; more generally, see Dunbabin 1999: 304–16; Clarke 1991: 1–30; Swift 2009: 32–74. 48  Kitzinger 1970: 244–59; Maguire 1995. 49  See Gerstel 2006.

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Triumphal arch mosaics with tabula, San Paolo fuori le mura, Rome, 440–61 CE Photo: author

The form functioned similarly in several wall mosaics in fifth – and sixthcentury churches in Italy, as in the church of San Paolo fuori le mura in Rome (fig. 6). On the triumphal arch of the church, two half-tabulae outlined in red and gold with a blue ground commemorate the renovation of the basilica by the princess Galla Placidia in the mid-fifth century.50 While the original mosaics were destroyed by fire in the eighteenth century, the tabulae as they were reconstructed appear to have been original to the fifth-century mosaic program.51 However, these tabulae are unusual: rather than conceived as rectangles with straight lines, the two tablets curve to fit the architecture of the triumphal arch. The mosaicists have stretched the frames to their limit, defining the attenuated blue bodies of the tabulae with triple white, gold, and red borders in order to delimit the space of the sanctuary, sacrificing some of the form’s materiality in the process. However, while they have lost some of their substance, the frames maintain their monumental character. The figures of the mosaic also help to emphasize the frames, as an archangel perches atop each one. Indeed, though the text is only one among four inscriptions in the mosaic, beginning with the 50  “The faithful mind of Placidia rejoices that the whole splendor of her father’s work shines through the zeal of Pope Leo,” (Placidiae pia mens operis decus homne paterni / gaudet pontificis studio splendere Leonis): Inscriptiones latinae christianae ueteres (= ILCV) 1.1770– 71, Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae (=ICUR) 2.4784; also see Ihm 1960: 138–40. 51  See Matthiae 1967, Tavole.

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inscription recording the building of the basilica by the emperor Theodosius and the completion of the basilica and its mosaics by Honorius (placed at the top of the triumphal arch in the nineteenth-century renovation of the mosaic program), it was meant to be the most significant text in the building, as it celebrates the renovation paid for by Placidia, the daughter of Theodosius (and half-sister of Honorius).52 While these mosaic frames are not the only examples of the tabula adapted to the architectural context of walls (rather than floors) – indeed, other fifthcentury examples include tabulae in Naples and Thessaloniki – the two at San Paolo are extraordinary because they split one inscription into two halves, structuring the reading of the text.53 Unlike the similarly curving tabula on the triumphal arch of San Lorenzo fuori le mura, dated to the late sixth century, which was designed to fit the entire dedicatory inscription, the inscribed text at San Paolo was split intentionally in order to focus the attention of the reader on particular words and phrases.54 The two frames separate the subject (the “pious mind of Galla Placidia”, Placidiae pia mens) and verb of the sentence (“rejoice,” gaudet), which would seem to render the text more difficult to read. However, the separation also highlights the main components of the text: the first half of the inscription begins with Placidia and ends with her father (paterni, i.e. Theodosius), while the second half begins with the action (Galla’s mind “rejoices”) and concludes with the supervising bishop of Rome, Pope Leo I (“the zeal of Leo,” studio Leonis, through which the renovation was made possible). By adapting the usually rectangular tabula to the curve of the surface, and by splitting the tabula into two to underline the main actors and actions of the inscription, the mosaicists used the form to frame the space of the sanctuary as well as to shape the experience of the reader, who would connect the church with Placidia and her imperial forebears.

52   I CUR 2.4780. On the uncertainty of the original location of the Theodosian/Honorian inscription, see Liverani 2012: 109. 53  In Naples, a monumental tabula frames the funerary inscription of St. Gaudiosus, which is set on the arcosolium above the saint’s tomb in the San Gennaro catacombs: Sear 1977: 138–40 no. 160, pl. 60.3; the inscription is CIL 10.1538. Tabulae also framed votive donation inscriptions on the upper walls of the north aisle in the church of Hagios Demetrios in Thessaloniki: Cormack 1969: 17–52, pls. 1–15. 54  The mosaics date to the renovation of the church by Pope Pelagius c. 578–90: the inscription is ILCV 1.1770–71, ICUR 2.4784 also Ihm 1960: 138–40. On the mosaic program, see Baldass 1957; Matthiae 1962: 159–64, 304–7; Matthiae 1967: 149ff; and Oakeshott 1967: 145–46.

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Monumentalizing the Tabula at Tegea

Late Antique artists also experimented with other monumental formats that preserved the substantiality of the tabula, envisioning the form as a three-dimensional architectural element. We have already seen this type of multiple architectural frame – the tabula itself framed by other architectural elements such as columns or a triumphal arch – on artworks in miniature, including on gold-glasses and ivory consular diptychs, which echoed earlier Roman prototypes on sarcophagi as well as on actual buildings.55 Another architectural format was available in the period, that of the tabula held aloft by two figures. The iconography of two figures holding a panel of text was already ancient by the fourth century BCE, as seen on archaic Greek tombstones from Boeotia that depict winged Victories holding panels inscribed with the names of the deceased.56 While similar examples were not uncommon as frames for building inscriptions in stone, this particular iconographic format was rare in Christian mosaics.57 In fact, only two examples are extant, both from Christian structures in Greece, the earlier from the Thyrsos Basilica at Tegea, dated to the late fourth or fifth century CE (fig. 7).58 At Tegea, a simple Roman-type tabula, placed at the entrance to the nave, frames the main dedicatory inscription of the church and is held by two curly-haired putti clad in short tunics and wearing floral crowns.59 As is the tabula itself, the two putti are superimposed over the

55  For larger examples, see Thomas 2007: 193–94 figs. 163–64. 56  Fraser and Rönne 1957: pls. 27, 1–2. 57  For examples, see Pani 1986; Pani 1988. 58  Pallas 1977: 181–83, no. 89D; Spiro 1978: 186, 188–93, 655 (transl. I. Ševčenko); Feissel and Philippidis-Braat 1985: 296–97, no. 38, 371, no. 137; Assimakopoulou-Atzaka 1987: 77–79, no. 21; Avramea 1998: 35–40. A slightly later mosaic from the Basilica of St. Demetrios at Nikopolis in Greece includes a tabula held up by two men: Kitzinger 1951: 83–102; Spiro 1978: 439–41, 443–45, 452–53, 458–59, 464, 657–58. 59  The inscription is CIG 5.2.169: Τ̣ο̣ῦ σεπτοῦ τούτου τεμένους· ἐν ἱερεῦσειν ἐννεακαιδέκατος· Θύρσος ὁ ὁσιώ(τατος) ἡγησάμενος ἀμφοτέρων ἔκρυψεν προσηγορίας πᾶσιν ἐσθλοῖς καὶ μαρτυρῖ τὰ κτίσματα καὶ λίθου λεπταλέης εὐσύνθετος κό�̣[σ]μ̣ [ος…]  “Thyrsos, both the most holy leader and the nineteenth priest of this holy church, eclipsed the names (of his predecessors) by all good things; and the buildings and wellarranged decoration of delicate stones bear witness […].”    On the text, see Feissel and Philippidis-Braat 1985: 296–97 no. 38, 371 no. 137; Assimakopoulou-Atzaka 1987: 77–79 no. 21; Sironen 1997: 327; SEG 34.327; SEG 35.399.

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figure 7 Mosaic tabula with dedicatory inscription, Thyrsos Basilica, Tegea, Greece, late fourth or early fifth century CE Photo courtesy P. Assimakopoulou-Atzaka

geometric border of the panel, conveying the illusion that they are standing in the foreground on top of a recessed background. For the visually literate Roman, this scheme must have recalled the association of elevated tablets with triumph and status, conceived broadly, as seen on the Arch of Dativius Victor in Mainz, dated to the mid-third century, where putti on the attic story elevate an inscription framed by a tabula with ansae in the shape of pelta shields.60 This triumphal valence could be transferred iconographically from the military sphere to acts of donation, as on a tabulaframed dedicatory inscription at Pavia, held aloft by putti, which celebrates the sixth-century renovation of an amphitheatre by Atalaric, the Ostrogothic ruler of Italy.61 Putti or other Classical figures could elevate the frames of donation inscriptions in order to draw additional attention to the texts framed within, celebrating dedications while memorializing them in perpetuity. The rarity of the mosaic tabula held aloft by figures is such that the artists and patrons at Tegea must have made concerted decisions to buck the overriding trend of the standard “integrated” tabula found at Khirbet Mukhayyat. Unlike in that church, where the ansae decorations of the tablet have morphed into decorative floral-vegetal forms, the ansae of the Tegea frame are clearly 60  The arch in Mainz is now in the Stone Hall of the Landesmuseum: Frenz 1981: 220–60; Bauchhenss 1984: 78–83 no. 94, Pl. 125–28; the inscription is CIL 13.16705. 61  Silvagni 1943: n. 3, pl. 1; Panazza 1953: 232–33 n. 10, Pl. 84; Pani 1988: 178–80 fig. 6; the inscription is CIL 5.6418.

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punctured by round holes that, while also decorative, recall the original function of the “handles.” The texts and placement of the inscriptions provide further evidence of the exceptional nature of the work, as the inscription emphasizes the pre-eminence of the patron, Bishop Thyrsos, and his “wellarranged decoration of delicate tesserae” (λίθου λεπταλέης / εὐσύνθετος κό�̣[σ] μ̣ [ος…]), which act as proof of his status as euergetes. Here, Thyrsos’ act of donation is literally elevated, held aloft by two bearers as a triumphant statement of euergetism in the Roman mode still current in the fifth century CE. By compressing the monumental tabula with its bearers onto the floor while preserving some semblance of (illusionistic) depth, the mosaicists at Tegea preserve the sculptural effect of the form, enabling viewers to see the mosaic as a kind of architectural sculpture, and thus to compare it to dedications in other media. In one sense, these three cases (Gerasa, Rome, Tegea) are in fact exceptions to the rule, as each showcases a distinct way that mosaicists used color, shape, and overall scheme to challenge the two-dimensionality of their medium. However, by considering how these exceptional frames worked to highlight their texts, as well as to draw attention to their sculptural qualities as forms that stood out from their backgrounds, this essay has argued that Late Antique artists and patrons had precise intentions when they chose to frame their inscriptions in tabulae. Reading the tabula frame between Roman tradition (i.e. its formal and stylistic links to earlier frame types) and Late Antique experience, the impact of evolving aesthetic tastes (e.g. changes in medium) upon the meanings of the tabula becomes clear, but so too does the deep and embedded symbolism of the form, which continued to draw forth a rich web of associative meanings for the Roman viewer. Bibliography Albert, W.-D. 1972. “Die tabulae ansatae aus Pergamon.” Pergamon: Gesammelte Aufsätze. Deutsches archäologisches Institut, Pergamenische Forschungen 1, 1–34. Berlin. As’ad, K. and Yon, J.-B. 2001. Inscriptions de Palmyre. Promenades épigraphiques dans la ville antique de Palmyre. Guides archéologiques de l’Institut Français d’archéologie du proche-orient 3. Beirut, Damascus, and Amman. Assimakopoulou-Atzaka, P. and Pelekanidou, E. 1987. Σύνταγμα των Παλαιοχριστιανικών ψηϕιδωτών δαπέδων της Ελλάδος, II. Πελοπόννησος - Στερεά Ελλάδα. Thessaloniki. Avramea, A. 1998. “Ἡ βασιλική τοῦ Θύρσου στὴν Τεγέα καὶ ἡ επιγραφὴ τῆς.” Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτιόν: 35–40.

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Rhoby, A. 2009. Byzantinische Epigramme, Band 1. Byzantinische Epigramme auf Fresken und Mosaiken. Vienna. Rossi, L. 1972. “A Historiographic Reassessment of the Metopes of the Tropaeum Traiani at Adamklissi.” Archaeological Journal 129: 56–68. Ryberg, I. S. 1955. Rites of the State Religion in Roman Art. Rome. Saller, S. and Bagatti, B. 1949. The Town of Nebo. Jerusalem. Sartori, A. 2007. “Eburnea verba.” In M. David, ed., Eburnea Diptycha. I dittici d’avorio tra Antichità e Medioevo, 221–43. Bari. Schepp, S. 2009. “Gehenkelte Schrift: Die Tabula Ansata.” In H.-J. Schalles and S. Willer, eds., Marcus Caelius. Tod in der Varusschalcht. Ausstellung im LVR-Römermuseum im Archäologischen Park Zanten vom 23.4.2009 bis 30.8.2009, 114–7. Darmstadt. Sear, F. 1977. Roman Wall and Vault Mosaics. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Roemische Abteilung: Ergänzungsheft, 23. Heidelberg. Silvagni, A. 1943. Monumenta epigraphica Christiana saeculo XIII antiquiora quae in Italiae finibus adhuc extstant, 2, Fasc. 3: Pappia. Vatican City. Sironen, E. 1997. The Late Roman and Early Byzantine Inscriptions of Athens and Attica. Helsinki. Spiro, M. 1978. Critical Corpus of the Mosaic Pavements on the Greek Mainland, Fourth/ Sixth Centuries, with Architectural Surveys, 2 vols. New York. Swift, E. 2009. Style and Function in Roman Decoration: Living with Objects and Interiors. Aldershot. Thomas, E. V. 2007. Monumentality and the Roman Empire: Architecture and the Antonine Age. Oxford. Thunø, E. 2007. “Looking at Letters: ‘Living Writing’ in S. Sabina in Rome.” Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft 34: 19–41. Thunø, E. 2011. “Inscription and Divine Presence: Golden Letters in the Early Medieval Apse Mosaic.” Word & Image 27,3: 279–91. Torelli, M. 1982. Typology and Structure of Roman Historical Reliefs. Ann Arbor. Veyne, P. 1983. “‘Titulus Praelatus’: offrande, solennisation et publicité dans les ex-voto gréco-romains.” Revue Archéologique 2: 281–300. Walser, G. 1984. Summus Poeninus. Beiträge zur Geschichte des grossen St. BernhardPasses in römischer Zeit. Wiesbaden. Weiss, Z. 2005. The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts. Jerusalem. Welles, C. 1938. “Inscriptions.” In C. H. Kraeling, ed., Gerasa, City of the Decapolis. New Haven. Williamson, C. 1987. “Monuments of Bronze: Roman Legal Documents on Bronze Tablets.” Classical Antiquity 6: 160–83. Winkes, R. 1969. Clipeata imago: Studien zu einer römischen Bildnisform. Bonn. Zelinger, Y. and Di Segni, L. 2006. “A Fourth-Century Church near Lod (Diospolis).” Liber Annuus 56: 459–68.

Index Locorum 1 Literary Texts Aesch. Sept. 660–62 32 Suppl. 461–65 190–91 Anth. Pal. 5.6 (Callim. 29 Pf) 212 6.147 (Callim. 24 G-P) 201–2 6.149 (Callim. 25 G-P) 202–3 6.352 (Erinna 3 G-P) 197–98 7.710(Erinna 1 G-P) 198–99 12.129 (Arat. 1 G-P) 200–1 Andoc. I Myst. 76 146 Antiphanes Sappho 194 K-A 188–90 App. B. Civ. 2.113/472 60–1, 63 Ar. Nub. 666 202 766–74 146 Arist. Ath. Pol. 35.2 147–48 47.5–48.1 145 Poet. 1449a25 121 Arr. Epict. Diss. 2.23.1 58 Peripl. M. Eux. 1.2–4 56–60

Ath. 9.407b–c 146 August. Conf. 9.12.32 375 Callim. 24 G-P 201–2 25 G-P 202–3 29 Pf 212 Catull. 30.10 213 68B: 41–50 209–10 149–52 210–11 70 212–13 Dem. 16.27 147 Dio Chrys. Or. 31: 9 42–43 21 43–44 Enn. Var. 17–18 Vahlen (FLP 46) 212 Erinna 1 G-P 198–99 3 G-P 197–98 Eur. Hipp. 649–50 191 Ion 184–208 233 Theseus fr. 382 32

406

Index Locorum

Hdt. 1.1 51–52 1.51 34–36 1.92 237–38 Hom. Il. 6.168–69 30–31 7.81–91 176, 180–82, 206 Hor. Carm. 3.30.1 218 Hyperides Against Diondas

148–49

Livy 31.34.2–9 149–50 40.52.4 383 Lucian Scyth. 2 54–55 Lycurg. Leoc. 66 146 Ov. Am. 1.1.1–4 223–24 2.6.59–62 223 Ars Am. 3.619–26 225–26 Fast. 5.551–68 231–32 Her. 3.1–4 222 17.87–88 213 Met. 15: 871–72 211–12 875–79 211–12 Trist. 1.1.13–14 224 1.7: 29–30 225 39–40 225

Paus. 5.17.6 54 Philo De migratione Abrahami 61–62 Philoch. 328 F55 147 Pind. Ol. 7.86–87 12–13, n. 45, 31–32 Pl. Leg. 955a–b 41–42 Phdr. 275d4–276a7 191–95 276c7 213 n. 31 Plut. De gen. Socr. 577f 54 Per. 14.1–2 264 30.1 146–47 Rom. 7.8 51, 53–54 Pollux Onom. 5.149–50 49–53, 56 Prop. 1.7.23–24 206–7, 209 1.18: 1–4 215 19–22 214–15 1.21.9–10 206 1.22 205–206 2.1: 207–208 71–72 209 77–78 207 3.1.5–8 218–19 3.23.1–8 219–20 4.3.1–6 221–22 4.7.83–86 220–21 4.11.35–36 221

Index Locorum Sappho fr. 81B 1–2 197–98 Soph. fr. 811 Radt 213 Thuc. 1.139.1 146–47 1.140.3 146–47 2.43.3 38–39 5.56.1–3 147 6.54.7 244 Verg. Ecl. 5.13–15 213–14 n. 34 10.52–54 213–14 Xen. Anab. 5.3.13 250 Hell. 6.3.19 147 7.1.1–14, 33–40 160 2 Inscriptions AE 1920.94a 354, 356–57 fig. 3, 361–62 AE 1928.131 363–65 fig. 8 AE 1955.287 351, 361–62 CEG 13 173–74, 175 CEG 28 175 CEG 145 176 CEG 239.i–ii 87–89 CEG 344 173 CEG 378 97–99 CEG 381 95–97 CEG 419 81–83 CEG 795.i-vii 76–81 CEG 819.i-iv 93–94 CEG 824.i-iv 90–94 CIL XIV 139 364–67 fig. 9 CIL XIV 4714 354, 356–57 fig. 3, 361–62 CIL XIV 4717 363–65 fig. 8 CIL XIV 4718 362–63 fig. 7, 367

407 CLE 2049 354, 356–57 fig. 3, 361–62 FD III.1 3–6 90–94 FD III.1 50–51 93–94 GVI 480 117–18 GVI 681 122–23 GVI 1996 128–30 GVI 2027 121 IAph2007 5.207 295–98 IAph2007 5.208 294–96 fig. 9 IAph2007 9.1 289–92 figs. 6a–c I.Ephesos 1518 238 IG I3 52.A.9–13 145–46 IG I3 76.25–30 37–38 IG I3 110 157 IG I3 118: 35 158 38–42 147 IG I3 127: 1–2 148 25–30 147 IG I3 695a–b 87–89 IG II2 17 157–58 IG II2 43: A 9–15 159–61, figs. 3–4 31–35 147 B 15.111 159 IG II2 107 162 IG II2 111.30–33 149 IG II2 124 162 IG II2 410 163 IG II2 3714 125–26 IG II2 10385 117–18 IG II2 12318 128–30 IG II2 12664 122–23 IG II3 367 163 IG V.1 213 97–99 IG VII 235 159 IG XII.6.2 558 83–87 IG XIV 1 235–36 IG XIV 1073 360–62 figs. 6a–b IG XIV 1188 127–28 IG XIV 1549 119–20 IG XIV 1934f 121 IGUR III 1194 119–20 IGUR III 1303f 121 IGUR IV 1532 127–28 ILCV 1901 360–62 figs. 6a–b

408 I.Lindos 419: 30–34 62 34–40 44 IVO 147–48 95–97 IVO 272 81–83 ML 58.9–13 145–46 ML 87: 35 158 38–42 147 ML 90 157 ML 94: 1–2 148 25–30 147 MRJCS 15 Ded. 1 286–87 MRJCS 15–16 Ded. 2 283–86 figs. 3a–b Ostia, Museo 358–60 fig. 5, 361–62 Archeologico inv. 7025 Ostia, Museo 358 fig. 4, 361–62 Archeologico inv. 7247 Ostia, Museo 354–57 figs. 2a–b, Archeologico inv. 7808 361–62 Ostia, Museo 354, 356–57 fig. 3, Archeologico inv. 11918 361–62 Ostia, Forum Baths 363–65 fig. 8 inv. 19720 Ostia, Forum Baths 362–63 fig. 7, 367 inv. 19734 RO 22: 9–15 159–61, figs. 3–4 31–35 147 111 159

Index Locorum RO 25.55–56 147 RO 27 159 RO 31 162 RO 39.30–33 149 RO 48.20 162 SCPP (Senatus consultum 339–41 de Cn. Pisone patre) SEG 22.116 248 SEG 26.72 147 SEG 33.773 360–62 figs. 6a–b Syll.3 29 236–37, fig. 3 TFGM C 1a 364–67 fig. 9 TFGM C 1b 363–65 fig. 8 TFGM C 105 354–57 figs. 2a–b, 358, 358–60 fig. 5, 361–62 TFGM C 106 351 Tod 153 162 Additional abbreviations: MRJCS R. R. R. Smith, The Marble Reliefs from the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion: Aphrodisias VI. Darmstadt and Mainz. TFGM P. Cicerchia and A. Marinucci, Le Terme del Foro o di Gavio Massimo, Scavi di Ostia XI. Rome.

Index Nominum 1 Deities and Personifications Aphrodite 278 n. 11, 282 n. 24, 283–86, 286–87, 289, 292–93, 295–98 Aphrodite Prometor 279, 282 Apollo 76, 240, 244 Apollo Pythius 234 Ares/Mars 176, 231–32 Artemis Aristoboule 247 Ephesia 250 Athena 88–89, 148, 157 n. 30, 173, 257, 265 Lindia 44 Nike 153–55, 234, 244, 249, 265 Poliachus 97 Polias 234, 253–54, 257–58, 262–63 Pronaea 240 Tritogeneia 258 Hera 84–85, 173, 235, 238–39 Homonoia 246 Hyg(i)eia 249 Jupiter Poeninus 387 n. 27 Nymphs 246–47, 266 Polydeuces 93 Zeus 82, 92, 94, 98, 257 Olympius 253–54 Polieus 44 2 Persons, Ancient Alcibiades 146–47, 158 Alexander III (‘the Great’), of Macedon 233, 253–54, 266, 267 Alexander IV, of Macedon 255 Alexander of Pherae 148 Andocides 146 Antigonids, damnatio memoriae of 149–50 Antigonus Monophthalmus 149 Antiphanes 188–95 Antony, Mark, triumvir 326, 333–38, fig. 4

Aratus 200–1 Archedemus, Theran architect 246–47, 266 Aristophanes 146 Arrian, Flavius, of Nicomedia 56–64 Arsinoë II 255 Attalus I, of Pergamon 257 Augustine, of Hippo 375 Aurelius Antonianus, M. (‘Caracalla’), Roman emperor 341–44 Briseis, consort of Achilles 222 Callimachus, poet 187, 201–3, 213–15, 218, 251 Calpurnius Piso pater, Cn. 338–41 Cassius Longinus, C. 61, 326, 330 Chabrias, Athenian general 162 Chares, of Angele, Athenian general 162 Cheramyes 83–87, figs. 4a-c Cicero, see Tullius Cicero, M. Cornelia, step-daughter of Augustus 221 Cornelius Gallus, C. 213–15, 326, 331 Croesus, deceased warrior 176 Croesus, king of Lydia 237–38 Daochus II, of Thessaly 75–81, 152 Demetrius Poliorcetes 149 Domitian, Roman emperor 263, 324, 337, 340–41 Eumenes II 257 Flavius Octavius Victor 349, 352–62, 368–72 Gaius, Roman emperor (‘Caligula’) 325 Geneleos 85–87, fig. 5 Hadrian, Roman emperor 56–58, 63, 263 n. 153, 295, 298 Hagias, of Pharsalus 76, 79–81, 152 Hephaistion, artist 393 Heraclides of Salamis, Cyprus 163 Herodes Atticus 53 n. 19 Herodotus 33–36, 49, 51–52, 150–51, 237, 244, 250

410

Index Nominum

Idrieus 251, 261 Iulius Caesar Octavianus, C. (‘Augustus’), Roman emperor 225, 231–33, 253–54 fig. 12,  263, 326, 330, 336–38 Iunia Tertia, funeral of 327, 330, 344 Iunius Brutus, M., the younger (85–42 bce)  60–61, 326, 330

Sappho, poet 188–90, 192–99 Septimius Geta, P. 327, 341–44 Septimius Nestor, L., poet, of Laranda  369–70 n. 37 Simonides, poet 12 Solon, laws of 148 Sthorys, of Thasos 157–58

Jason, of Pherae 160–61

Telemachus, brother of Hagias, of Pharsalus  76–81 Telemachus, dedicator at Athens 248–50, 265–66 Themistocles, Athenian general 35–36, 247–48 Thucydides, son of Melesias 264 Thucydides, son of Olorus, historian 38–39, 51, 146, 150, 153, 243–44 Tiberius, Roman emperor 263, 325, 337–38 Timotheus, Athenian general 161–62 Tullius Cicero, M. 11, 337

Livy, historian 149, 383 Maussolus, satrap of Caria 251, 261 Nero, Roman emperor 263 Nestor the poet, see Septimius Nestor, L. Oenone, wife of Paris 216–18 Ovid, poet 211–13, 216–18, 220, 222, 223–26, 231–32 Pantalces, dedicator at Pharsalus 247, 266 Pausanias, periegete 54, 81, 90, 96, 151, 164, 173 n. 9, 236, 240–41, 253–54, 267 n. 164 Pausanias, regent of Sparta 150 Peisistratus the Elder 265 Peisistratus the Younger 243–44, 249 Pericles, Athenian strategos 38–39, 146–47, 264 Phaedrus of Sphettus 150 Phawearistos 173 Philip III Arrhidaeus, of Macedon 255 Philip V, of Macedon 149 Philon, son of Annikeris, at Cyrene 251–52, 265 Photius I of Constantinople 59 Phrynichus, of Bithynia 49 n. 7, 52 n. 15 Plato, philosopher 191–95, 198, 202–3 Plautilla, wife of Caracalla 327, 342 Pollux 48–53, 55–56, 62 Polyzalus, of Syracuse 151 Propertius, poet 205–9, 214–16, 218–22 Ptolemy II Philadelphus, king of Egypt 255 Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, pr. ann. 385–89  349, 352–53, 362–68, 372–75 Remus 53–54

Vincentius Ragonius Celsus, see Ragonius Vincentius Celsus Xenocratia 249–50 Xenophon, historian 250 3 Persons, Modern Assmann, Jan 345 Benjamin, Walter 182–83 Beria, Laurentij Pavlovich 1–2 Derrida, Jacques 7–9 Dover, Kenneth 153 Flower, Harriet 340–41 Gell, Alfred 325 Gomme, A. W. 38–39 Greenblatt, Stephen 183–84 Hedrick, Charles 331–33, 340 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 7 Heidegger, Martin 6–7

411

Index Nominum Ingold, Tim 10, 13 McLuhan, Marshal 7–8 Mommsen, Theodor 382 Stalin, Joseph Vissarionovich 1–2, 326 4 Places Adamklissi, Tropaeum Traiani 385 Aezani, Temple of Zeus and Domitian 263 Alexandria, inscription from 133–34 Amyzon, sanctuary of Artemis 251 Aphrodisias Eusebian baths 279, 281 n. 20 Hadrianic baths 294–98 Temple of Aphrodite 278–79 n. 11, 279 n. 15 Sebasteion 279–94 South Agora, west portico 259 Aquileia, Greek inscription at 369–70 n. 37 Athens, Acropolis 87–89 Altar of Athena Nike 234, 244 Asclepius sanctuary 248–49, 265 Parthenon 263, 266 Temple of Athena Nike 153–55 Temple of Rome and Augustus 263 Agora Altar of the Twelve Gods 243–44 Phyle stele 74 inscriptions from 122–25, 128–30, 145–50, 152–63 Theatre Sanctuary of Pythian Apollo 157 Carystus, Euboea, alliance with 162 Ceos 149 Cephissus, sanctuary 249–50 Chaeronea, battle of 81, 163 Chios, battle of, dating of 162 inscription from 107–8 Clarus, Temple of Apollo 263 Columbia, N.Y. 233–34, 262 Corcyra 152, 161 Cyrene, altar to Apollo 251–52, fig. 10, 265

Delphi, Amphictyony 149 Apollo, Altar of 244–45, fig. 8 Apollo, Temple of 266–67 Arcadians monument 90–94 ‘Charioteer monument’ 151 Cnidian treasury 240 Corinthian treasury 240 ‘Daochus Monument’ 75–81, 152 dedication to Athena and Hera 173 Hall of the Athenians 236–37, 243 ‘‘Nauarchs Monument” 90–94 perirrhanterion, dedication of 34–36 Serpent Column (Hippodrome, Istanbul) 150–51 Siphnian treasury 241–43 Stoa of Aetolians 257 Stoa of Attalus I 257 Eleusis, inscription from 125–26 Ephesus Artemisium (Temple of Artemis) 237– 38, 259 Epidaurus, sanctuary of Asclepius 147, 235, 244–45, 248 Euromus, sanctuary of Zeus Lepsynus 245 Gerasa (Jerash) 392–93, fig. 5 Gortyn, Crete, ‘Great Code’ 258 Ikarion, Attica, Pythium 234 Khirbet Mukhayyat (Nebo), Jordan 390–92, fig. 4 Labraunda, sanctuary of Zeus 250–51, 260–61 Lagina, Temple of Hecate 233 Larisa, Thessaly 149 Leontini, Sicily 152–53 Mainz, Arch of Dativius Victor 398 Marathon, memorials 75 n. 8, 90 Menschieh, Ptolemais, Egypt, inscription  135–36 Metapontum, temple A 2 235, 259

412 Miletus 245 n. 57 Bouleuterion 258 Sanctuary of Artemis Kithone 245 n. 57 Stoa of Seleucus I 259 n. 137 Neapolis, Thrace 155–56 Neo Phaleron 249 Olympia Heraeum (Temple of Hera) 238–39 Leonidaeum 253–54 Megarian treasury 240–41 Metroum (Temple of Meter) 263 Sicyonian treasury 240 Thrasymachus column 81–83 Oropus 159 sanctuary of Amphiaraus 254–55 Ostia, Barracks of the Vigiles 327–28, fig. 1 fasti of 337 Forum Baths 350–75 ‘Square of the Corporations’ 388, fig. 3 Pergamon Athena Polias sanctuary 257, 258 Demeter sanctuary 257–58 ‘Great Altar’ 257 Petri, Nemea, inscription from 114–15 Pharsalus 247, 266 Phocis 149 Piraeus, theater of Dionysus 163 inscription from 116–18 Plataea, battle of 150–51 Pompeii ‘Casa di Paquius Proculus’ 316–19

Index Nominum ‘Casa di Trebius Valens 306–16 ‘Palestra Grande’ 319–21 ‘Via dell’Abbondanza’ 305 Priene, Temple of Athena Polias 253–55, figs. 11–12, 263 Rhamnus, Temple of Nemesis 263 Rhegium, Italy 152 Rhodes, Temple of Athena Lindos 31 Rome, Arch of Septimius Severus 327, 342–43 fig. 7 Arch of Titus 385 Greek inscriptions from 108–11, 118–21, 126–28, 131–33 S. Lorenzo fuori le mura 396 S. Paolo fuori le mura 395–96, fig. 6 Temple of Mars Ultor 231–32 Samos, Heraeum 83–87, 259 Samothrace, sanctuary of the Great Gods, Arsinoeum 255–57 Saqqarah, Egypt, inscription from 112–14 Sardis, Temple of Zeus Olympius 253 Scillus, Temple of Artemis Ephesia 250 Selymbria, Propontis 158 Sparta, inscription from 134–35 Syracuse, Temple of Apollo 235–36 fig. 2 Tegea, Thyrsos Basilica 397–99, fig. 7 Teos, inscription from 59 Thasos 155–56 Thera 246 Trapezus (Trabzon) 56–58 Vari, Attica 246–47, 266

Index Rerum agalma 84–85, 92 alliances, reaffirmation or abrogation of 147–48, 152–53, 162 altars, inscriptions on 56–60, 234–35, 244, 245, fig. 8, 249, 251–52, fig. 10, 255, 257, 265 amphitheaters 319, 398 antae, inscriptions on 233, 240, 245, 251, 253–54 fig. 11, 263 antiquarianism 53–55 architects 235–36, 246–47, 253, 260 architectural space 250–64, 282–300, 350–53, 368–74, 394–96 architraves, inscriptions on 233–35, 240–41, 244–45, 248, 251, 252 fig. 9, 253, 254 fig. 12, 255, 256 fig. 13, 257, 258, 259, 260–61 archives; see also records buildings 51, 146, 148, 341 asēmos 51, 61–63 athletes, dedicatory inscriptions 43–44, 75–80, 95–99 of Aristis 98 of Damonon 97–98 of Tellon 95 see also Daochus Atticism 49 aura 182–84 authority 169–72, 177–84 baths 200, 294–95, 350–63, 368–75 books 139, 214, 218–20, 224–25 collections of 223–25 bronze inscriptions 54, 211, 218, 232, 263, 326, 332, 338–41 fig. 6, 342–43 fig. 7, 380, 383, 384, 386 fig. 1, 393 caves, sacred 246–47, 266 cemeteries 169–70 coloring, of letters 260, 308, 388, 390–94 columns, inscriptions on 81–82, 220–21, 238–39, 282 conversations between inscribed monuments 73–104 competitive 73–75, 89–99 cooperative 74–89 see also athletes, dedicatory inscriptions; dedications, family; “spatial dynamics”

cornices, surface for inscriptions 244 curses, against vandalism 126 damnatio memoriae 1–4, 149–59, 311 n. 37, 324–45 dead, greetings to the 124 decoration, absence of 266 sculptural 75–76, 79–82, 95, 97, 233, 279, 369 see also lettering, decorative dedicated objects, ownership of 264 dedications 264 family 75–89 -chares and Tychandrus 87–89 Geneleos’ group 86 Cheramyes 83–87 Damaretus 96–97 Diagoras and Diagorids 81 Thrasymachus 81–83 See also Daochus of Christian churches 389–99 of pagan religious buildings Graham of public buildings Graham dedicatory formulas 81, 84, 92, 282, 354, 367–68 dies vitiosus 336 dipinti 303–4, 308–14, 316–21 diplomata, for veterans 340–41 dress, inscriptions on 83–84 duplicates, see inscriptions, duplication of edicta munerum, for public shows 308, 311–14, 319–20 elegiacs, see Verse inscriptions, elegiac elegy, Roman 205–26 elites 48, 58–63, 259, 265, 371–72 entablatures, inscriptions on 210, 353–63; see also architraves; friezes epigrams 35, 73, 73–99, 107–36, 150, 170–84, 187, 195, 196–203, 205–8, 212, 216, 218–21, 223–24, 249, 258, 265, 303, 354–57, 360–62, 369–72, 390–92 as song 178 sepulchral 173–76, 198–99, 205–9, 221, 223–24

414 epigraphe 29–45, 54–55 epigraphy, as discipline 14, 19–20, 29, 275–76, 332 ‘literary’ 49–53, 60 ‘symbolic’ 356–57 erasures 145–64, 325–27, 330–38, 340–45 absence of on bronze 340–41 errors, correction of 152, 158–59, 162–63 euergetism 250–58, 353–74, 398–99 eusēmos 50, 56, 58–63 fasti anni (calendars) 336–38 fasti consulares Capitolini 333–38, fig. 3 fasti Ostienses 337 fasti triumphales Capitolini 333–37, fig. 4 first fruits (aparchai) 88–89 ‘fixity’ of text 217 frames, of inscriptions 364, 367, 380–99 figures holding inscription panels 131–33 fig. 3.1, 397–98 fig. 7 tabula ansata 131–33 fig. 3.1, 381–99 frieze, as site for inscriptions 232–34, fig. 1, 285 figs. 3a-b funerary inscriptions, see inscriptions, funerary; epigrams, sepulchral ‘golden letters’ 12–13, 31, 232, 233–34 fig. 1, 380 graffiti 60–63, 200, 303–4, 314–16 frequency of 319 materiality of 315 granite, columns 353 granite, material for inscriptions 135–36 Greek inscriptions in western empire 108– 11, 118–21, 126–28, 131–33, 369–71 herms 127–28 hylomorphism 11–12 inscriptions, aesthetics of 56–59, 348; see also lettering, aesthetics of as part of a building 243, 353–63, 367–70 as stamp 42–45, 50 bilingual 276–77, 387 carving of 33, 50, 53–54, 56, 58, 59 chiseled out 149–50 concealment of 210 ‘copies’ of 276–78, 294

Index Rerum dedicatory 30, 39, 76–98, 107–8, 118 n. 22, 125–28, 133–35, 171–74, 220, 232, 235–67, 282–98, 313, 353–68, 387–99 definition of 33–45, 275–77, 382–84 demolition of 146–48, 325 duplication of 275–300, 362–68 erasure of 145–64 figs. 1–4, 325–27, 330, 330–38 foreignness of 35, 38, 54, 362 funerary 35, 39, 52, 55, 107–11, 115–18, 120–25, 128–30, 131–34, 172, 173–77, 180–82, 206–9, 233, 259 n. 141, 350 n. 2, 369–70 n. 37, 384–85, 387–89, 396 n. 53 ‘iconicity’ of 380, 389 illegibility of 54–55, 61, 63, 315, 348 inter-texts between 73–99, 278–300; see also conversations between inscribed monuments layout of 105–7, 277–300 legibility of 32, 58–60, 138–39, 217, 232, 260, 310, 321 oral performance of 35, 41, 170–83 over-writing of 305–16, 317, 319 painted, see dipinti ‘permanence’ of 17, 45, 50, 182, 195, 205–6, 210–11, 217–18, 221, 225, 243–44 readership of 5, 30, 55, 138–39, 232 n. 5, 275–77, 370–72 reading of, aloud 35, 178, 341 re-carving of 56–57, 162, 299–300, 326, 333, 337, 342–43 re-inscribing of 43–44 re-use of 2, 114, 244, 350, 353–68 scratched, see graffiti selling of 44 split across different surfaces 396 terminology for 33–38, 49–53 viewing/reading of 260 visibility of 232, 266, 275–76 inspiration, poetic 128, 178, 183, 196, 223 ‘King’s Peace’ 159–60 kleos 170, 178, 181–82 lectional signs interpuncts 286, 289, 290, 293, 362, 367, 389 paragraphoi 106–42

415

Index Rerum lettering 53–54, 56–60 lettering, aesthetics of 56–60, 283–84, 289–90, 295–98, 308, 367 decorative 283–93, 297–99 individual Greek letters 32, 283, 297 miniature 4 n. 7, 315 size of 313, 319, 362 limestone, material for inscriptions 112–14, 115, 118–20, 131–33, 234–35 material for sarcophagi 131–33 literacy 29–30, 32 marble material for inscriptions 107–11, 116–17, 122–26, 128–30, 134–35, 169, 206, 244, 251, 330, 351, 353–59 figs. 2–4, 362–67, 383 material for architecture 238, 244, 258, 351, 353, 394 material for statues 75–76, 88, 95 material for tombs 209 material, matter definition of 11–12 of literature 11 materials, see bronze, marble materials of writing, see writing materials materiality 3–20, 30, 171–73, 180–82, 223–26, 312–16, 324–25, 332–33, 340, 344, 348–50, 374–75 metagraphē 42–43 metopes, inscriptions on 254–55 monumentality 57, 313, 385, 389–90, 394–99 mosaics 351, 387–99 name-labels 86, 233 navy lists 162 ‘Nestor’s Cup’ 41 oaths 145, 147, 149, 212–13, 218 opistographs 353–57 oral performance 35–36, 174 papyri 210, 218–19 writing conventions in 106–7 Peace of Nicias 147 perirrhanteria 34–36, 45, 89 n. 59

philhellenism 371–72 poets 94 policy, changes of 150–51, 155–62 porticoes, inscriptions on 259; see also stoas posterity, competition with 97–98 praefectus annonae 349, 352, 362–63, 367–68 programmata 308–19 promanteia 240 pronaoi 258 propyla, inscriptions on 256, 257, 258, 283–88, 290–94 purity 244–45 readership, of inscriptions 211, 370–71 reading, direction of left to right 287 right to left 76–78 inscriptions aloud 341 silent 194 records buildings 211 re-inscription 43–44 reliefs 38–39, 54–55, 97, 116, 133, 238, 246–47, 249–50, 289, 385–86 fig. 2 resonance 183–84 sacred laws and regulations 159, 245 sanctuaries, Greek, 39, 56–57, 73–99, 157, 171–73, 232–33, 237–66, 385 public nature of 248 sanctuaries, of Christian churches 390, 394–96 sandstone, material for inscriptions 114–15 sarcophagi 131–33 school texts 107–8 sculptures 82–87, 351, 357, 369 Second Athenian League 159–62 Second Sophistic 48–49, 52–55 self-representation, of benefactors 372–75 serifs 117–18, 283, 308, 362 signatures, of artists 79 n. 18, 85, 241–43 fig. 7, 385, 387, 393 ‘site-specificity’ 171–73, 178–82 sound, as matter 4 n. 8 ‘spatial dynamics’, between monuments  73–99, 174–77 spatiality 169, 172–74

416

Index Rerum

‘speaking objects’ 34–35, 200–2, 214; see also writing, with a voice stamp, see inscriptions, as stamp statues, bases of 75–99, 151, 220, 231, 233, 235 n. 18, 263–4 n. 154, 349 n.1, 362–68, 372–73 bronze 82 n. 33, 90, 95, 151, 198 divine 55 n. 22, 76, 90, 190–91, 246, 247, 279, 293, 354–57, 369 human 56–58, 62, 75–99, 121, 151, 163, 176, 183, 198, 231, 233, 247, 263, 285–86, 293, 332, 338 re-use of 3 n. 5, 357, 368 n. 33 ‘speaking’ 98–99, 198 n. 30 stelae 37–38, 52, 54–55, 74, 75 n. 8, 85 n. 45, 97, 107–8, 112–13, 115–18, 128–30, 135–36, 145–49, 153–59, 162–63, 183, 245–46, 248–49, 250 n. 87, 327, 331 stoas 236–37 fig. 3, 243, 254, 257; see also porticoes supports, see architraves; entablatures; friezes; statue bases; stelae

as monument 37–39 as ornament 362, 380 and the gaze 4, 53–54, 327 fluidity/instability of 4–6 theaters, inscriptions in 163, 258, 278 n. 11, 351 tholoi 255 tombs 52, 175, 209 triumphal arches, imagined 389 imperial 336, 380, 385–86 fig. 2 in churches 395–96 fig. 6 tuff, material for inscriptions 120–21 trees, inscriptions on 213–18

tablets (tabulae) 30–1, 54, 201, 341, 383 as female 190–91 metal 211 wax 146, 219–20, 383, 393 temples, as votive offerings 235–36, 238, 251–54, 258–64, 282 text, arrangement of, see inscriptions, layout of as medium 7–8 as message 7–8, 32, 41

war memorials 74–75, 89–94 whitewashing, of walls or boards for writing  147, 310 writing, with a voice 13, 34–35, 113–14, 127–28, 178, 200–2, 220–22 without a voice 179, 188–89, 192–95, 197–98 writing materials 218–21, 225–26

urban landscape, inscriptions in 283–300, 303–21, 368–74 vacats 289 verse inscriptions 390–91; see also epigrams elegiacs 127–28, 360–61 votive pillars, see stelae