The Rhetoric of Unity and Division in Ancient Literature 9783110611168, 9783110609790

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The Rhetoric of Unity and Division in Ancient Literature

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Jonas Grethlein · Philip R. Hardie Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter Christina Kraus · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis Giusto Picone · Tim Whitmarsh Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 108

The Rhetoric of Unity and Division in Ancient Literature Edited by Andreas N. Michalopoulos, Andreas Serafim, Flaminia Beneventano della Corte and Alessandro Vatri

ISBN 978-3-11-060979-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-061116-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-060986-8 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020950017 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Acknowledgments  IX List of Tables  XI Andreas N. Michalopoulos, Andreas Serafim, Alessandro Vatri and Flaminia Beneventano della Corte Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research  1

Part I: Authors, Speakers and Audience Michael J. Edwards The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  21 Nick Fisher Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  45 Andreas Serafim “I, He, We, You, They”: Addresses to the Audience as a Means of Unity/ Division in Attic Forensic Oratory  71 Eleni Volonaki Rhetoric of Disunity Through Arousal of Hostile Emotions in Eisangelia Cases  99 Bé Breij “It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”: How Maxims May Contribute to Affiliation  127

Part II: Emotions Dimos Spatharas Projective Uses of Emotions, Out-groups and Personal Characterization: The Case of Against Aristogeiton I (Dem. 25)  149 Ed Sanders Xenophon on Strategies to Maintain Unity in Armies under Stress  167

VI  Contents

Part III: Drama and Poetry Ioannis Konstantakos Divided Audiences and How to Win Them Over: The Case of Aristophanes’ Acharnians  191 Andreas N. Michalopoulos Fighting Against an Intruder: A Comparative Reading of the Speeches of Pentheus (3.531–563) and Niobe (6.170–202) in Ovid’s Metamorphoses  213 George Paraskeviotis Humorous Unity and Disunity between the Characters in Vergil’s Eclogues 1 and 2  229

Part IV: Historical and Technical Prose Vasileios Liotsakis Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander: Plutarch, Arrian and Curtius Rufus  245 Alessandro Vatri Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism  275 Christos Kremmydas The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  293 Marco Romani Mistretta Finding Unity through Knowledge: Narrative and Identity-Building in Greek Technical Prose  317

Part V: Gender and the Construction of Identity Stefano Ferrucci Vanishing Mothers. The (De)construction of Personal Identity in Attic Forensic Speeches  335 T. Davina McClain Cato vs Valerius/Men vs Women: Rhetorical Strategies in The Oppian Law Debate in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita  351

Contents  VII

Simone Mollea Humanitas: A Double-Edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  373

Part VI: Religious Discourse Flaminia Beneventano della Corte Rhetoric of the Mortals, Rhetoric of the Gods. Deigmata, Phasmata and the Construction of Evidence  389 Michael Paschalis Ciceronian vs Socratic Dialogue in the De divinatione  405 Philip Hardie Unity and Disunity in Paulinus of Nola Poem 24  413 Note on Editors and Contributors  425 General Index  427 Index Locorum  435

Acknowledgements The editors would like to acknowledge a number of individuals and institutions whose help and support have been invaluable in the conception and completion of this volume. We thank the contributors, who have been very patient and helpful throughout the process of putting together this volume, in the face of many rounds of revisions and demands on their time from the editors. As editors, we have been fortunate to work alongside the contributors from our initial inquiries and theoretical meanderings, and we have been delighted to see how those exchanges of initial ideas and outlines led to the formulation of chapters that enhance our knowledge and understanding of the features and purposes of unity and division techniques, as they are manifested in a wide range of Greek and Roman texts and contexts. Many of the contributions to this volume were given as papers at the international conference, “The Rhetoric of (dis)unity: Community and division in GrecoRoman prose and poetry”, which was held at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, 23–24 November 2017. That conference generated stimulating discussions of papers that formed the basis of many of the chapters included in this volume, as well as several other excellent papers that are not included here. We are grateful to all the participants, including those not represented in the volume: Brenda Griffith-Williams, Cristina Rosillo-Lopez, Ilias Arnaoutoglou, Maria Kythreotou, Maria S. Youni, Myrto Aloumpi, Noboru Sato, Robert Sing, Roger Brock, Stratis Kyriakidis and Tzu-I Liao. The Department of Classics at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens and the Department of Social and Political Science at the University of Cyprus are to be thanked for generously covering part of the expenses of the conference that allowed the idea of this volume to germinate and grow. Andreas Serafim would especially like to thank two institutions, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (2019–2020) and University of Cyprus (2017–2019) for granting two postdoctoral fellowships, during which much of the work on the volume was undertaken; his new academic home, the Research Centre for Greek and Latin Literature of the Academy of Athens, for giving him mind-appeasing stability and excellent research facilities to timely complete this volume; and Millie Gall for reading and commenting on several drafts of the Introduction and of other chapters within the volume. Flaminia Beneventano della Corte is grateful to the University of Siena – Centro di Antropologia del Mondo Antico for supporting her research endeavours through a postdoctoral grant (2017–2018). Athens, Oxford and Rome, September 2020 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-203

List of Tables Tab. 1: Tab. 2: Tab. 3: Tab. 4: Tab. 5:

The examined public and private speeches of Attic forensic oratory  72 Addresses in the speeches of Demosthenes  76 Addresses in the forensic speeches of the Ten Attic Orators  78 “Academic we” in ancient Greek literary criticism: raw frequencies  279 “Academic we” in ancient Greek literary criticism: frequencies per thousand words  279

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-204

Andreas N. Michalopoulos, Andreas Serafim, Alessandro Vatri and Flaminia Beneventano della Corte

Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research

From the ancient Greco-Roman courts and assemblies to today’s political discourse, rhetoric is inherently divisive: it focuses on appealing to core groups and defining oneself against others. This volume, comprising 20 chapters (excluding the Introduction), aims to contribute to a developing appreciation of the capacity of rhetoric to reinforce affiliation or disaffiliation to groups in a wide range of texts and contexts. To this end, the chapters of this volume span a variety of ancient literary genres (i.e. oratory, historical and technical prose, drama and poetry) and themes (i.e. audience-speaker, laughter, emotions, language, gender, identity and religion). Classical scholarship still lacks a coherent, updated and detailed approach to the rhetoric of unity and division in this diversity of genres and topics that would enable us to answer important questions. What are the purposes and the techniques of the rhetoric of unity and division in ancient Greco-Roman prose and poetry, and what are their impact upon the audience in varied settings? Exactly how did they help speakers/authors achieve their goals? What are the convergences and divergences in deploying these strategies in differing genres, such as historiography and oratory, and in a variety of topics? What sources do we have about the reaction of the audience? How much difference does the nature of the speeches — i.e. forensic, deliberative and epideictic, and the generic dichotomies between defence-prosecution and public-private speeches — make in the exploitation of the rhetoric of community and division? Nuanced answers to questions such as the above contribute towards a more complete understanding of the potential of ancient Greek and Roman rhetoric to generate unity or division, and such an understanding serves to advance our overall knowledge of growing popular sovereignty and the decision-making processes in different institutional contexts in antiquity. This introductory chapter, entitled “Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research”, consists of two sections that serve to pull together the various threads that run through this volume, set out the volume’s overall approach and locate the individual chapters in the wider scholarly context to which they belong. The first section, “Scholarly perspectives and approaches to (dis)unity”, offers a survey of the most influential modern theories, scholarly arguments and interpretative approaches to the inherent potential of https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-001

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte rhetoric to generate unity or division. The second section, “A distinct approach to the rhetoric of (dis)unity”, discusses the purposes of this volume, and outlines the main arguments of each of its 20 chapters, presenting the ways in which they contribute to the overall enhancement of our understanding of rhetorical unity and division in the wide spectrum of genres and topics in Greek and Roman literature that the volume at hand explores.

 Scholarly perspectives and approaches to (dis)unity In his book A Rhetoric of Motives, K. Burke argues that a fundamental purpose of rhetoric is identification: a speaker gives signs to the audience, mainly through language, indicating that his “properties” are the same or similar to those of the audience, thereby affirming a shared community with the audience. This is what Burke calls consubstantiality — the sharing of substance between two individuals — a process that ends in persuasion. As he himself puts it, “you persuade a man only insofar as you can talk his language by speech, gesture, tonality, order, image, attitude, idea, identifying your ways with his”. 1 A speaker does not have to actually share motives with the audience; he may well create an appearance or image, i.e. the role or characterization that a person adopts, in order to identify with groups of people and embrace their values, while at the same time concealing his own real intentions, attitudes and beliefs. Rhetoric can also generate division, alienation or dissociation, or prolong hostility, denigrating individuals against the background of societal preconceptions, with the aim of isolating them from the community, and persuading the audience by setting up people, matters or ideas as antithetical to the listeners. “For every ‘them’, there is an ‘us’. A speaker can divide an audience from ‘them’ using strategies of alienation: ‘they’ are different in values (ideology), or ‘they’ are different in habits (culture, religion). Very sophisticated, and perhaps dangerous, speakers can make ‘them’ the scapegoat, what Burke calls the ‘vessel’ of our unwanted evils or ‘our troubles’. Using the rhetoric of the negative, speakers can symbolically or actually call for the sacrificing of these ‘scapegoats’, in order to solve ‘our problems’ or to purge ‘our guilt’, thereby purifying ‘our cult’”. 2

 1 Burke 1969, 54–55. 2 Smith 2000, 94.

Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research  

The quality of rhetoric/oratory to unite or divide affects the target audience’s cognition and emotions. B. Rosenwein has developed a theory in regard to emotional unity and division. In her Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages, Rosenwein argues that references to emotional communities include “what the communities (and the individuals within them) define and assess as valuable or harmful to them”. 3 If, for example, an emotional community attaches a strong value to the quality of being honest, then the members of that emotional community will react negatively when they judge that this quality has been threatened or devalued. It has become evident that rhetoric has an inherent potential to create a group identity or, to use the term of B. Anderson, an “imagined community”: a conscious, psychological attachment to a group, alongside the belief that this group has shared interests that are, in turn, at odds with those of other groups that may be constructed or implied by the speaker. The social identity theory of H. Tajfel and J. Turner indicates that the activation of group attitudes and identities and inter-group relations — i.e. in-group solidarity and out-group hostility — has a huge impact upon behaviours and attitudes in target audiences. 4 The central hypothesis of social identity theory is that members of an in-group will seek to find negative aspects of an out-group, thus enhancing their self-image. This interdisciplinary investigation into the rhetoric of unity and division across widespread areas of interest provides theoretical foundations upon which other research approaches can be built. Some work has already been done on the capacity of rhetoric to promote community or division in several contemporary fields of study, e.g. political science, communication studies and other contexts of verbal discourse. 5 This is perhaps because it is possible to see the present day as being marked by a rise in rhetorics of division — i.e. between “them” and “us”, nations and regions, religions and classes — as well as the rhetorics of unity — i.e. movements promoting topical and peripheral political and economic unions or ecumenical globalization. Examination of the rhetorics of (dis)unity sheds light on changeable cross-cultural and interstate identities, communities and prejudices, enabling people to understand complex socio-political phenomena.

 3 Rosenwein 2006, 842; also: Rosenwein 2002, 821–845. 4 Tajfel and Turner 1979. Also: Miller et al. 1981, 494–511; Conover 1984, 760–785; Lau 1989, 220–223; Carey 1990, 49; Huddy 2003, 511–558; Hall 2006, 388; Arena 2007, 151. 5 See, for example, Constantinou 2004 on stasis, i.e. the political discourse of sedition, and the ways in which it unsettles the vision of the modern state.

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte There are, however, only a few studies investigating the role of (dis)unity in ancient societies. The most important research in this respect is devoted to ancient religion, medicine and politics. It is, for example, perhaps a truism to argue for the capacity of religion to create a community: in classical Athens, or in the Greek polis in general, religion coincides with political community and works as the “glue” that keeps social groups and phratries together. “Greek religion is community-based, and to the extent that the polis forms the most conspicuous of communities, it is therefore polis-based”. 6 Or, as C. Sourvinou-Inwood, puts it, “the fact that all the phratries in Athens have the same main deities suggests that their most important cults resulted from a central articulation of cult, an articulation of the polis given symbolic expression and cohesion through cult”. 7 Religion permeated every dimension of people’s lives and fundamentally influenced what people perceived as “culture”. Festivals in the demes of Athens, for example, and important religious occasions, such as the Panathenaea and the Dionysia, helped the Athenians to celebrate the idea of communality, participating in the worship and the processions, the communal feasts and meals and the athletic or dramatic competitions. 8 Sourvinou-Inwood’s “polis religion” also describes the interconnectivity of religion and socio-political institutions beyond the polis level; Panhellenic congruity refers to the work in sanctuaries or Amphictyonies and religious leagues. Exploring the ways in which the political structure of the Greek polis shaped religious practices and representations, the model of “polis-religion” pays attention to myth and ritual, adolescent transitions, representations of the afterlife and variations of Panhellenic representation found in specific cities (“divine personalities”). Studies on postclassical religious rhetoric also explore the dynamics of unity and division in both the pagan and Christian worlds. 9 Unity and division have also been examined in ancient political and medical texts and contexts. Stasis, usually translated to mean “discord”, “sedition” or “revolution”, is considered to be both a medical and political phenomenon.

 6 Oxford Classical Dictionary, s.v. religion, Greek. 7 Sourvinou-Inwood 1990, 318; 2000, 51. On polis-religion also see: Durkheim 1912, 62; Harrison 1927, 487; Boyer 2001, 23; Burkert 1985, 335; Zaidman and Pantel 1995, 92–101. Scholarship on specific aspects of polis-religion in Greek and Roman antiquity includes: Dover 1974 on judicial oath; Mikalson 1983 on the religion dimension of treason and heroism; Parker 1997 on the connection between patriotism, land and religion in Athens; Martin 2009; Serafim 2017; Serafim 2021 on the use of religious discourse in Attic oratory. 8 Deacy 2007, 229–231. 9 Marchal 2006.

Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research  

K. Kalimtzis, in his book Aristotle on Political Enmity and Disease, explores Aristotle’s writings on stasis, especially in Book 5 of the Politics, within the tradition established by ancient Greek poets, medical writers and philosophers. Aristotle is shown to have proceeded from the standpoint that the polis had to be cast in a mode of what the Greeks called homonoia or “political friendship”, and that when other standards for friendship, such as wealth or liberty, are practised to an extreme, then the function of the polis may be “arrested”. In such a circumstance, the telic functions of the polis are replaced by disordered “movements” whose paralyzing effect is typical of a dysfunctional condition that often ends in senseless violence and civil war. 10 In the same vein, J.C. Kosak, in her chapter “Polis Nosousa: Greek ideas about the city and disease in the fifth century B.C.”, 11 draws on Hippocrates’ theory of the four humours of the human body (i.e. blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm) that, when in discord and division, generate disease, in order to shed further light on discord and disease in the body politic. Aspects of unity and division in Attic oratory and beyond, despite being ubiquitous in the speeches that have come down to us in a textual form, have either received only perfunctory attention, or are discussed without reference to their potential to promote affiliation or disparagement between individuals or groups of people. A wider range of studies about the ēthos, pathos, and other means of constructing or deconstructing identities in forensic and deliberative oratory, have been examined, but with only perfunctory attention paid to their potential to create unity or generate division. In Aeschines’ Against Timarchos, for example, references to the speaker’s opponent as being sexually and morally deviant from the Athenian community represented by the judges and the onlookers in the court, have been extensively examined. N. Fisher, in his commentary on this speech, is one of the few who directly and explicitly discuss this potential of rhetoric, relating it to the theories of (dis)unity. 12 The potency of humour and laughter to create community or division is also well articulated, 13 but more work is needed, especially inasmuch as humour and laughter have different functions in varied rhetorical contexts (i.e. forensic, deliberative and epideictic; public-private; defence-prosecution). It is evident from the above that there has been little study of the potential of ancient rhetoric to create community or generate division, and that such work has been quite fragmentary: there is no single, updated, full and comprehensive

 10 Kalimtzis 2000. 11 Kosak 2000, 35–54. 12 Fisher 2001. 13 Halliwell 2008; Serafim 2017, 92–99.

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte work in classical scholarship that explores the features of the rhetoric of unity and division. The volume at hand aims to make an important contribution to the existing classical and interdisciplinary research by providing insights into unity and division in a wide variety of Greek and Roman genres and topics.

 A distinct approach to the rhetoric of (dis)unity The value of this volume lies in its two distinct features. The first feature is that it offers a holistic approach to the techniques of unity and division in Greek oratory/ rhetoric and other texts and contexts of ancient literature where rhetoric has a pronounced role to play. This means that a wide range of genres and themes/ topics is examined. The broad thematic latitude of this volume has the potential to provide new insights into, and open up the terms of the debate about, unity and division. The second distinct feature of this volume is that it draws on theories beyond the confines of Classics — e.g. “imagined community”, group identity and several modern linguistic theories — to explore how unity and division were articulated in the Greek and Roman worlds. The interdisciplinary character of the volume, and its interest in the themes and issues that revolve around language, performance, communication, politics, culture, ethics and the complex power-relationships that arise from the techniques that promote unity and division within human communities and societies, would stimulate the interest of scholars across disciplines (e.g. communication studies, political science, history, sociology and anthropology etc.) in order to explore how ancient practices converge to, and diverge from, those developed across the ages and cultures beyond antiquity. As M. Beard rightly puts it, “ancient Rome [i.e. antiquity in general] still matters — mainly because Roman debates have given us a template and a language that continue to define the way we understand our own world and think about ourselves, from high theory to low comedy, while prompting laughter, awe, horror and admiration in more or less equal measure” (“Why ancient Rome matters to the modern world”, The Guardian, 2 October 2015). The interdisciplinary character of the volume is developed across six themed sections, each examining a specific aspect of unity and division in a diversity of ancient Greek and Roman genres, contexts and themes. Some of these sections focus on specific aspects of unity and division within broad generic categories (i.e. drama and poetry; historical and technical prose, e.g. historiography, science/medicine), whereas others examine the features and patterns of (dis)unity across a variety of themes and topics (i.e. audience-speaker, laughter, emotions,

Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research  

language, gender and religion). This theme-based categorization allows us to examine the convergences and divergences in the use of specific techniques of unity and division in a variety of topics. It is interesting, for example, to see how emotions, gendered-based approaches and linguistic-and performance-insights are used in a variety of prose and poetic genres to influence the audience, as well as what strategies the speaker or the author had at his disposal, and what limitations he had to contend with. Section 1, “Authors, Speakers and Audience”, the larger of all sections, consists of five chapters. In Chapter 2, “The Rhetoric of (Dis)unity in the Attic Orators”, M.J. Edwards draws on evidence from forensic speeches in the corpus of Attic orators to explore how speakers in the public arena of the Athenian courts bolstered their cases by employment of a civic rhetoric of unity and disunity. In Demosthenes 57, Euxitheus appeals against the decision of his deme to strike him off its register of members. One of the grounds for this decision, he alleges, is that his father, who had been captured in war and sold as a slave, had acquired a foreign accent (Dem. 57.18). In Isaeus 6, on the other hand, Aristomenes supports the claim of his friend Chaerestratus to inherit the estate of Philoctemon by noting immediately that Chaerestratus had acted as a trierarch for an expedition on which both men were captured (Is. 6.1); and in case the judges forget this sure indication of good character, Chaerestratus’ services to Athens, including his trierarchy, are repeated towards the end of the speech (Is. 6.60). Chapter 3, “Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes”, by N. Fisher considers attempts in Athenian political trials to create unity between speaker and jury by an appeal to an “imagined cultural community” to which they belong but from which their opponents should be excluded. The argument rests on assertions of ordinary Athenians’ understanding of their educational culture of music, poetry, athletics and sexual relationships, with its moral responsibilities and problems. The primary focus is a central strategy in Aeschines’ speech Against Timarchus. Aeschines chose, or was compelled, to build his case (above all in 1.132–159) on a carefully constructed argument that Athenians all valued as he did the erotic pursuit of younger males at gymnasia and symposia as a major element in their culture, provided it was conducted decorously and that mercenary inducements were avoided; and that Timarchus’ sexual history and subsequent political activities challenged this culture. That Aeschines won his case suggests that enough judges were persuaded that they did share these values and agreed that Timarchus’ offenses (and also Demosthenes’ offences against masculine deportment) set a bad example for the young at a time of existential crisis for Athens. In response, Demosthenes accused Aeschines of hypocrisy in arguing for moral reform, given his and his relations’ record of deviance

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte and political corruption (19.233, 280–289). The chapter analyses in more detail the rhetorical means by which Aeschines sought to unite himself (a new member of the elite) with ordinary Athenians in the defence of this culture, and conversely those by which Demosthenes must have developed his counter claim for excluding Aeschines from this cultural community. Among the rhetorical methods considered are flattering appeals to the judges’ intellectual and moral understanding, rhetorical questions and calls for audience reaction, aggressive humour, and the creative use of quotations from Homer and drama. In Chapter 4, “‘I, He, We, You, They”: Addresses to the Audience as a Means of Unity/Division in Attic Forensic Oratory”, A. Serafim identifies and discusses the ways in which addresses promote unity or generate division between the speaker, the audience and the opponents (both individuals and civic collectivities/political communities), and how the speakers manipulate unity and division to affect the verdict of the judges or influence the Athenians present in the court. Addresses are designed to engage the audience and serve the speakers’ communicative and persuasive ends. This intended effect of the use of addresses in the texts and contexts of forensic oratory, both in public and private speeches, is reinforced by language (e.g. word-choice, as in the case of the use of first person verbs and medical terminology) and contextual features (e.g. references to the polis and the constitution, patriotism, military service, religion and morality). The synergetic use of addresses, language and the context forges three groups, i.e. “You-They (He)”, “We-They (He)” and “I-You”, with the aim of influencing the verdict of the judges and enabling the speakers to gain a (legal and/or political) victory over their opponent(s). It has been argued that the speakers engaged in an incessant twofold game of inclusion and exclusion from the group: first, they create or preserve the unity of a group of people by underlining shared religious and civic values and convictions, and promoting the belief that this group has shared interests; and second, they exclude political rivals from the group as being alien and inimical to the religious and civic bonds that hold the community together. In Chapter 5, “Rhetoric of Disunity Through Arousal of Hostile Emotions in Eisangelia Cases”, E. Volonaki examines selected examples of eisangelia trials in the beginning and toward the end of the fourth century B.C. addressing hostility as the central argument for persuasion in public cases of treason. According to the eisangeltikos nomos, which was most probably introduced after 336 and before 330 B.C., the eisangelia procedure and the offences subject to it include firstly the attempt to overthrow democracy or conspiracy against the constitution, but also contain additional charges, such as treason, bribery of the rhētores, deceiving the dēmos by giving false promises and finally offences relevant to treason,

Unity and Division in Ancient Literature: Current Perspectives and Further Research  

such as damage of naval facilities or trading, arson of public buildings or documents and acts of sacrilege. In cases of eisangelia, which were of such a public importance and interest, issues of hostility are central to the argumentation concerning either attacks of ethos or appeals from pathos, particularly in the prosecution speeches. Moreover, the defendants-traitors of the city and the constitution in eisangelia trials are treated as the enemies of the judges while prosecutors identify themselves with the audience by sharing the same hostility toward the accused. Thus, for example, the case of Nikomachus (Lysias 30), an anagrapheus of the Athenians laws, who was accused of misconduct, while republishing the Athenian sacrificial calendar at the end of the fifth century, or the case of Lycurgus who prosecuted Leocrates for treason, eight years after the Athenian defeat in the battle at Chaeronea (330 B.C.) are some indicative examples to illustrate how hostility establishes the whole of the prosecution argumentation and constitutes an effective means of persuasion in court by employing the rhetoric of unity between speakers and audience and dis-unity between the accused and the Athenians, the whole of the city, throughout the fourth century. In Chapter 6, “‘It Takes More Love to Kill a Son Than to Vindicate Him”: How maxims may contribute to affiliation’”, B.M.C. Breij addresses the occurrence of maxims in the Declamationes Maiores ascribed to Quintilian, discussing the methods by which they were constructed, e.g. by using indefinite pronouns, and their actual content, which often is not quite so generic as their phrasing suggests. She argues that in many cases, the maxims may apparently serve to explore and provoke common values, but in the end they aim to establish and consolidate those values and the group identity of which they form an essential part. Section 2, entitled “Emotions”, comprises two chapters that discuss the emotional techniques of promoting unity or division in rhetorical and historiographical texts and contexts. In Chapter 7, “Projective Uses of Emotions, Out-groups and Personal Characterization: The Case of Against Aristogeiton I (Dem. 25)”, D. Spatharas employs modern cognitive approaches and the results of experimental psychology to explore how forensic speakers manipulate emotions by way of constructing social identities. He argues that the appraisals involved in the social emotions that we commonly find in the extant speeches enable speakers to highlight normative transgressions which identify their opponents with out-groups. In forensic contexts, social identities are therefore constructed on the basis of shared values which not only serve as a medium of exclusion and character assassination, but also as a vehicle through which speakers indicate assertively the characteristics which are typical of the “healthy” in-groups. Forensic uses of emotions, thus, typically appeal to comforting myths of normality by identifying the judges with the values favoured by the in-groups. Emotions such

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte as indignation, shame, anger, and especially disgust invest with salient instances in which citizens are accused of deviant behaviour and thus emphasize the “extra-statutory” norms asserted by the polis. Spatharas concludes that the use of emotions enables us to look into the idealized value-system of the polis. Not only are forensic audiences conceived as archetypical representatives of the values shared by the in-groups, but also as guardians of the polis’ social identity. Chapter 8 by E. Sanders has the title “Xenophon on Strategies to Maintain Unity in Armies under Stress”. In 401 B.C., the failure of a military invasion/coup d’état left a fissiparous army of 10,000 Greek mercenaries stranded in Persian territory, 1000 miles from the sea. Xenophon’s Anabasis famously tells (his version of) the story of the expedition into, and attempt to return from, Persia. As both one of the most senior generals leading the retreat, and later as experienced historiographer, Xenophon provides in his account of this march a unique insight into managing the leadership and maintaining the unity of an army that through rout, disease, starvation, deaths, attacks, disappointments and betrayals frequently threatened to dissolve into undisciplined bands of marauders, that would probably have been wiped out to a man. Taking this historiographic tour de force as its main source, but supplementing it with material from elsewhere in the Xenophontic corpus (Hellenica, Cavalry Commander, Cyropaedia), this chapter explores the diverse strategies by which Xenophon shows commanders (including himself) holding together armies through all the stresses that drive them to dissolve. These strategies include logical reasoning, openness, deception, displays of emotion, arousal of a wide variety of emotions (greed, fear, shame) in the soldiery, and occasionally allowing or promoting tactical disunity so as to divide and discredit opponents, in strategic pursuit of re-unity. Section 3, “Drama and Poetry”, consists of three chapters that discuss the techniques of generating unity or division in ancient Greek and Latin poetic texts. Chapter 9 by I. Konstantakos talks about “Divided Audiences and How to Win Them Over: The Case of Aristophanes’ Acharnians”. Dicaeopolis, the hero of Aristophanes’ Acharnians, wishes to end the Peloponnesian War but meets with opposition from the Chorus of Acharnian elders, ardent supporters of military action against Sparta. Dicaeopolis makes a speech on the origins of the war, a masterful piece of comic oratory, which divides the Chorus; half of the Acharnians are won over to the hero’s side, but the other half persist in their warlike attitude and call general Lamachus to assistance. Dicaeopolis then employs demagogic rhetoric in order to denounce Lamachus as a coward and simultaneously promote himself as a good soldier that conscientiously fights for the city. Thus, the remaining prowar Chorus-men are also convinced for the justice of Dicaeopolis’ cause. This core

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situation of the play provides an intra-dramatic reflection of the relationship between the poet and his audience, as set up in the parabasis. In the embattled Athens of 425 B.C., Aristophanes would be facing a divided audience in the theatre, resembling the Acharnians’ Chorus. Some of the spectators would have been weary with the war and ready to embrace Dicaeopolis’ peace project; others would have shared the vengeful will to pursue the conflict with Sparta. To ensure the favour of both parties and win the prize, the comic poet adopts an ambiguous rhetorical strategy similar to his hero’s tactics. The entire play, like Dicaeopolis’ discourse, is an advocacy of peace and a denunciation of warmongering. But in the parabasis the poet fosters an image of himself as an excellent war counsellor that will help the Athenians defeat Sparta — an image analogous to Dicaeopolis’ self-presentation as a patriotic soldier. By means of this double-sided rhetoric, Aristophanes hopes to transmit his anti-war message and simultaneously avoid the displeasure of the belligerent faction of his audience. Ambivalence, roleplaying and even jingoism are exploited in this comic attempt to enforce a hardearned mythopoeic unity on a reality of profound civic discord. In Chapter 10, “Fighting Against an Intruder: A Comparative Reading of the Speeches of Pentheus (3.531–563) and Niobe (6.170–202) in Ovid’s Metamorphoses”, A.N. Michalopoulos attempts a comparative reading of the speeches of Pentheus and Niobe to the Thebans. Although found in different books of the Metamorphoses, the third (3.531–563) and the sixth (6.170–202) respectively, these two speeches offer ample grounds for comparative treatment, since they share a common theme: a Theban king and a Theban queen resist the worship of a deity by their citizens. Pentheus does not acknowledge the divinity of the new god Bacchus, while Niobe denounces the worship of Latona claiming that she is far superior. Michalopoulos discusses and compares the argumentation of Pentheus and Niobe and the language they employ. He also examines how both speakers try to forge their proximity with the Thebans and promote their bonding and affiliation with them, and, on the other hand, how they attempt to distance themselves from Bacchus and Latona and arouse their people’s hostility against these religious intruders. Chapter 11, “Humorous Unity and Disunity between the Characters in Vergil’s Eclogues 1 and 2”, by G. Paraskeviotis, explores instances of humour and the ways in which these create unity or disunity between the characters in Eclogues 1 (Tityrus and Meliboeus) and 2 (Corydon and Alexis). In particular, the chapter examines Tityrus’ non-justified indignation for the wrongdoing he believes that he suffered in town (Ecl. 1.27–35), the mythological exempla used skilfully by Corydon (Ecl. 2.19–27) and his self-address (Ecl. 2.56–57). Thus, it is argued that humour reinforces the relationship (i.e. unity) between Tityrus and Meliboeus, even

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte though this happens through Meliboeus’ exile and it is also associated with the disunity between the lovers Corydon and Alexis, stressing that their erotic relationship is incompatible and unfulfilled. As a result, either serious (disunity of the pastoral world) or less serious (erotic relationships) matters in the pastoral world are treated with humour, which plays a significant role for the lives of the herdsmen and the pastoral world. Section 4, which has the title “Historical and Technical Prose”, consists of four chapters, the first of which is Chapter 12, “Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature on Alexander: Plutarch, Arrian and Curtius Rufus”. In this chapter, V. Liotsakis compares the narrative techniques through which three authors of the Imperial Era (Plutarch, Arrian and Curtius Rufus) present the issue of discord between Alexander the Great and the Macedonian Army. In his Life of Alexander, Plutarch absolves Alexander of the accusation that he succumbed to the lures of Orientalism, by conveying the message, through specific narrative schemes, that it was not Alexander’s alleged arrogance but the Macedonians’ inherent greed and avarice that were distortedly amplified by the Asian treasures. By contrast, in his Anabasis of Alexander, Arrian, though paying much less attention to the issue of disunity in the Macedonian army than Plutarch and Curtius did, draws the conclusion that the most celebrated moments of crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men should be attributed to the king’s immoderate temperament. Curtius offers a multidimensional explanation of the reasons of disunity during the campaign in Asia, by referring to the soldiers’ psychology and their relationship with leading figures of the army. These three different perspectives offered by Plutarch, Arrian and Curtius indicate that the authors of the Imperial Era did not merely accept the traditional interpretations of the topoi of crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men, but chose instead to develop their own judgment about them through intellectual speculations. In Chapter 13, A. Vatri talks about “Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism”. Texts define communities. In the first place, they identify the one consisting of their receivers. At the same time, they separate those who understand them and/or share the views or feelings they express from those who do not. In principle, these dynamics (deliberate or not) can be brought about by texts of any type and on any topic. Such a process can be explicit (e.g. in overt polemics) or implicit (e.g. if special registers, objectionable views, or references to the world knowledge of ‘the few’ exclude groups of receivers from functional communication). All of this is also true of ancient Greek texts. Apart from public/civic literature (e.g. drama and oratory), identity dynamics were brought about in “private” genres (e.g. sympotic and “sapiential” literature) as well as (postclassical) readerly texts. Rhetorical strategies defining the identity

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of the target readership can be observed, for instance, in (metarhetorical) works of literary criticism. Besides overt polemics against their predecessors, ancient critics often refer to “us” or “those who…” and use — as critics do — contrasts and strong expressions of praise or blame (e.g. “it is ridiculous that…”), as well as appeals to the reader’s (good) taste — which automatically exclude those who disagree with the critic, or fail to “feel” the effect described, from the group each critic aims to create (and instruct). Vatri, in this chapter, discusses examples of these linguistic and rhetorical devices, and the identity dynamics they trigger, from the rhetorical works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, the treatise On the Sublime, Hermogenes’ On Types of Style and Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics, highlighting similarities and differences that reflect the nature and purposes of these works and the audiences they aim to define. In Chapter 14, “Dio Chrysostom on (Dis)unity in the Cities of the Greek East under Roman Rule”, C. Kremmydas explores the key concepts of concord/unity (homonoia) and disunity (stasis) as reflected in Dio Chrysostom’s political speeches. This chapter examines their origins, symptomatology, different categories and the remedies he is putting forward, and considers the extent to which Dio’s political speeches may help improve our understanding of the ways in which key concept was manipulated in the cities of the Greek East under the Principate (27 B.C. to 284 A.D. and esp. in the late first and early second centuries A.D.). Chapter 15 by M. Romani Mistretta is entitled “Finding Unity through Knowledge: Narrative and Identity-Building in Greek Technical Prose”. The notion that rhetorical qualities are by no means alien to Greek and Roman technical prose is well-established in scholarship on ancient knowledge traditions (e.g. Roby 2016; Berryman 2009; Schneider 1989). However, the question of how the rhetoric of identification is employed by technical authors still remains open. Through a comparative case-study, this chapter addresses the use of cultural historical narrative as a rhetorical means of identity-building in two Greek prose texts belonging to different techno-scientific domains: the Hippocratic treatise On Ancient Medicine (ed. Schiefsky 2005) and Philo Mechanicus’ artillery manual (ed. Marsden 1971). Romani Mistretta argues that, in constructing narratives concerning the origin of their craft or science, both authors emphasize the collective and collaborative dimension of their discipline’s progress, in order to strengthen a sense of affiliation among practitioners. Section 5, “Gender and the Construction of Identity”, comprises three chapters. In the first chapter of the section, Chapter 16, S. Ferrucci talks about “Vanishing Mothers. The (De)construction of Personal Identity in Attic Forensic

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte Speeches”. After Pericles’ law on citizenship, civic identity and status were defined in Athens not only by the father but also by the mother: an oikos had to ensure that both parents were Athenians in order to transfer status privileges to their children. Male identity was now dependent on women. Even though legally decisive, mothers remained socially invisible. The identity of Athenian citizens became therefore more vulnerable and a reflection of this condition is to be found in some legal cases, particularly in hereditary cases. The mothers’ social position stimulated the development of rhetorical tools and argumentative lines, in forensic speeches, in order to demonstrate the mothers’ identity or to confute it, disregarding the unitary representation of the oikos and weakening the Aristotelian image of cohesion between individual, oikia and polis. Attacking mothers meant not only damaging a figure that a parallel “rhetoric of the oikos” considered as fundamental to its organization and breaking the “protocol” that required not to mention women in law-courts, but also introducing, through rhetorical tools, a gender-centered contrast regarding motherhood. Mothers lose their topical traits and end up fading away as a socially recognizable reality, to be recreated on a purely narrative plane: a conflict that defines the ambiguity of the definition of the maternal role, also shown in a number of cultural products of democratic Athens. Chapter 17, by T.D. McClain, is entitled “Cato vs Valerius/Men vs Women: Rhetorical Strategies in The Oppian Law Debate in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita”. In Book 34, Livy presents the speeches of Cato and Valerius arguing against and for repeal of the Oppian Law (34.2.1–34.7.15). Although scholars have primarily discussed the debate to determine whether the Oppian Law was a sumptuary law or a measure to raise funds during the Second Punic War, little attention has been paid to the rhetorical strategies that Livy uses in the speeches to create contradictory images of women and of women’s roles in Rome’s past. Livy has Cato craft women as a group that men must control and fear. He cites the story of the Lemnian women killing all the men on the island as something he “used to consider a myth and a made-up event” (34.2.3: fabulam et fictam rem), but he can now believe it because of his personal observations of the behaviour of the Roman women in the streets. He poses repeated threats of what might happen if women meet in groups or if they secede to force the repeal of the law (34.2.4; 32.4.7). Cato, however, offers no actual example from Roman history that proves that women are a danger to men. In contrast, Valerius unrolls Cato’s own account of Rome’s past to offer examples of women striving to help the state and willingly sacrificing for the greater good of Rome (34.5–7–11). Yet after Valerius demonstrates the good women have done, he also responds to Cato’s implication that women should be feared: this restriction would vex men, so why condemn the feelings of

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the little ladies (34.7.7: muliercularum) whom even little things upset? The historically accurate speech wins the day and undermines Cato’s attempt to put men and women on opposite sides when it comes to the good of the state. Chapter 18, by S. Mollea, is entitled “Humanitas: a Double-Edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?” In his famous contribution “Humanitas: Romans and NonRomans”, P. Veyne argues that humanitas is a key value in indicating inclusion as well as exclusion in Roman society. Although in Apuleius’ oeuvre the term does not seem to refer to the idea of Romanitas, humanitas is admirably employed as an oratorical weapon which can suggest identification and disidentification between the accused and other categories of people. Interestingly, this happens not only in Apuleius’ true judicial speech, the Apologia, but also in the oration which Lucius delivers in his own defence in the mock trial of Metamorphoses 3. In the Apologia, in addition to the superior culture that they share, humanitas is what binds together the proconsul Maximus, who also plays the part of the judge in the trial, his predecessor Avitus, the learned inhabitants of Athens and Apuleius himself, and sets them apart from Apuleius’ accusers and the uncivilized inhabitants of Sabratha. As for the Metamorphoses, in the mock trial which takes place during the Risus festival, Apuleius’ skills as orator even make of humanitas a double-edged sword. In what van der Paardt refers to as an “Apologia parva”, Lucius, charged with voluntary slaughter for killing three men (who eventually turn out to be three wineskins), seeks the Hypatans’ sympathy by resorting to the humanitas argument. In fact, given that the evidence against him is apparently incontestable, Lucius seems to have no choice but to make appeal to their common condition of members of the same, miserable, human society. Yet, Lucius’ weapon backfires, for the widows of the alleged corpses use the humanitas argument in a more sophisticated way, thereby reaffirming Lucius’ exclusion from the Hypatans’ community. The last section of the volume, Section 6, has the title “Religious Discourse”. The notion of religious discourse refers to all of the codified language that is incorporated in and can be extracted from an oratorical script — language that conveys ideas, beliefs and attitudes of people towards religion, and points to its use as a means of uniting or diving the audience. 14 Section 6 comprises three chapters; the first is Chapter 19, “Rhetoric of the Mortals, Rhetoric of the Gods. Deigmata, Phasmata and the Construction of Evidence”, by F. Beneventano della Corte, which aims to look into two different means of creating evidence and significance through signs — deigmata and phasmata. Deigma implies a process of

 14 Serafim 2021.

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte ostension which immediately and incontrovertibly generates knowledge in its recipient, phasma, vice versa, requires the mediation of an expert, such as a soothsayer or a mantis. These characteristics of phasmata and deigmata relate to a broader topic and concern two different communicative models: one based on unity, the other founded on division. Deigma is an artefact, a human reality and — while acting as a sign — its meaning can be directly understood by any recipient. Accordingly, the type of communication implied is comprehensive, immediate, unitary and accessible to all mortals. Phasma is, on the contrary, an event generated by the gods. It thus belongs to a type of communication which is inherently divine and addresses a restricted audience in a divisive manner. In Chapter 20, M. Paschalis argues that Ciceronian dialogue serves primarily the aims of rhetoric while the Socratic dialogue those of philosophy. While the Socratic dialοgue strives after unity by building on question and answer and ideally aims at reaching a commonly agreed objective truth, Ciceronian dialogue commonly consists in continuous expositions of contrasting or parallel speeches on the same topic. Following Robert Gorman’s distinction, Paschalis argues that Ciceronian contexts of question and answer are rare and even these in the overwhelming majority of cases are merely dialogic and not dialectical. He focuses on the De divinatione, which has a very clear oratorical structure consisting in argument and refutation: Quintus Cicero formulates along Stoic lines the arguments in favour of divination, while his older brother Marcus fiercely attacks these arguments and undermines the principles of divinatory science along the lines of Academic skepticism; there is no summarizing conclusion. Marcus’ speech is designed as a systematic rhetorical refutation of the foundations, principles, and methods of divination. It is a destructive and fierce attack on divination mixed with persistent scorn and ridicule of divinatory notions and their prominent defenders. Paschalis argues that, contrary to the Socratic Method, refutation by continuous discourse confirms and enhances disunity in the sense that it records and promotes existing dissension and division by casting it into a rhetorical frame. In this context Paschalis also suggests that Marcus’ aggressive attitude towards divination may reflect in form and substance ruthless forensic cross-examination as well as virulent political oratory. The last chapter of the volume, Chapter 21 by P. Hardie, talks about “Unity and Disunity in Paulinus of Nola Poem 24”. Late antiquity displays something of an obsession with the themes of concordia and discordia, an obsession manifested both in the historical and political sphere, and in the theological and spiritual sphere. In Claudian’s panegyrical and invective epics the desired concord of the western and eastern empires is tested by disruptive forces of discord. This chapter is concerned chiefly with the thematization of concord and discord in

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Christian poetry of the late fourth and early fifth centuries A.D., with a particular focus on the poems of (St) Paulinus of Nola. At the centre is a reading of Paulinus’ Poem 24, a text divided between (i) the comic but sympathetic account of the lifethreatening adventures of a humble letter-carrier, Martinianus, entrusted with the delivery to Paulinus of a letter from his noble and wealthy friend Cytherius, and (ii) advice to Cytherius on the formation for the priesthood of his son, concluding with anticipation of the youth’s eagle-like flight to a crown of glory, and of the whole family’s elevation on clouds to the presence of God at the Last Judgement. The poem works with an opposition between the unity of the orthodox Christian church, and the divisiveness, manifested in both spiritual and physical phenomena, of the schismatic ship’s captain, from the wreck of whose ship Martinianus and others of the Christian faithful are miraculously saved. In crafting his poem, Paulinus also engineers a coincidentia oppositorum of high and low, wealth and poverty, the comic and the sublime. This chapter also looks at Prudentius, in particular Peristephanon 11, on the martyrdom of Hippolytus, sentenced by his persecutor to be torn apart by horses in the manner of his mythological namesake, a physical sparagmos that serves a larger symbolism of spiritual division and cohesion in the poem.

Bibliography Arena, V. (2007), ‘Roman oratorical invective’, in: W. Dominik/J. Hall (eds.), A Companion to Roman Rhetoric, London, 149–160. Boyer, P. (2001), Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought, New York. Burke, K. (1969), A Rhetoric of Motives, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Burkert, W. (1985), Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical, Oxford. Carey, C. (1990), ‘Structure and strategy in Lysias XXIV’, in: Greece & Rome 37, 44–51. Conover, P.J. (1984), ‘The influence of group identifications on political perception and evaluation’, in: The Journal of Politics 46, 760–785. Constantinou, C.M. (2004), States of Political Discourse: Words, Regimes, Seditions, New York/ London. Deacy, S. (2007), ‘Famous Athens, Divine Polis: The Religious System at Athens’, in: D. Ogden (ed.), A Companion to Greek Religion, Malden/Oxford, 221–235. Dover, K.J. (1974), Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle, Oxford. Durkheim, E. (1912), The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, New York. Fisher, N. (2001), Aeschines: Against Timarchos, Oxford/New York. Hall, E. (2006), The Theatrical Cast of Athens, Oxford. Halliwell, S. (2008), Greek Laughter. A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity, Cambridge. Harrison, J.E. (1927), Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion, Cambridge.

  A. Michalopoulos, A. Serafim, A. Vatri and F. Beneventano della Corte Huddy, L. (2003), ‘Group Identity and Political Cohesion’, in: D. Sears/L. Huddy/R. Jervis (eds.), Oxford Handbook of Political Psychology, Oxford, 511–558. Kalimtzis, K. (2000), Aristotle on Political Enmity and Disease. An Inquiry into Stasis, Albany. Kosak, J.C. (2000), ‘Polis Nosousa: Greek Ideas about the City and Disease in the Fifth Century B.C.’, in: V.M. Hope/E. Marshall (eds.), Death and Disease in the Ancient City, London/ New York, 35–54. Lau, R. (1989), ‘Individual and Contextual Influences on Group Identification’, in: Social Psychology Quarterly 52, 220–231. Marchal, J. (2006), Hierarchy, Unity, and Imitation: A Feminist Rhetorical Analysis of Power Dynamics in Paul’s Letter to the Philippians, Leiden/Boston. Martin, G. (2009), Divine Talk: Religious Argumentation in Demosthenes, Oxford. Mikalson, J.D. (1983), Athenian Popular Religion, Chapel Hill/London. Miller, A.H./Gurin, P./Gurin, G./Malanchuk, O. (1981), ‘Group consciousness and political participation’, in: American Journal of Political Science 25, 494–511. Parker, R. (1997), Athenian Religion: A History, Oxford. Rosenwein, B. (2002), ‘Worrying about emotions in history’, in: American Historical Review 107, 821–845. Rosenwein, B. (2006), Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages, Ithaca, NY. Serafim, A. (2017), Attic Oratory and Performance, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2021), Religious Discourse in Attic Oratory and Politics, London/New York. Smith, C.R. (2000), The Quest for Charisma: Christianity and Persuasion, Westport/Connecticut/London. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1990), ‘What is polis religion?’, in: O. Murray/S. Price (eds.), The Greek City: from Homer to Alexander, Oxford, 318. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2000), ‘Further aspects of polis religion’, in: R. Buxton (ed.), Oxford Readings in Greek Religion, Oxford, 38–55. Tajfel, H./Turner, J.C. (1979), ‘An integrative theory of intergroup conflict’, in: W.G. Austin/ S. Worchel (eds.), The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations, Ann Arbor, 33–37. Zaidman, L.B./Pantel, P.S. (1995), Religion in the Ancient Greek City, Transl. by P. Cartledge, Cambridge.



Part I: Authors, Speakers and Audience

Michael J. Edwards

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators When I read the call for papers for the conference for which this Chapter was originally prepared, I did not think that I had much to say about the suggested category of “paratextual and non-textual ways of signifying” unity and disunity, through the visual arts, architecture and epigraphy, though I suppose that the images on the Parthenon frieze, once a symbol of Athens’ power and unity, have in recent times become the source of some disunity between Greece and the United Kingdom; and the integrity or otherwise of that architectural masterpiece is also symbolic of times of unity and disunity. Likewise, Simonides’ epigram for the fallen at Marathon, or even more famously the one for the Spartans at Thermopylae, might be seen as emblems of Greek unity, or perhaps rather of disunity — ironically, “Medes” encompasses “Persians” (a forced unity after the Persians defeated the Medes in the sixth century), whereas the terms “Spartans” and “Athenians” hint at other stories of Greek disunity: τοιγαροῦν ἐπὶ τοῖς ἠρίοις μαρτύρια ἔστιν ἰδεῖν τῆς ἀρετῆς αὐτῶν ἀναγεγραμμένα ἀληθῆ πρὸς ἅπαντας τοὺς Ἕλληνας, ἐκείνοις μέν· ὦ ξεῖν’ ἄγγειλον Λακεδαιμονίοις ὅτι τῇδε κείμεθα τοῖς κείνων πειθόμενοι νομίμοις, τοῖς δ’ ὑμετέροις προγόνοις· Ἑλλήνων προμαχοῦντες Ἀθηναῖοι Μαραθῶνι χρυσοφόρων Μήδων ἐστόρεσαν δύναμιν.

For this reason, you can see written above their graves true testimonies of their courage for all the Greeks. For the Spartans: O stranger, announce to the Spartans that here We lie, obedient to their laws.

And for our ancestors: Fighting for the Greeks, the Athenians at Marathon Laid low the might of the gold-clad Medes. (Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates 109 = Simonides, Epigrams XXIIb, XXI; trans. Edwards)

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-002

  Michael J. Edwards Nor did I feel qualified to speak in one of the other areas in the call, “to identify an “anthropological common core” of a “cultural rhetoric” of unity and disunity”, though these epigrams on the war dead naturally make me, as an Englishman, think of the Cenotaph in London, with its rather briefer epigram “The Glorious Dead”. But what I thought I could do would be to speak — and now write — on seven topics listed in the call for papers: language, emotions, performance, memory, humour, 1 gender-based approaches and religion, whilst paying attention to “narrative, argumentation, ēthopoiia and other techniques that reinforce affiliation/disaffiliation to groups”; and I will illustrate these themes with examples drawn from the corpus of the Attic orators. My first topic, then, is language, and here I will concentrate on accent. Unity and disunity caused by regional accents are doubtless a universal phenomenon, perhaps most evident in the UK at football matches. In games between Chelsea and Liverpool, Liverpool supporters will in unison taunt Chelsea fans with the accusation that they are cockneys (i.e. from London) who make their living as homosexual prostitutes (“rent-boys”), and Chelsea supporters will then retaliate in unison by taunting Liverpool supporters over their Scouse (i.e. Liverpudlian) accent with the chant “why don’t you speak *** English”. It must have been a frightening prospect for the young Mytilenean, usually thought to have been named Euxitheus and accused in about 420 B.C. of murdering the Athenian Herodes, to defend himself before an ordinary court in Athens in the wake of the disunity caused by the Mytilenean revolt; and the situation can only have been exacerbated by the fact that people from Lesbos spoke in the Aeolic dialect. Not that you would get this from the speech that survives as Antiphon 5, which opens with the topos of inexperience, arranged chiastically in an exemplary antithetical and balanced antithesis: ἐβουλόμην μὲν, ὦ ἄνδρες, τὴν δύναμιν τοῦ λέγειν καὶ τὴν ἐμπειρίαν τῶν πραγμάτων ἐξ ἴσου μοι καθεστάναι τῇ τε συμφορᾷ καὶ τοῖς κακοῖς τοῖς γεγενημένοις· νῦν δὲ τοῦ μὲν πεπείραμαι πέρᾳ τοῦ προσήκοντος, τοῦ δὲ ἐνδεής εἰμι μᾶλλον τοῦ συμφέροντος. I wish I had the ability to speak and the experience in practical matters equal to my recent troubles and misfortunes, but my experience of the latter goes beyond what is proper, while my deficiency in the former leaves me at a disadvantage. (Antiphon 5, On the Murder of Herodes 1; trans. Gagarin) 2

 1 The original call for papers specified humour theory, but that will not be my concern here. 2 See, e.g., Gagarin 1997, 177–178.

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  

The subsequent topoi which appear in sections 14 and 87–89 reappear in Antiphon 6.2–4, and one would hardly know from the written record that the young Mytilenean speaker of speech 5 was any different in origin from the mature Athenian speaker of speech 6. This is a factor that should be taken into account in discussions of how similar or otherwise our texts are to what was actually said in court. But the point here is that if the surviving text bears any resemblance at all to what Antiphon composed for his client, and not simply what he (or somebody else) revised for publication, he was clearly doing his level best, against the odds, to make Euxitheus appear no different from other, Athenian defendants, notwithstanding the fact that his first argument consists in demonstrating how Euxitheus was being tried in the wrong court by the wrong procedure, “something no one in this land has ever experienced before” (ὃ οὐδεὶς πώποτ’ ἔπαθε τῶν ἐν τῇ γῇ ταύτῃ, 9) — in other words, without explicitly saying as much, that his client’s nationality was being used by the opponents to unite the judges against him. It is pure coincidence that the speaker of my second example was also called Euxitheus. I note that this was a fairly common name in Athens and Greece in general, though it is not listed by Fraser and Matthews in the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names for Lesbos, presumably because the identity of the speaker of Antiphon 5 is not secure; and I also note that the name of the speaker of Demosthenes 57 is preserved not in the text, but in a later hypothesis by Libanius. Regardless of that, the Demosthenic Euxitheus is appealing against the decision of his deme to strike him off its register of members. One of the grounds for this decision, he alleges, is that his father, who had been captured in war and sold as a slave, had acquired a foreign accent: διαβεβλήκασι γάρ μου τὸν πατέρα, ὡς ἐξένιζεν· καὶ ὅτι μὲν ἁλοὺς ὑπὸ τῶν πολεμίων ὑπὸ τὸν Δεκελεικὸν πόλεμον καὶ πραθεὶς εἰς Λευκάδα, Κλεάνδρῳ περιτυχὼν τῷ ὑποκριτῇ πρὸς τοὺς οἰκείους ἐσώθη δεῦρο πολλοστῷ χρόνῳ, παραλελοίπασιν, ὥσπερ δὲ δέον ἡμᾶς δι’ ἐκείνας τὰς ἀτυχίας ἀπολέσθαι, τὸ ξενίζειν αὐτοῦ κατηγορήκασιν. You see, they slander my father, when they say he spoke like a foreigner. They leave out the fact that he was captured by the enemy during the Decelean War and sold into slavery, then taken to Leucas, where he fell in with Cleandrus the actor, and after a long interval returned safely to his family; so they accused him of speaking with an accent, as though we should be ruined on account of his bad luck. (Demosthenes 57, Against Eubulides 18; trans. Bers)

In her Ph.D. thesis on this speech, Kerry Phelan writes, “Presumably, Thoucritos’ accent was affected by the western dialect spoken in Leucas”, which was that of its mother-city Corinth, and also that “it would be hard to believe that a nonAthenian accent alone would serve as evidence against those who were not citi-

  Michael J. Edwards zens. Both the Old Oligarch and Plato attest to the fact that there was a vast mixture of accents and dialects in the city ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.8; Pl. Lysis, 223a, Prt. 341c)”. Here is the Old Oligarch passage: ἔπειτα φωνὴν πᾶσαν ἀκούοντες ἐξελέξαντο τοῦτο μὲν ἐκ τῆς, τοῦτο δὲ ἐκ τῆς· καὶ οἱ μὲν Ἕλληνες ἰδίᾳ μᾶλλον καὶ φωνῇ καὶ διαίτῃ καὶ σχήματι χρῶνται, Ἀθηναῖοι δὲ κεκραμένῃ ἐξ ἁπάντων τῶν Ἑλλήνων καὶ βαρβάρων. Further, hearing every kind of dialect, they have taken something from each; the Greeks rather tend to use their own dialect, way of life, and type of dress, but the Athenians use a mixture from all the Greeks and non-Greeks. (Ps.-Xenophon, Constitution of the Athenians 2.8; trans. Bowersock)

The fact that the speaker’s opponent Eubulides both used this argument based on the father’s accent and presumably persuaded some of the demesmen of Halimus by it is indicative of a situation in which not every Athenian was as accepting of foreign accents as the Old Oligarch might lead us to believe. But in defending Euxitheus’ paternity here by emphasising his father’s capture, Demosthenes perhaps missed a small trick. Another instance of someone being taken in war occurs in Isaeus 6, where the speaker, Aristomenes, supports the claim of his friend Chaerestratus to inherit the estate of Philoctemon by noting immediately that Chaerestratus had acted as a trierarch for an expedition on which both men were captured: ὅτι μὲν, ὦ ἄνδρες, πάντων οἰκειότατα χρώμενος Φανοστράτῳ τε καὶ Χαιρεστράτῳ τουτῳί, τοὺς πολλοὺς οἶμαι ὑμῶν εἰδέναι, τοῖς δὲ μὴ εἰδόσιν ἱκανὸν ἐρῶ τεκμήριον· ὅτε γὰρ εἰς Σικελίαν ἐξέπλει τριηραρχῶν Φανόστρατος, διὰ τὸ πρότερον αὐτὸς ἐκπεπλευκέναι προῄδειν πάντας τοὺς ἐσομένους κινδύνους, ὅμως δὲ δεομένων τούτων καὶ συνεξέπλευσα καὶ συνεδυστύχησα καὶ ἑάλωμεν εἰς τοὺς πολεμίους. I think most of you know, gentlemen, that I am the closest of friends with Phanostratus and Chaerestratus here, but for those who do not know I will give sufficient proof. When Chaerestratus set sail for Sicily as trierarch, I knew in advance from sailing there previously myself all the dangers there would be, but nevertheless at their request I sailed out with him and shared his misfortune, as we were captured by the enemy. (Isaeus 6, On the Estate of Philoctemon 1; trans. Edwards)

The emphasis is slightly different here, and there is no suggestion that foreign accents developed; rather, in case the judges forget this sure indication of good character, Chaerestratus’ services to Athens, including his trierarchy, are repeated towards the end of the speech (Is. 6.60). Euxitheus’ father, while not a trierarch, was nevertheless captured presumably when fighting for Athens, hence the importance of the understated remark, “they leave out the fact that he

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  

was captured by the enemy” — more emphasis could perhaps have been laid by Demosthenes on the fact that the father was captured when fulfilling his obligations as a citizen. Appearance might be another factor, as the speaker of Lysias 16 was all too aware: τῶν τοίνυν ἄλλων στρατειῶν καὶ φρουρῶν οὐδεμιᾶς ἀπελείφθην πώποτε, ἀλλὰ πάντα τὸν χρόνον διατετέλεκα μετὰ τῶν πρώτων μὲν τὰς ἐξόδους ποιούμενος, μετὰ τῶν τελευταίων δὲ ἀναχωρῶν. καίτοι χρὴ τοὺς φιλοτίμως καὶ κοσμίως πολιτευομένους ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων σκοπεῖν, ἀλλ’ οὐκ εἴ τις κομᾷ, διὰ τοῦτο μισεῖν. I have never been found wanting in any of the other campaigns and garrisons. Instead, I have always managed to begin the expeditions in the front rank and retreat with the rearguard. You ought to examine those who play an ambitious but responsible role in the city on these criteria, and not dislike a person simply because he wears his hair long. (Lysias 16, For Mantitheus 18; trans. Todd)

Mantitheus has to defend his long hair which, it appears from Aristophanes, was associated with young aristocrats who were knights (Ar. Knights 580–582), but also who admired Sparta (Ar. Birds 1281–1282). 3 The Spartans, of course, raised strong passions amongst Athenians. Aristotle in the Rhetoric (1.2.3ff.) discusses three types of persuasive technique: logos, ēthos and pathos. Anyone who is, say, a follower of a sports team or watches opera and plays or, indeed, goes to church will be familiar with the passions those activities can arouse, all the more so if they are active participants. Andocides was not a democratic team player, but was a member of one of the oligarchic hetaireiai that lay behind the religious scandals of 415 B.C. These hetaireiai continued to be mistrusted and a source for rousing pathos, as a fragment of Isaeus demonstrates: ἐβουλόμην μέν, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, μὴ λίαν οὕτως Ἁγνόθεον πρὸς χρήματ’ ἔχειν αἰσχρῶς ὥστε τοῖς ἀλλοτρίοις ἐπιβουλεύειν καὶ δίκας τοιαύτας λαγχάνειν, ἀλλ’ ὄντα γε οὖν ἀδελφιδοῦν ἐμὸν καὶ κύριον τῆς πατρῴας οὐσίας ... ταύτης ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, τῶν δ’ ἐμῶν μὴ ἐπιθυμεῖν ... ἐπεὶ δὲ τὴν μὲν ἀνῄρηκε καὶ πέπρακε καὶ αἰσχρῶς καὶ κακῶς διολώλεκεν, ὡς οὐκ ἂν ἐβουλόμην, πιστεύων δ’ ἑταιρείαις καὶ λόγων παρασκευαῖς ἐπὶ τὴν ἐμὴν ἐλήλυθεν, ἀνάγκη, ὡς ἔοικε, συμφορὰν μὲν εἶναι νομίζειν ὅτι τοιοῦτός ἐστιν οἰκεῖος ὤν, ἀπολογεῖσθαι δὲ περὶ ὧν ἐγκέκληκε καὶ ἔξω με τοῦ πράγματος διαβέβληκεν, ὡς ἂν οὖν δυνώμεθα προθυμότατα πρὸς ὑμᾶς.

 3 Cf., e.g., Sommerstein 1981, 175–176; 1987, 283.

  Michael J. Edwards I wish, gentlemen of the jury, that Hagnotheus did not have so shameful a desire for money that he plots against the property of others and brings suits like this one. But since he is my nephew and in control of his father’s estate ... I wish he would take care of it and not covet my property ... But since he has wasted, sold, and shamefully and wickedly squandered it, as I wish he had not, and since he has now attacked mine, trusting the members of his political club and relying on fabrications, I am compelled, it seems, to regard it as a misfortune that I have such a man as a relative and to defend myself before you as vigorously as I can against the claim he has made and his irrelevant slanders. (Isaeus, Against Hagnotheus fr. 22; trans. Edwards)

Strong stuff, clearly from the start of a speech and involving just the kind of intrafamily squabbling that was very much frowned upon. For his part, Andocides, even though he claims not to have mutilated the Herm allotted to him (And. 1.61– 64), admits to knowing all about what was going on, and his rhetoric, as was argued brilliantly some time ago by the late Anna Missiou, betrays his oligarchic tendencies. 4 The adverse effects the profanation of the Mysteries and mutilation of the Herms had on the unity of Athens just prior to the departure of the fleet for Sicily can hardly be overstated, and the executions and exilings that followed — and most notably the fall from grace of one the most prominent figures in Athens, Alcibiades — come as no surprise. Andocides does his best at his trial to rouse pathos amongst the judges for his own plight and that of his family members when they were imprisoned, with vivid and emotive narrative, direct speech and relaying even of his own thoughts: ἐπειδὴ δὲ ἐδεδέμεθα πάντες ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ καὶ νύξ τε ἦν καὶ τὸ δεσμωτήριον συνεκέκλῃτο, ἧκον δὲ τῷ μὲν μήτηρ τῷ δὲ ἀδελφὴ τῷ δὲ γυνὴ καὶ παῖδες, ἦν δὲ βοὴ καὶ οἶκτος κλαόντων καὶ ὀδυρομένων τὰ παρόντα κακά, λέγει πρός με Χαρμίδης, ὢν μὲν ἀνεψιός, ἡλικιώτης δὲ καὶ συνεκτραφεὶς ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ ἐκ παιδός, ὅτι ‘Ἀνδοκίδη ... πρῶτον μὲν σεαυτὸν σῷσον, εἶτα δὲ τὸν πατέρα, ὃν εἰκός ἐστί σε μάλιστα φιλεῖν, εἶτα δὲ τὸν κηδεστήν, ὃς ἔχει σου τὴν ἀδελφὴν ἥπερ σοι μόνη ἐστίν, ἔπειτα δὲ τοὺς ἄλλους συγγενεῖς καὶ ἀναγκαίους τοσούτους ὄντας, ἔτι δὲ ἐμέ ...’. λέγοντος δέ, ὦ ἄνδρες, Χαρμίδου ταῦτα, ἀντιβολούντων δὲ τῶν ἄλλων καὶ ἱκετεύοντος ἑνὸς ἑκάστου, ἐνεθυμήθην πρὸς ἐμαυτόν, “ὢ πάντων ἐγὼ δεινοτάτῃ συμφορᾷ περιπεσών ...”. We were all imprisoned in the same place. Night came on, and the prison was closed up. One man had his mother there, another his sister, another his wife and children, and there were cries and moans from the men as they wept and carried on about the trouble they were in. Then Charmides, my cousin, who was my age and had been brought up with me in our house since we were boys, said to me: “Andocides ... save yourself first, and next your father, whom you naturally love most, and next your brother-in-law, the husband of your only sister, and then all these other relatives and members of the family, and also me ...”

 4 See Missiou 1992.

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When Charmides said this, gentlemen, and the rest begged me, and every one of them entreated me, I thought to myself: “I must be the unluckiest man in the world!” (Andocides 1, On the Mysteries 48–51; trans. MacDowell)

The focus on the night at the start of the passage recalls a later scene of despair, the famous Elateia narrative in Demosthenes’ Crown speech: ἑσπέρα μὲν γὰρ ἦν, ἧκε δ’ ἀγγέλλων τις ὡς τοὺς πρυτάνεις ὡς Ἐλάτεια κατείληπται. καὶ μετὰ ταῦθ’ οἱ μὲν εὐθὺς ἐξαναστάντες μεταξὺ δειπνοῦντες τούς τ’ ἐκ τῶν σκηνῶν τῶν κατὰ τὴν ἀγορὰν ἐξεῖργον καὶ τὰ γέρρ’ ἐνεπίμπρασαν, οἱ δὲ τοὺς στρατηγοὺς μετεπέμποντο καὶ τὸν σαλπικτὴν ἐκάλουν· καὶ θορύβου πλήρης ἦν ἡ πόλις. τῇ δ’ ὑστεραίᾳ, ἅμα τῇ ἡμέρᾳ, οἱ μὲν πρυτάνεις τὴν βουλὴν ἐκάλουν εἰς τὸ βουλευτήριον, ὑμεῖς δ’ εἰς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἐπορεύεσθε, καὶ πρὶν ἐκείνην χρηματίσαι καὶ προβουλεῦσαι πᾶς ὁ δῆμος ἄνω καθῆτο ... ἠρώτα μὲν ὁ κῆρυξ ‘τίς ἀγορεύειν βούλεται;’ παρῄει δ’ οὐδείς. It was evening, and a messenger reached the Presiding Officers with the news that Elatea had been taken. Immediately they got up from dinner, some to clear the stalls in the marketplace and set the scaffolding alight, others to summon the generals and call out the trumpeter. The city was full of turmoil. At break of dawn the next day, the Presiding Officers called the Council to the Council-house while you proceeded to the Assembly, and before the Council could deliberate and endorse a proposal, the entire citizen body was seated up there ... Then the herald asked, “Who wishes to speak?” but no one came forward. (Demosthenes 18, On the Crown 169; trans. Yunis)

That was everyone together, the community unified; 5 as prisoners, Andocides and his companions were very much outsiders to the community, as was another defendant, the aforementioned Euxitheus in Antiphon 5: ἔτι δὲ μάλ’ ἐδέθην, ὦ ἄνδρες, παρανομώτατα ἁπάντων ἀνθρώπων. ἐθέλοντος γάρ μου ἐγγυητὰς τρεῖς καθιστάναι κατὰ τὸν νόμον, οὕτως οὗτοι διεπράξαντο ὥστε τοῦτο μὴ ἐγγενέσθαι μοι ποιῆσαι ... τούτοις γὰρ ἦν τοῦτο συμφέρον, πρῶτον μὲν ἀπαρασκευότατον γενέσθαι με, μὴ δυνάμενον διαπράσσεσθαι αὐτὸν τἀμαυτοῦ πράγματα, ἔπειτα κακοπαθεῖν τῷ σώματι, τούς τε φίλους προθυμοτέρους ἔχειν τοὺς ἐμαυτοῦ τούτοις τὰ ψευδῆ μαρτυρεῖν ἢ ἐμοὶ τἀληθῆ λέγειν. There is more, gentlemen: my imprisonment was the most illegal act ever committed. I was willing to post three sureties, as the law allows, but they would not let me do so ... This was to their advantage, of course: first, I would be unprepared, since I could not attend to my own affairs, and second, I would suffer physically, and because of this my friends would become more willing to testify falsely on their side than to tell the truth on mine. (Antiphon 5, On the Murder of Herodes 17–18; trans. Gagarin)

 5 See further on this passage Serafim 2015, 99–105.

  Michael J. Edwards Andocides’ talent for narrative makes his passage much more effective than Antiphon’s description of Euxitheus’ imprisonment before his trial, and the pathos of the scene may or may not have been a contributing factor in winning over the hearts of the judges and ultimately in securing Andocides’ acquittal. He perhaps also had some reason to think of himself as the unluckiest man in the world — on his previous attempt to return to Athens from exile, Andocides tells us how he provided oar-spars, grain and bronze to the democratic forces in Samos in 411 B.C., which resulted in the victory at Cyzicus in 410 (2.11–12), but on his arrival in Athens Andocides’ reward was to be imprisoned by the Four Hundred, who had seized power under Peisander: δεσμά τε ὕστερον καὶ κακὰ ὅσα τε καὶ οἷα τῷ σώματι ἠνεσχόμην, μακρὸν ἂν εἴη μοι λέγειν. οὗ δὴ καὶ μάλιστ’ ἐμαυτὸν ἀπωλοφυράμην. The imprisonment and terrible physical hardships that I endured afterwards would take too long for me to tell. That was when I was most sorry for myself. (Andocides 2, On his Return 15–16; trans. MacDowell)

Note, as in Antiphon, the reference to physical hardships, with the topos of speaking briefly. Despite this treatment, Andocides was now providing corn once again as part of a second attempt to return from exile (2.21). He was therefore doing his best to appear a good democrat, but for the time being, at least, he was fooling no one. Andocides, we may imagine, was a great performer while reciting his narratives and pretending to be a democrat. The study of the performance of oratory has become fashionable in recent times, due in no small measure to the work of Andreas Serafim. 6 Serafim and others working on new applications to the orators tend, with good and obvious reasons, to focus on the big set-piece confrontations between Aeschines and Demosthenes in the public trials on the embassy and crown. But as with Peter O’Connell in his recent book on The Rhetoric of Seeing, 7 it is also potentially profitable to look for signs of performance in other authors and forensic contexts, such as Lysias’ speech to the Areopagus defending a man accused of cutting down a sacred olive tree: καίτοι, ὦ Νικόμαχε, χρῆν σε τότε καὶ παρακαλεῖν τοὺς παριόντας μάρτυρας, καὶ φανερὸν ποιεῖν τὸ πρᾶγμα· καὶ ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐδεμίαν ἂν ἀπολογίαν ὑπέλιπες, αὐτὸς δέ, εἰ μέν σοι ἐχθρὸς ἦν, ἐν τούτῳ τῷ τρόπῳ ἦσθα ἄν με τετιμωρημένος, εἰ δὲ τῆς πόλεως ἕνεκα ἔπραττες, οὕτως ἐξελέγξας οὐκ ἂν ἐδόκεις εἶναι συκοφάντης.  6 See Serafim 2013; 2017. 7 O’Connell 2017.

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  

It was at this point, Nicomachus, that you ought to have called the bystanders as witnesses and exposed the whole affair. You would have left me no defence. Assuming I was your enemy, in this way you would have punished me. If you were acting for the sake of the city, by convicting me in this way you would not have looked like a sykophant. (Lysias 7, On the Olive-Stump 20–21; trans. Todd)

Stephen Usher noted the apostrophe here, 8 and Chris Carey in his commentary also noted the speaker’s “somewhat patronizing apostrophe to Nikomachos”. 9 Stephen Todd comments on the “relatively uncommon” address by name by a defendant to his opponent and on the “unusual” use of the vocative in defence speeches, without using the technical term apostrophe. For Todd, “the opponent’s name is given here and repeated at §36 and §39, not so much for the purpose of explicit character-assassination (as in Andok. 1.92–102), but rather so as to represent him as somebody who needs to be taught to do his job properly”. 10 This is fine, although dismissing his opponent as a sycophant is pretty much as explicit a character-assassination as you could get, whether named or not. Todd is also right to point out that the speaker here and in the next section suggests three motives for the prosecutor’s actions, all of which are plausible — personal vengeance, helping the city, and (in §21) making a profit. My point is that the opponent must have emphasized that he was acting on behalf of the city, i.e. indicating his unity with the citizen body and the accused’s disunity in literally attacking an object sacred to Athena, and so our speaker retaliates by (I imagine) literally pointing the finger back at his accuser. The simultaneous suggestion of sycophancy was then an attempt to bolster his defence against a charge which, if proved, would have resulted in exile and the confiscation of his property. Another use of apostrophe which is undeniably the culmination of an explicit character assassination may be found at the very end of Isaeus 5: διὰ τί οὖν ἀξιώσεις σου τοὺς δικαστὰς ἀποψηφίσασθαι, ὦ Δικαιόγενες; πότερον ὅτι πολλὰς λῃτουργίας λελῃτούργηκας τῇ πόλει καὶ πολλὰ χρήματα δαπανήσας σεμνοτέραν τὴν πόλιν τούτοις ἐποίησας; ἢ ὡς τριηραρχῶν πολλὰ κακὰ τοὺς πολεμίους εἰργάσω καὶ εἰσφορὰς δεομένῃ τῇ πατρίδι εἰς τὸν πόλεμον εἰσενεγκὼν μεγάλα ὠφέληκας; ἀλλ’ οὐδέν σοι τούτων πέπρακται. ἀλλ’ ὡς στρατιώτης ἀγαθός; ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐστράτευσαι τοσούτου καὶ τοιούτου γενομένου πολέμου, εἰς ὃν Ὀλύνθιοι μὲν καὶ νησιῶται ὑπὲρ τῆσδε τῆς γῆς ἀποθνῄσκουσι μαχόμενοι τοῖς πολεμίοις, σὺ δέ, ὦ Δικαιόγενες, πολίτης ὢν οὐδ’ ἐστράτευσαι. ἀλλ’ ἴσως διὰ τοὺς προγόνους ἀξιώσεις μου πλέον ἔχειν, ὅτι τὸν τύραννον ἀπέκτειναν. ἐγὼ δ’ ἐκείνους μὲν ἐπαινῶ, σοὶ δὲ οὐδὲν ἡγοῦμαι τῆς ἐκείνων ἀρετῆς μετεῖναι. πρῶτον μὲν γὰρ εἵλου ἀντὶ τῆς

 8 Usher 1999, 90. 9 Carey 1989, 116. 10 Todd 2007, 527–528, cf. 470. On addresses to the judges: Wolpert 2003.

  Michael J. Edwards ἐκείνων δόξης τὴν ἡμετέραν οὐσίαν κτήσασθαι καὶ ἐβουλήθης μᾶλλον Δικαιογένους καλεῖσθαι ὑὸς ἢ Ἁρμοδίου, ὑπεριδὼν μὲν τὴν ἐν Πρυτανείῳ σίτησιν, καταφρονήσας δὲ προεδριῶν καὶ ἀτελειῶν, ἃ τοῖς ἐξ ἐκείνων γεγονόσι δέδοται. ἔτι δὲ ὁ Ἀριστογείτων ἐκεῖνος καὶ Ἁρμόδιος οὐ διὰ τὸ γένος ἐτιμήθησαν, ἀλλὰ διὰ τὴν ἀνδραγαθίαν, ἧς σοι οὐδὲν μέτεστιν, ὦ Δικαιόγενες. On what grounds, then, do you think the judges should acquit you, Dicaeogenes? Because you’ve performed numerous public services for the city and enhanced the majesty of their city by spending a lot of money? Or because as trierarch you’ve inflicted heavy losses on the enemy and by contributing taxes for the war bestowed great benefits on your country when it was in need? But you have done none of these things. Or because you are a good soldier? But you haven’t served in the course of this great long war, during which Olynthians and islanders are dying fighting the enemy in defence of this land, but you, Dicaeogenes, have not served at all, even though you are a citizen. But perhaps you will claim to have an advantage over me through your ancestors, because they killed the tyrant. I honour them, but I don’t think you share one bit of their valour. First, you chose to possess our property instead of their glory, and you were willing to be called son of Dicaeogenes rather than of Harmodius, disdaining the right to dine in the Prytaneum and despising the seats of honour and tax exemptions granted to their descendants. Further, the great Aristogeiton and Harmodius were honoured not through their birth but through their bravery, in which you do not share at all, Dicaeogenes. (Isaeus 5, On the Estate of Dicaeogenes 45–7; trans. Edwards)

One can imagine the sneer on the speaker Menexenus’ face as he delivered the final, devastating words of this passage. This speech is the only one in Isaeus which has a reference to the Thirty, though they are not named (5.7). The hated rule of the Thirty features prominently in Andocides and, despite the pledge not to remember past wrongs (μὴ μνησικακεῖν), in the corpus of Lysias’ works, mostly notably of course in the Against Eratosthenes; and, as I have noted elsewhere, it is still brought up in works as late as the speeches of Aeschines, Demosthenes, Hypereides and Lycurgus, some seventy years or more afterwards. 11 But I shall note here an example from Isocrates 18, which was probably delivered in 402: ἐνθυμεῖσθε δ’, εἰ καί τῳ δόξω δὶς περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν λέγειν, ὅτι πολλοὶ προσέχουσι ταύτῃ τῇ δίκῃ τὸν νοῦν, οὐ τῶν ἡμετέρων πραγμάτων φροντίζοντες ἀλλ’ ἡγούμενοι περὶ τῶν συνθηκῶν εἶναι τὴν κρίσιν. οὓς ὑμεῖς τὰ δίκαια γνόντες ἀδεῶς οἰκεῖν ἐν τῇ πόλει ποιήσετε· εἰ δὲ μὴ, πῶς οἴεσθε διακείσεσθαι τοὺς ἐν ἄστει μείναντας, εἰ ὁμοίως ἅπασιν ὀργιζόμενοι φανήσεσθε τοῖς μετασχοῦσι τῆς πολιτείας; Consider this, even if I seem to be saying the same thing twice: many people are paying attention to this suit not out of concern for our affairs but because they think that it is a judgment concerning the treaty. If you decide justly, you will allow them to live in the city without fear. If not, how do you think those who stayed in the city will feel if you show that  11 See Edwards 2017.

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  

you are angry at all alike who gained a share in the citizenship? (Isocrates 18, Against Callimachus 42; trans. Mirhady)

This speech was delivered in a paragraphē, a special plea by the speaker against a prosecution brought against him by Callimachus over money confiscated during the time of the Thirty. Callimachus, clearly, was not willing to forget, and the speaker turns that to his advantage here by making this trial out to be a test case for the validity of the whole treaty between the oligarchs and democrats. This technique of magnifying the importance of the case for the future of Athens would be taken to new heights by Demosthenes, but Isocrates’ speaker uses it in a direct address to the judges to pressure them into maintaining the new unity after the overthrow of the Thirty: ἀλλ’ ἐκεῖνον μὲν τὸν χρόνον διετέλεσεν ἀποδιδράσκων καὶ τὴν οὐσίαν ἀποκρυπτόμενος, ἐπειδὴ δ’ οἱ τριάκοντα κατέστησαν, τηνικαῦτα κατέπλευσεν εἰς τὴν πόλιν ... καὶ μέχρι τῆς ἡμέρας ἐκείνης παρέμεινε μετέχων τῆς πολιτείας, ἐν ᾗ προσβαλεῖν ἠμέλλετε πρὸς τὸ τεῖχος· τότε δ’ ἐξῆλθεν, οὐ τὰ παρόντα μισήσας ἀλλὰ δείσας τὸν ἐπιόντα κίνδυνον, ὡς ὕστερον ἐδήλωσεν. ἐπειδὴ γὰρ Λακεδαιμονίων ἐλθόντων ὁ δῆμος ἐν τῷ Πειραιεῖ κατεκλείσθη, πάλιν ἐκεῖθεν διαδρὰς ἐν Βοιωτοῖς διῃτᾶτο. He passed that time [the Decelean War] running away and hiding his property. And when the Thirty came to power, then he sailed back to the city ... He continued to participate in that government until the day you were about to attack the wall. Then he left, not out of disgust with what was going on then but because he feared the coming danger, as he made clear later. For when the Spartans came and the democrats were surrounded in Piraeus, again he escaped from there and lived in Boeotia. (Isocrates 18, Against Callimachus 48–49; trans. Mirhady)

This part of the speech culminates in a character-assassination of Callimachus as one who stayed in Athens during the rule of the Thirty, but who fled at the slightest danger to the democracy from the Spartans — both during the Decelean War (18.47) and again when the Spartans besieged the democrats in Piraeus (18.49). The speaker himself, clearly, is equally unwilling to let bygones be bygones. With recollections of the Thirty, we have moved onto the topic of memory. Memory of the past is a staple of epideictic speeches in particular, but as we can see with Isocrates 18 it plays an important role in the forensic context too. A prime area for memory in a public setting is, inevitably, warfare: significant events of the past, often connected with military victory or defeat, feature prominently in the collective memory of a nation. Similarly to the ancient Funeral Speeches, in Britain we have our annual Remembrance Day on 11 November for those who fell in the two World Wars and later conflicts, with a ceremony (but without the speech) at the above-mentioned Cenotaph. For Britons, for example, two short

  Michael J. Edwards words, ‘The Few’, conjure up images of brave pilots of different nationalities defending the liberty of Europe in the summer of 1940. Their sobriquet comes from a speech given to the House of Commons on 20 August 1940 by our wartime leader Winston Churchill, which contained the memorable triad ‘Never, in the field of human conflict, was so much owed by so many to so few’. Churchill’s words in turn allude to a triad in the speech of the King in Shakespeare’s Henry V (Scene iii 18–67), ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers’, before another famous battle in English history, Agincourt in 1415. For Agincourt read Marathon, as in Lycurgus (1.104), where the part played by the Plataeans is, as usual, not mentioned, rather like the part played by Welshmen alongside the English bowmen at Agincourt: οἱ γοῦν ἐν Μαραθῶνι παραταξάμενοι τοῖς βαρβάροις τὸν ἐξ ἁπάσης τῆς Ἀσίας στόλον ἐκράτησαν, τοῖς ἰδίοις κινδύνοις κοινὴν ἄδειαν ἅπασι τοῖς Ἕλλησι κτώμενοι... At any rate, they stood against the barbarians at Marathon and defeated an army from the whole of Asia, and by risking their own lives they acquired a security shared by all the Greeks. (Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates 104; trans. Edwards)

Hypereides mentions the battle of Plataea itself in a very fragmentary passage, which is usually reconstructed to say that there were metics fighting in the battle (as in Cooper’s translation here), something which is not mentioned in other sources: ἐν το̣ ῖ̣ [ς̣] κ̣ιν[δύνοις ... ριπ̣ ... μὲν ἐ[ν] Πλατα[ιαῖς ... δήσαντες ο ... Ἀθη]νογ[ένη]ς̣ ... in times of danger at Plataea, uniting . Athenogenes ... (Hypereides 3, Against Athenogenes 30; trans. Cooper) ... in the dangers ... whereas at Plataiai ... having bound ... Athenogenes ... (trans. Whitehead)

David Whitehead’s translation of Jensen’s Teubner text reflects what is left of the Greek, and while he tends to favour the regular interpretation, he nevertheless comments: “The possibility that some more recent, even contemporary, event is the topic here can nevertheless not be ruled out”. 12 However, Hypereides goes on to contrast the actions of these metics with those of the Egyptian metic Athenogenes, who left Athens for Troezen after the defeat at Chaeronea in 338, and the

 12 Whitehead 2000, 339.

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Plataea fits nicely here. An Egyptian also gets a bad press in the speech of Isaeus we looked at earlier — Melas the Egyptian persuaded Dicaeogenes to claim the entire estate of the speaker’s deceased uncle, who was also called Dicaeogenes, at the expense of his four sisters: ... Δικαιογένης οὑτοσί, πεισθεὶς ὑπὸ Μέλανος τοῦ Αἰγυπτίου, ᾧ περ καὶ τἆλλα ἐπείθετο, ἠμφεσβήτει ἡμῖν ἅπαντος τοῦ κλήρου, φάσκων ἐφ’ ὅλῳ ποιηθῆναι ὑὸς ὑπὸ τοῦ θείου τοῦ ἡμετέρου. ἡμεῖς μὲν οὖν μαίνεσθαι αὐτὸν ἡγούμεθα τῇ λήξει ... εἰς δὲ τὸ δικαστήριον εἰσελθόντες καὶ πολλῷ πλείω δικαιότερα λέγοντες ἠδικήθημεν, οὐχ ὑπὸ τῶν δικαστῶν, ἀλλ’ ὑπὸ Μέλανος τοῦ Αἰγυπτίου καὶ τῶν ἐκείνου φίλων. Dicaeogenes here was persuaded by Melas the Egyptian, whom he trusted in everything else as well, to claim the entire estate from us, alleging that he’d been adopted as sole heir by our uncle. We thought he was mad in making this claim ... But on coming to court, even though we had far more to say and the juster case, we were wronged, not by the judges but by Melas the Egyptian and his friends. (Isaeus 5, On the Estate of Dicaeogenes 7–8; trans. Edwards)

Though Melas would later get his comeuppance at the hands of his friend: τῶν δ’ ἐπιτηδείων Μέλανα μὲν τὸν Αἰγύπτιον, ᾧ ἐκ μειρακίου φίλος ἦν, ὅπερ ἔλαβε παρ’ αὐτοῦ ἀργύριον ἀποστερήσας, ἔχθιστός ἐστι. Of his close friends he deprived Melas the Egyptian, who had been his friend from boyhood, of money he’d received from him and is now his bitterest enemy. (Isaeus 5, On the Estate of Dicaeogenes 40; trans. Edwards)

O’Connell sees no element of racism in the judges’ decision, even though as he points out Melas literally means “Black”, and “the original judges clearly concluded that a dark-skinned non-Athenian was more trustworthy than the witnesses for the speaker’s father Polyaratos, who seems to have led the defense in that trial”. 13 That may be right, though the speaker Menexenus does not actually say that Melas was one of the witnesses to the will in the earlier hearing, and there seems to be an undertone here with the three-time use in these two passages of the sobriquet “the Egyptian”. Lycurgus, for his part, was demonstrating at some length (as usual) how Leocrates’ flight after Chaeronea was a betrayal of Athens and its history, and that of the Greeks as a whole: ταῦτα ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι καὶ μνημονεύεσθαι καλά, καὶ τοῖς πράξασιν ἔπαινος, καὶ τῇ πόλει δόξα ἀείμνηστος. ἀλλ’ οὐχ ὃ Λεωκράτης πεποίηκεν, ἀλλ’ ἑκὼν τὴν ἐξ ἅπαντος τοῦ αἰῶνος συνηθροισμένην τῇ πόλει δόξαν κατῄσχυνεν.  13 O’Connell 2017, 27–28.

  Michael J. Edwards These lines are fine to recall, Athenians, praise for the deeds and everlasting glory for our city. But not what Leocrates has done; rather, he willfully disgraced the glory the city has accumulated from time immemorial. (Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates 110; trans. Edwards)

Lycurgus here has been recalling Thermopylae and Marathon, but in other passages Chaeronea is the focus, as: καὶ τίς ἀναμνησθεὶς τῶν ἡλικιωτῶν τῶν ἐν Χαιρωνείᾳ ἑαυτῷ συμπαραταξαμένων καὶ τῶν κινδύνων τῶν αὐτῶν μετασχόντων, σώσειεν τὸν τὰς ἐκείνων θήκας προδεδωκότα, καὶ τῇ αὐτῇ ψήφῳ τῶν μὲν ὑπὲρ τῆς ἐλευθερίας τελευτησάντων παράνοιαν καταγνοίη, τὸν δ’ ἐγκαταλιπόντα τὴν πατρίδα ὡς εὖ φρονοῦντα ἀθῷον ἀφείη; What young man who remembers his comrades, who fought alongside him at Chaeronea and shared in the same dangers, could protect the man who has betrayed their graves? Or could with the same vote condemn those who died for freedom as being mad and let the man who betrayed his country go unpunished, as if he were sane? (Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates 144; trans. Edwards)

So, too, Demosthenes can recall that disaster to his own advantage, ending with onomatopoeia (κατέπτυσεν) and paraprosdokian (we expect “us” not “you”): 14 νῦν μέν γ’ ἀποτυχεῖν δοκεῖ τῶν πραγμάτων, ὃ πᾶσι κοινόν ἐστιν ἀνθρώποις ὅταν τῷ θεῷ ταῦτα δοκῇ· τότε δ’ ἀξιοῦσα προεστάναι τῶν ἄλλων, εἶτ’ ἀποστᾶσα τούτου Φιλίππῳ, προδεδωκέναι πάντας ἂν ἔσχεν αἰτίαν. εἰ γὰρ ταῦτα προεῖτ’ ἀκονιτεί, περὶ ὧν οὐδένα κίνδυνον ὅντιν’ οὐχ ὑπέμειναν οἱ πρόγονοι, τίς οὐχὶ κατέπτυσεν ἂν σοῦ; μὴ γὰρ τῆς πόλεώς γε, μηδ’ ἐμοῦ. True, the city seems to have failed in its objectives, which is the common lot of all mankind when god so decides. But if it claimed to be the leader of the rest of Greece and then abandoned that claim to Philip, it would have been guilty of betraying all Greeks. For if the city chose to surrender without a fight the position that our forefathers faced every danger to acquire, who would not have spat on — you? Not, indeed, on the city, not on me! (Demosthenes 18, On the Crown 200; trans. Yunis)

It seems that Isocrates earlier and now Hypereides and Lycurgus are singing from the same hymn sheet — their opponents are not part of the historical unity of the nation and their actions have undermined it, whether behaving traitorously (as in the public suit for treason brought by Lycurgus against the Athenian citizen Leocrates) or simply having the demonstrably bad character that should invalidate a business deal designed to secure a boy lover (as in the private suit for damages brought by Epicrates against the Egyptian metic Athenogenes). The memory

 14 As Usher 1993, 240; Yunis 2001, 220.

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of Athens’ glorious military history was, indeed, a powerful rhetorical weapon, as is still the case today in Greece with the mention of the names Manolis Glezos and Apostolos Santas. 15 All this is very serious but, as Gorgias and Aristotle knew, you defeat seriousness with humour and vice versa: περὶ δὲ τῶν γελοίων, ἐπειδή τινα δοκεῖ χρῆσιν ἔχειν ἐν τοῖς ἀγῶσι, καὶ δεῖν ἔφη Γοργίας τὴν μὲν σπουδὴν διαφθείρειν τῶν ἐναντίων γέλωτι τὸν δὲ γέλωτα σπουδῇ, ὀρθῶς λέγων ... As for humor, since it seems to have some use in debate and Gorgias rightly said that one should spoil the opponents’ seriousness with laughter and their laughter with seriousness ... (Aristotle, Rhetoric 3.18.7; trans. Kennedy)

Humour is in short supply in most of the orators, but there is a notable exception in Lysias 24, where an allegedly disabled poor man defends his right to receive the dole of one obol per day. As Phillip Harding indicated, 16 the very title of the speech, Peri tou adynatou, where adynatou could be taken as genitive masculine (the disabled man) and neuter (the impossible), seems to create the upside-down world (mundus peruersus) of Old Comedy. For Harding, the speaker was an imposter, “an alazōn, if ever there was one”, and arguments like those used towards the end of the speech support the comic picture: ἀλλ’ ὅτι ἐπὶ τῶν τριάκοντα γενόμενος ἐν δυνάμει κακῶς ἐποίησα πολλοὺς τῶν πολιτῶν; ἀλλὰ μετὰ τοῦ ὑμετέρου πλήθους ἔφυγον εἰς Χαλκίδα, καὶ ἐξόν μοι μετ’ ἐκείνων ἀδεῶς πολιτεύεσθαι, μεθ’ ὑμῶν εἱλόμην κινδυνεύειν ἀπελθών ... ἀναμνησθέντες ὅτι οὔτε χρήματα διαχειρίσας τῆς πόλεως δίδωμι λόγον αὐτῶν, οὔτε ἀρχὴν ἄρξας οὐδεμίαν εὐθύνας ὑπέχω νῦν αὐτῆς, ἀλλὰ περὶ ὀβολοῦ μόνον ποιοῦμαι τοὺς λόγους. Or is it because I was in power under the Thirty and harmed many of the citizens? But I went into exile at Chalcis with your democracy, and although I could have shared in the politeia with them, I preferred to share in the danger with all of you ... Remember that I am not giving an account after administering public funds, and I have not held any public office for which I am now undergoing the audit of my accounts; but instead, I am making this speech for a single obol. (Lysias 24, For the Disabled Man 25–26; trans. Todd)

 15 On 30 May 1941, Glezos and Santas climbed the Acropolis in Athens and tore down the Nazi swastika flag that had been raised there on 27 April 1941. This defiant act of heroism established the two as national heroes. 16 Harding 1994, 202–206. Further on humour in the orators, see Spatharas 2006; Serafim 2020, 23–42.

  Michael J. Edwards The speaker’s standard defence against collaboration with the Thirty that he had gone into exile (in these circumstances a good sign, unlike in Hypereides and Lycurgus) is accompanied by the absurd idea that he “could have shared in the politeia with them”, which would have been impossible unless he had in fact been wealthy. Then there was “the ludicrous banality”, as Harding puts it, of his denying embezzlement of public funds by the fact that he was “making this speech for a single obol”. Harding shows how the techniques of the comic dramatist are employed by Lysias here, and Usher saw this speech as an “excursion into parody”, 17 a paignion in the manner of Gorgias’ Helen. Demosthenes, of course, was the best exponent of sarcastic humour among the orators, especially when it came to attacking Aeschines in the De Corona, but I will note here instead how Andocides, clearly a raconteur of the highest quality, destroys his opponent Callias with humour in a way that Cicero, a master of the art of sarcasm, would surely have been proud of. After narrating Callias’ marital and amatory adventures, he concludes: φέρε δὴ τοίνυν, ὦ ἄνδρες, σκεψώμεθα εἰ πώποτε ἐν τοῖς Ἕλλησι πρᾶγμα τοιοῦτον ἐγένετο, ὅπου γυναῖκά τις γήμας ἐπέγημε τῇ θυγατρὶ τὴν μητέρα καὶ ἐξήλασεν ἡ μήτηρ τὴν θυγατέρα· ταύτῃ δὲ συνοικῶν βούλεται τὴν Ἐπιλύκου θυγατέρα λαβεῖν, ἵν’ ἐξελάσῃ τὴν τήθην ἡ θυγατριδῆ. ἀλλὰ γὰρ τῷ παιδὶ αὐτοῦ τί χρὴ τοὔνομα θέσθαι; οἶμαι γὰρ ἔγωγε οὐδένα οὕτως ἀγαθὸν εἶναι λογίζεσθαι, ὅστις ἐξευρήσει τοὔνομα αὐτοῦ. τριῶν γὰρ οὐσῶν γυναικῶν αἷς συνῳκηκὼς ἔσται ὁ πατὴρ αὐτοῦ, τῆς μὲν υἱός ἐστιν, ὥς φησι, τῆς δὲ ἀδελφός, τῆς δὲ θεῖος. τίς ἂν εἴη οὗτος; Οἰδίπους, ἢ Αἴγισθος; ἢ τί χρὴ αὐτὸν ὀνομάσαι; And now, gentlemen, let’s consider whether such a thing ever happened in Greece before. A man married a wife, and then married the mother after the daughter, and the mother ousted the daughter; and while living with her he wants to have Epilycus’ daughter, so that the granddaughter may oust the grandmother. What ought we to call his son? I shouldn’t think anyone is good enough at calculating to work out what to call him. There are three women with whom his father will have lived, and he’s the son of one (so he says), the brother of another, and the uncle of the third. Who can he be? Oedipus? Aegisthus? Or what name should we give him? (Andocides 1, On the Mysteries 128–129; trans. MacDowell)

Douglas MacDowell, himself a man of some humour, dryly notes here, “Neither of these cases is really parallel to that of Callias’ son; Andocides is being sarcastic”. 18 But doubtless some, at least, of the audience were laughing. Many jokes, today as in the ancient world, are about women, though today female as well as male comedians tell them. Aristophanes was playing on an Athenian male ideal of women’s role in society that was very different from a  17 Usher 1999, 107. 18 MacDowell 1998, 135 n. 105.

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modern one, but which is represented, for example, by the mother in Lysias 32, to whom Lysias even gives direct speech: ‘καὶ νῦν τοὺς μὲν ἐκ τῆς μητρυιᾶς τῆς ἐμῆς παιδεύεις ἐν πολλοῖς χρήμασιν εὐδαίμονας ὄντας· καὶ ταῦτα μὲν καλῶς ποιεῖς· τοὺς δ’ ἐμοὺς ἀδικεῖς, οὓς ἀτίμους ἐκ τῆς οἰκίας ἐκβαλὼν ἀντὶ πλουσίων πτωχοὺς ἀποδεῖξαι προθυμεῖ. καὶ ἐπὶ τοιούτοις ἔργοις οὔτε τοὺς θεοὺς φοβεῖ, οὔτε ἐμὲ τὴν συνειδυῖαν αἰσχύνῃ, οὔτε τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ μέμνησαι, ἀλλὰ πάντας ἡμᾶς περὶ ἐλάττονος ποιεῖ χρημάτων’. “You are at this moment bringing up my stepmother’s children in prosperity, with plenty of money, and as far as that goes I do not blame you. But you are wronging my children, by throwing them out of the house in dishonour and by daring to display them in public as beggars rather than rich men. Such behaviour shows that you do not fear the gods, that you are not ashamed of my knowing your guilt, and that you do not respect the memory of your brother. Instead, you rate us all as less important than money.” (Lysias 32, Against Diogeiton 17; trans. Todd)

Diogeiton’s character is destroyed by his own daughter: the tricolon of the results of his bad behaviour, “that you do not fear the gods, that you are not ashamed of my knowing your guilt, and that you do not respect the memory of your brother”, indicates graphically how Diogeiton lives outside the rules of normal, civilized Athenian society. Another speaker, Apollodorus, neatly combines a picture of normal Athenian domesticity with the kind of low-life activity that could, if unchecked, undermine it and the whole city: τί δὲ καὶ φήσειεν ἂν ὑμῶν ἕκαστος εἰσιὼν πρὸς τὴν ἑαυτοῦ γυναῖκ’ ἢ θυγατέρα ἢ μητέρα, ἀποψηφισάμενος ταύτης, ἐπειδὰν ἔρηται ὑμᾶς ‘ποῦ ἦτε;’ καὶ εἴπητε ὅτι ‘ἐδικάζομεν;’ ‘τῷ;’ ἐρήσεται εὐθύς. ‘Νεαίρᾳ’ δῆλον ὅτι φήσετε (οὐ γάρ;) ‘ὅτι ξένη οὖσα ἀστῷ συνοικεῖ παρὰ τὸν νόμον, καὶ ὅτι τὴν θυγατέρα μεμοιχευμένην ἐξέδωκεν Θεογένει τῷ βασιλεύσαντι, καὶ αὕτη ἔθυσε τὰ ἱερὰ τὰ ἄρρητα ὑπὲρ τῆς πόλεως καὶ τῷ Διονύσῳ γυνὴ ἐδόθη’, καὶ τἄλλα διηγούμενοι τὴν κατηγορίαν αὐτῆς, ὡς καὶ μνημονικῶς καὶ ἐπιμελῶς περὶ ἑκάστου κατηγορήθη. αἱ δὲ ἀκούσασαι ἐρήσονται ‘τί οὖν ἐποιήσατε;’ ὑμεῖς δὲ φήσετε ‘ἀπεψηφίσμεθα.’ οὐκοῦν ἤδη αἱ μὲν σωφρονέσταται τῶν γυναικῶν ὀργισθήσονται ὑμῖν, διότι ὁμοίως αὐταῖς ταύτην κατηξιοῦτε μετέχειν τῶν τῆς πόλεως καὶ τῶν ἱερῶν· ὅσαι δ’ ἀνόητοι, φανερῶς ἐπιδείκνυτε ποιεῖν ὅ τι ἂν βούλωνται, ὡς ἄδειαν ὑμῶν καὶ τῶν νόμων δεδωκότων· δόξετε γὰρ ὀλιγώρως καὶ ῥᾳθύμως φέροντες ὁμογνώμονες καὶ αὐτοὶ εἶναι τοῖς ταύτης τρόποις. If you acquit this woman, what will each of you say when you return home to your wife or daughter or mother when they ask you, “Where were you?” You answer, “We were judging a case.” The next question will be, “Who was on trial?” Of course you’ll answer, “Neaira. The charge was that she is a foreigner who lived with an Athenian as married to him, in violation of the law, and that she gave her daughter, a corrupted woman, to Theogenes when he became Basileus; and that she performed the secret, holy sacrifices for the city and was made the wife to Dionysus.” And you will go through the rest of the accusations against her, recalling how memorably and carefully each of the charges was presented. When they

  Michael J. Edwards hear this, they will ask, “Well, what did you do?” And you will say, “We acquitted her.” At once, the most upright of the women will be angry with you for having thought it proper that this woman share the city and its religion on an equal basis with them. As for the women with less sense, you will plainly be directing them to do whatever they want, since you and the laws have granted them immunity. You will seem to be reckless, lazy, and in sympathy with Neaira’s way of life. (Ps.-Demosthenes (Apollodorus) 59, Against Neaira 110–111; trans. Bers)

Women again get a voice here, even if only a small one, but they are denied one in another trial where the unity of the family was at issue: Ὡς μὲν ἑταίρα ἦν τῷ βουλομένῳ καὶ οὐ γυνὴ τοῦ ἡμετέρου θείου, ἣν οὗτος ἐγγυῆσαι ἐκείνῳ μεμαρτύρηκεν, ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων οἰκείων καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν γειτόνων τῶν ἐκείνου μεμαρτύρηται πρὸς ὑμᾶς· οἳ μάχας καὶ κώμους καὶ ἀσέλγειαν πολλήν, ὁπότε ἡ τούτου ἀδελφὴ εἴη παρ’ αὐτῷ, μεμαρτυρήκασιν γίγνεσθαι περὶ αὐτῆς. καίτοι οὐ δή πού γε ἐπὶ γαμετὰς γυναῖκας οὐδεὶς ἂν κωμάζειν τολμήσειεν· οὐδὲ αἱ γαμεταὶ γυναῖκες ἔρχονται μετὰ τῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐπὶ τὰ δεῖπνα, οὐδὲ συνδειπνεῖν ἀξιοῦσι μετὰ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων, καὶ ταῦτα μετὰ τῶν ἐπιτυχόντων. You’ve heard the testimony of Pyrrhus’ other friends and neighbors that the woman whom the defendant has testified he betrothed to our uncle was a hetaira available to anybody who wanted her and was not his wife. They have testified that the defendant’s sister was the subject of fights, revelry, and frequent disorder whenever she was at Pyrrhus’ house. But I don’t suppose that anybody would dare to sing songs about a married woman, and married women do not go with their husbands to dinner parties or see fit to dine with strangers, especially chance visitors. (Isaeus 3, On the Estate of Pyrrhus 13–14; trans. Edwards)

In this speech, 19 it is the speaker’s task to demonstrate that his opponent’s sister was not the wife of Pyrrhus and therefore her daughter, whom he names as Phile, was not legitimate and entitled to inherit Pyrrhus’ estate. The speaker names Phile, partly because he wants to use it in an argument that Pyrrhus’ unreliable uncles had testified her real name was Cleitarete, but more (I think) subtly to insinuate that she cannot be a citizen woman, because if she were, he would not be able to name her in court, as was the convention. The citizen status of another woman who is named in a speech of Isaeus, Callippe in Isaeus 6, is not directly disputed by the speaker there, but naming her forms part of his demonstration that she had not been married to Euctemon and was not the mother of the opponents in this case, who would then be legitimate heirs. Their real mother, the speaker Aristomenes alleges, was a prostitute named Alce and their father a freedman named Dion:

 19 On which see Hatzilambrou 2018.

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κατοικισθεῖσα δ’ ἐνταυθοῖ πολλῶν καὶ κακῶν ἦρξεν, ὦ ἄνδρες. φοιτῶν γὰρ ὁ Εὐκτήμων ἐπὶ τὸ ἐνοίκιον ἑκάστοτε, τὰ πολλὰ διέτριβεν ἐν τῇ συνοικίᾳ, ἐνίοτε δὲ καὶ ἐσιτεῖτο μετὰ τῆς ἀνθρώπου, καταλιπὼν καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τοὺς παῖδας καὶ τὴν οἰκίαν ἣν ᾤκει. χαλεπῶς δὲ φερούσης τῆς γυναικὸς καὶ τῶν ὑέων οὐχ ὅπως ἐπαύσατο, ἀλλὰ τελευτῶν παντελῶς διῃτᾶτο ἐκεῖ καὶ οὕτω διετέθη εἴθ’ ὑπὸ φαρμάκων εἴθ’ ὑπὸ νόσου εἴθ’ ὑπ’ ἄλλου τινός, ὥστε ἐπείσθη ὑπ’ αὐτῆς τὸν πρεσβύτερον τοῖν παίδοιν εἰσαγαγεῖν εἰς τοὺς φράτερας ἐπὶ τῷ αὑτοῦ ὀνόματι. [Alce’s] establishment there was the start of many evils, gentlemen. Euctemon regularly went there for the rent and would spend much of his time in the apartment block; sometimes he even dined with the woman, abandoning his wife and children and the house he lived in. Despite the protests of his wife and sons, he not only didn’t stop going there but in the end he lived there completely, and he was reduced to such a state either by drugs or disease or something else that she persuaded him to introduce the older of the two boys to the members of his phratry under his own name. (Isaeus 6, On the Estate of Philoctemon 21; trans. Edwards)

Isaeus’ remark in the first sentence “was the start of many evils” recalls similar ones in the Iliad (5.63, 11.604), Herodotus (5.97.3) and Thucydides (2.12.3), which are parodied at Ar. Peace 435–436, 20 but perhaps more important here are the words “she persuaded him to introduce the older of the two boys to the members of his phratry under his own name”. Aristomenes, then, is forced to break the convention by the lies of his opponents, who named Callippe at a preliminary hearing before the archon (6.13), and the (alleged) fact that they were really the sons of a prostitute trying to infiltrate the citizen body is a dire warning to the judges of what can happen when family norms are transgressed. A number of the above passages touch on religion, and I shall end this essay with this vital element of life in ancient Athens. The trial of Socrates for impiety, in the fraught period following the Peloponnesian War, is doubtless the bestknown example of the democracy standing united against those who were deemed to be threats to that unity. Andocides — who may, ironically, have been a member of the Ceryces clan, which with the Eumolpids provided the priesthoods for the Mysteries 21 — was another whose anti-religious actions had put him outside the community, literally with his exile in the wake of the Mysteries and Herms scandal. But whereas Socrates was condemned for speculation about the nature of the gods, Andocides is careful to conclude his argumentation in the Mysteries speech with a religious argument that Socrates would have scorned:

 20 See Hornblower 1991, 250. 21 See Todd 2007, 402.

  Michael J. Edwards κατηγόρησαν δέ μου καὶ περὶ τῶν ναυκληριῶν καὶ περὶ τῆς ἐμπορίας, ὡς ἄρα οἱ θεοὶ διὰ τοῦτό με ἐκ τῶν κινδύνων σῴσειαν, ἵνα ἐλθὼν δεῦρο, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὑπὸ Κηφισίου ἀπολοίμην. ἐγὼ δὲ, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, οὐκ ἀξιῶ τοὺς θεοὺς τοιαύτην γνώμην ἔχειν, ὥστ’ εἰ ἐνόμιζον ὑπ’ ἐμοῦ ἀδικεῖσθαι, λαμβάνοντάς με ἐν τοῖς μεγίστοις κινδύνοις μὴ τιμωρεῖσθαι ... ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν, ὦ ἄνδρες, ἡγοῦμαι χρῆναι νομίζειν τοὺς τοιούτους κινδύνους ἀνθρωπίνους, τοὺς δὲ κατὰ θάλατταν θείους. εἴπερ οὖν δεῖ τὰ τῶν θεῶν ὑπονοεῖν, πάνυ ἂν αὐτοὺς οἶμαι ἐγὼ ὀργίζεσθαι καὶ ἀγανακτεῖν, εἰ τοὺς ὑφ’ ἑαυτῶν σῳζομένους ὑπ’ ἀνθρώπων ἀπολλυμένους ὁρῷεν. They also accused me about my sea voyages and commerce. They said the reason why the gods preserved me in danger was, apparently, to let Cephisius bring about my death when I reached Athens. As for me, Athenians, I don’t believe the gods intend any such thing. If they thought I’d done them wrong, they wouldn’t have let me go unpunished when they had me in the greatest danger ... No, gentlemen; I think we must take the view that dangers like my present ones are caused by human beings and the dangers of the sea by the gods. If I must speculate about the gods, I think they’d be very angry and indignant to see men whom they’d kept safe being killed by other people. (Andocides 1, On the Mysteries 137, 139; trans. MacDowell)

Here, Andocides responds, it seems, to one of the arguments made in the supporting speech for the prosecution that survives to us as Lysias 6: 22 ἐπεδείξατο δὲ καὶ τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ὅτι θεοὺς οὐ νομίζει. οὐ γὰρ ὡς δεδιὼς τὰ πεποιημένα, ἀλλ’ ὡς θαρρῶν, ναυκληρίᾳ ἐπιθέμενος τὴν θάλατταν ἔπλει. ὁ δὲ θεὸς ὑπῆγεν αὐτόν, ἵνα ἀφικόμενος εἰς τὰ ἁμαρτήματα ἐπὶ τῇ ἐμῇ προφάσει δοίη δίκην. Andocides has made it clear to the Greeks that he does not worship the gods. He became involved in ship owning and traveled by sea — not because he was afraid of what he had done but because he was shameless. But god brought him back, so that he could come to the scene of his crimes and pay the penalty at my instigation. (Ps.-Lysias 6, Against Andocides 19; trans. Todd)

While this may have been a common type of argument (it had already appeared in Antiphon at 5.81–84, again at the very end of the proofs), it gave Andocides the opportunity to demonstrate his piety, even ending with speculation about the gods. So far state religion. The importance of family religion is nowhere clearer than in the speeches of Isaeus, in particular the conducting of funeral rites and maintenance of ancestral graves as evidence of legitimacy. Arguments along these lines, and in particular that the claimant had performed the rites or his opponent had not, appear in seven of the surviving eleven speeches, as:

 22 See Todd 2007, 407, 454.

The Rhetoric of (Dis)Unity in the Attic Orators  

πάντες γὰρ οἱ τελευτήσειν μέλλοντες πρόνοιαν ποιοῦνται σφῶν αὐτῶν, ὅπως μὴ ἐξερημώσουσι τοὺς σφετέρους αὐτῶν οἴκους, ἀλλ’ ἔσται τις ὁ ἐναγιῶν καὶ πάντα τὰ νομιζόμενα αὐτοῖς ποιήσων. All men who are soon to die take precautions not to leave their families without heirs and to ensure that there will be somebody to offer sacrifices and perform all the customary rites over them. (Isaeus 7, On the Estate of Apollodorus 30; trans. Edwards)

As Brenda Griffith-Williams comments on this passage, “In the absence of lineal descendants, responsibility for the funeral would have fallen to the next of kin, or, in an extreme case, to any available friends of the deceased ... A claimant to a deceased person’s estate would be expected to have carried out the funeral, or, as in Isa. 8 and 9, to explain why he had been unable to do so”. 23 Of course, if you can combine state and family religion, so much the better: ἡγοῦμαι δ’ ὦ ἄνδρες ὑπὲρ ἁπάντων τῶν μεγίστων καὶ δεινοτάτων ἀδικημάτων μίαν ὑμᾶς ψῆφον ἐν τῇ τήμερον ἡμέρᾳ φέρειν, οἷς ἅπασιν ἔνοχον ὄντα Λεωκράτην ἔστιν ἰδεῖν, προδοσίας μὲν ὅτι τὴν πόλιν ἐγκαταλιπὼν τοῖς πολεμίοις ὑποχείριον ἐποίησε, δήμου δὲ καταλύσεως ὅτι οὐχ ὑπέμεινε τὸν ὑπὲρ τῆς ἐλευθερίας κίνδυνον, ἀσεβείας δ’ ὅτι τοῦ τὰ τεμένη τέμνεσθαι καὶ τοὺς νεὼς κατασκάπτεσθαι τὸ καθ’ ἑαυτὸν γέγονεν αἴτιος, τοκέων δὲ κακώσεως {ὅτι} τὰ μνημεῖα αὐτῶν ἀφανίζων καὶ τῶν νομίμων ἀποστερῶν, λιποταξίου δὲ καὶ ἀστρατείας οὐ παρασχὼν τὸ σῶμα τάξαι τοῖς στρατηγοῖς. I believe, gentlemen, that you are casting one vote today concerning all the greatest and most heinous crimes, for you can see that Leocrates is guilty of them all: treason, because he abandoned the city and surrendered it into the hands of the enemy; subverting the democracy, because he did not face danger on behalf of freedom; impiety, because he is guilty of doing everything in his power to have the sacred precincts ravaged and the temples destroyed; maltreatment of parents, because he destroyed their tombs and deprived them of their ancestral rites; and desertion and avoidance of service, for not reporting to the generals for duty. (Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates 147; trans. Edwards)

In 331, despite an almost complete lack of evidence, 24 Lycurgus almost managed to succeed in having Leocrates condemned for treason, failing by a single vote. We can never know which arguments may have influenced the voting either way, but it cannot have harmed Lycurgus’ case when he began to sum it up in this way: treason, subverting the democracy, impiety, mistreatment of parents, and desertion and cowardice. Leocrates, for Lycurgus, was the epitome of disunity. We all know who the self-professed epitome of unity was:

 23 Griffith-Williams 2013, 73. 24 See, e.g., Roisman 2019, 27–44.

  Michael J. Edwards καίτοι εἰ μὲν τοὺς σωθῆναι τὴν πόλιν βουλομένους παρελθεῖν ἔδει, πάντες ἂν ὑμεῖς καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι Ἀθηναῖοι ἀναστάντες ἐπὶ τὸ βῆμ’ ἐβαδίζετε· πάντες γὰρ οἶδ’ ὅτι σωθῆναι αὐτὴν ἐβούλεσθε· εἰ δὲ τοὺς πλουσιωτάτους, οἱ τριακόσιοι· εἰ δὲ τοὺς ἀμφότερα ταῦτα, καὶ εὔνους τῇ πόλει καὶ πλουσίους, οἱ μετὰ ταῦτα τὰς μεγάλας ἐπιδόσεις ἐπιδόντες· καὶ γὰρ εὐνοίᾳ καὶ πλούτῳ τοῦτ’ ἐποίησαν. ἀλλ’, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐκεῖνος ὁ καιρὸς καὶ ἡ ἡμέρα ‘κείνη οὐ μόνον εὔνουν καὶ πλούσιον ἄνδρ’ ἐκάλει, ἀλλὰ καὶ παρηκολουθηκότα τοῖς πράγμασιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς, καὶ συλλελογισμένον ὀρθῶς τίνος εἵνεκα ταῦτ’ ἔπραττεν ὁ Φίλιππος καὶ τί βουλόμενος· ὁ γὰρ μὴ ταῦτ’ εἰδὼς μηδ’ ἐξητακὼς πόρρωθεν, οὔτ’ εἰ εὔνους ἦν οὔτ’ εἰ πλούσιος, οὐδὲν μᾶλλον ἔμελλ’ ὅ τι χρὴ ποιεῖν εἴσεσθαι οὐδ’ ὑμῖν ἕξειν συμβουλεύειν. ἐφάνην τοίνυν οὗτος ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ἐγὼ. If those who desired the city’s safety were asked to come forward, all of you and all other Athenians would have risen and advanced to the platform, for all of you, I know, desired the city to be safe; if the richest were asked, it would have been the Three Hundred; if those who possessed both attributes, devotion to the city and wealth, it would have been those who conferred the large donations afterwards, for their devotion and wealth led them to do that. But it seems that that moment and that day called for a man who not only was devoted and wealthy but had also followed events from the beginning and figured out correctly what Philip was aiming at and what his intentions were in taking the action he did. Someone who did not know these things and had not studied the situation for a long time, even if he was devoted and even if he was wealthy, would not be better informed about what had to be done or be able to advise you. The one who emerged as the right man on that day was I. (Demosthenes 18, On the Crown 171–173; trans. Yunis)

Bibliography Bers, V. (2003), Demosthenes, Speeches 50–59, Austin. Carey, C. (ed.) (1989), Lysias: Selected Speeches, Cambridge. De Sélincourt, A. (1996), Herodotus. The Histories. Rev. John M. Marincola, Harmondsworth. Edwards, M.J./Usher, S. (1985), Greek Orators I. Antiphon and Lysias, Warminster. Edwards, M.J. (2007), Isaeus, Austin. Edwards, M.J. (2017), ‘Peace and Reconciliation, Athenian-Style’, in: E.P. Moloney/M.S. Williams (eds.), Peace and Reconciliation in the Classical World, London/New York, 248–254. Fraser, P.M./Matthews, E. (1987), A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, Vol. 1, Oxford. Gagarin, M. (1997), Antiphon: The Speeches, Cambridge. Gagarin, M./MacDowell, D.M. (1998), Antiphon and Andocides, Austin. Griffith-Williams, B. (2013), A Commentary on Selected Speeches of Isaios, Leiden. Harding, P. (1994), ‘Comedy and rhetoric’, in: I. Worthington (ed.), Persuasion. Greek Rhetoric in Action, London, 196–221. Hatzilambrou, R. (2018), Isaeus’ On the Estate of Pyrrhus (Oration 3), Newcastle upon Tyne. Hornblower, S. (1991), A Commentary on Thucydides, Volume I: Books I–III, Oxford. Kennedy, G.A. (1991), Aristotle. On Rhetoric, Oxford. Marchant, E.C./Bowersock, G.W. (1925), Xenophon. Scripta Minora, Vol. 7, Cambridge, MA/ London.

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Mirhady, D.C./Too, Y.L. (2000), Isocrates I, Austin. Missiou, A. (1992), The Subversive Oratory of Andokides, Cambridge. O’Connell, P.A. (2017), The Rhetoric of Seeing in Attic Forensic Oratory, Austin. Phelan, K.L. (2016), A Social and Historical Commentary on Demosthenes’ Against Euboulides. Ph.D., NUI Maynooth. Roisman, J. (2019), Lycurgus. Against Leocrates, With a translation by Michael J. Edwards, Oxford. Serafim, A. (2013), Performing Justice: aspects of performance in selected speeches of Aeschines (2, 3) and Demosthenes (18, 19), Ph.D., UCL. Serafim, A. (2015), ‘Making the audience: ekphrasis and rhetorical strategy in Demosthenes 18 and 19’, in: Classical Quarterly 65, 96–108. Serafim, A. (2017), Attic Oratory and Performance, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2020), ‘Comic invective in the public forensic speeches of Attic oratory’, Hellenica 68, 23–42. Sommerstein, A. (1997), Aristophanes’ Knights, Warminster. Sommerstein, A. (1987), Aristophanes’ Birds, Warminster. Spatharas, D. (2006), ‘Persuasive ΓΕΛΩΣ: Public Speaking and the Use of Laughter’, in: Mnemosyne 59.3, 374–387. Todd, S.C. (2000), Lysias, Austin. Todd, S.C. (2007), A Commentary on Lysias, Speeches 1–11, Oxford. Usher, S. (1993), Greek Orators V, Demosthenes, On the Crown, Warminster. Usher, S. (1999), Greek Oratory, Tradition and Originality, Oxford. Whitehead, D. (2000), Hypereides, The Forensic Speeches, Oxford. Wolpert, A.O. (2003), ‘Addresses to the Jury in the Attic Orators’, in: AJP 124.4, 537–555. Worthington, I./Cooper, C.R./Harris, E.M. (2001), Dinarchus, Hyperides and Lycurgus, Austin. Yunis, H. (2005), Demosthenes, Speeches 18 and 19, Austin. Yunis, H. (2001), Demosthenes, On the Crown, Cambridge.

Nick Fisher

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes The surprising success of Aeschines’ first speech against Timarchus should not be underestimated, nor should the rhetorical skills it displays. 1 Aeschines faced very substantial obstacles. As the ten Athenian ambassadors returned from the formal ratification of the Peace of Philocrates at Pella, and further embassies overlapped with disturbing events such as the settling of the Sacred War, indicating how the Peace was helping Philip gain unwelcome advances in Central Greece, the envoys turned to bitter back-biting. At the end of 347/6 or early in 346/5 B.C., Aeschines found himself the only envoy faced with a prosecution for misconduct on the embassy at the second stage of his euthuna, after extended assembly meetings. 2 He was charged by Demosthenes, Timarchus and at least one other politician. 3 Aeschines’ immediate response was to try to knock Timarchus out of the game, prosecuting him under the dokimasia rhētoron for being ineligible to take part actively in public life. He undertook a remarkably difficult task, undertaken at this moment of a serious threat to his own career. Timarchus was a man in his forties, with at least fifteen years’ experience as a politician, office-holder and orator, 4 and a confident, aggressive manner; his defence would be aided by Demosthenes and others including two other powerful friends and backers, Hegesandros and his more influential brother Hegesippos known as Hair-Bun (Krobylos). 5 Support may have come also from other members of the Salaminian genos, one of whom might be the unnamed “general” attacked in a central section of the speech (1.132–154). 6 In Aeschines’ favour was the strong probability that rumours were still current concerning Timarchus’ youthful

 1 See also recently Carey 2017. 2 The charge was probably laid in Skirophorion 346, immediately followed by the counter charge against Timarchus, see Schol. Aeschin. 1.169, Ellis 1976, 119 n. 138, Fisher 2001, 4–5. 3 Dem. 19.2, MacDowell 2000, 19–20. 4 He served on the boule in 361/0, and again in 347/6 along with Demosthenes, and according to the hypothesis to Aeschin. 1.1–2, had proposed more than a hundred decrees in the assembly, see Hansen 1989, 59–60, Fisher 2001, 20 n. 69. 5 On Hegesippos and Hegesandros, see Davies 2011 (updating the entry in Davies 1971, 209– 210). 6 The general might conceivably be either of two related men both called Diopeithes of Sounion, both Salaminians, one of whom seems to have been involved as an arbitrator in the Pittalakos affair, see Davies 1971, 167–168, Fisher 2001, 200–201. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-003

  Nick Fisher beauty and his many “friendships” with older males in earlier years, 7 as well as other strong allegations concerning the dissipation of his wealth and recent political wrongdoings. But prosecutions of established politicians on grounds of hetairesis seem to have been very rare (unlike rhetorical assertions of such offences), and none of Timarchus’ enemies had thought it worth attempting such a prosecution for the fifteen years that he had engaged in politics, as Demosthenes pointed out in 343 B.C. (19.286), and no doubt, did in his defence. Aeschines must have known (as he virtually admits in 1.71–73, 128–131) that he could call on nothing by way of witnesses or other evidence for the nature of Timarchus’ relationships; he relied on gossip, neatly redefined as the goddess Phēmē, as he did for Demosthenes’ allegedly scandalous relationships with his rhetorical pupils. He had to appeal to what he and the judges share as “common knowledge”, a community of knowing, above all concerning what Timarchus did with his lovers. 8 Further, he knew he could not hide that he had himself acquired a name for pursuing homoerotic attachments at the gymnasia, engaging in fights and composing poems to various youths (1.135–136); the charge of hypocrisy was all too obvious, was duly made three years later by Demosthenes (19.283–288), and no doubt was made more forcibly by Timarchus’ defence team. Fundamentally, Aeschines had to persuade the judges of a significant moral difference between his erotic pursuits and Timarchus’ sexual relationships. Equally crucial is the point that Aeschines had no intention of engaging directly in political arguments about the peace; on the contrary, he sought to rule out in advance any attempt of Demosthenes to discuss his alleged corruption or the devious promises of Philip (1.166–176). The concentration of the speech is on morality, the danger that political participation by Timarchus brought to the reputation of the Athenian state, and to the education of the young; 9 while there may have been complex shifts in attitudes among Athenians to the peace in the months between the laying of the charge and the trial, Aeschines’ refusal to engage with such points makes it unlikely that any softening towards Aeschines or increased hostility to Demosthenes played much part in the judges’ decision. In

 7 Best attested by Demosthenes’ own admissions: at 19.233 he refers to “the suspicion arising from his youthful appearance”, and cf. 19.284, to Aeschines’ imposition of a penalty on those who “had offended against themselves” without asserting Timarchus’ innocence of such a charge. 8 Aeschines uses the verb suneidenai eight times to express his confidence in what all the judges knew (1.70, 74, 78, 80, 85, 93 twice, 116). 9 This is recognised by Demosthenes in 343 (19.284–286), and then proudly proclaimed by Aeschines 2.180 — see especially pp. 63–66.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

my commentary I offered essentially external explanations for the verdict, adducing many indications of a widespread moral and cultural unease during the 340s and into the 330s, affecting many aspects of educational and political life. 10 Here I offer, as a reinforcing argument, an analysis of Aeschines’ central rhetorical strategy as an invocation of a shared cultural identity between prosecutor and judges in relation to the values associated with sōphrosynē, eros and the upbringing of citizens. Throughout he appeals to these values at a time of concern for the security of the city, calling on the judges as ordinary citizens to act together against the alternative examples offered by those ranged against him: the multiple breeches of decency and self-control embodied by the dissolute Timarchus and his best friends Hegesandros and Hegesippos, the secretive treachery and effeminacy of his primary defender Demosthenes, and the snobbish condescension to be expected from another defender, the unnamed “general”. The “rhetoric of unity” with which this chapter is concerned is thus the appeal to an “imagined community” in relation to education, culture and sexual relations. 11 One may note initially that each of these members of the defence team is presented with a contrasting physical appearance and body language. The image of Timarchus’ body, hyperactive, and disgustingly decaying, gets its fullest presentation when Aeschines recalls how he shamelessly exhibited his “nakedness” doing “pankratiastic” routines in the Assembly (1.26); this foul body is referred to ceaselessly thereafter. 12 Demosthenes is presented as a man of devious habits,

 10 Fisher 2001, 53–67. Cf. also approving mentions of this approach at Lambert 2011, 176–178, Spatharas 2017, 27, 135–139, Blok 2017, 244. 11 Serafim (2017b) 26–41 shows that the choice speechwriters made whether to address the judges as fellow citizens (andres Athēnaioi) or as judges (andres dikastai) is often significant. In the Against Timarchus, for direct address of his own to the judges Aeschines uses only the civic form, andres Athēnaioi (nine times); the judicial form, andres dikastai, occurs only in indirect uses, imagined speeches of others. Perhaps he wishes to urge the judges to think of themselves as predominantly sharing the community values and concerns with him, in opposition to his opponents; further, the tactic supports his frequent identification of the judges with the assembly-members who had indicated their knowledge of Timarchus’ sexual activities (especially at 1.79), see Kamen 2018, 54–55. 12 Comparably, at 1.71 Hegesandros and his brother Hegesippos are anticipated as likely “to come bounding in energetically and rhetorically” to demand witnesses for the details. On the importance of the body in the speech (28 uses of sōma words), cf. Carey 2017, 277; and for Timarchus’ disgusting body see especially, 1.39–40, 52–55, 87, 94, 108, 116, 154, 185–195, with Fisher, 2001, 55–56, 150–155, Hall 1995, 52–53, Davidson 1997, 261, Sissa 1999, 156–162, Worman 2008, 243–247, 262 and Spatharas 2017, 134–135 (‘Timarchus embodies bdeluria’).

  Nick Fisher who when writing speeches against his friends enjoys soft and effeminate clothing as the debauched kinaidos he is (1.131). 13 Immediately after this, “the general” appears, a pompous man with “a laid-back manner and a self-conscious air”, 14 one “well versed in the palaistrai and their activities (diatribai)”, as we are told in 1.132. 15 My detailed analysis starts with the treatment of this figure, where the debate about Athenian cultural and educational system (paideia) gathers momentum, and the idea of a common moral identity across social classes is established. The previous narrative (1.37–116) has created the pictures of Timarchus’ disgusting life with his many lovers, his dissipation of his property, his maltreatment of his uncle and his pursuit of illegal profit in his offices. The arguments combating the anticipated attacks of the defence then begin with Timarchus’ absence from the prostitutes-tax records, present the profoundly misleading disquisition on the goddess Phēmē as an unimpeachable witness, and offer an amusing treatment of the validity of nicknames, specifically Timarchus the pornos (the whore), and Demosthenes Batalos (the arse), to which I shall return. But with the introduction of the general the tone switches again, and reaches a new level of seriousness and moral generality, presenting an impression of intellectual sophistication and discrimination. What is immediately striking, as first highlighted by Dover, 16 is that Aeschines agrees with “the general” on the principle of the educational value and cultural importance of the practice of noble pederasty, based in the gymnasia; they are both said to hold that the crucial distinction must be preserved between restrained boy-love and its more mercenary perversion. 17 But on Aeschines’ account they disagree on two points. First, they display opposed attitudes towards

 13 “Speeches against his friends” presumably refers primarily to his criticisms of his fellow-envoys, breaking the ties of ‘salt-fellowship’ (Aeschin. 2.23–24, Dem. 19.188–191; cf. Fisher 2001, 274). On the allegation of being a kinaidos, see below pp. 58–61. 14 ὑπτιάζων καὶ κατασκοπούμενος ἑαυτόν: on the second verb, cf. Xen. Mem. 2.1.22, κατασκοπεῖσθαι θάμα ἑαυτήν, ἐπισκοπεῖν δὲ καὶ εἴ τις ἄλλος αὐτὴν θεᾶται, πολλάκις δὲ καὶ εἰς τὴν ἑαυτῆς σκιὰν ἀποβλέπειν (“she was constantly observing herself and watching if anyone else was looking at her, and staring at her own shadow”), of the brazen and self-obsessed personification of Vice (Kakia) in the narrative of the choice of Heracles. 15 Under these diatribai, in addition to athletic training, would be included the discussions and lectures on philosophy, rhetoric or politics associated with these “leisure centres”: see Fisher 2001, 275–276. 16 Dover 1978, 40–42. 17 Fisher 2001, 58–61 and Shapiro 2015, below p. 55.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

the cultural awareness of the ordinary citizen. While Aeschines asserts his solidarity with the majority, the general is presented as a supercilious snob who looks down on them for their lack of cultural and poetic understanding, and is going to lecture them de haut en bas; he will also present Aeschines as a hypocritical philistine who himself corrupts the practice by his vulgar and violent pursuit of youths for whom he writes crude poetry. 18 Aeschines summarises the general’s position with this crucial phrase: ὃς ἐπιχειρήσει διασύρειν τὴν ὅλην ἔνστασιν τοῦ ἀγῶνος, οὐ κρίσιν ἐξευρηκέναι με φάσκων, ἀλλὰ δεινῆς ἀπαιδευσίας ἀρχήν. He will try to tear the whole basis of the legal contest to pieces claiming that I have created not so much a trial as the start of an appalling denial of our cultural education. (1.132)

The second area of disagreement concerns the general’s implicit argument that while Timarchus may have been a remarkably beautiful youth who had a good number of admirers, such as all Athenians would pray their sons would be (1.134), he had kept within the bounds of proper behaviour, and the idea that he encouraged and lived off too many lovers was merely malicious gossip. That this gossip existed and was serious is confirmed when Demosthenes three years later could do no better when lamenting Timarchus’ conviction than this cautious and unconvincing statement: εἰ δέ τις ὢν ἐφ᾽ ἡλικίας ἑτέρου βελτίων τὴν ἰδέαν, μὴ προϊδόμενος τὴν ἐξ ἐκείνης τῆς ὄψεως ὑποψίαν, ἰταμώτερον τῷ μετὰ ταῦτ᾽ ἐχρήσατο βίῳ, τοῦτον ὡς πεπορνευμένον κέκρικεν. If a man who was superior in appearance than another in his youth, and did not anticipate the suspicion arising from his looks, spent his life subsequently in a more headstrong way, he [=Aeschines] brought him to trial for having been a prostitute (Dem. 19.233). 19

That is, the defence admitted that Timarchus had been a spectacular beauty, presumably well-known in the gymnasia, 20 and they may have acknowledged at least

 18 Unlike the other members of the defence team, the general is not named, nor condemned for any faults of character or scandals, or for pride in his ancestry or wealth (cf. Aristotle’s view that eugeneia encouraged a contemptuous attitude (to kataphrontikon, Rh. 1390b14–21). Perhaps there was little to say. 19 Cf. also Dem. 19.243–244, 257. 20 The listing of good and bad gymnastic beauties at 1.155–159 may allow the implication that Timarchus “the whore” was among their number (cf. Davidson 2007, 458–459, pointing also to Aeschines’ statement that his uncle Eupolemos had been a paidotribēs at 1.102).

  Nick Fisher some of the alleged close relationships in Timarchus’ early career (whether they admitted Misgolas, Antikles or even Hegesandros to have been his lover). 21 The general is then allegedly intending to appeal to Harmodius and Aristogeiton as role-models for faithful same-sex love and democratic heroism, quote Homer and discuss Patroclus and Achilles, before attacking Aeschines’ hypocrisy. Aeschines’ retaliatory strategy is to alienate the general from the judges, offer himself as a better exponent of these cultural practices, and so to take over (in advance) these themes and poets for himself, and to fix the judges firmly onto his side. He assures them that they share a sophisticated understanding of these traditions and are aware of their expression in classics of epic and drama (1.141). He is also confident that they will be able to distinguish Timarchus from Aeschines, and understand which rumours they can be sure are the (divine) truth. The themes of paideia and apaideusia (covering equally culture and education and their opposites) are central to the speech in general and particularly frequent in this section (1.132–142); of the eleven paideia words in the speech, three are packed into the section on the difference between noble and corrupt love (1.132–140) and two come immediately afterwards at the introduction to the arguments from the poets (1.141–142); two come in the attacks on Demosthenes (1.166–176), and two in the concluding moral arguments (1.185–196). 22 These cases all deserve a closer look. In response to the supposed defence from the general of homoerotic love, and his accusation that a prosecution which ended the career of a notable exponent would create a ‘terrible apaideusia’, i.e. would destroy paideia (1.132), Aeschines’ opening theoretical statement sets out his view of the crucial distinction on which they agree, offering careful definitions: Ὁρίζομαι δ᾽ εἶναι τὸ μὲν ἐρᾶν τῶν καλῶν καὶ σωφρόνων φιλανθρώπου πάθος καὶ εὐγνώμονος ψυχῆς, τὸ δὲ ἀσελγαίνειν ἀργυρίου τινὰ μισθούμενον ὑβριστοῦ καὶ ἀπαιδεύτου ἀνδρὸς

 21 Davidson 2007, 458–459 speculates that they might have acknowledged a relationship with Hegesandros; if so, this would probably have been located at a stage well before the affair with Pittalakos. In his narrative Aeschines avoids placing any of Timarchus’ affairs specifically at the gymnasia; that setting would be more respectable than the doctor’s house in the Peiraeus, Misgolas’ house, or the gambling dens, cf. Fisher 2001, 239–240. 22 The two instances before the introduction of “the general” may be noted here. At 1.11 the law stipulating an age-limit of 40 for chorēgoi is justified in terms of the importance of moral education: “when the nature of a person receives a bad start right from his education (πονηρὰν ἀρχὴν λάβῃ τῆς παιδείας), he thought that the result of such badly-brought up boys would be citizens similar to the defendant”. At 1.45 the testimony Aeschines has prepared for Misgolas is described as “true… but not uncultivated” (ἀληθῆ μέν, οὐκ ἀπαίδευτον δέ) as it did not contain any direct language or commit him to admitting illegality.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

ἔργον εἶναι· καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀδιαφθόρως ἐρᾶσθαί φημι καλὸν εἶναι, τὸ δ᾽ ἐπαρθέντα μισθῷ πεπορνεῦσθαι αἰσχρόν. I make this distinction: to love those who are beautiful and self-controlled is the condition of a generous and sympathetic soul, but to hire someone for money and to behave grossly I hold to be the act of a hybristēs and an uneducated man. And I say that it is noble to be loved in a non-corrupting way, but it is shameful to be persuaded by the hire-fee and prostitute oneself. (1.137)

Aeschines thus opposes the love of those youths who are self-controlled, which is the “emotion (pathos) of a humane and sympathetic soul” to the “gross behaviour” (aselgainein) of the man who hires someone for money as the “work of a hybristēs and apaideutos man”. 23 This definition is presented as uncontroversial, and acceptable to the general as well as the judges, but its detailed terms, emphasizing the mercenary basis of the “bad” relationship, combined with an imprecise assertion of gross and insulting behaviour (aselgainein, hybristēs) are naturally designed to fit precisely the case he is building against Timarchus. 24 The addition of the term apaideutos reinforces the idea that it is Aeschines, not the general, who understands and is best able to defend Athenian paideia in these contexts. 25 Similarly, when he comes to the praise of Harmodios and Aristogeiton, he makes this striking claim (1.140): Τοιγάρτοι τοὺς τῆς πόλεως μὲν εὐεργέτας, ταῖς δ᾽ ἀρεταῖς ὑπερενηνοχότας͵ Ἁρμόδιον καὶ Ἀριστογείτονα, ὁ σώφρων καὶ ἔννομος, εἴτε ἔρωτα εἴτε τρόπον χρὴ προσειπεῖν, τοιούτους ἐπαίδευσεν, ὥστε τοὺς ἐπαινοῦντας τὰ ἐκείνων ἔργα καταδεεστέρους δοκεῖν εἶναι ἐν τοῖς ἐγκωμίοις τῶν ἐκείνοις πεπραγμένων. 26

 23 Dover 1978, 37, 47 seems to understand μισθούμενον differently in these two places, first as middle (“hiring someone”), second apparently (and surely wrongly) as passive (see 1978, 47 n. 18: “Aeschines says here ‘man’, not ‘boy’, because Timarchus is a mature man at the time of the prosecution”). 24 Cf. Aristotle’s brief discussion of the rhetorical uses of definition (horismos) (Rh. 1398a15–27), where he gives three examples of leading or persuasive definitions of a crucial term (to daimonion, eugeneia, hybris). 25 Cf. the use of apaideutos at 1.166 (combined with amousos) to condemn Demosthenes’ tasteless and coarse insinuations about Philip and Alexander. In later speeches the term is used of Demosthenes’ flattery of Philip (2.113), his accusations concerning Aeschines’ abuse of the Olynthian woman (2.153) and the decision in 330 to get Demosthenes himself to conduct the defence (3.241); and also of the lack of taste and culture of the anti-Athenian Amphissan at the Amphictionic conference at Delphi in 339 (3.12). See also Fisher 2001, 276. 26 For a defence of the addition (Baiter-Sauppe), see Fisher 2001, 285.

  Nick Fisher That is the reason why in the case of the benefactors of the city, men excelling in the virtues, Harmodios and Aristogeiton, it was their chaste and legitimate — whether one should call it erotic love or whatever one should call it — which educated them to be of such a kind that those who praise their deeds seem in their encomia to fall well short of what those men achieved.

With this statement that ‘their restrained and legitimate eros’ was what itself ‘educated’ (epaideusen) Harmodios and Aristogeiton to be the incomparable models of heroic action for democracy, he thus locks this type of pederastic love tightly into the mythic heroism of the founding fathers of the democracy. 27 When introducing the Homeric citations of the love of Achilles and Patroclus the differences between the ‘class’ attitudes of the general and Aeschines come to be most clearly revealed (1.141): Ἐπειδὴ δὲ Ἀχιλλέως καὶ Πατρόκλου μέμνησθε καὶ Ὁμήρου καὶ ἑτέρων ποιητῶν, ὡς τῶν μὲν δικαστῶν ἀνηκόων παιδείας ὄντων, ὑμεῖς δὲ εὐσχήμονές τινες προσποιεῖσθε εἶναι καὶ ὑπερφρονοῦντες ἱστορίᾳ τὸν δῆμον, ἵν᾽ εἰδῆτε ὅτι καὶ ἡμεῖς τι ἤδη ἠκούσαμεν καὶ ἐμάθομεν, λέξομέν τι καὶ ἡμεῖς περὶ τούτων. Since you are mentioning Achilles and Patroclus, and Homer and the other poets, as if the judges were quite ignorant of cultural education, whereas you are the sophisticated ones, and look down on the ordinary people in your learning, well, so that you realise that we too have listened and learned something, we shall say a little about this as well.

The use of personal pronouns here isolates the general and his friends (a contemptuously delivered plural “you”) from the combined opposition of Aeschines and the judges (the first person plural, “we too”, binds the speaker and the judges closely together), who have all acquired a solid cultural education, including knowledge of the poetic classics. The consequence is then drawn that the judges can be counted among “those educated members of the audiences” who understand the exceptional nature of the affection of the heroic pair (ἡγούμενος τὰς τῆς εὐνοίας ὑπερβολὰς καταφανεῖς εἶναι τοῖς πεπαιδευμένοις τῶν ἀκροατῶν), though Homer conceals the appropriate name for their love (1.142). On this basis

 27 That an appeal to the mythic potency of the love of Harmodios and Aristogeiton for the democracy was frequent and easy in fourth-century rhetoric is also suggested by Aristotle’s citation of the argument as a fallacy (Rh. 1401b7–10): “another (fallacy) is that of the sign: for this is also unsyllogistic. For example, if one were to say that lovers are beneficial to cities; for the love of Harmodios and Aristogeiton destroyed the tyrant Hipparchos” (ἄλλος τὸ ἐκ σημείου· ἀσυλλόγιστον γὰρ καὶ τοῦτο· οἷον εἴ τις λέγοι ταῖς πόλεσι συμφέρουσιν οἱ ἐρῶντες· ὁ γὰρ Ἁρμοδίου καὶ Ἀριστογείτονος ἔρως κατέλυσε τὸν τύραννον Ἵππαρχον. Cf. other references to the pair at Rh. 1368a18, 1398a16–21.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

he then guides these cultivated judges through carefully selected, subtly modified and interpreted quotations from the Iliad and Euripides’ Stheneboia and Phoenix. These explore the intense emotions and sacrifice of a noble homoerotic love (Achilles and Patroclus), praise a chaste heterosexual love (Stheneboia) and insist on the importance of judging character not by suspicion and slander but by looking at the narrative of a life and at the nature of a subject’s associates (Phoenix). 28 The credit for introducing the extended use of allegedly relevant poetry in speeches seems to lie with Aeschines here; it was taken up by Demosthenes and Lycurgus. 29 The tactic works here to unite the judges with the speaker, and to compliment them on their ability to appreciate and apply poetic representations and their moral sentiments. In effect it enlists them as virtual witnesses, in the wake of the divine Phēmē (for which he had previously cited Homer and Hesiod, 1.128–129). 30 Aeschines did not come from a wealthy or distinguished family, but by this stage he was a politician and envoy of a good few years’ experience and standing, and becoming comfortably off, though probably not yet rich enough to be required to perform liturgies; 31 like the general, as he admits himself, a habitué of all aspects of gymnasia culture. One might then think that as a member of the political elite, he might struggle to have his claim accepted that he shared a cultural identity with the average judges, people who, many scholars would say, would have little or no experience of the gymnasia, athletic training, homoerotic pursuits or high poetry. 32 But the gulf between ‘the mass and the elite’ should not

 28 On the details of the manipulations of the texts, cf. Ford 1999, 252–256, Fisher 2001, 286–296. 29 Earlier poets had been no doubt cited as witnesses for individual points of historical “fact” (cf. Arist. Rh. 1375b28–a3), but such extensive, moralizing, quotations were probably innovative. Possibly some credit was due to “the general”, if news of his intentions did in fact inspire Aeschines’ counter-development. See e.g. Wilson 1996, Ford 1999. 30 He was criticised for this by Demosthenes in 343 (19.243), and no doubt also at the original trial. Gottesman (2014, 83 n. 17) claims that Aeschines’ argument that rumours were invariably true was “a novel strategy, and a losing one at that”; but at least in this case it was a success. 31 On his new wealth and its sources, mostly resulting from his advantageous marriage and political activities, see Dem. 19.145, 167, 314; 18.131 (“now rich, from a beggar”), 311–313, Schol. Aeschin. 1.3, and Davies 1971, 543–547, Harris 1995, 31–33. 32 For Ober 1989, 283, Aeschines was trying to present himself as a sort of aristocrat in his associates and gymnasia-based activities, but this ignores the point that he was insisting at this very moment that this culture and values were common to all. For general critiques of the appropriateness of the language of aristocracy for archaic and classical Greece, see Duplouy 2006, Fisher and van Wees 2015.

  Nick Fisher be exaggerated. On one side, Aeschines consistently presented himself as a middling, but cultivated citizen. 33 Most explicitly, in the final pleas of the embassy speech, he sought sympathy as “an ordinary man in fortune (idiotēs), similar to the moderate men among you”, inoffensive, loyal and staunchly democratic, a man who “was reared among you, have lived in your cultural activities” (παρ᾽ ὑμῖν ἐτράφην, ἐν ταῖς ὑμετέραις διατριβαῖς βεβίωκα (2.181–182). In 343 he claimed that his father, a good citizen and member of a phratry “which shares altars with the Eteoboutadai”, had been an athlete and a soldier, 34 lost property during the war and as a democrat was exiled by the Thirty (2.147), and on his return worked as a schoolteacher. It was his alleged low and shameful origins and coarse language that Demosthenes chose to work up in 343 and 330, with increasingly gross exaggeration, not that he was a rich man claiming to be a middling citizen. 35 Aeschines had worked his way up in Athenian society, working as a clerk (rather than attending a rhetorical school) and then as an actor (probably a more successful one than Demosthenes makes out), 36 before using his literary and rhetorical awareness, political knowledge and contacts, and delivery and acting skills to become a politician. 37 Demosthenes may (or may not) have made an assault in the Crown debate in 330 on Aeschines’ supposed abuses as a lover at the gymnasia (Aeschines “predicts” that he will, 3.216; but it does not appear in the published version); evidently there was not much mileage to be made from it. 38

 33 Though not on all occasions, according to Demosthenes 19.314. 34 Suggestions that Atrometos’ pre-war leisured activities and his impoverishment and exile were inventions (Harris 1995, 23, Carey 2000, 9) seem unnecessary; there are plenty of examples in fourth-century speeches of upward and downward mobility through and after the war years. Aeschines also claims (2.149) his brother Philochares “spent time at the gymnasia, served with Iphicrates and been a general for three years”; the entry in the Lives of the Ten Orators describes Aeschines as not coming from a distinguished family nor of exceptional wealth, and one who when young (before his activities as clerk and actor) was physically strong and worked out in the gymnasia (Ps. Plut. Mor. 840a). 35 Dem. 19.199–200, 249–250, 18.126–131, 257–266; on coarse language, 18.101–102, 122–124, 127–131, with Halliwell 2008, 227–237. 36 Cf. Easterling 1999, 157; on his career, Harris 1995, and briefly Fisher 2001, 8–20. 37 Bers 2013 insists that appropriate styles of delivery and gesture differed between the theatre and the court, as Aeschines’ comments comparing Timarchus and Solon demonstrate. But Aeschines’ voice, penetrating, rich and deep, was none the less a considerable advantage, as Demosthenes’ frequent and often virulent attacks and warnings show, Dem. 19.126, 199, 216, 238, 336–340; 18.259–260, 280, 285–287, 313. See also Hall 1995, 47–48, Easterling 1999, Worman 2006, 214–216, Westwood 2017, 59–68. 38 Fisher 2001, 18–19.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

On the other side, as I have argued in detail elsewhere, Aeschines had reason to argue that ordinary judges listened to and learnt much poetry and music (though less perhaps that they were versed in Homeric criticism), and took a keen interest in gymnastic and homoerotic affairs. 39 Participation in training activities at the gymnasia, performing in the tribal athletic events, and performing in choral poetry and song, must have been widespread among the citizens; those who argue that training in athletics and singing in the innumerable choruses were still predominantly elite or aristocratic activities seem to me to be mistaken on grounds both of demographic needs and of interpretation of the texts. 40 It is equally mistaken to suppose that homosexual attachments and rivalries were predominantly elite practices, and generally viewed with hostility by popular audiences. 41 Thus most of Aeschines’ hearers would have responded positively to his appeal to their liking for athletics and athletes, their appreciation of youthful male beauties whom they enjoyed watching at gymnasia and the festival contests, and their approval in principle for idealised homoerotic pursuits, combined with disapproval for those supposed to breach the protocols. 42 Thus this didactic and serious “dialogue” with the general, centrally placed, supplants him as the proper defender of the educational culture of homoerotic love with Aeschines, a less supercilious, more sympathetically populist, figure, a man solidly “middling” in his life-style. The anticipatory arguments on either side of this section are focused on Timarchus’ main defender Demosthenes. Here the tone is both more varied and more virulent; it is filled with the humour of mockery which helped to set the atmosphere for the successive court conflicts for the next decade and a half. Now at 1.135 Aeschines suggests that the general’s expected attack on his erotic poetry will be an attempt to “reduce you [the judges]

 39 Fisher 2001, 58–61. 40 See Fisher 1998, 2011, against Pritchard 2003, 2004. For discussions of the perceptiveness of the various popular audiences, see also Revermann 2006, and Serafim 2017a, 5–6. Aristotle’s view (Poet. 1451b23–6) that the stories of tragedy were known only to a few is not seriously at odds with the evidence that many Athenians had sung in dithyrambic and tragic choruses and even more had listened to such performances and recitations of Homer and other poets. 41 See Fisher 2001, 58–61; Shapiro 2015; against Hubbard 1998; Sissa 1999. 42 As has been noted, Aeschines liked to use language, parallels and arguments from the world of athletic competitions (1.26, 33; 2.183, 3.91, 179–180, 189, 246); and presumably thought this went down well with judges. Such tropes are rarer in Demosthenes, e.g. 4.35, 40 and 18.318–319. See Golden 2000, 169–175, against the doubts of Lane Fox 1994, 138–139.

  Nick Fisher to laughter and chatter”; despite this, at this point he has just himself made extensive use of vituperative humour as he does throughout the speech. 43 His effective use of humour to humiliate his opponents and to pre-empt and frustrate any attempts to discuss the political situation seriously is a tactic consistent with the brief advice offered in fourth-century rhetorical theorists. In his Rhetoric, Aristotle first suggests that many orators attempt to make audiences laugh to distract their attention (Rh. 1415a36–37), and a little later gives more detail: περὶ δὲ τῶν γελοίων, ἐπειδή τινα δοκεῖ χρῆσιν ἔχειν ἐν τοῖς ἀγῶσι, καὶ δεῖν ἔφη Γοργίας τὴν μὲν σπουδὴν διαφθείρειν τῶν ἐναντίων γέλωτι τὸν δὲ γέλωτα σπουδῇ, ὀρθῶς λέγων, εἴρηται πόσα εἴδη γελοίων ἔστιν ἐν τοῖς περὶ ποιητικῆς, ὧν τὸ μὲν ἁρμόττει ἐλευθέρῳ τὸ δ᾽ οὔ, ὅπως τὸ ἁρμόττον αὑτῷ λήψεται. ἔστι δ᾽ ἡ εἰρωνεία τῆς βωμολοχίας ἐλευθεριώτερον· ὁ μὲν γὰρ αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα ποιεῖ τὸ γελοῖον, ὁ δὲ βωμολόχος ἑτέρου. About jokes, since they seem to have some use in the contests, and since Gorgias said, rightly, that one should destroy one’s opponents’ seriousness with humour and their humour with seriousness, it has been stated in the Poetics how many types of jokes there are, some of which are appropriate for a free man (eleutheros), and some are not. An orator will take up whatever mode suits him. Irony (eirōneia) is more suitable for the free than buffoonery (bōmolochia); the one makes the joke for his own sake, the other for someone else’s sake. (Arist. Rh. 1419b2–9)

The Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 1441b23–6 adds: χρὴ δὲ καὶ ἐν ταῖς κακολογίαις εἰρωνεύεσθαι καὶ καταγελᾶν τοῦ ἐναντίου, ἐφ᾽ οἷς σεμνύνεται, καὶ ἰδίᾳ μὲν καὶ ὀλίγων παρόντων ἀτιμάζειν αὐτόν, ἐν δὲ τοῖς ὄχλοις κοινὰς μάλιστα κατηγορίας λοιδορεῖν· αὔξειν δὲ καὶ ταπεινοῦν τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον τὰς κακολογίας, ὅνπερ καὶ τὰ ἐγκώμια. And in abuse speeches one should use irony and laugh at one’s opponent on the points that he prides himself, and in private, with few present, seek to humiliate him, but in crowded settings one should rather abuse him with the standard accusations. One should augment and diminish one’s abusive remarks in the same way as with eulogies.

 43 On this apparently contradictory conjunction of disapproval of the opponents’ use of the tactic with extensive use himself, cf. Halliwell 2008, 227. Other places in the speech, not treated here, where effective use is made of the humour of ridicule include 1.26–27, on Timarchus’ display of his decaying flesh in the assembly (one might compare Hyper. Against Philippides 7, wittily mocking his opponent’s anticipated resort to comic dancing and cracking jokes, cf. Halliwell 2008, 229–230); and 1.79–85 on the assembly’s laughing at double entendres related to Timarchus, both occasions where Timarchus’ supposed reputation produced mocking laughter in the assembly; on these see Spatharas 2006, 378, 381–382 and Kamen 2018.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

Recently Dimos Spatharas, Deborah Kamen and Andreas Serafim have succinctly illustrated various strategies which humour may serve in public forensic rhetoric. 44 They include fostering a sense of unity between speaker and judges through the shared emotional release in laughter and the awareness of their shared values; 45 employing ridicule and insult to rebut opponents’ arguments and to diminish their characters by making them seem ridiculous or depraved; attracting the audience’s attention and avoiding boredom, and (as Aristotle noted) using ridicule to divert attention from anticipated serious and damaging arguments. 46 All these strategies are prominently displayed in this speech. Serafim also points out that abusive humour is in much greater evidence in the largescale, more “political” trials, especially those featuring Aeschines and Demosthenes, than in more private speeches or assembly speeches. 47 A number of reasons can be suggested for this. First, these speeches were usually longer than private forensic or assembly speeches; hence variations in tone and mood were desirable to keep the judges alert and entertained. 48 Second, the personalities involved were likely to be well-known to most or all the judges, and a speaker could often exploit hostile gossip and opinions widely circulating among the citizens. Further, as individuals who had chosen to engage in public life, they may have been thought thick-skinned and fair game for mockery, and the disputes were frequently between those who had already an acknowledged enmity. In such cases the licence awarded to comedy to use abusive and exaggerated satire to attack prominent leaders of the state might have seemed up to a point to be extended to

 44 Spatharas 2006, Kamen 2018, Serafim 2020, 23–42. On Aristotle’s ideas on the use of comedy and wit in public contexts, see Halliwell 2008, 307–331, and with reference to modern theorizing, Lombardini 2013. 45 Treated comically in Ar. Wasps 566–568; pleaders may tell stories, or Aesopic fables, tell jokes, to make judges laugh and lay aside their anger. Cf. Dem. 23.206, and see Hall 1995, 56– 57. 46 Different assessments of “humour” are central to the case of Demosthenes Against Conon (54); the plaintiff’s serious narrative put at its climax the gang’s alleged hybristic humiliation displayed above all in the cock-crowing over his battered body (54.9); the defence tactic will be to reduce the affair to no more than the laughter and jokes characteristic of the young (54.13– 14); see Halliwell 1991, 287–288, Spatharas 2006, 379–380. 47 Serafim 2020, 23–42. The provisions in the supposed laws concerned with regulating assembly and council meetings inserted by a later commentator at Aeschin. 1.35 include the prohibition of abuse, slander or interruption (ἢ λοιδορῆται, ἢ κακῶς ἀγορεύῃ τινά, ἢ ὑποκρούῃ); but there is no doubt that these were not authentic ‘documents’ and there is no reason to believe their author based them on actual laws; Gottesman 2014, 81 n. 12 wrongly attributes them to Aeschines. 48 Cf. [Cic.] Ad Herennium 1.6.10.

  Nick Fisher speakers, although decorum in these fora imposed limits on what explicitly vulgar language was acceptable, particularly in sexual matters. 49 But there was a danger in overdoing the humour, of seeming to descending to excessive vulgarity, coarseness of language or irrelevant vituperation. 50 Aeschines himself (contradictorily) criticizes the general’s expected attack on his erotic poetry as an attempt to “reduce you to laughter and chatter”. 51 But the humour of denigration was essential to his strategy. In the initial anticipatory section (1.117–131) Aeschines attempts to unite the judges in alienation from Demosthenes, to undermine the criticism he must have expected from the defence of the (disgraceful) elevation of Phēmē (Report) to the status of goddess and necessary truth, and to rule out any attempt to bring in arguments about current politics. 52 The main denigratory points are that Demosthenes is an over-clever sophist; 53 that he is a loner and a betrayer of his friends, his embassy colleagues (1.131); and that he is an effeminate deviant (kinaidos). The climax and most amusing part of this section focuses on his opponents’ nicknames, Timarchus the pornos (the whore) and Demosthenes Batalos: this, he insists, was not derived from his nurse’s affectionate allusion to his stammer, but meant “arse” because of his ἀνανδρία καὶ κιναιδία; he was no man, a coward and a secret effeminate. 54 The picture is made the more biting as he addresses Demosthenes directly, and invites him to contemplate the puzzlements of the judges if  49 Some orators seem to have developed greater capacities for wit, irony, sarcasm, and grace: the comparison of Hypereides with Demosthenes by Longinus On the Sublime 34. See Whitehead 2000, 15–18. 50 On excessive vulgarity (bōmolochia): Arist. Eth. Nic. 1108a24–5, 1128a34–1128b1; on the desirability of law court speeches avoiding vituperation, personal attacks or abuse (diabolē, loidoria), Arist. Rh. 1354a16–30, 1414a25–33, 1416a4–1416b15, with Carey 2004, Hatzilambrou 2011. 51 See above pp. 55–56, and Halliwell 2008, 227–231. 52 Cf. Wohl 2010, 46–47. 53 The first words, introducing Demosthenes to the judges are: Ὁ γὰρ περιττὸς ἐν τοῖς λόγοις Δημοσθένης (“the over-clever orator, Demosthenes”, 1.119); the word sophistēs comes explicitly at 1.125. Demosthenes retaliated to these charges at 19.246–250: “calling other people logographoi and sophists and trying to insult them (hybrizein), he will be shown to be open to the same charge”. 54 See Fisher 2001, 265–267. At. 2.99–100, Aeschines suggests the nickname was given to Demosthenes by “the boys”, “because of a certain shameful behaviour and effeminacy” (δι᾽ αἰσχρουργίαν τινὰ καὶ κιναιδίαν). One may be reminded of the eponymous priest of the TV comedy Father Ted, who could never live down the nickname “Fluffy Bottom” which he acquired at his seminary. In 330 B.C., Demosthenes in a bold piece of assertive self-deprecation, taking up Aeschines’ abuse of this term, states ironically that in the debate after the capture of Elateia, “Batalos of Paiania” proved of more use to the country than “Oinomaos of Crocothidai”. On Demosthenes as a kinaidos and his impure parts: 1.181, with Davidson 1997, 167–168; 2007, 55–63,

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

they were to pass bemusedly around ‘your’ delicate little cloaks and soft little tunics, unsure whether they were the clothes of a man or of a woman (1.131). 55 There he leaves Demosthenes (for a time), as a solitary, friendless, pretentious sophist, of uncertain sexuality, to switch direction and tone with the introduction of the general. The general fades out as the interpretations of the Euripidean extracts are directed to the judges. The succeeding enumerations of past beauties are also directed to the judges up to and including the climactic moment, when, building on the nickname ho pornos already established, he invites an audience reaction in answer to the question “to which category would you assign Timarchus — the beloveds or the prostitutes?” 56 Following the expected response of a yell of “the pornoi”, he switches the direction of address dramatically to Timarchus himself, insisting that he cannot now desert the self-assessment group (symmoria) in which he has irrevocably chosen to self-register, in order to join “the pursuits of the free” (1.155–159). The response to the next defence point considered, the demand for evidence of a written contract, is represented as coming from the team as a whole (“If they try to say…”); at this point Demosthenes is slipped back wittily and illegitimately into the picture, through the elaboration of hypothetical scenarios. First, he appears as a “friend”, who might agree to hold a contract between an imaginary lover and Timarchus, over which a dispute arose; ostensibly to demonstrate the unfairness of demanding such a contract, it creates a useful picture of collusion in a mercenary arrangement between Timarchus, a lover like (say) Hegesandros, and Demosthenes (1.163). Second, he develops the alternative scenario where the hired youth this time is prosecuting his client for breaking the contract and might need to call on rhetorical support; here the orator coming forward to speak is not named Demosthenes but more insultingly “the clever arse” (λεγέτω δὴ παρελθὼν ὁ σοφὸς Βάταλος, 1.164).

 for whom the implication is that he was presented as both effeminate and insatiable, but not as a “passive homosexual”; contra Dover 1978, 75–76, or Carey 2017, 275, who claims this means Demosthenes also “put his body to the service of other men”; referring perhaps to the allegation of fellatio at 2.88, rather than to Dover’s submission to anal penetration. See also Kamen 2014, 406–407. On the later interplay of the two associations (Stammerer and Anus) applied to female statue Batale in Herodas 4.35–36, cf. Skinner 2001, 219. The charge of cowardice recurs at Aeschin. 2.148. 55 Carey 2017, 275–276 imagines the judges looking from a distance at the expensive clothes Demosthenes was wearing in court; the text suggests rather that Demosthenes liked to wear these soft and translucent cloaks and tunics at home when writing his malicious speeches, reinforcing the picture of his solitary pleasures, gender indeterminacy, and luxury. 56 Cf. Bers 1985, 6–7; Hall 1995, 43–44.

  Nick Fisher This snide labelling (“clever arse”) prepares the ground carefully for the following section which concentrates on Demosthenes’ anticipated arguments. It was crucial to embed this belittling image at this point, as Aeschines is approaching the dangerous territory of Philip, the embassies to Pella and the Peace. The first point made is that any political discussions are totally irrelevant to this trial and the judges would rightly be angry at any attempts to raise them; the purpose here is thus to suppress any consideration of the allegations that Demosthenes made in the Boulē after the return of the Second Embassy, which formed the foundation of his challenge at the euthuna, namely that Aeschines “sold out” to Philip. The argument is reinforced by the creation of a smokescreen of counterallegations about Demosthenes’ lack of culture, decency and sociability. The key words here carefully pick up on the earlier discussions in the section with the “general”, maintaining the unity of the speaker and the judges in their shared understanding of paideia and decency. It is now claimed that Demosthenes shows himself, in addition to his other defects, to be “an uncultured and uneducated fellow” (1.166: ἄμουσός τις οὗτος καὶ ἀπαίδευτος ἄνθρωπός ἐστι); his offensiveness towards Philip was “ignorant and tactless” (1.167: ἀμαθὲς μὲν καὶ ἄκαιρον). Such gross insults were to be expected, addressed to a real man by one who is not a man; but worse than this were Demosthenes’ contrived insinuations about the boy Alexander, which made the city a laughing stock, and he had to be rebuked by Aeschines in the boule, to prevent it being thought (i.e. by Philip) that the city resembled Demosthenes in his lack of decency (1.169: ἀκοσμίᾳ). 57 These allegations of social ineptitude (cf. also above, on 1.130–131) cohere with the unfavourable picture of Demosthenes found in Aeschines’ other speeches and elsewhere. Compared with other ambassadors and politicians he is revealed as an anti-social, isolated character, who avoided symposia (Aeschin. 2.162–163; also Plut. Dem. 4, 8, Ps. Plut. Mor. 844d–f), had no respect for the obligations of friendship and commensality with his colleagues in public service (Aeschin. 2.163, 183; 2.23, 3.52), was shunned as a treacherous pest by his colleagues on journeys (Aeschin. 2.20–22, 97–98), and was a notorious water-drinker, hence disagreeable and grumpy (dystropos and dyskolos) and a critic of solid drinkers (Dem. 6.30, 19.46; cf. Hyper. Ag. Dem. 40 fr. b and c, Athen. 245f–6a, 424d, Ps. Plut.Vit. X Or. 848c.). 58 Similarly the last argument in this section aims to complete the destruction of credibility of this uncultivated sophist. While leading up to a new insistence on the judges not to accept any irrelevant arguments about the Peace, Philip and  57 On kosmos and eukosmia in this speech: 1.8, 22–27, 43, 67, 183 and my notes ad loc. 58 Cf. Davidson 1997, 67–68, 151–157, Fisher 2001, 254.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

the Phocians, he suggests, by a cunning use of praeteritio, that there existed a large store of horror stories about Demosthenes, and selects from it (equally irrelevantly, one might think) the most damning scandal about his ruthless cunning and greed, the murder of Nicodemos. This melodramatic story allegedly started three or four years earlier, when Demosthenes took up as the rhetorical teacher and lover of a disturbed youth Aristarchos and the protector of his wealthy widowed mother; this led to their participation in the brutal murder of a minor politician Nicodemos, who was about to share with Euctemon the prosecution of Demosthenes for desertion in Euboea in 348. After Aristarchos’ conviction or flight, Demosthenes appropriated the three talents intended to sustain Aristarchos in exile (1.170–172; cf. Aeschin. 2.148; Dem. 21.104–105). 59 This concluding picture of Demosthenes has four significant elements. First, he was a deceitful lover, who falsely enticed Aristarchos into an affectionate relationship, “pretending to be his lover, and inviting the young man to experience his generosity”, though as highlighted both earlier and later, he was a kinaidos and no man (cf. 1.181, 2.148). 60 Second, he posed as a successful rhetor and politician offering guidance into a glittering career: “filling him up with empty hopes, promising how he would straight away become absolutely the first of the orators, showing him a written list.” Third, as ‘an initiator and teacher into such acts’ (eisēgētēs kai didaskalos), he induced Aristarchos to commit a major crime against his own enemy; and fourth, he then cheated him of a large sum of money (1.170–172). The treatment of Nicodemos in particular constituted a serious threat to the democracy and the laws, as they disposed violently of a man who was using free speech and the laws in the public interest, just as Demosthenes’ current attempts to deceive the judges by irrelevant arguments were a threat to the laws. 61 This characterization enables the conclusion of this section to be built on a detailed and perhaps startling comparison, reminding the judges of what he implies was a correct, if controversial, decision of the Athenians taken five decades earlier (1.173): Ἔπειθ᾽ ὑμεῖς, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, Σωκράτην μὲν τὸν σοφιστὴν ἀπεκτείνατε, ὅτι Κριτίαν ἐφάνη πεπαιδευκώς, ἕνα τῶν τριάκοντα τῶν τὸν δῆμον καταλυσάντων, Δημοσθένης δ᾽ ὑμῖν ἑταίρους

 59 On the events and the allegations made by Meidias, Aeschines and Dinarchus against Demosthenes, see MacDowell 1990, 328–331, Riess 2007, 84–87; 2012, 40–42, 94, 109; 2016, 94–95. 60 The allegations of kinaidia and effeminacy, of indeterminacy of sexual acts with youths, along with the sexual interpretation of Batalos, recur frequently in Aeschines’ two later speeches (2.88, 99, 148, 151; 3.162, 174, 179, with (arguably) a clever pun connecting kinaidos with kinados (cunning fox) at 3.167, a ploy which Demosthenes tried to turn back on him at 18.162 and 242. See Kamen 2014. 61 Cf. Wohl 2010, 44–45.

  Nick Fisher ἐξαιτήσεται, ὁ τηλικαύτας τιμωρίας λαμβάνων παρὰ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν καὶ δημοτικῶν ἀνθρώπων ὑπὲρ τῆς ἰσηγορίας; So then, Athenians, did you put Socrates the sophist to death, because he was shown to have educated Critias, one of the Thirty who had overthrown the democracy, and will Demosthenes then beg off his companions from you, a man who inflicted revenges of that sort on private individuals who showed their popular concern by defending free speech?

This comparison is as multifaceted and precise, point by point, as many an extended Homeric simile. First Socrates “the sophist” was supposed to have engaged in homoerotic relations with many of his pupils, as was no doubt well remembered by ordinary Athenians (all his philosophical defenders had to address the issue). 62 Second, he was found guilty of “corrupting the young”, as his pupils were widely believed to have been taught rhetoric for money and many of them went into top-level politics. Third, his two most famous pupils did much to destroy the democracy and its laws. Alcibiades’ treachery contributed greatly to Athens’ defeats and the downfall of the democracy, while Critias, who is highlighted by Aeschines, overthrew the democracy in 404 and led the Thirty as a band of ‘tyrants’, murdering and exiling many citizens. Demosthenes’ own paideia, his educational and erotic practices with his pupils, is thus presented as equally corrupting, and the reverse of democratic paideia (cf. 1.166, apaideutos, and also 1.187, see below). His professed ‘love’ for Aristarchos was a bluff, hiding his unscrupulous greed; it operated in secret at his house, not openly at the gymnasia or symposia; his rhetoric is deceitful and sophistic, the values he teaches and the legal practices he encourages are antidemocratic. The final implication here is that Athens faces here a challenge to her democracy and cultural identity comparable to those of the Thirty, and it is time for the judges to unite against the attacks of Demosthenes, Timarchus and their friends and pupils. Thus in opposition to the arguments from Platonic and other intellectual circles that Socrates’ execution was a major crime of the democracy. 63 Aeschines here unites himself with the popular tradition that the Athenians had been right in 399 B.C. in the condemnation of Socrates as a dangerous sophist, and brands the solitary and “clever” Demosthenes with the same charge of corruption of the young through his paideia and his opposition to democratic laws. Hence any risk that reminding the judges of the rumours about the murder of Nicodemos might seem irrelevant to his case against Timarchus will have seemed well worth it.

 62 Most obviously Plato’s Symposium and Phaedrus, Xenophon’s Symposium and Memorabilia 1.2. 63 E.g. Guthrie 1971, 167–187.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

It is precisely the argument that the acquittal of Timarchus would result in a major crisis which resounds throughout the concluding section, driven home by further reversals of the claim attributed to the general that Aeschines’ prosecution threatens the cultural system to which proper pederasty is integral. So in the last two instances of apaideusia in the speech, the earlier flattery of the judges’ understanding of the system is turned to a warning that acquittal would align them with the apaideusia of Timarchus, Demosthenes and Hegesippos, allowing the defence to achieve what the general had claimed was the aim of the prosecution. First the comparison with the offences of adulterous women, who were faced with the punishment of a state of permanent disgrace, produces this leading question (1.185): ἢ τίς οὐκ ἀπαίδευτος εἶναι δόξει τῇ μὲν κατὰ φύσιν ἁμαρτανούσῃ χαλεπαίνων, τῷ δὲ παρὰ φύσιν ἑαυτὸν ὑβρίσαντι συμβούλῳ χρώμενος; Who of you would not appear to be lacking understanding of our culture, if you get angry at the woman who offends in accordance with nature, but continue to use as a political adviser the man who committed hybris against himself contrary to nature? 64

And second, immediately afterwards, the judges are asked how they would respond to their sons’ indignant questioning, if they were to acquit (1.187): οὐχ ἅμα Τίμαρχον ἀπολῦσαι ὁμολογήσετε, καὶ τὴν κοινὴν παιδείαν ἀνατρέψετε; τί δ᾽ ὄφελος παιδαγωγοὺς τρέφειν ἢ παιδοτρίβας καὶ διδασκάλους τοῖς παισὶν ἐφιστάναι, ὅταν οἱ τὴν τῶν νόμων παρακαταθήκην ἔχοντες πρὸς τὰς αἰσχύνας κατακάμπτωνται; In admitting that you voted to acquit Timarchus, will you not at the same time be overturning our common cultural education? What is the benefit in maintaining slave-attendants, or setting athletic trainers or teachers in charge of the boys, when those who have the laws entrusted to them are bent down to the acts of shame?

Here Aeschines asserts again that they would be destroying the common culture if they abandoned the crucial moral distinction governing homoerotic love; the cleverly ambiguous language, with its metaphor of “bending down’ (katakamptō), describing those entrusted with the laws as giving in to those who

 64 This, with the phrase in the previous sentence, “committed womanish crimes”, crucially confirms that agreeing to penetrative (i.e. anal) sex is part of what made these “acts of shame” so dreadful, because it is “opposed to nature” as opposed to the case of women agreeing to penetrative sex. Cf. Fisher 2001, 338–341; Spatharas 2017, 137–139.

  Nick Fisher commit such womanish and shameful deeds, hints that the judges would in effect be making themselves complicit in these acts. 65 The argument by analogy which follows starts from a concluding reminder of the bdeluria of Timarchus, as seen on his body, and recognised by all who share the understanding of the cultural community associated with gymnastic training, whether or not they attend gymnasia themselves. 66 It boldly (and shamelessly) extends this type of inferential reasoning to the capacity to judge accurately a dissolute man’s self-prostitution from his “shamelessness, boldness and practices”, or put another way, judging the state of his “soul” (ἕξιν τῆς ψυχῆς), to be the evident result of ‘the disorderliness of his chosen inclination (ἐκ τῆς ἀκοσμίας τοῦ τρόπου) (1.189): 67 Τίνι δ᾽ ὑμῶν οὐκ εὔγνωστός ἐστιν ἡ Τιμάρχου βδελυρία; ὥσπερ γὰρ τοὺς γυμναζομένους, κἂν μὴ παρῶμεν ἐν τοῖς γυμνασίοις, εἰς τὰς εὐεξίας αὐτῶν ἀποβλέποντες γιγνώσκομεν, οὕτω τοὺς πεπορνευμένους, κἂν μὴ παρῶμεν αὐτῶν τοῖς ἔργοις, ἐκ τῆς ἀναιδείας καὶ τοῦ θράσους καὶ τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων γιγνώσκομεν. Ὁ γὰρ ἐπὶ τῶν μεγίστων τοὺς νόμους καὶ τὴν σωφροσύνην ὑπεριδών, ἔχει τινὰ ἕξιν τῆς ψυχῆς, ἣ διάδηλος ἐκ τῆς ἀκοσμίας τοῦ τρόπου γίγνεται. To which of you is the repulsiveness (bdeluria) of Timarchus not known? Just as we recognise those in athletic training, even if we do not visit the gymnasia, by looking at their good condition, so we recognise those who have prostituted themselves, even though we are not present at their activities, from their shamelessness, boldness, and practices. For the man who ignored, over the most important things, the laws and moral control has a condition of his soul which becomes revealed as a result of the disorder of his inclination.

Finally, it is spelt out that an acquittal would make the general moral crisis facing the community even worse than before (1.192): εἰ δ᾽ ὁ πρωτεύων βδελυρίᾳ καὶ γνωριμώτατος εἰσελθὼν περιγενήσεται, πολλοὺς ἁμαρτάνειν ἐπαρεῖ, καὶ τελευτῶν οὐχ ὁ λόγος, ἀλλ᾽ ὁ καιρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐξοργιεῖ. But if the man first of all in repulsiveness, the best known of all, shall come into court and get off, it will induce many to go wrong, and in the end it will not be speeches, but a clear crisis that will arouse your anger.

 65 Cf. Spatharas 2017, 137–138. 66 Cf. Rhet. ad Alex. 1426a9–12, 1441a33–37, where advice for those eulogizing an individual brings into close connection acquiring good health by working out at the gymnasia and improving mental capacities through study of philosophy. 67 Cf. Worman 2008, 214.

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

To win his case Aeschines had to persuade the judges that the law and the delicate distinction between controlled and licentious pederasty had to be maintained, that the moral education of the young was threatened, and that Timarchus had broken the norms, despite the fact that in the lack of any evidence they had to judge guilt on the basis of rumours and current physical appearances and presentations. There are good grounds for holding that it was the arguments about the morality of the young, about sōphrosynē and paideia, “wot won it”. 68 Prosecuting Aeschines a few years later Demosthenes had to concede that the call for the moral improvement of the young had been a powerful factor in producing the condemnation of Timarchus, and tried to turn the argument against the depraved Aeschines and his brother Aphobetos, presenting them as wholly unsuited to any role as “moral correctors” (sōphronistai) (Dem. 19.283–285). Responding in his defence speech Aeschines claimed credit, especially from fathers or brothers of young citizens, for the vigorous challenge which his prosecution sent out for their self-control (sōphrosynē); and begged all the judges to save him, in recognition of his record as an ordinary, decent and moderate citizen, one who share their common democratic culture (2.180–181): καὶ δέομαι σῶσαί με καὶ μὴ τῷ λογογράφῳ καὶ Σκύθῃ παραδοῦναι, ὅσοι μὲν ὑμῶν πατέρες εἰσὶ παίδων ἢ νεωτέρους ἀδελφοὺς περὶ πολλοῦ ποιεῖσθε, ἀναμνησθέντες ὅτι τὴν τῆς σωφροσύνης παράκλησιν διὰ τῆς περὶ Τίμαρχον κρίσεως ἀειμνήστως παρακέκληκα, τοὺς δ᾽ ἄλλους ἅπαντας, οἷς ἐμαυτὸν ἄλυπον παρέσχημαι, τὴν μὲν τύχην ἰδιώτης ὢν καὶ τοῖς μετρίοις ὑμῶν ὅμοιος, ἐν δὲ τοῖς πολιτικοῖς ἀγῶσι μόνος τῶν ἄλλων ἐφ΄ ὑμᾶς οὐ συνεστηκώς, αἰτῶ παρ᾽ ὑμῶν τὴν σωτηρίαν... I beg you to save me, and not hand me over to the speechwriter, the Scythian. Those of you who are fathers of children or are much concerned for your younger brothers, remember that through the trial of Timarchus, I sent out a challenge to self-control (sōphrosynē) that will be lastingly remembered; and I call on all the rest of you, towards whom I have conducted myself without offence, in fortune a ordinary man, one like all the moderate people such as you, and the only one who in the political struggles has not plotted against you, I call on you to save me…

Thus the arguments I advanced previously, 69 explaining the verdict by the supposition that the Macedonian threat to Athens created a sense of national emergency and a debate on civic morality, should be supplemented by an appreciation

 68 To adapt the phrase of Kelvin Mackenzie, then editor of the Times, on the UK general election of 1992. On Aeschines’ heavy use of sōphrosynē, especially in the Timarchus (28 out of 42 cases), cf. also Carey 2017, 276–281. 69 Fisher 2001, 53–67.

  Nick Fisher of how the rhetoric of the speech exploited this opportunity. 70 Crucial was the creation throughout the speech of a unity between the prosecutor and the judges in their shared values and educational culture, in opposition to his opponents, each of whom was characterized in contrasting, but equally damning, ways. With their differently depraved bodies and their various moral perversions and patronizing condescension, Timarchus, Hegesandros, Demosthenes and the general are presented as alien, undemocratic, and exploitative, in multifarious opposition to the culture of ordinary citizens. One may possibly sense in Aeschines’ last speech a final, oblique, appearance of this pride in how this famous victory was achieved by the appeal to the shared culture of the imagined community. The peroration of the prosecution of Ctesiphon solemnly invokes a somewhat bizarre collection of forces of nature and moral and intellectual personifications (3.260): Ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν, ὦ γῆ καὶ ἥλιε καὶ ἀρετὴ καὶ σύνεσις καὶ παιδεία, ᾗ διαγιγνώσκομεν τὰ καλὰ καὶ τὰ αἰσχρά, βεβοήθηκα καὶ εἴρηκα. Well then, O Earth and Sun, Virtue (aretē), Intelligence (synesis) and Culture (paideia), by which we distinguish what is fine and what is shameful, I have supported my case, and have spoken.

The abusive virulence of Demosthenes’ response (18.126–128) to this “tragic ranting”, shredding Aeschines’ pretensions or claims to any share in education, culture or Virtue or any capacity to distinguish the noble from the shameful, and mocking (with some justice) the shaming ineptness of his language, may suggest that the success of his enemy’s strategy in the Timarchus trial fifteen years earlier still caused him pain. 71

Bibliography Bers, V. (2013), ‘Performing the speech in Athenian Courts and Assembly: Αdjusting the Act to fit the Bema?’, in: C. Kremmydas/J. Powell/L. Rubinstein (eds.), Profession and Performance. Aspects of Oratory in the Greco-Roman World, BICS Supplement 123, London, 27–40.  70 One cannot exclude the possibility that mistakes in the defence strategies, for example a blustering and over-belligerent speech from the exuberant Timarchus, proved counter-productive. 71 Not long afterwards, ironically enough, if later traditions can be believed, Aeschines found himself reduced to an exile’s life teaching rhetoric and paideia in Rhodes, and having to admit Demosthenes’ superior rhetorical power (e.g. Ps. Plut. Mor. 840c–e).

Creating a Cultural Community: Aeschines and Demosthenes  

Blok, J. (2017), Citizenship in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Carey, C. (2000), Aeschines: Translated by Chris Carey, Texas. Carey, C. (2004), ‘The Rhetoric of diabole’, Onlinepublication http://discovery.ucl.ac.uk/ 3281/1/3281.pdf Carey, C. (2017), ‘Style, Persona and Performance in Aeschines’ Prosecution of Timarchus’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice, Leiden/Boston, 275– 282. Davidson, J. (1997), Courtesans and Fishcakes, London. Davidson, J. (2007), The Greeks and Greek Love, London. Davies, J.K. (1971), Athenian Propertied Families, Oxford. Davies, J.K. (2011), ‘Hegesippos of Sounion: an underrated politician’, in: S.D. Lambert (ed.), Sociable Man: Essays on Ancient Greek social behaviour in honour of Nick Fisher, Swansea, 1–24. Dover, K.J. (1978), Greek Homosexuality, London (2nd edition, 1989). Duplouy, A. (2006), Le prestige des élites: Recherches sur les modes de reconaissance sociale en Grèce entre les xe et ve siècles avant J.-C., Paris. Easterling, P.E. (1999), ‘Actors and voices: reading between the lines in Aeschines and Demosthenes’, in: S. Goldhill/R. Osborne (eds.), Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge, 154–166. Ellis, J.R. (1976), Philip II and Macedonian Imperialism, London. Fisher, N. (1998), ‘Gymnasia and social mobility in Athens’, in: P. Cartledge/P. Millett/S. von Reden (eds.), Kosmos, Cambridge, 84–104. Fisher, N. (2001), Aeschines, Against Timarchus, Oxford. Fisher, N. (2011), ‘Competitive delights: The social effects of the expanded programme of contests in post-Kleisthenic Athens’, in: N. Fisher/H. van Wees (eds.), Competition in the Ancient World, Swansea, 175–219. Fisher, N./van Wees, H. (eds.) (2015), ‘Aristocracy’ in Antiquity: Redefining Greek and Roman Elites, Swansea. Ford, A. (1999), ‘Reading Homer from the Rostrum: poems and laws in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus’, in: S. Goldhill/R. Osborne (eds.), Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge, 231–256. Golden, M. (2000), ‘Demosthenes and the Social Historian’, in: I. Worthington (ed.), Demosthenes, Statesman and Orator, London/New York, 159–180. Gottesman, A. (2014), Politics and the Street in Democratic Athens, Cambridge. Guthrie, W.K.C. (1971), Socrates, Cambridge. Hall, E. (1995), ‘Lawcourt Dramas: The power of performance in Greek Forensic Oratory’, in: BICS 40, 39–58. Halliwell, S. (1991), ‘The uses of laughter in Greek Culture’, in: Classical Quarterly 41, 279–296. Halliwell, S. (2008), Greek Laughter: A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity, Cambridge. Hansen, M.H. (1989), ‘Updated Inventory of Rhetores and Strategoi’, in: M.G. Hansen (ed.), The Athenian Ecclesia II: A Collection of Articles, Copenhagen, 32–72. Harris, E.M. (1995), Aeschines and Athenian Politics, Oxford. Hatzilambrou, R. (2011), ‘The use of the ad hominem argument in Isaeus’, in: L’Antiquité classique 80, 37–51. Hubbard, T.K. (1998), ‘Popular Perceptions of Elite Homosexuality in Classical Athens’, in: Arion 6, 48–78.

  Nick Fisher Kamen, D. (2014), ‘Kina[i]dos: A Pun in Demosthenes’ On the Crown?’, in: Classical Quarterly 64, 405–408. Kamen, D. (2018), ‘The Consequences of Laughter in Aeschines’ Against Timarchos’, in: Archimède 5, 49–56. Lambert, S.D. (2011), ‘Some political shifts in Lykourgan Athens’, in: V. Azoulay/P. Ismard (eds.), Clisthène et Lycurgue d’Athènes: Autour du politique dans la cité classique, Paris, 175–190. Lane Fox, R. (1994), ‘Aeschines and Athenian Politics’, in: R. Osborne/S. Hornblower (eds.), Ritual, Finance, Politics: Athenian Democratic Accounts presented to David Lewis, Oxford, 137–155. Lombardini, J. (2013), ‘Civic Laughter and the Political Value of Humor’, in: Political Theory 41, 203–230. MacDowell, D.M. (1990), Demosthenes: Against Meidias, Oxford. MacDowell, D.M. (2000), Demosthenes: On the False Embassy (Oration 19), Oxford. Ober, J. (1989), Mass and Élite in Democratic Athens, Princeton. Pritchard, D. (2003), ‘Athletics, education and participation in classical Athens’, in: D. Phillips/ D. Pritchard (eds.), Sport and Festival in the Ancient Greek World, Swansea, 293–350. Pritchard, D. (2004), ‘Kleisthenes, Participation and the Dithyrambic Contests of late archaic and classical Athens’, in: Phoenix 58, 208–228. Revermann, M. (2006), ‘The Competence of Theatre Audiences in Fifth and Fourth Century Athens’, in: JHS, 126, 99–124. Riess, W. (2007), ‘Private Violence and State Control: The Prosecution of Homicide and its symbolic meanings in Fourth-Century Athens’, in: C. Brézaz/P. Ducrey (eds.), Sécurité collective et ordre public dans les sociétés anciennes, Entretiens de la Fondation Hardt, 54, Vandoeuvres, 49–101. Riess, W. (2012), Performing Interpersonal Violence: Court, Curse and Comedy in Fourth-Century Athens, Berlin. Riess, W. (2016), ‘Where to Kill in Classical Athens’, in: W. Riess/G.G. Fagan (eds.), The Topography of Violence in the Greco-Roman World, Michigan, 77–112. Serafim, A. (2017a), Attic Oratory and Performance, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2017b), ‘Conventions’ in/as Performance: Addressing the Audience in Selected Public Speeches of Demosthenes’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice, Leiden/Boston, 26–41. Serafim, A. (2020), ‘Comic invective in the public forensic speeches of Attic oratory’, Hellenica 68, 23–42. Shapiro, J. (2015). ‘Pederasty and the Popular Audience’, in: R. Blondell/K. Ormand (eds.), Ancient Sex: New Essays. Classical memories/modern identities, Columbus, 177–207. Sissa, G. (1999), ‘Sexual Bodybuilding: Aeschines against Timarchus’, in: J.I. Porter (ed.), Constructions of the Classical Body, Michigan, 147–168. Skinner, M.B. (2001), ‘Ladies’ Day at the Art Institute: Theocritus, Herodas, and the Gendered Gaze’, in: A. Lardinois/L. McClure (eds.), Making silence speak: Women’s voices in Greek literature and society, Princeton, 201–223. Spatharas, D. (2006), ‘Persuasive ΓΕΛΩΣ: Public Speaking and the Use of Laughter’, in: Mnemosyne 69, 374–387. Spatharas, D. (2017), ‘Sex, Politics and Disgust in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus’, in: D. Lateiner/D. Spatharas (eds.), The Ancient Emotion of Disgust, Oxford, 125–140.

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Westwood, G. (2017), ‘The Orator and the Ghosts: Performing the Past in Fourth-Century Athens’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice, Leiden/Boston, 57–74. Whitehead, D. (2000), Hypereides: The Forensic Speeches, Oxford. Wilson, P. (1996), ‘Tragic Rhetoric: The Use of Tragedy and the Tragic in the Fourth Century’, in: M. Silk (ed.), Tragedy and the Tragic, Oxford, 310–331. Wohl, V. (2010), Law’s Cosmos: Juridical Discourse in Athenian Forensic Oratory, Cambridge. Worman, N. (2008), Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens, Cambridge.

Andreas Serafim

“I, He, We, You, They”: Addresses to the Audience as a Means of Unity/Division in Attic Forensic Oratory  Introduction This chapter explores the features of addresses to an ancient lawcourt audience, as these are deployed and manifested in the transmitted speeches of Attic forensic oratory, both public and private. The purpose of this research inquiry is to identify and discuss the ways in which addresses promote unity or generate division between the speaker, the audience and the opponents (both individuals and civic collectivities or political communities), and how the speakers manipulate unity and division to affect the verdict of the judges or influence the Athenians present in the court. The chapter examines three specific patterns of unity and division: “You-They (He)”, a pattern that is used as a means of alienating the audience from the speaker’s opponent(s); “We-They (He)”, which indicates the twofold purpose of the speaker to unite himself with the audience, while isolating his opponent(s) from it; and the “I-You” pattern, with which the speaker aims to invite the audience to empathize with him. The features of the rhetorical addresses to the audience and the theoretical examination they have received in the classical scholarship on the Attic orators will be discussed in the rest of this introductory part of the chapter. Section 2, “Addresses in context: Forensic, public and private, speeches”, discusses statistical data of the use of addresses in Attic forensic oratory, and what frequency tells us about the role of the dichotomy between public and private speeches in determining the most suitable way of addressing the audience. Section 3, “Addresses in texts: Examples of unity/division”, finally, after providing information about how interdisciplinary scholarship can help us better understand the unifying or divisive function of addresses in the transmitted speeches of Attic oratory, proceeds to the examination of specific texts, in which three patterns of unity and division are manifested, i.e. “You-They (He)”, “We-They (He)” and “I-You”. The speakers have at their disposal a choice of three main styles of address: civic (ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι), judicial (ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί) and descriptive (ὦ ἄνδρες). It should be mentioned that, in this chapter, two other formulations that are also used in forensic speeches, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι and ὦ δικασταί, are not counted separately from the standard forms of address. So instances of ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι are https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-004

  Andreas Serafim grouped with those of ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, and instances of ὦ δικασταί with those of ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί. For, as G. Martin argues, these variations are probably due to mistakes made by scribes, when reproducing the text of the speeches by hand. 1 There are, furthermore, some notable variations to the ways in which these standard and main patterns of address are used. There are, for example, circumstantial addresses [terminology is mine], in the sense that these are used ad hoc in the texts of specific cases and in the institutional contexts in which the speeches were given. There is, for example, the ὦ βουλή address that is used in speeches delivered before the Boulē in Athens. Some of the speeches of Lysias use this mode of addressing the audience: I counted 45 examples, distributed as follows: 12 instances in Against Simon, 4 instances in On a wound by premeditation, 11 instances in the speech On the olive stump, 7 instances in the speech For Mantitheus and another 11 instances in the speech On the refusal of a pension. Among circumstantial addresses, I also include two more patterns: the ὦ ἄνδρες Αἰγινῆται address that occurs in Isocrates’ Aegineticus (I counted 3 instances in §§1, 13, 14) — in principle, the addresses should have the form necessary to refer appropriately to the target audience; and the ὦ [ἀ]γαθοί address, which is attested only in the speech of Isaeus, Pyrrhus 70 — the address is, in that context, used to flatter and fawn upon the audience. In what follows, I examine the linguistic features and the contextual aspects (i.e. historical, socio-political and moral dimension of the use) of the three main forms of address, i.e. civic, judicial and descriptive, together with the ὦ βουλή circumstantial address, in the public and private forensic speeches of the Ten Attic Orators — see below Table 1: Tab. 1: The examined public and private speeches of Attic forensic oratory. Aeschines: 

Public: Against Timarchus; On the False Embassy; Against Ctesiphon.

Andocides: 

Public: On the Mysteries; On his Return; On the Peace with Sparta; Against Alcibiades.

Antiphon: 

Public: Against the Stepmother for Poisoning; On the Murder of Herodes; On the Choreutes.

Demosthenic corpus: 

Public: On the Crown; On the False Embassy; Against Leptines; Against Meidias; Against Androtion; Against Aristocrates; Against Timocrates; Against Aristogeiton –; Against Neaira – a pseudo-Demosthenic speech. Private ( speeches): Against Aphobus ,  and ; Against Onetor  and ; Against Zenothemis; Against Apaturius; Against Phormio; Against Lacritus;

 1 Martin 2006, 76.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

For Phormio; Against Pantaenetus; Against Nausimachus and Xenopeithes; Against Boeotus  and ; Against Spudias; Against Phaenippus; Against Macartatus; Against Leochares; Against Stephanus  and ; Against Evergus and Mnesibulus; Against Olympiodorus; Against Timotheus; Against Polycles; On the Trierarchic Crown; Against Callippus; Against Nicostratus; Against Conon; Against Callicles; Against Dionysodorus; Against Eubulides; Against Theocrines. Dinarchus: 

Public: Against Demosthenes; Against Aristogeiton; Against Philocles.

Hypereides: 

Public: In Defence of Lycophron; Against Philippides; Against Athenogenes; In Defence of Euxenippus; Against Demosthenes.

Isaeus: 

Private: On the Estate of Cleonymus; Menecles; Pyrrhus; Nicostratus; Dicaeogenes; Philoctemon; Apollodorus; Ciron; Astyphilus; Aristarchus; Hagnias; Euphiletus. 2

Isocrates: 

Private: On the Team of Horses; Trapeziticus; Against Callimachus; Aegineticus; Against Lochites; Against Euthynus.

Lycurgus: 

Public: Against Leocrates.

Lysias: 

Public ( speeches): For Polystratus; Defence against a Charge of Taking Bribes; Against Ergocles; Against Epicrates; Against Nicomachus; Against the Corn dealers; On the Confiscation of the Property of the Brother of Nicias; For the Soldier; On the Property of Aristophanes; Against Philocrates; Against Evandrus; For Mantitheus; Against Philon; Defence against a Charge of subverting the Democracy; For the Invalid; Against Alcibiades  and ; Against Eratosthenes; Against Agoratus; On the Murder of Eratosthenes; Against Simon; On a Wound by Premeditation; Against Andocides; For Callias; On the Sacred Olive. Private: Against Theomnestus –; Against Diogeiton; On the Property of Eraton; Against Pancleon. 3

 2 Brenda Griffith-Williams remarks that “all the speeches that can now be identified were almost certainly forensic, and a large majority were from private actions. Speeches concerning family matters, including inheritance, the epiklerate and guardianship, and other property disputes, predominate”. See Griffith-Williams 2013, 1. 3 34 speeches or parts of speeches ascribed to Lysias have survived from antiquity. Most of these are prosecution or defence speeches written for the Athenian law courts, i.e. forensic speeches, although there are some exceptions: there is a Funeral Speech, and another, the Olympic Oration, which both fit within the rubric of epideictic speeches, while three other speeches — Accusation of Calumny, Against Theomnestus 2 and Against the Subversion of the Ancestral Constitution of Athens — are considered to be “non-forensic”, as Todd 2007, 1 calls them. Of the remaining speeches, twenty-five are considered forensic public speeches, while four come with the label of forensic private speeches. The distinction between public and private speeches, especially in the case of Lysias, is not an easy task to carry out, and its outcome is frequently disputable. Friedrich Blass, for example, proposes to consider the substance of each case to determine if it is public or

  Andreas Serafim Not much ink has been spilt in discussing the ways in which speakers addressed the audience in the lawcourt, or in other Athenian fora for public speaking. This does not mean that addresses to the audience are of trivial importance for the purpose of better understanding the nature of speeches, their rhetorical purposes and the means of persuading the masses in the institutional contexts of public speaking in classical Athens. The importance of addresses is, in fact, underlined in three scholarly works: A. Wolpert’s “Addresses to the Jury in the Attic Orators”, G. Martin’s “Forms of Address in Athenian Courts”, and, more recently, my chapter that is included in the volume The Theatre of Justice and has the title “‘Conventions’ in/as Performance: Addressing the Audience in Selected Public Speeches of Demosthenes”. All three works argue for the performative and persuasive value of having addresses to the audience included in the transmitted oratorical scripts. I argue, for example, that “the form, frequency and position of addresses are considered artful and context-specific, and have a cognitive/emotional performative dimension that enables the speaker to influence the judgment of the judges”. 4 Having investigated three of the public forensic speeches of Demosthenes (18, 19, 24) in my past work, I argue that the civic address instils in the mind of the judges that they are citizens of Athens and that their verdict in the trial should protect the best interests of the polis and its people, while the judicial address aims to distinguish the judges from the onlookers and bystanders in the lawcourt, inviting the former to take their juridical duty seriously and to think and realize that they are under constant observation by the other people present in the court. This would put pressure on the judges to behave and adjudicate in the most righteous way. The spectrum of research in the current scholarship on addresses to the lawcourt audience is narrow, in a sense that all three current studies on the topic examine only a selection of the transmitted forensic speeches of Attic oratory. Such a narrow sample of speeches does not allow scholars to draw comprehensive and overarching conclusions about the features of the addresses, nor the frequency with which they are deployed by the speakers in forensic oratory, nor the impact that the different legal character of speeches, i.e. public and private, has upon the choice of the most suitable mode of address. There remains, therefore, scope for further research regarding the frequency of using addresses, the alleged

 private, a method that Richard Jebb — and I tend to I agree — finds uncertain. See Blass 1868, 445-660. The categorization proposed by Blass includes some highly contestable suggestions, as is, for example, his argument for considering two speeches of Lysias, For the Invalid and To his Companions as “bagatelle”. 4 Serafim 2017, 40.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

impact that the dichotomy between public and private speeches may have upon the choice of the suitable address pattern, the linguistic and contextual features of the texts that reinforce the invited impact of addresses upon the audience, and of course the rhetorical purposes of the speakers.

 Addresses in context: forensic, public and private, speeches It has been argued that the difference in the legal character of the case affects the options available to the speakers in terms of the content of their speech, the arguments and the rhetorical strategies, 5 including the addresses to the audience, since “the civic address is normally more appropriate in public than in private speeches”.6 The examination of the whole corpus of speeches in Attic forensic oratory confirms both suggestions: that the legal character of the case affects the careful selection and use of rhetorical techniques, 7 and that the use of particular ways of addressing the audience is one such technique that is attached to and affected by the legal (and the thematic) character of the case. A few useful conclusions about the frequency of addresses in the orations of each of the Ten Attic orators, and the distribution of addresses in their public and private speeches, can be drawn. The first conclusion is that civic addresses are used with a distinctly higher frequency than other addresses in the speeches of Attic forensic oratory: I counted 587 instances of the civic address in forensic oratory, whereas there are only 245 instances of the judicial address and far fewer of the descriptive address, 158 instances. In politically-flavoured forensic trials,  5 Rubinstein 2004, 187–203; 2005, 129–145. 6 Serafim 2017, 27. 7 This conclusion is confirmed by the careful selection of patterns of comic invective, depending on the specific legal character of a case: comic invective is present in public forensic speeches, but not in private ones. Patterns of comic invective are deployed, specifically, in twelve public speeches: Aeschines 1–3; Demosthenes 18–22, 25; Dinarchus 1; Lysias 24 and perhaps also in Lysias 30; and Isocrates 13. Of these twelve speeches, only two are logographic, i.e. speeches composed to be delivered not by the speaker himself, i.e. Lysias 24 and 30. I can also confirm that there is a lack of patterns of comic invective in private orations. In 50.26 Polycles is presented as laughing at Apollodoros, the plaintiff, but this reference is not part of an attempt by the speaker to provoke laughter in the audience towards his opponent. I argue that comic invective in private speeches is limited because the plaintiff carefully plans to avoid giving the impression that the case is not important or that the offences of his opponent are trivial. Serafim 2020, 23–42.

  Andreas Serafim like those in which Aeschines and Demosthenes participated, it is important for the speaker to target the right audience and try to influence the judges’ verdict and the attitude that the Athenian onlookers in court have towards the persons involved in specific political affairs. In politicized forensic trials the speakers aim not only to win a legal victory over their adversaries, but also political victories, something that can only be possible if the contents of speeches affect the cognitive/emotional and political mindset of the Athenians. The second conclusion is that the dichotomy between public and private forensic speeches does affect the use of addresses: there are no instances of civic addresses in the speeches of Antiphon, Hypereides and Isaeus. This lack of addresses seems to be due to the cases the speakers had to handle, all revolving around (private) feuds between individuals: murders in the case of Antiphon, the misconduct of adversaries against the speaker in the speeches of Hypereides and inheritance matters in the majority of Isaeus’ speeches. In these contexts, which lack the grandeur of other trials that refer to Athenian or Hellenic political affairs, the use of the civic address seems to be less useful for the rhetorical purposes of the speaker. The public speeches of Demosthenes use civic addresses to the audience more times than judicial addresses. Data in the following Table 2 confirm this suggestion: Tab. 2: Addresses in the speeches of Demosthenes. Oration

Civic addresses

Judicial addresses





















































 (pseudoDemosthenic)

There are two notable exceptions to the rule that civic addresses are used more frequently than judicial addresses in public forensic speeches: the first is that the

“I, He, We, You, They”  

number of instances of judicial addresses in Demosthenes’ speech 24, Against Timocrates, is higher than that of civic addresses. “This reinforces the contention that the speaker’s choice of which mode of address to deploy in a particular context is not random. The frequent use of judicial addresses seems to be reasonable in a speech where great attention is paid to the process of introducing and passing laws, and to the authority, and the benefits, of certain laws for the polis. It can be argued in principle that judicial addresses are used whenever the speaker focuses on legal matters (especially from §111 to §154), whereas the civic addresses are used whenever he discusses issues relevant to all Athenians (especially from §162 to §209)”.8 The second exception is that the total number of judicial addresses in Lysias’ public speeches — 138 instances — is higher than the use of civic addresses — 25 instances. The only reason one can propose to justify this omission of civic addresses, and the subsequent affluent use of judicial addresses, is that the speeches of Lysias, unlike those of Aeschines and Demosthenes, are not about grand political affairs that impact upon inter- or intra-state politics concerning peace, war and Athens’ hegemonic role in Greece. Even the public speeches of Lysias, those that concern the relations between individuals and the polis (like, for example, speech 12: Against Eratosthenes; speech 25: Defence against a Charge of Subverting the Democracy;9 speech 31: Against Philon), would not have had a huge impact upon the Athenian or Hellenic political state of affairs. This is because they do not examine the impact of individual political actions on foreign policy, as the speeches of Aeschines and Demosthenes do. In Aeschines’ Against Timarchus, for example, Demosthenes is accused of bringing destruction upon Athens because of his failed policy towards Philip of Macedon. In the public speeches of Lysias the focus is on the behaviour and actions of individuals that are connected with internal political processes or anomalies (e.g. Eratosthenes killed Lysias’ brother during the reign of the Thirty Tyrants). These actions only affect the lives of the individuals involved in the cases. This lack of political grandeur in Lysias’ speeches may make the use of civic addresses less necessary or compelling.

 8 Serafim 2017, 41. 9 Speech 25, in particular, is suggested to have been a stylistic exercise of a hypothetical defence of an individual rather than a case delivered in the lawcourt. Dover 1968, 188–189 argues that the lack of specific details suggests speech 25 is “a hypothetical defence of a man against whom the charge is made at a dokimasia that he remained in the city during the rule of the Thirty Tyrants”; Elster 2004, 20 argues that “the cynically blatant appeal to self-interest in that speech would render it ineffective in an actual trial”.

  Andreas Serafim Table 3 provides information about the distribution of the three main forms of address — civic, judicial and descriptive — in Attic forensic speeches: Tab. 3: Addresses in the forensic speeches of the Ten Attic Orators. Orator

Civic A.

Judicial A. Descriptive A.

Aeschines (.%) 10







Andocides (.%)







Antiphon (.%)













Dinarchus (.%)







Hypereides (.%)







Lycurgus (.%)







Lysias (.%)







Isaeus (.%)







Isocrates (.%)







Demosthenes (.%)

As it is manifest in the table, Isocrates, Isaeus and Antiphon are those least using addresses of all three kinds in their orations. The scant use of addresses in the speeches of the three orators can be justified, but regrettably not fully, and not in a fully satisfactory way. Civic addresses are less necessary and suitable in the speeches of Antiphon and Isaeus that refer to the feuds between individuals, and are characterized by an absence of the grandeur that marks the politically-flavoured forensic cases in which Aeschines and Demosthenes were involved. The nature of the forensic speeches of Isocrates also affects the use of addresses: forensic speeches concern private causes, and, as has already been argued, addressing the andres Athēnaioi in these contexts may seem out of place. But why Isocrates does not use judicial addresses more frequently cannot be explained. The restrained use of the andres dikastai address in Antiphon’s oratorical corpus can be viewed in the light of some his speeches not representing actual law-court cases, e.g. the Tetralogies. But as to why he and Isaeus do not make more extensive use of the andres dikastai formula in the rest of their transmitted speeches, this is again a question we do not know how to answer. Unanswered also remains  10 The percentage given in the brackets is the quotient of the number of addresses and the total number of sections in the speeches of each orator.

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the question of why Isocrates, Isaeus and Antiphon do not use descriptive addresses more often in their speeches. There is a convenient solution to all these unanswered questions: that frequency and use of addresses are due to the speakers’ personal speaking style and (dis)taste. This is not an argument that can be supported by facts and sources, however; and so, we are inevitably still in need of more nuanced explanations.

 Addresses in texts: Examples of unity/division It has been argued, in recent scholarship on Attic oratory, that the selection of a specific mode of addressing the audience is thought to be having an impact upon the audience: “the civic address creates a grouping to which both speaker and audience belong, implicitly excluding the opponent, as well as any non-Athenian members of the audience. The judicial addresses have a twofold function. Firstly, they distinguish between the judges and the audience, as in Demosthenes 18.196. Demosthenes, therefore, aims to control the dicasts by instilling fear in them and inviting them to envisage themselves as being personally accountable to the bystanders. Secondly, the judicial address seeks to invite the judges to take their duty to apply the law seriously and to carry this duty out in the most unbiased way”. 11 This section elaborates further on the impact that addresses are designed to have upon the audience. It is argued that the use of addresses is an exercise of power and a practice of triangulating relations that has the potential to promote unity and division by means of forging in-group solidarity or out-group hostility, depending on the rhetorical purposes of the speaker. There are two standard purposes the orators want to achieve: either to alienate the opponents from the audience (“You-They (He)”), or to align themselves with the audience (“You, the audience” and “I, the speaker” pattern) against their adversary (“that man/these men” or “him/they” pattern). This leads to a “We-They” pattern: addresses function as a means for the speaker to artfully construct the audience’s frame of mind, by binding himself together with the audience (“We”), while simultaneously estranging his opponents from the group (“They”). Another way of articulating these same issues is H. Tajfel and J. Turner’s social identity theory (or “group identity”, or “imagined community”, a term of B. Anderson), which explores how the activation of group attitudes and identities and inter-group relations — i.e. in-group solidarity and out-group hostility — has

 11 Serafim 2017, 40–41.

  Andreas Serafim a huge impact upon behaviours and attitudes in target audiences.12 The central hypothesis of social identity theory is that members of an in-group will seek to find negative aspects of an out-group, thus enhancing their self-image. Grouping people through addresses to the audience invites their negative emotional attitudes towards the target, or underscores the hostile emotions of the speaker, thereby inviting the target audiences to share the same emotions. This invitation can be seen as an attempt to forge a rapport between the speaker and the audience, known as “emotional community”: “a group of people animated by common or similar interests, values, emotional styles and valuations”.13 Emotional community aims at persuasion, as ancient rhetorical theory indicates: emotions, “all those affections which cause men to change their opinion in regard to their judgments”, as Aristotle notes in Rh. 1378a19–20, affect persuasion. For Aristotle to refer to the persuaded hearer is actually to refer to his emotional condition, the manipulation of which is central to forensic (and political) oratory. “[There is persuasion] through the hearers when they are led to feel emotions by the speech; for we do not give the same judgment when grieved and rejoicing or when being friendly and hostile”, Aristotle also points out (Rh. 1356a14–16). Demosthenes, similarly, notes that judicial verdicts are affected by feelings such as pity, envy and anger (19.228). The aim that grouping people has, i.e. to excite the hostile thoughts and emotions of the audience against the speaker’s opponent(s), is satisfied through the “You-They (He)” or the “We-They (He)” patterns that are accompanied and strengthened by specific contextual features, such as the accusation against the opponent(s) of being traitors to the polis, draft-dodgers, haters of the constitution, slanderers and sycophants and/or deceivers of the law-court audience. There are also examples in speeches of the “I-You” method of grouping that again aims to forge a rapport between the speaker and the audience, mainly through the cognitive and emotional exploitation of topoi (such as the topos of inexperience) to the best rhetorical effect. A caveat is necessary here: the examples of passages that will be discussed below are selective because of the space limits that a volume chapter inevitably imposes. A more comprehensive and all-inclusive study on the means and purposes of the techniques of unity and division, as deployed in the entirety of Attic oratory (not only forensic, but also symbouleutic and epideictic) is, therefore, needed.

 12 Tajfel and Turner 1979. Also: Miller et al. 1981, 494–511; Conover 1984, 760–785; Lau 1989, 220–223; Carey 1990, 49; Huddy 2003, 511–558; Hall 2006, 388; Arena 2007, 151. 13 Plamper/Reddy/Rosenwein/Stearns 2010, 253. Also: Rosenwein 2002, 821–845; 2006.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

. “You-They (He)” The political space is often merged with the judicial space in classical Athens, and the speakers in the law-court never hesitate to refer to matters of political importance with the aim of undermining their opponents and turning the audience against them. Speakers, for example, tend to accuse their opponents of undemocratic misconduct: Lysias, for instance, accuses Agoratus of being responsible for wholesale murders of Athenians during the rule of the Thirty Tyrants. In Against Agoratus 43 we read: οὗτοι μὲν τοίνυν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ὑπ᾽ Ἀγοράτου ἀπογραφέντες ἀπέθανον. ἐπειδὴ δὲ τούτους ἐκποδὼν ἐποιήσαντο οἱ τριάκοντα, σχεδὸν οἶμαι ὑμᾶς ἐπίστασθαι ὡς πολλὰ καὶ δεινὰ μετὰ ταῦτα τῇ πόλει ἐγένετο· ὧν οὗτος ἁπάντων αἴτιός ἐστιν ἀποκτείνας ἐκείνους. So then these persons, men of Athens, lost their lives through the depositions of Agoratus. But after the Thirty had cleared them out of their way, you know well enough, I imagine, what a multitude of miseries next befell the city; and for all of them this man, by taking those people’s lives, was responsible.

The civic address is the most pertinent in a context that aims to remind the citizens — both the judges and the onlookers in court — that Agoratus was an ally of the Thirty Tyrants, someone who undermined the democratic rule of law and justice in Athens. Out-group hostility is the purpose of this reference: the speaker seeks to alienate Agoratus from the group of the Athenians, who are present in court, while, at the same time, reminding the judges that they should cast their vote in a political (not strictly judicial and purely law-orientated) capacity; their judicial vote bears political significance. I quote Carey here to say that the speaker “is appealing to a fear of subversion which persisted, albeit in an attenuated form long after the revolutions of the late fifth century”. 14 The fear of tyranny persisted throughout the classical period and induced the Athenians to pass anti-tyrannical legislation, such as the law of Eucrates (337/6 B.C.).15 Patriotic rhetoric (a part of which is also the discussion about the Athenian constitution) is often used in Attic forensic oratory either as a way for the speaker to enhance his credibility among the members of the target audience (in-group affiliation; Aeschines 2.167– 170 where the speaker refers to his military service for the benefit of the city), or

 14 Carey 2005, 75. 15 On the Athenian laws against tyranny: Ostwald 1955, 103–128; Gagarin 1981, 71–77; Henderson 2003, 156; Ober 2003, 222–224.

  Andreas Serafim as a way of undermining the public credentials of the opponents (out-group hostility; cf. Aeschines 2.148, 3.244 and Dinarchus 1.71 where Demosthenes is accused of committing desertion). Another good example of an attack against opponents in the Athenian lawcourt, with the aim of casting doubts on their character, public authority and behaviour towards the polis, can be found in Isocrates’ Against Callimachus 21: οὐκ οὖν δεινόν, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, οὕτω μὲν τῶν συνθηκῶν ἐχουσῶν, τοιούτων δὲ τῶν ὅρκων γενομένων, τοσοῦτον φρονεῖν Καλλίμαχον ἐπὶ τοῖς λόγοις τοῖς αὑτοῦ ὥσθ᾽ ἡγεῖσθαι πείσειν ὑμᾶς ἐναντία τούτοις ψηφίσασθαι. Is it not outrageous, men of the judging panel, that, although such were the terms of the covenant and the oaths which were sworn were of such nature, Callimachus is so convinced of his own eloquence that he believes he will persuade you to vote in opposition to them?

The judicial address is used in a passage, which starts with a strong moralistic term of emotional tenor — δεινόν “outrageous”: Isocrates considers the attempt of Callimachus to deceive the audience outrageous. By its very lack of restraint, this moralistic term has the potential to emphasize the strong emotions — regardless of whether they are real or pretended — of the speaker and, in the process, to invite the judges to share the same emotions — exemplifying a “You-the judges” vs “He-the deceiver” pattern of grouping people and manoeuvring them into a position of seeing Callimachus as their own personal enemy, an individual who aims to distort the truth and trick them.16 Orators frequently accuse their opponents of trying to deceive the judges in the law-court: in the passionate legal and political row between Aeschines and Demosthenes, for example, the two men never pass up an opportunity to accuse each other of being audience-deceivers. Aeschines, on the one hand, accuses Demosthenes of being a sophist and of using his skills to deceive the judges (e.g. in 1.175), 17 an accusation that is reproduced by later sources as well (e.g. in Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ Isaeus 4.23–24 where Pythias’ allegation is mentioned that

 16 On the potential of abusive words or other strong aggressive terms to promote unity and division: see pp. 86–87 below. 17 The main accusation levelled against the sophists is that, with the power of speech and rhetorical eloquence, they would distort the truth and substitute justice with misleading persuasion. This is included in a variety of sources, as for example Plato, Phaedrus 267a: “Tisias and Gorgias… saw that probabilities should be more honoured than truths”, 272d–273c; Theaetetus 171c “Protagoras’ Truth is true to nobody”; Gorgias 458e–459c; Aristotle, Rhetoric 1402a23 where the notorious expression “to make the weaker logos stronger” is attributed to Protagoras. On the demonization of the sophist and logographer: Ober 1989, 170–173; Hesk 1999, 201–230.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

the speeches of Demosthenes, like those of his teacher Isaeus, were the target of general suspicion about chicanery and deception “because of their great rhetorical skill”, τῆς πολλῆς ἐπιτεχνήσεως). Demosthenes, on the other hand, never ceases from accusing Aeschines of using his theatrically trained voice to beguile and deceive the audience (cf. 18.308–309; 19.206, 208).18 An astute twist on the accusation of attempting to deceive the audience is made by the connection with magic. In Dinarchus 1.95, a speech delivered against Demosthenes, one can find a good example of this “You-He” strategy: γόης οὗτος, ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ μιαρὸς ἄνθρωπός ἐστι, καὶ οὔτε τῷ γένει τῆς πόλεως πολίτης οὔτε τοῖς πεπολιτευμένοις αὐτῷ καὶ πεπραγμένοις. Gentlemen of Athens, this man is a sorcerer and an abomination, unworthy by either his birth or his administration and actions of being a citizen of the city. 19

Dinarchus, with the civic address, reminds the law-court judges and onlookers of their civic identity, while deconstructing the civic identity of Demosthenes, who is presented as being unworthy to be an Athenian citizen not only because of his actions, but also because of his birth. An accusation that is often trotted out against Demosthenes is that he is not Athenian by descent (cf. Aeschines 2.78, 180 where Demosthenes is presented as Scythian in an attempt by the speaker to exploit and capitalize on the negative image that the Greeks had of that foreign people).20 In this context, where the discussion of civic identity is foremost and the grouping is based on it, i.e. “You-The Athenians” vs “He-The foreigner”, the reference to Demosthenes as sorcerer is important in strengthening the attempt to create out-group hostility. It is important to note that the word order in Dinarchus

 18 On the accusations that Demosthenes trotted out against Aeschines for using his theatrical (vocal) training as a means of deception in the law-court: Serafim 2017, 84–86. 19 Translation: Worthington 1992, 102–103. 20 The most detailed account about the Scythians is presented in Herodotus 4.5–82, where their barbaric way of life (represented by references to language, customs, and attire) is compared with that of the civilized Greek world. For example, human sacrifice is presented as being a barbarian practice in contrast to the Greek model of animal sacrifice (4.60–61). Cf. also Airs-WatersPlaces (§17ff.) where the Scythian nation becomes target of contempt and ridicule. Denigrating references to other nations, especially the Scythians, are very frequent in comedy; cf. Halsall 2002, 91–93; Hall 2006, 225–254. On Scythians and their presentation by ancient writers, Braund 2005, 7–8; Campbell 2006, 93–105; on the presentation of Scythians in Herodotus, cf. Asheri/ Lloyd/Corcella 2007, 545–641.

  Andreas Serafim 1.95 is calculated and meaningful: the hyperbaton (i.e. the subject and the vocative separate the two coordinated constituents of the predicate — γόης οὗτος, ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ μιαρός) strongly emphasizes the first word. Dickie examines several uses of that word, γόης, in a range of primary sources, from tragic plays to medical writings and philosophical treatises (especially Plato, Laws 933a–e), highlighting its pejorative sense. 21 To accuse someone of being a sorcerer was to accuse him/her of being dishonourable and engaging in morally questionable activities.22 As it has also been argued, “the accusation levelled against individuals of being sorcerers was also a way of referring to their foreign genealogical roots and marginalized social standing. A particularly potent aspect of Greek magic was its presence in the fringes of society, which were most drastically divided from official state religion. Dionysus is presented in Greek literary texts, most fondly in Euripides’ Bacchae 234–235, as a sorcerer from a barbaric land.23 Sorcery itself was considered to have ancient roots and Eastern provenance, and was associated with social marginalization”.24 It becomes clear, therefore, that the purpose of identifying Demosthenes, in the speech of Dinarchus, with the scarefigure of the sorcerer is to capitalize on and exploit the negative cognitive and emotional reactions of the apostrophized Athenians towards sorcerers. Another category of religion-orientated features in the “You-They (He)” pattern is about the references by speakers to the gods, who are presented as inspecting the judges in the law-court. The ballot in the ancient law-court was secret and, in practice, nobody could ever know exactly how each of the judges voted, while, at the same time, none of the judges was obliged to undergo the state process of examination of accounts (euthyna or euthynai) after the end of his judgeship.25 Demosthenes says clearly in 19.239–240 that “though the vote is secret, it will not escape the notice of the gods. The man who made the law perceived most excellently that, whereas none of these men will know which of you had done him a favour, the divine power of the gods will know who did not vote for a just verdict”. Lycurgus 1.146, similarly, points out “do not forget, gentlemen, that each of you now, though giving his vote in secret, will openly proclaim his attitude to the gods”, while Isocrates, in 1.16, openly and indiscreetly asks the audience to “fear  21 Dickie 2001, 12–16, 30–43. 22 Dickie 2001, 36–46; Eidinow 2016, 55. 23 Euripides’ Bacchae 234–235: “And they say that some stranger has come, a sorcerer, a conjuror from the Lydian land, fragrant in hair with golden curls, having in his eyes the wine-dark graces of Aphrodite”. 24 Serafim 2019, 243–244. 25 On this process of the examination of magistrates: Harrison 1971, 208–211; Todd 1993, 112– 113, 302.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

the gods” (τοὺς θεοὺς φοβοῦ), in a context where he warns the audience that there is no chance they would be able to hide a shameful act they committed (cf. Aeschines 1.50 where the speaker says that Misgolas would say the truth if he feared the gods).26 A subtle example of employing addresses to the audience in the context of referring to the gods can be found in Demosthenes 19.259: Νόσημα γάρ, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, δεινὸν ἐμπέπτωκεν εἰς τὴν Ἑλλάδα, καὶ χαλεπὸν καὶ πολλῆς τινὸς εὐτυχίας καὶ παρ’ ὑμῶν ἐπιμελείας δεόμενον. For a terrible disease, men of Athens, has fallen upon Greece, a serious one needing some very good luck and care on your part.

The speaker reminds the judges that they bear a civic identity — they are citizens of Athens — and that they need to cast their verdict in a way that cuts and cauterizes the sick part of the polis, which threatens to spread disease to the other citizens — this is the “You-He” pattern. “The salvation of Athens and the whole of Greece from the terrible disease that Aeschines represents would be the result of a synergetic action: the Athenians are invited to think that both the divinized agent of good luck (εὐ-τυχία> τύχη) and they themselves should do their best to tackle Aeschines. This argument is in line with the perception that humans are not the stooge of the gods or other supernatural, divinized, entities and agents. Ample evidence points to prosperity being the result of the synergy between divine will and human effort. 27 Divinized agents are important in establishing the framework within which human lives exist, although humans can still make decisions and take responsibility for them. The Athenian audience would have been used to understanding ideas about τύχη working within this more nuanced context. Seen in this light, Demosthenes is attempting to remind the judges of their civic duties towards Athens, and intimidate them by mentioning the imminent threat to the safety and prosperity of their civic community, urging them not to inaction, but to action that will further be supported and strengthened by τύχη. A long-standing area of psychological research into attitude change has focused on the role played by a specific emotion in persuasion: the study of appeals to  26 On religious discourse as a means of audience control in Attic oratory: Serafim 2021, Chapter 3. 27 Serafim 2017b, 104: “this combination of divine control and human determination has indelible affinities with tragedy and epic. Tragedy combines human determination, in that protagonists suffer the outcome of their actions, with a sense of inevitability, in that these actions are themselves controlled by the will and the plans of the gods, although there is ‘an aversion against reducing the persons to puppets moved by creatures of overwhelmingly superior force’”.

  Andreas Serafim fear. 28 Increased fear can be associated with decisive actions designed to remedy the fear-inducing threat. In 19.259, Demosthenes follows this strategy: by stirring up fear, he aims to manipulate the decisions that the civic audience, i.e. the Athenians, will make, and dictate the actions of that civic group”.29 Emotionally charged utterances that include civic addresses combined with references to divine powers can also be found in contexts where the emotional tenor is heightened by other features of the script, such as the use of abusive words, as in Demosthenes 25.63: εἶτ᾽ οὐκ αἰσχύνεσθ᾽, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, εἰ οἱ μὲν ἐπὶ πονηρίᾳ καὶ τοῖς ἐσχάτοις ἐμπεπτωκότες εἰς τὸ οἴκημα τοσούτῳ τοῦτον ἡγήσανθ᾽ ἑαυτῶν εἶναι πονηρότερον ὥστ᾽ ἄμεικτον ἑαυτοῖς καταστῆσαι, ὑμεῖς δ᾽ ἐξεληλακότων τῶν νόμων αὐτὸν ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας εἰς ὑμᾶς αὐτοὺς καταμείξετε; τί τῶν πεπραγμένων ἢ βεβιωμένων ἐπαινέσαντες; ἢ τί τῶν πάντων οὐχὶ δυσχεράναντες; οὐκ ἀσεβής; οὐκ ὠμός; οὐκ ἀκάθαρτος; οὐ συκοφάντης; Are you not ashamed then, men of Athens, if the men who had been thrown into prison for villainy and vice thought him so much more villainous than themselves that they forbade all intercourse with him, while you are ready to admit him to intercourse with yourselves, though the laws have placed him outside the pale of the constitution? What did you find to commend in his life or conduct? Which of all his actions has failed to move your indignation? Is he not impious, blood-thirsty, unclean and a blackmailer?

Demosthenes again reminds the law-court audience of their civic identity, and then attacks Aristogeiton with four abusive epithets (ὠμός, ἀκάθαρτος, συκοφάντης, ἀσεβής). The language of abuse is an effective way of conveying that one feels very strongly about an individual or a situation, or of evoking negative feelings in someone else. “Epithets are offensive emotional outbursts of single words or phrases used to express the speaker’s frustration, anger or surprise”. 30 The context reinforces the effect that the use of civic address may have had upon the audience. The “You-He” pattern is deployed in context in ways that can affect the mind and the emotions of the civic group: “a negative disposition in the judges and the onlookers would, almost certainly, have been created, while aggressive emotions – anger and/or indignation against the impious scoundrel – would also have been provoked. References to impiety are often used in Attic speeches as a

 28 Janis and Feshbach 1953, 78–92; Leventhal, Singer and Jones 1965, 20–29; Baron/Inman/ Kao/Logan 1992, 323–346; Gleicher and Petty 1992, 86–100. 29 Serafim 2021,104. 30 Jay 2009, 155; cf. Fägersten 2012; Vingerhoets, Bylsma and Vlam 2013, 287–304.

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means of triggering anger and indignation in the audience towards impious individuals; the example of Lysias 6.17 is telling. 31 Demosthenes’ approach is more cunning than Lysias’, however: he tries, in a sense, to associate impiety with the negative cognitive and emotional dispositions that a series of other tough accusations (would have) created in the targeted civic audience”. 32 The accusation against Aristogeiton of being a sycophant, for example, serves this purpose for the designed civic community, the Athenians: “unlike the modern English word sycophant, which carries the sense of a flatterer, this notion means malignant accuser in ancient Greek. References to sycophancy aim to exploit the negative emotional attitudes of people, especially their fears, insecurities and prejudices. There is evidence for the enmity felt by Athenians towards sycophants: Aristotle, for example, notes that calumny is productive of hatred and anger (Rhetoric 1382a2–3; Aristophanes’ Acharnians 725–726, 517–519)”.33 As Volonaki in this volume also argues, “it is easier to arouse hatred since no personal injury is necessary and this emotion is usually felt against public offenders who are accused of theft, slander (sycophantia or loidoria), bribery, corruption and embezzlement”. 34 The accusation against Aristogeiton of being unclean, and the subsequent idea that an individual may bring disaster on his city through pollution, is also firmly based on Greek popular perceptions and real anxieties, and is used elsewhere in oratory as a means of disposing the audience to take a hostile stance against the speaker’s adversary that leads to disgrace and infamy (cf. Antiphon 1.58). Pollution, implied in 25.63, was considered analogous to a contagious disease (cf. Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, in which the king becomes a curse and causes a plague), which was spread mainly by close contact with the affected persons, and calls for an urgent (re)action by the audience. This (re)action is specified in Attic forensic oratory as the act of expelling the individual from the city. In Dinarchus’ Against Demosthenes 76, the severity of the reaction is augmented by the call to the Athenians to kill Demosthenes:

 31 Lysias 6.17: “now where these sacred things are concerned you should rather be indignant (ὀργίζεσθαι οὖν χρή), men of Athens, at guilt in your own citizens than in strangers”. 32 Serafim 2021, 106. 33 Serafim 2017b, 66. On the marginalized status of sycophants: Lofberg 1917, 19–25; 1920, 61– 72; MacDowell 1978, 62–66; Harvey 1990, 103–121; Yunis 1996, 253–254, n. 31; Christ 1998, 48– 71; Pernot 2005, 24–25. 34 See Volonaki in this volume, p. 102.

  Andreas Serafim διόπερ, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, δεῖ ταῦθ᾽ ὑμᾶς ὁρῶντας καὶ λογιζομένους μὴ μὰ Δία τὸν πλείω χρόνον τῆς Δημοσθένους δωροδοκίας καὶ ἀτυχίας κοινωνεῖν, μηδ᾽ ἐν τούτῳ τὰς ἐλπίδας τῆς σωτηρίας ἔχειν […] τὸν τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀλιτήριον ἀποκτείναντας ἐξόριστον ἐκ τῆς πόλεως ποιῆσαι, καὶ μεταβαλέσθαι τὴν τῆς πόλεως τύχην ἐᾶσαι, καὶ προσδοκῆσαι τούτων γενομένων βέλτιον πράξειν. It follows then, Athenians, that if you fully recognize this fact you should not by Zeus be parties in future to Demosthenes’ corruption and ill-luck or rest your hopes of security on him […] Having killed this curse of Greece, send his body out of the city’s borders, give her fortunes a chance to mend, and then, with this accomplished, expect a happier lot.

The use of the civic address fits well within the context and aims to strengthen the message that Dinarchus wants to send to the target audience: the Athenians in court should realize that the enemy of the civic community they belong to is Demosthenes, who should be punished severely by the citizens, if they are to expect a happier future. This “You-He” pattern underlines the duty of the targeted audience and invites the (re)action of its members by means of the decision they should make at the end of the trial (cf. the call for death is also attested in Dinarchus 3.7 where a civic address to the audience is also used), 35 and the implementation of that decision immediately afterwards. The “You-He” pattern that comprises and further exploits references to the gods, with the aim of creating a negative disposition in the audience towards the speaker’s opponents, can also be found in Aeschines 3.156 and Demosthenes 21.73. “What marks these two passages out in the corpus of speeches that belong to Aeschines and Demosthenes is the use of imperatives in contexts where religious discourse is used, a combination that is rarely attested elsewhere in Attic oratory (cf. Isocrates 1.16; Demosthenes 18.324, 19.262, 32.23)”. 36 Aeschines 3.156: [1] μὴ πρὸς Διὸς καὶ θεῶν, ἱκετεύω ὑμᾶς, ὦ ἄνδρες Αθηναῖοι, μὴ τρόπαιον ἵστατε ἀφ᾽ ὑμῶν αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ τοῦ Διονύσου ὀρχήστρᾳ, [2] μηδ᾽ αἱρεῖτε παρανοίας ἐναντίον τῶν Ἑλλήνων τὸν δῆμον τὸν Ἀθηναίων, [3] μηδ᾽ ὑπομιμνῄσκετε τῶν ἀνιάτων καὶ ἀνηκέστων κακῶν τοὺς ταλαιπώρους Θηβαίους, οὓς φεύγοντας διὰ τοῦτον ὑποδέδεχθε τῇ πόλει, ὧν ἱερὰ καὶ τέκνα καὶ τάφους ἀπώλεσεν ἡ Δημοσθένους δωροδοκία καὶ τὸ βασιλικὸν χρυσίον. No, by Zeus and the gods, [1] do not, my fellow citizens, do not, I beseech you, set up in the orchestra of Dionysus a memorial of your own defeat, [2] do not in the presence of the

 35 Dinarchus 3.7: “Athenians (ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι), will you not all unite in killing one who has plunged many of our citizens into such deep disgrace and guilt, who first opened the way for the gold that has been distributed, exposing the whole of Athens to blame?” 36 Serafim 2021, 107.

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Greeks convict the Athenian people of having lost their reason, [3] do not remind the poor Thebans of their incurable and irreparable disasters, men who, exiled through Demosthenes’ acts, found refuge with you, when their shrines and children and tombs had been destroyed by Demosthenes’ taking of bribes and by the Persian gold. Demosthenes 21.73: σκέψασθε δὴ πρὸς Διὸς καὶ θεῶν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ λογίσασθε παρ᾽ ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς, ὅσῳ πλείον᾽ ὀργὴν ἐμοὶ προσῆκε παραστῆναι πάσχοντι τοιαῦθ᾽ ὑπὸ Μειδίου ἢ τότ᾽ ἐκείνῳ τῷ Εὐαίωνι τῷ τὸν Βοιωτὸν ἀποκτείναντι. ὁ μέν γ᾽ ὑπὸ γνωρίμου, καὶ τούτου μεθύοντος, ἐναντίον ἓξ ἢ ἕπτ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἐπλήγη, καὶ τούτων γνωρίμων, οἳ τὸν μὲν κακιεῖν οἷς ἔπραξε, τὸν δ᾽ ἐπαινέσεσθαι μετὰ ταῦτ᾽ ἀνασχόμενον καὶ κατασχόνθ᾽ ἑαυτὸν ἔμελλον, καὶ ταῦτ᾽ εἰς οἰκίαν ἐλθὼν ἐπὶ δεῖπνον, οἷ μηδὲ βαδίζειν ἐξῆν αὐτῷ. Think then, by Zeus and the gods, men of Athens, and calculate in your own minds how much more reason I had to be angry when I suffered so at the hands of Meidias, than Euaeon when he killed Boeotus. Euaeon was struck by an acquaintance, who was drunk at the time, in the presence of six or seven witnesses, who were also acquaintances and might be depended upon to denounce the one for his offence and commend the other if he had patiently restrained his feelings after such an affront, especially as Euaeon had gone to sup at a house which he need never have entered at all.

The synergetic use of religious references and three present imperatives in the first passage underlines the solemnity and the dramatic character of the moment in the law-court, and presents with emphasis the pathos that the speaker feels when referring to his opponent. To place an invocation to the gods in the context where you refer to the men- and god-hated misdeeds of your adversary is certainly an attempt to arouse the hostile emotions (as anger and hatred are) of your audience against the alleged perpetrator. The use of aorist imperatives, in the second passage, conveys a message to the audience in a more forcible way than the present imperative, indicating the strong desire of Demosthenes to elicit a reaction from the audience at whom the imperative is directed. As Sicking argues, aorist imperatives are used in cases where “a verb informs the person addressed as to what is expected of him or her”.37 The audience is expected to think and understand how reasonable the hostile emotions of the speaker towards Meidias are, and potentially to share those emotions. The address to the audience sharpens the focus of the imperatives, while the invocation to the gods underlines the dramatic nature of the incident.

 37 Sicking 1991, 156.

  Andreas Serafim

. “We-They (He)” This pattern of grouping people can be either explicit, when proper language is used, or subtle. An explicit “We-They” grouping pattern is used in Andocides’ On the Peace with Sparta 13: φασὶ δέ τινες ἀναγκαίως νῦν ἡμῖν ἔχειν πολεμεῖν: σκεψώμεθα οὖν πρῶτον, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, διὰ τί καὶ πολεμήσωμεν. οἶμαι γὰρ ἂν πάντας ἀνθρώπους ὁμολογῆσαι διὰ τάδε δεῖν πολεμεῖν, ἢ ἀδικουμένους ἢ βοηθοῦντας ἀδικουμένοις. ἡμεῖς τοίνυν αὐτοί τε ἠδικούμεθα Βοιωτοῖς τε ἀδικουμένοις ἐβοηθοῦμεν. εἰ τοίνυν ἡμῖν τέ ἐστι τοῦτο παρὰ Λακεδαιμονίων, τὸ μηκέτι ἀδικεῖσθαι, Βοιωτοῖς τε δέδοκται ποιεῖσθαι τὴν εἰρήνην ἀφεῖσιν Ὀρχομενὸν αὐτόνομον, τίνος ἕνεκα πολεμήσωμεν; ἵνα ἡ πόλις ἡμῶν ἐλευθέρα ᾖ; Now it is argued by some that present circumstances oblige us to continue fighting. Let us begin, then, gentlemen, by considering exactly why we are to fight. Everyone would agree, I think, that war is justified only so long as one is either suffering a wrong oneself or supporting the cause of another who has been wronged. Now we were both suffering a wrong ourselves and also supporting the cause of the Boeotians who had been wronged. If, then, Sparta guarantees that our wrongs shall cease, and if the Boeotians have decided to allow Orchomenus its independence and make peace, why are we to continue fighting? To free our city?

The content of the speech justifies both the use of the civic address and the use of the first person verbs: Andocides talks to his fellow Athenians about, and supports, the Spartan peace offer, which was made after Conon’s victory off Cnidus. The speaker creates a civic group that consists of Athenians and insinuates himself into that group. This in-group consciousness is an essential prerequisite for persuasion: you persuade the target audience only if you prove yourself to be one of its members, who espouses the same values and has the same interests and purposes, especially in a case where you have to defend the proposal made by a longstanding enemy of your people, as the Spartans were for the Athenians. The passage in Aeschines 3.1, an example of a subtle grouping pattern, is interesting because of the combination of two patterns: the passage starts with the “You-They” pattern and ends with the subtle but masterful use of a “We-They” pattern. [A] τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν ὁρᾶτε, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ τὴν παράταξιν ὅση γεγένηται, καὶ τὰς κατὰ τὴν ἀγορὰν δεήσεις, αἷς κέχρηνταί τινες ὑπὲρ τοῦ τὰ μέτρια καὶ συνήθη μὴ γίγνεσθαι ἐν τῇ πόλει: [B] ἐγὼ δὲ πεπιστευκὼς ἥκω πρῶτον μὲν τοῖς θεοῖς, ἔπειτα τοῖς νόμοις καὶ ὑμῖν, ἡγούμενος οὐδεμίαν παρασκευὴν μεῖζον ἰσχύειν παρ᾽ ὑμῖν τῶν νόμων καὶ τῶν δικαίων. [A] You see, men of Athens, how certain persons have been making their preparations for this case: how they have mustered their forces, and how they have gone begging up and down the market place, in the attempt to prevent the fair and orderly course of justice in the

“I, He, We, You, They”  

state. [B] But I have come trusting first in the gods, then in the laws and in you, believing that with you no scheming preparation can override law and justice.

I separate the passage into two parts – A and B; in the first part, Aeschines reminds the law-court judges and onlookers of their civic identity: they are present in court and are entitled to cast their vote as Athenians (“We”), having to tackle the misbehaviour of the people (“they”) who work to undermine the rule of law and justice, the implementation of which is the norm, the rule in the city of Athens (συνήθη ἐν τῇ πόλει). The opponents of the speaker are, thus, presented as being the opponents of the Athenians, with the emphasis placed on the value of law and justice for the whole civic community. This justifies the use of a civic address in a passage where the speaker may well have used a judicial address, as the duty to condemn the legal rule-haters rests literally upon the judges. In the second part of the passage, Aeschines points out that he believes in the gods and the laws — two of the most important values and collective hallmarks of Athens. 38 References in oratory point to the strong value that the Athenians attached to religion and to the quality of being pious, values that permeated a wide range of social, political and cultural aspects of life. Demosthenes, talking to his fellow-Athenians in 4.45, points out that “wherever, I believe, we send out a force composed partly or wholly of our citizens, there the gods are gracious and fortune fights on our side” (cf. Demosthenes 4.45, 25.11; Dinarchus 3.19; Lycurgus 1.79). In Lycurgus’ words (1.15): “you must realize, Athenians (ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι), that you would be held to have neglected the virtues which chiefly distinguish you from the rest of mankind, piety towards the gods (τῷ πρός τοὺς θεοὺς εὐσεβῶς), reverence for your ancestors and ambition for your country, if this man were to escape punishment at your hands”. 39 Aeschines’ strategy in the exordium of his speech 3 is, by focusing on the common values he claims to share with the audience, and by emphasizing how much he trusts the Athenians in court, to insinuate himself into the same civic, cultural and ethical group with them. At the end of the passage, there is only one group: the Athenians, i.e. the audience and the speaker himself, who espouse the values of law, justice and piety that mark the character of the civic community,  38 The role of the polis in the articulation of Greek religion was matched by the role of religion in the articulation of the polis: religion provided the framework and the symbolic focus of the polis. Scholarship on this issue is deeply indebted to the notion of “polis-religion”, which gained widespread currency thanks to Sourvinou-Inwood. See Sourvinou-Inwood 1988, 259–274; 1990, 295–322. Martin 2009 and Serafim 2021 focus specifically on the interconnection between rhetoric and religion. 39 Serafim 2021, 125.

  Andreas Serafim and turn unanimously against the people who try to undermine these values (cf. Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates 1 where there is a civic address to the audience and a reference to the gods that reinforces the attempt of the speaker to create both a “You-He” and then a “We-He” pattern). 40

. “I-You” This pattern of grouping consists mainly of the ways in which speakers try to create a community with the members of the audience, and insinuate themselves into their goodwill. The speakers use common patterns — the so-called topoi — in their speeches: one of them is the emotional topos of miseratio (also commiseratio and conquestio): “the winning of the judges’ (audience’s) sympathy for one’s own party by awakening sympathy for the injustice or misfortune, which has befallen or is threatening one’s own party”. 41 Emotion is used to forge a rapport — what B. Rosenwein calls “emotional community” — between the speaker and the audience, and promote collaboration between them. A good example of miseratio that supports the creation of the “I-You” collaboration pattern can be found in Hypereides’ Against Athenogenes 36: καὶ ἐγώ, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, δέομαι ὑμῶν καὶ ἀντιβολῶ ἐλεῆσαί με, ἐκεῖνο σκεψαμένους, ὅτι προσήκει ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ δίκῃ […] For my part, gentlemen of the judging panel, I beg you most earnestly to show me mercy. Remember in this trial that you ought to have pity […]

Hypereides targets the audience, referring, specifically, to the judges, before asking them, in emotionally heightened terms (δέομαι and ἀντιβολῶ — two verbs of begging are used where one suffices; this example of rhetorical auxēsis indicates the emotional tenor of the passage), to show him mercy. It is interesting to note that the “I-You” pattern of collaboration between the speaker the audience can be considered to become a “We-They” pattern, if one reads what precedes in the speeches of Hypereides. In §35, for example, the speaker presents both himself  40 Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates 1: “Justice towards you, Athenians (ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι), and reverence for the gods, shall mark the opening of my speech against Leocrates, now here on trial; so may Athena and those other gods and heroes whose statues are erected in our city and the country round receive this prayer. If I have done justly to prosecute Leocrates, if he whom I now bring to trial has been a traitor to their temples, shrines and precincts, a traitor to the honours which your laws ordain and the sacrificial rituals which your ancestors have handed down”. 41 Lausberg 1998, 207–208.

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and the audience as the target of a plot led by Athenogenes; in his words, “the way in which Athenogenes has plotted against me and also his behaviour towards you”. The enemy of the speaker becomes the enemy of the audience, thus unifying two parties against the other — this is a prime example of both in-group unity and out-group hostility. Another means of miseratio is the topos of inexperience: it stirs up emotions to sustain an “I-You” group of the speaker and the audience. Here is the use of the topos in Lysias’ Against Eratosthenes 3: ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, οὔτ᾽ ἐμαυτοῦ πώποτε οὔτε ἀλλότρια πράγματα πράξας νῦν ἠνάγκασμαι ὑπὸ τῶν γεγενημένων τούτου κατηγορεῖν, ὥστε πολλάκις εἰς πολλὴν ἀθυμίαν κατέστην, μὴ διὰ τὴν ἀπειρίαν ἀναξίως καὶ ἀδυνάτως ὑπὲρ τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ καὶ ἐμαυτοῦ τὴν κατηγορίαν ποιήσομαι. ὅμως δὲ πειράσομαι ὑμᾶς ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὡς ἂν δύνωμαι δι᾽ ἐλαχίστων διδάξαι. Now as for myself, gentlemen of the judging panel, having never engaged in any suit either on my own account or on that of others, I have now been compelled by what has occurred to accuse this man: hence I have been often overcome with a great feeling of despondency, from a fear lest my inexperience might cause me to fail in making a worthy and able accusation on my brother’s and on my own behalf. Nevertheless I will try to inform you of the matter from the beginning, as briefly as I can.

The speaker defines his target audience, the judges, and proceeds to an emotional plea for fair hearing, referring to the inexperience that would cause him to lose the trial.42 The link that Lysias tries to make between the judges’ emotions and their attitude towards him in the trial is important because judicial verdicts can sometimes be affected by feelings, such as pity, envy, and anger. As Demosthenes points out: “each man has other motives, of more importance to him, and thereby you are often led astray — compassion, jealousy, resentment, good nature, and a thousand more” (19.228). Appealing to the audience’s compassion is considered in ancient sources to be an effective way of winning over the audience (e.g. Aristophanes’ Wasps 568–572, 977–978 where the method of bringing children into court, or referring to them, to stir up the compassion of the judges is assessed to be fully effective; Demosthenes 21.99; Lysias 18.22, 20.34). This “I-

 42 There are several other examples of the topos of inexperience in the speeches of Lysias, e.g. 1.2, 12.3, 17.1, 19.1 where there is a judicial address to the audience, 31.4. On that topos: Lateiner 1982, 5, 7–8; Ober 1989, 226–231; Carey 1992, 92; Gagarin 1997, 17, 106–107; Kapparis 1999, 194– 195; Hesk 2007, 371–372.

  Andreas Serafim You” pattern helps the speaker to appeal to the judges’ ἐπιείκεια, a means of tempering the strictness of the written legal statues about the litigant’s transgressions (Aristotle’s Rhetoric 1374b1ff., 1374a27; Nicomachean Ethics 1143a21ff.). One of the subtlest, but also most astute, examples of the creation of an “IYou” group can be found, arguably, in Lysias’ On the Murder of Eratosthenes 6: ἐγὼ γάρ, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, ἐπειδὴ ἔδοξέ μοι γῆμαι καὶ γυναῖκα ἠγαγόμην εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν, τὸν μὲν ἄλλον χρόνον οὕτω διεκείμην ὥστε μήτε λυπεῖν μήτε λίαν ἐπ᾽ ἐκείνῃ εἶναι ὅ τι ἂν ἐθέλῃ ποιεῖν, ἐφύλαττόν τε ὡς οἷόν τε ἦν, καὶ προσεῖχον τὸν νοῦν ὥσπερ εἰκὸς ἦν. When I, Athenians, decided to marry, and brought a wife into my house, for some time I was disposed neither to vex her nor to leave her too free to do just as she pleased; I kept a watch on her as far as possible, with such observation of her as was reasonable.

This passage indicates the tacit but still masterful way in which Lysias, the speechwriter, aims to group Euphiletus, the speaker, and the Athenian males in the audience together. There are two important phrases here, which have not been examined properly in the classical scholarship on Lysias: Euphiletus points out that he inspected and guarded his wife “as far as possible” and “as was reasonable”.43 He aims to capitalize on the suspicion of the male members of the Athenian audience about the inherently uncontrollable and untrustworthy behaviour of women.44 That is why, I argue, the speaker uses the civic address, where one might think the judicial address would also make sense: Euphiletus warns not only the judges, but all the Athenians in the law-court, that they would be in the same position as him, having to guard an uncontrollable wife — hence, they should empathize with him in the here and now of the trial and justify the lawful murder he committed in an attempt to protect his personal male honour.  43 There are a few comments in commentaries, as in Edwards and Usher 1985, 222–223, but the rhetorical strategy of the speaker is not fully explained. 44 Ideas about the uncontrollable nature of women are widespread in classical Greek literature: Simonides of Amorgos is considered the father of misogyny in ancient Greece, with his iambic Types of Women 50–54 referring to uncontrollable women coming from a weasel. “Hesiod complains of women’s ‘tricky habits’, their ‘lies and wheedling words’, and concludes that ‘a man who trusts a woman is a man who trusts cheaters’ (Works and Days 68, 78, 375). His warning against ‘a sweet-talking woman in a bottom-hugging outfit’ shows that his chief worry is about men allowing themselves to be blinded by their wives’ sexual allure to the mischief that they are up to”; Van Wees 2003, 17. Hesiod also refers to Pandora as “a trick” (Theogony 589; Works and Days 83). On women and gender differentiation in Greek antiquity: Lacey 1968; Dover 1974, 100– 102; Pomeroy 1975, 93–120; Rabinowitz 1993, 1–27; Zeitlin 1996, 341–374; Van Wees 1998, 10–53; McClure 1999, 15–24, 70–105, 112–157, 161–201 specifically on the threat uncontrolled female speech presents in disrupting the male governed household and city; Foley 2001, 1–18.

“I, He, We, You, They”  

 Conclusions This chapter has discussed the various ways in which addresses to the audience are used in Attic forensic oratory to sustain a relation between the speakers, the audience and the opponents. It has become clear that the use of addresses to the audience is not a hackneyed aspect of speeches, a choice that the speakers have at their disposal only because of law-court etiquette and a technique that they use because they should or because others did. Addresses are designed to engage the audience and serve the speakers’ communicative and persuasive ends. This intended effect of the use of addresses in the texts and contexts of forensic oratory, both in public and private speeches, is reinforced by language (e.g. wordchoice, as in the case of the use of first person verbs and medical terminology) and the context (e.g. references to the polis and the constitution, patriotism, military service, religion and morality). The synergetic use of addresses, language and contextual features forges three groups, i.e. “You-They (He)”, “We-They (He)” and “I-You”, with the aim of influencing the verdict of the judges and enabling the speakers to gain a (legal and/or political) victory over his opponent(s). It has been argued that the speakers engaged in an incessant twofold game of inclusion and exclusion from the group: first, they create or preserve the unity of a group of people by underlining shared religious and civic values and convictions, and promoting the belief that this group has shared interests; and second, they exclude political rivals from the group as being alien and inimical to the religious and civic bonds that hold the community together.

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  Andreas Serafim Christ, M.R. (2003), ‘Sycophancy and Attitudes toward Litigation’, in: A. Lanni (ed.), Athenian Law in its Democratic Context, Center for Hellenic Studies, Online publication, http://www.stoa.org/projects/demos/sycophancy.pdf Conover, P.J. (1984), ‘The Influence of Group Identifications on Political Perception and Evaluation’, in: The Journal of Politics 46, 760–785. Dickie, M.W. (2001), Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, London/New York. Dover, K.J. (1968), Lysias and the Corpus Lysiacum, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Dover, K.J. (1974), Greek Popular Morality, Indianapolis/Cambridge. Edwards, M./Usher, S. (1985), Greek Orators I, Lysias and Antiphon, Warminster/Chicago. Eidinow, E. (2016), Envy, Poison, & Death. Women on Trial in Classical Athens, Oxford. Elster, J. (2004), Closing the Books: Transitional Justice in Historical Perspective, Cambridge. Fägersten, K.B. (2012), Who’s Swearing Now? The Social Aspects of Conversational Swearing, Newcastle upon Tyne. Foley, H.P. (2001), Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, Princeton. Gagarin, M. (1981), ‘The Thesmothetai and the Earliest Athenian Tyranny Law’, in: Transactions of the American Philological Association 111, 71–77. Gleicher, F./Petty, R.E. (1992), ‘Expectations of Reassurance Influence the Nature of Fear Stimulated Attitude Change’, in: Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 28, 86–100. Griffith-Williams, B. (2013), A Commentary on Selected Speeches of Isaios, Leiden/Boston. Hall, E. (2006), The Theatrical Cast of Athens, Oxford. Halsall, G. (2002), ‘Funny Foreigners: Laughing with the Barbarians in Late Antiquity’, in: G. Halsall (ed.), Humour, History and Politics in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Cambridge, 89–113. Harrison, A.W. (1971), The Law of Athens, Vol. II, Oxford. Harvey, D. (1990), ‘The Sycophant and Sycophancy: Vexatious Redefinition?’, in: P. Cartledge/ P. Millett/S. Todd (eds.), Nomos: Essays in Athenian Law, Politics andSociety, Cambridge, 103–121. Henderson, J. (2003), ‘Demos, Demagogue, Tyrant in Attic Old Comedy’, in: K.A. Morgan (ed.), Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Austin, 155–180. Hesk, J. (1999), ‘The rhetoric of anti-rhetoric in Athenian oratory’, in: S. Goldhill/R. Osborne (eds.), Performance Cultures and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge, 201–230. Hesk, J. (2007), ‘Despisers of the Commonplace: Meta-topoi and Para-topoi in Attic Oratory’, in: Journal of the History of Rhetoric 25, 361–384. Huddy, L. (2003), ‘Group Identity and Political Cohesion’, in: D. Sears/L. Huddy/R. Jervis (eds.), Oxford Handbook of Political Psychology, Oxford, 511–558. Hunter, V.J. (1994), Policing Athens: Social Control in the Attic Lawsuits, 420–320 B.C., Princeton. Janis, I./Feshbach, S. (1953), ‘Effects of fear arousal’, in: Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 48, 78–92. Jay, T. (2009), ‘The Utility and Ubiquity of Taboo Words’, in: Perspectives on Psychological Science 4, 153–161. Kapparis, K.A. (1999), Apollodoros Against Neaira [D. 59], Berlin/New York. Lacey, W.K. (1968), The Family in Classical Greece, London/New York. Lateiner, D. (1982), ‘The Man Who Does not Meddle In Politics: A Topos in Lysias’, in: Classical World 76, 1–12. Lau, R. (1989), ‘Individual and Contextual Influences on Group Identification’, in: Social Psychology Quarterly 52, 220–231.

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Lausberg, H. (1998), Handbook of Literary Rhetoric, Leiden/Boston/Cologne. Leventhal, H./Singer, R./Jones, S. (1965), ‘Effects of Fear and Specificity of Recommendation Upon Attitudes and Behaviour’, in: JPSP 2, 20–29. Lofberg, J.O. (1917), Sycophancy in Athens, Chicago. Lofberg, J.O. (1920), ‘The Sycophant-Parasite’, in: Classical Philology 15, 61–72. MacDowell, D.M. (1978), The Law in Classical Athens, Ithaca, NY. Martin, G. (2006), ‘Forms of address in Athenian courts’, in: Museum Helveticum 63, 75–88. Martin, G. (2009), Divine Talk: Religious Argumentation in Demosthenes, Oxford. Maxwell-Stuart, P.G. (1975), ‘Three Words of Abusive Slang in Aeschines’, in: American Journal of Philology 96, 7–12. McClure, L. (1999), Spoken Like a Woman: Speech and Gender in Athenian Drama, Princeton. Miller, A.H./Gurin, P./Gurin, G./Malanchuk, O. (1981), ‘Group Consciousness and Political Participation’, in: American Journal of Political Science 25, 494–511. Ober, J. (1989), Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens: Rhetoric, Ideology and the Power of the People, Princeton. Ober, J. (2003), ‘Tyrant Killing as Therapeutic Stasis: A Political Debate in Images and Texts’, in: K.A. Morgan (ed.), Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Austin, 215–250. Ostwald, M. (1955), ‘The Athenian Legislation Against Tyranny’, in: Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 86, 103–128. Pernot, L. (2005), Rhetoric in Antiquity, Trans. W.E. Higgins, Washington. Plamper, J./Reddy, W./Rosenwein, B./Stearns, P. (2010), ‘The History of Emotions: an Interview with William Reddy, Barbara Rosenwein, and Peter Stearns’, in: History and Theory 49, 237–265. Pomeroy, S. (1975), Goddesses, Whores, Wives and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity, New York. Rabinowitz, N.S. (1993), Anxiety Veiled: Euripides and the Traffic in Women, Ithaca/London. Rosenwein, B. (2002), ‘Worrying about emotions in history’, in: American Historical Review 107, 821–845. Rosenwein, B. (2006), Emotional Communities in the Early middle Ages, Ithaca, NY. Rubinstein, L. (2004), ‘Stirring up Dicastic Anger’, in: D.L. Cairns/R.A. Knox (eds.), Law, Rhetoric, and Comedy in Classical Athens. Essays in honour of Douglas M. MacDowell, Swansea, 187–203. Rubinstein, L. (2005), ‘Differentiated Rhetorical Strategies in the Athenian Courts’, in: M. Gagarin/D. Cohen (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Law,Cambridge, 129– 145. Serafim, A. (2017a), ‘Conventions’ in/as Performance: Addressing the Audience in Selected Public Speeches of Demosthenes’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice: Aspects of Performance in Greco-Roman Oratory and Rhetoric, Leiden/ New York, 26–41. Serafim, A. (2017b), Attic Oratory and Performance, New York/London. Serafim, A. (2019), ‘Constructing Identities: Religious Argumentation, Sexuality and Social Identity in Attic Forensic Oratory’, in: Annals of the Faculty of Law, Belgrade 67, 233–253. Serafim, A. (2020), ‘Comic Invective in the Public Forensic Speeches of Attic Oratory’, in: Hellenica 68, 23–42. Serafim, A. (2021), Religious Discourse in Attic Oratory and Politics, New York/London.

  Andreas Serafim Sicking, C.M.J. (1991), ‘The Distribution of Aorist and Present Tense Stem Forms in Greek, Especially in the Imperative,’ in: Glotta 69, 14–43, 154–170. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1988), ‘Further Aspects of Polis Religion’, in: AION 10, 259–274. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1990), ‘What is polis religion?’, in: O. Murray/S. Price (eds.), The Greek City: from Homer to Alexander, Oxford, 295–322. Tajfel, H./Turner, J.C. (1979), ‘An Integrative Theory of Intergroup Conflict’, in: W.G. Austin/ S. Worchel (eds.), The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations, Ann Arbor, 33–37. Todd, S.C. (2007), A Commentary on Lysias, Speeches 1–11, Oxford. Todd, S.C. (1993), The Shape of Athenian Law, Oxford. Van Wees, H. (1998), ‘A Brief History of Tears. Gender Differentiation in Archaic Greece’, in: L. Foxhall/J. Salmon (eds.), When Men Were Men. Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, London/New York, 10–53. Van Wees, H. (2003), ‘The Invention of the Female Mind: Women, Property and Gender Ideology in Archaic Greece’, Center for Hellenic Studies, Online publication, https://chs.harvard. edu/CHS/article/displayPdf/386 Vingerhoets, A.J.J.M./Bylsma, L.M./De Vlam, C. (2013), ‘Swearing: A Biopsychosocial Perspective’, in: Psychological Topics 22, 287–304. Worthington, I. (1992), A Historical Commentary on Dinarchus: Rhetoric and Conspiracy in Later Fourth-Century Athens, Ann Arbor. Yunis, H. (1996), Taming Democracy. Models of Political Rhetoric in Classical Athens, Ithaca, NY. Zeitlin, F. (1996), Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago/ London.

Eleni Volonaki

Rhetoric of Disunity Through Arousal of Hostile Emotions in Eisangelia Cases  Introduction Rhetorical techniques of arousing hostile emotions against one’s opponent and consequently influence the decision-making process of the trial, particularly in the favour of the prosecution, are widely used in forensic oratory. 1 In this context, the encouragement of negative judgements aims at the disunity between the judges and the accused in forensic trials by distancing the judges’ perceptions and interests from the personality (ēthos) and the conduct of defendants. Conover has examined the influence of group identifications on political views and has concluded that there is interaction between group interests and the individual positions of politicians in that they shape each other. 2 Moreover, scholars who have examined the role of the people’s personalities in the political sphere of modern societies suggest that the individual processes of perception, decisionmaking, memory and emotional expression appear to formulate the political actions and views. 3 In classical Athens, there was a strict distinction between public and private trials in court. Prosecutors might be expected to separate their civic role in public trials from individual interests; nevertheless, it was a common feature of public trials to relate the personal injuries and motivation of the volunteer  1 Recent studies have explored the rhetorical ways in which the audience’s emotions are manipulated either in private or in public trials, such as pity, anger, resentment etc; cf. Fisher 2003; Konstan/Rutter 2003; Sanders 2012b; Rubinstein 2013; Lateiner/Spatharas 2016. In a comparison between tragic poets and forensic speakers Harris 2017, 226 draws on the differences between drama and oratory and points out that litigants in court rarely mention their own emotions, particularly their anger. Nevertheless, litigants invite the judges to feel angry against traitors, thieves, adulterers, abusers of power or legislation in speeches of Lysias, Demosthenes, Apollodorus etc.; cf. n. 4 below and Harris 2017, 239–241. Rubinstein 2006, 135–136 mentions that emotional appeals regularly made by litigants to influence on the judges’ decisions may seem ‘problematic’ for causing rhetorical objections concerning the exactment of justice (e.g. Dem. 19.226–228). This view, however, is purposely manipulated accordingly to the orators’ rhetorical aims rather than it reflects reality; moreover, emotions constitute part of the rhetorical argumentation included in the Aristotelian classification and emotional appeals are widely and regularly used in all forms of oratory as a valid means of persuasion. 2 Conover 1984, 760–785. Further on group identity and political cohesion, Sears et al. 2003, 511–558. 3 On personality and political behaviour, see Sears et al. 2003, 110–145. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-005

  Eleni Volonaki prosecutor (ho boulomenos) with the injuries caused to all the Athenians normally depicted as victims of the accused. In this way, anger (orgē) and vengeance are to be shared by all Athenian citizens, the judges and the prosecutor himself for both private and public damages against the defendant; by implication, it can be argued that private injury is closely related to the public dimension of the city as a whole. 4 In Athenian public trials, the political behaviour and the interests of the city lie in the centre of the judges’ attention and the argumentation of forensic oratory. Specifically, in public cases of impeachment (eisangelia), which involved primarily the offence of treason, 5 and additionally the deception of the Athenian Assembly by public speakers after bribery, 6 the judges are largely encouraged to share the prosecutor’s hatred against the defendant, and hostility is aroused on account of the alleged form of treasonable behaviour of the defendant in each case. This chapter examines the rhetoric of disunity as can be observed in public trials of eisangelia, and the focus is placed on the rhetorical techniques and strategies as used in each case to arouse hostile emotions in relation to the offence and perception of treason throughout the fourth century B.C. According to Aristotle, 7 there are three modes of proof (pisteis): arousal of the audience’s emotions (pathos), presentation of one’s character and personality (ēthos) and finally, rational argumentation (eikos); with reference to the arousal of emotions, the judgements of the audience can be influenced accordingly and differently ‘when they are pleased and friendly or when they are pained and hostile’. 8 Thus, pity and anger appear as the most fundamental emotions in forensic speeches, the former normally appealed for defendants or victims and the latter usually directed against offenders who have harmed the city, its constitution, its

 4 For specific examples on the use of personal enmity as motivation in forensic speeches, see Kurihara 2003, 464–477. 5 Also, offences relevant to treason, such as damage to naval facilities or trading, arson of public buildings or documents and act of sacrilege (Hyp. Eux. 4.7–8). 6 For the impeachment law and the offences prescribed for the procedure of the eisangelia, as stated in mid-fourth century, cf. Hyp. Eux. 4.7–8; generally, for the eisangelia procedure, see Harrison 1971, 51–59; Hansen 1975; MacDowell 1978, 28–29, 179–185; Todd 1993, 114; Phillips 2006, 375–394 and for the abuse of the eisangelia procedure in the latter half of the fourth century B.C., see Volonaki 2018, 293–314. 7 Arist. Rh. 1.2.1356a14–15. 8 Arist. Rh. 1.2.1358a13–18. As Konstan 2007, 413 mentions, “Gorgias in his Praise of Helen (Ἑλένης ἐγκώμιον 8 and 14) attests the extraordinary power of words to arouse emotions”.

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legal norms, the justice or the ancestral traditional institutions. 9 The methods and strategies in constructing character (ēthos) and portrayals of litigants are closely connected with emotional appeals of enmity and disgust against enemies of the city and friendship or epieikeia for benefactors of the city. 10

 Disunity techniques and rhetoric of hostile emotions in cases of eisangelia Modern scholarship on Attic oratory has primarily examined explicit calls for the arousal of emotions based on specific causes. Thus, scholars have shown attention to the emotions in separate cases such as the emotions of pity, anger, gratitude, envy and hatred. 11 Rubinstein distinguishes “open emotional appeals”, which are direct calls for emotions in court, depending on the nature of each case and the procedure followed in it, from ‘emotions aroused by indirect means’, such as narratives and argumentations. 12 Rubinstein further discusses another method of arousing forensic emotions by portraying third parties (e.g. victims of the opponents’ behaviour, slaves, freedmen, orphans, widows, non-citizens, etc.); these persons are usually included in the narratives to add graphic detail as a part of an emotional strategy but also as a type of enargeia 13 for emotional arousal. 14 Sanders is also interested in covert emotional appeals in forensic cases 15 and focuses on “verbal stimuli”, i.e. words that act as “acoustic signals”,

 9 For the pair pity-anger, see Konstan 2007, 420ff. For a general review on the rhetorical strategies and methods used to arouse emotions in forensic trials, see Konstan 2006; Fisher 1992; Lateiner/Spatharas 2016, chapters 4 and 5. 10 For the methodology on character construction in Athenian legal cases, see Adamidis 2017, chapter 4. 11 Sanders 2012b, 359–387 with n. 13, 361; also: Johnstone 1999, 110–125; Allen 2000; Rubinstein 2000, 212–231; Fisher 2003; Kurihara 2003; Rubinstein 2004; Bers 2009, 77–98. 12 Rubinstein 2013, 136–165. 13 The term refers to the visualization of a scene creating thus for the audience the impression that they were actually present at the event(s) narrated by the speaker; see Chaniotis 2012, 107. On enargeia, see Huitink 2020, 188–209. 14 A representative example of such a use of a third party is to be seen in the case of an old freedwoman who was abused by violence while she was defending a small cup of the householder’s property, as graphically depicted by Apollodorus in [Dem.] 47.55–59; see Rubinstein 2013, 152–155. 15 Sanders 2012b, 359–387.

  Eleni Volonaki involving personal or cultural memories. 16 Sanders refers to three ways of arousing the judges’ emotions, firstly, through explicit exhortations, secondly covertly by appealing to the judges’ values and beliefs, and thirdly through theatrical means (delivery). 17 Athenian judges constitute an emotional sub-community 18 and, as Aristotle suggests, orators should prepare them to be disposed to be angry. 19 Calls for anger are largely found in public prosecution speeches and more rarely in private prosecution speeches and private defence speeches. 20 Anger, together with hatred and resentment are classified by rhetoricians as the three hostile emotions an orator should aim to arouse against his opponent. 21 Prosecution speeches in public cases of eisangelia ought to arouse the emotions of anger and hostility against public offenders, since the primary offence involved in these cases was treason either as specified by the eisangeltikos nomos or as widely interpreted towards the last third of the fourth century B.C. 22 As Sanders points out, 23 it is difficult to arouse anger (orgē) in public cases because such an emotion is normally felt by an individual who has been personally harmed, and in order to make all the judges share anger in a public trial, the prosecutor needs to persuade them that the injustice imposed on him personally is equally injustice towards the whole of the city. 24 On the other hand, it is easier to arouse hatred (misos) 25 since no personal injury is necessary, and this emotion is usually felt against public offenders who are accused of theft, slander (sycophantia or loidoria), bribery, corruption and embezzlement. 26 Cases of eisangelia involved a variety of public offences which all widely and wholly comprised the crime of treason primarily against the volunteer prosecutor  16 Sanders 2012b, 363. 17 Sanders 2012a, 161. On the indirect and inexplicit ways of stirring up emotions in Attic forensic oratory, see also Serafim 2019, 137–152. 18 Sanders 2012a, 362. 19 Aristotle Rh. 2.2.1380a2–5. 20 See Rubinstein 2004, 187–203. 21 Rhet. ad Alex. 1440a28–40; 1445a12–29. 22 For the abuse of the eisangelia procedure in the latter half of the fourth century B.C., see Volonaki 2018, 293–314. 23 Sanders 2012b, 364. 24 Examples of public cases where the personal injury has caused the anger of the prosecutors and the anger of the whole of the city are Lysias 12, Against Eratosthenes and 13 Against Agoratus; cf. also Aeschines 1.1–2. For a full discussion of personal enmity as motivation in forensic speeches, see Kurihara 2003, 464–477. 25 An emotion very close to hatred (misos) was jealousy (phthonos); cf. Arist. Rh. 1445a15–20. 26 Sanders 2012b, 364–380.

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individually but also against the whole of the city, its constitution and its interests. Prosecutors aimed at dissociating their opponents from the judges and used many methods and strategies of persuasion in order to arouse hostile emotions, particularly anger but also hatred and resentment. The speeches deriving from cases of eisangelia that are examined for our purposes are in chronological order the following: Lysias 30, Against Nicomachus (399 B.C.); Lysias 28, Against Ergocles; 29, Against Philocrates (389 B.C.); and Lycurgus 1, Against Leocrates (330 B.C.). The emphasis is placed on explicit emotional appeals (exhortation), covert emotional calls by playing on the values of the audience, as included in the narrative or the argumentation sections, and finally arousal of emotions through delivery (hypocrisis) with a variety of theatrical effects (e.g. use of voice, showing of hands, words and vocabulary, style).

2.1 Lysias 30, Against Nicomachus (399 B.C.) Lysias’ prosecution speech Against Nicomachus 27 (30) involves originally the rendering of Nicomachus’ accounts but, as can be inferred from internal evidence of the speech (30.7ff.), turns into an eisangelia before the boule and then to the court. 28 The trial is dated in 399 B.C., only four years after the restoration of the democracy and the Amnesty agreement (403 B.C.), and the charge consists of many different accusations concerning Nicomachus’ misconduct serving as an anagrapheus. 29 Nicomachus was appointed an anagrapheus of the secular and sacred laws (30.25) and was elected to this office for two periods, 410–404 and 403–399 (30.2–4). The case, as presented by the speaker, 30 involves the misconduct of the defendant during the second term (403–399), when he was working on the publication of a systematic calendar of sacrifices. Since similar transgressions are alleged for both periods of office, the speaker starts his prosecution with a brief reference to the first term of office. The accusations are diverse and invite the conclusion that Nicomachus abused the authority given to him; he usurped legislative power and acted as if he were a law-maker (30.2, 27) and deliberately  27 The case against Nicomachus is listed in Hansen’s list (1975, 116–117) as n. 140. 28 For a basic and full account of the eisangelia procedure, see n. 5. For the evolution of the procedure throughout the fifth and fourth centuries and its abuse, see Volonaki 2019, 293–314. 29 For the role and the appointment of the officials called anagrapheis during their two terms of office (410–404 and 403–399), see Volonaki 2001, 137–167; further on the reforms of late fifth century Athens, see Canevaro and Harris 2012, 98–129; Lambert 2002, 353–399. 30 For the case against Nicomachus, as presented in Lysias’ speech 30, see Carawan 2010, 71– 95; Volonaki 2012.

  Eleni Volonaki delayed his work, extending the first office from the period of four months, set as the time-limit, to six years (30.2) and similarly retained the second office for four years, even though he could have completed the work within one month (30.4). During the second term, Nicomachus disobeyed the decree prescribing the publication of the sacrifices from the cyrbeis and the stelai (30.17) 31 and invented sacrifices which injured the city financially (30.19). The state incurred extra expenditure of six talents a year (twelve talents over two years) at a period when the city of Athens was in debt and unprotected (30.20, 21). The prosecutor aims to convince the judges that Nicomachus was continuously abusing his authority for a long period of time and was never before punished for his illegal actions; thus, he asks for capital punishment (30.23, 27) on account of the offences allegedly made during both terms. The attack against Nicomachus is based exclusively on character assassination drawing on the traditions of political loidoria. The attack is summarized in 30.27 in the phrase: καίτοι ἀντὶ μὲν δούλου πολίτης γεγένηται, ἀντὶ δὲ πτωχοῦ πλούσιος, ἀντὶ δὲ ὑπογραμματέως νομοθέτης, “from a slave he has become a citizen, from a poor man he has risen to riches, and from a low-grade clerk, he has become a lawgiver”. The device of “servile origin” 32 is strategically important in distancing Nicomachus from the judges, sharing the Athenians’ anxiety about citizen boundaries and the preservation of the constitution. Pathos is constructed on two essential elements, sarcasm and ridicule which are both used to marginalize the defendant from the audience and citizen group rather than prove his guilt. Even though the speech is a synēgoria and most probably a kind of an epilogue to the prosecutor’s case, emotional appeals of all three categories can be found. Covert emotional appeals involve mainly the characterization of the opponent. The identity of the speaker is not known but it appears that he belongs to

 31 The Greek text is: τὰς θυσίας τὰς ἐκ τῶν κύρβεων καὶ τῶν στηλῶν κατὰ τὰς συγγραφάς. This clause most probably refers on the one hand to the sacrifices that were first inscribed in Solon’s time and on the other to the sacrifices that were inscribed after Solon’s legislation and until the end of the fifth century; these sacrifices had to be re-inscribed in accordance with the regulations decreed by the Athenians. On the interpretation of the clause, see Volonaki 2001, 152–157; Carawan 2010, 84–85; Mikalson 2016, 305–306, 111–13. For an alternative reading and alteration of the text, omitting “τῶν στηλῶν” and replacing it with “oὐ πλείω”, on the ground of making the contrast between what should be done and what Nicomachus actually did, see Nelson 2006, 309–312. 32 For the device of servile topos to arouse hostility and anger against the defendant, in particular, Nicomachus, but also other accused of non-citizen background, see Volonaki 2014, 167– 199.

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a group of citizens who supported the attack against Nicomachus (30.34, 35). Similarly, Nicomachus is not alone in this trial and is expected to get support from friends and political figures, as his synēgoroi (31–35). It is likely that the case derives from a conflict between two opposing political groups and therefore the speaker needs to undermine Nicomachus’ influence and role in public life. For this purpose, he uses political loidoria and draws on all typical characteristics from his servile origin to attack his ēthos and persuade the judges that he should be convicted. 33 The speaker, on the other hand, was probably politically active during the last decade of the fifth century, since he had been accused by the defendant of joining the Four Hundred (30.7). Although he tries to minimize his involvement in the oligarchic constitution (30.8), he does not directly give an account of his conduct. He, moreover, avoids informing the audience of his actions during the regime of the Thirty. These elements of obscurity indicate that he may have been in sympathy with the oligarchs or that he may have been an opportunist. For the purposes of prosecution, Lysias composes for his client the persona of a good citizen and democrat, who is concerned with the interests of the city and its protection from unscrupulous officials. He is well aware of the financial situation of the city and efficiently presents the damage allegedly caused by the defendant (Lys. 30.20–22). He establishes his prosecution upon the glory of the past and the traditional ways of performing the sacrifices (30.18–19). With reference to Nicomachus’ alleged offences the covert emotional calls involve his conduct and again add to his portrayal as a citizen who destroyed the Athenian laws and the constitution, so that the judges are encouraged to treat him as an enemy of the whole of the city. In particular, Nicomachus is said to have abused authority to the extent that he became himself a legislator in the position of Solon (30.2), 34 as he had extended his first term of office from four months to six years and similarly in the second term of office he took full authority of the task for four years (30.4). Moreover, Nicomachus is presented as a sycophant, who unjustly accuses the speaker of having been a member of the Four Hundred oligarchy (30.7), and as a man who has deceived the Athenians firstly by accepting bribes in order to present laws on the day of the trials, which ended to be conflicting in court (30.3), and secondly by asking to be acquitted on ac-

 33 For the political loidoria in fifth and fourth century Athens, and particularly in connection with the non-Athenian or slave origin, see Volonaki 2014. 34 Solon was always referred to as the Athenian legislator and in connection with the Athenian laws even until the end of the fourth century B.C.; specifically, for the rhetorical appeals to Solon’s name in Attic Orators, see Carey 2015, 110–128.

  Eleni Volonaki count of his exile during the Thirty whereas he was responsible for the establishment of the Thirty and also he had committed so many offences against the interests of the laws of the city and its constitution (30.16). Covert calls for anger constitute the arguments of the victimization of a third party or the judges themselves, as well as the speaker himself and all the citizens. Firstly, Cleophon was put to death by a law introduced by Nicomachus on the day of his trial, which enabled the Boulē to sit as judges in order to secure his conviction; the argument is that Cleophon was put to death for the wrong reasons because of Nicomachus’ compliance with the oligarchs who had been conspiring against the constitution (30.9–14). Thus, as Rubinstein (2013, 152–155) has argued, third parties (here, Cleophon) are included in the narrative to arouse hostile emotions for having been victims of the defendant. 35 Secondly, the judges and by implication all the Athenians, including the speaker, are presented as victims of Nicomachus on account of all the disasters that befell the city of Athens after the oligarchy of the Thirty and the restoration of the democracy in 404 B.C.; the cancellation of the ancestral sacrifices led to a series of misfortunes, such as the financial damages, the debts to the Boeotians and the Spartans, the destruction of the walls of the city, the cases of impeachment enacted by the boule due to the financial crisis and poverty (30.21–23). Anger and hatred are also aroused through the rhetorical questions posed by the speaker to prevent the judges from acquitting Nicomachus (30.26–27). Rhetorical questions 36 are used, here, in a forceful way to express the view that the defendant’s conduct is the opposite to the ideal civic behaviour; moreover, the rhetorical effects of answering his own questions involve the isolation of the defendant from the whole citizen group and the vivid contrast of civic ēthos between the prosecutor and the defendant, adding a tone of sarcasm and contempt towards the latter. In this context, Nicomachus is presented as a bad citizen because he had not participated in any battle or expedition in support of the city, he had not paid any taxes, and he had

 35 Cf. above n. 14. 36 Aristotle (Rh. 1419a) characterizes the rhetorical questions as “opportune” and as such they are often used in court; nevertheless, he does not offer many rhetorical strategies concerning the use of rhetorical questions. Longinus 18 comments on the realistic and dynamic use of questions in oratory. Demetrius (Eloc. 279) points to the forceful rhetorical effect of questions. Quintilian (Inst. 9.2.6–16) offers an extensive list of various uses and types of rhetorical questions. For the use of rhetorical questions in Greek literature in connection with modern linguistic theories and aspects, see van Emde Boas 2005; specifically, for an evaluation of the ancient rhetorical theories, see van Emde Boas 2005, 11–17 and for the forms (i.e. verbs, particles, other signals) of standard and non-standard rhetorical questions enhancing the communicative function in speeches of Lysias, see van Emde Boas 2005, 47–51.

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not shown any gratitude to the city for the naturalization of his father (30.26–27). As Christ indicates ‘draft evasion’ constitutes a commonplace in public discourse as well as in the Athenian courts. 37 Litigants often draw on draft dodging 38 and exemption from military service 39 to attack their opponents; in similar terms Attic comedy ridicules public figures for neglection in matters of conscription. 40 Good citizenship was closely associated with individual self-interest as integrated in Athenian democratic civic ideology; 41 the attack against Nicomachus is based on the reversal of these principles. The attribution of personal responsibility to the judges on account of their wrong decisions to appoint unsuitable persons and particularly, Nicomachus, an unscrupulous citizen and a man of servile origin, to deal with matters of legislation for a long time (30.28ff.) aims to make the judges regret for the decisions of the Athenian dēmos. The specific covert emotional call is combined with an open emotional appeal that they are now given the chance to correct the mistakes by enforcing punishment upon the defendant for all his offences (30.30: νῦν τοίνυν ὑμῖν μεταμελησάτω τῶν πεπραγμένων). Open emotional appeals mostly occur towards the latter section of the speech, where the speaker attempts in many ways to dissuade the judges from an acquittal. The judges are explicitly invited to set an example with the punishment of skilful speakers in court (30.24: ἐπίστασθε δέ, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, ὅτι παράδειγμα τοῖς ἄλλοις ἔσται μὴ τολμᾶν εἰς ὑμᾶς ἐξαμαρτάνειν οὐχ ὅταν τοὺς ἀδυνάτους εἰπεῖν κολάζητε, ἀλλ᾽ ὅταν παρὰ τῶν δυναμένων λέγειν δίκην λαμβάνητε, “you know, judges, that it will be an example for the others not to dare offend when you punish those who are capable of speaking in court rather than when you punish those who are weak in speech”). They are also urged to remember that, in the past, they have condemned to death citizens on the charge of stealing public money and that they should now do the same for those who were bribed to harm the city during the re-publication of the Athenian laws (30.25). Here, the alleged forensic precedent is rhetorically emphasized to persuade for conviction, even though it may not be valid on legal grounds. 42 In the epilogue, the speaker attempts to influence the judges against Nicomachus’ friends and supporters in  37 Christ 2006, 46ff. 38 Christ 2006, 46 with n. 4. 39 Christ 2006, 51–64. 40 Ar. Wasps 1114–21, Frogs 1014–17; also, a comedy by Eupolis is entitled The Draft-Dodgers (Astrateutoi). Further on the use of draft dodging in Attic comedy, see Christ 2006, 47–49. 41 For the models of the citizen’s relationships with the city, see Christ 2006, 24–34. 42 For the arguments from “precedent” in Attic orators, see Lanni 2004, 159–171, Rubinstein 2007, 359–371.

  Eleni Volonaki court, who intend to ask for his acquittal; as he argues, the prosecution resisted their bribery and the judges should do the same (30.31–35). He draws again on their hostility and anger against Nicomachus for having harmed the city to an extent that nobody before had committed so many offences and of this sort (30.33). The speech closes with an emphatic request to punish those who have destroyed the Athenian legislation now and then (30.35): τὸ δὲ αὐτὸ τοῦτο παρακαλοῦμεν ὑμᾶς μὴ πρὸ τῆς κρίσεως μισοπονηρεῖν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐν τῇ κρίσει τιμωρεῖσθαι τοὺς τὴν ὑμετέραν νομοθεσίαν ἀφανίζοντας. We beg you this and the same thing not to hate the offender before the trial but at the trail to punish those who destroy the legislation.

Delivery was a means of arousing hostile emotions or emotions of responsibility and guilt. 43 Aristotle regards delivery as necessary and suggests that an orator speaks in the one way or the other intending to affect the audience; 44 moreover, Aristotle distinguishes three things that are used in expressing each emotion: voice, change of pitch (harmonia) and rhythm. 45 It is not easy to imagine how the speaker changed the tone of his voice or how he stood and used gestures. Hall 46 and Boegehold 47 have discussed “voice” and “gesture” respectively, focusing mostly on aspects of performance by politicians or professional speakers (rhētores). 48 Edwards has argued that much of the performance aspect was achieved through ēthopoiia (the litigant’s persona and spontaneity as presented by the speech itself) and prosopopoeia (“representation of dead or absent person(s) as interested observers of the present scene or imagination of future scenes”). 49 In the use of apostrophē, where the speaker addressed his opponent and not the judges, a gesture might have been expected to underline his guilt and

 43 Little discussion of delivery is found in rhetorical treatises of the classical period in Athens. Theophrastus is considered to be the first to treat delivery. Further on the discussion of delivery in ancient sources of the classical and Hellenistic period, see Edwards 2013, 15–17; Serafim 2017, 28–29. 44 Arist. Rh. 1403b. 45 Arist. Rh. 1404a. 46 Hall 1995, 39–58. 47 Boegehold 1999. 48 For a review of these studies, see Edwards 2013, 15–25. For a thorough approach to means of judicial and civic address to the judges in private and public trials, see Serafim’s chapter in this volume, pp. 71–98. 49 Edwards 2013, 18–20.

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his distance from the rest of the citizen group. 50 Places of the use of apostrophē in Lysias’ Against Nicomachus, where a gesture would be expected are the following: in 30.5 the speaker accuses Nicomachus of being arrogant and of having committed hybris since he was in authority for a long time without submitting any account of his conduct nor taking care of the laws of the city. Also, in 30.19, the speaker addresses Nicomachus to emphasize that he did the opposite from what he was ordered by the city, concerning the observance of the ancestral rites. In this context, the prosecutor employs a ‘civic’ address 51 to the judges to associate his own manner of sacrificing with the Athenians’ prescriptions concerning how the calendar should have been published in order to distance further Nicomachus from the civic rites (30.17). In this way, Lysias creates two groups conflicting with each other, on the one hand the judges and the prosecutor and on the other the defendant; this polar antithesis emphasizes Nicomachus’ guilt and undermines his role and status. 52 The distinction between the Athenians’ decisions and Nicomachus’ practices are also underlined in 30.3, where the speaker describes how they were given in their hands the new laws on the last day of the trials conflicting with each other; the language insinuates a servile gesture, revealing a tone of contempt and a tendency of ridicule: εἰς τοῦτο δὲ κατέστημεν ὥστε ἐκ τῆς τούτου χειρὸς ἐταμιευόμεθα τοὺς νόμους καὶ οἱ ἀντίδικοι ἐπὶ τοῖς δικαστηρίοις ἐναντίους παρείχοντο, ἀμφότεροι παρὰ Νικομάχου φάσκοντες εἰληφέναι. We reached a point that we were given in hand the laws and opponents presented in court opposite laws both arguing that they had received them by Nicomachus.

On balance, the current trial offers an example of political rivalry where the prosecutor uses the rhetorical means of emotional appeals to eliminate and destroy his opponent. In such a political conflict, the two opposing parties are represented to the extremes in order to make the attack seem plausible and arouse hostile emotions, such as anger, hatred, and contempt.

 50 For the association of the apostrophē with a gesture, see Edwards 2013, 24–25. For the definition of the apostrophē as “turning aside to address someone or something other than the audience — usually one’s opponent in a hostile way”, see Usher 1999, 364. 51 For the term “civic” address and the use of religious discourse in civic addresses, see Serafim’s chapter in this volume, pp. 71–98. 52 This is the “We-He” pattern; see Serafim’s chapter in this volume, pp. 71–98.

  Eleni Volonaki

2.2 Lysias 28, Against Ergocles and 29, Against Philocrates (389 B.C.) Lysias’ speeches Against Ergocles and Against Philocrates 53 are both described in the manuscript titles as epilogos, which can either mean a “peroration” (denoting that the first part of the speech has either been lost or was never written) or a supplementary speech (synēgoria) (following the main speech which must have been presented by someone else). 54 Both speeches were composed for the prosecution in political trials, particularly in a case of eisangelia, which derives from a series of prosecutions against the associates of Thrasybulus of Steiria — the leader of the democratic revolution against the oligarchs in 403, immediately after his death in 390–389 B.C. 55 From the internal evidence of Lysias’ speeches, the case of Ergocles is presumably the following: he belonged to the Board of the Generals of 390/389, he was suspended by apocheirotonia, and thereafter he was called to submit his account before the Assembly, where he was accused of treason, embezzlement and receiving bribes and was subsequently prosecuted by an eisangelia in the Assembly. From Lysias’ 29 Against Philocrates, we are informed that Ergocles was found guilty and was punished with death and confiscation of property. 56 Todd suggests that the case may seem weak to a modern reader, on the grounds that the speaker undermines the role of Thrasybulus who had been the leader of the democratic revolution against the oligarchy of the Thirty and also of the naval expedition during the Corinthian War (395–387 B.C.), achieving initially at least success. 57 Thrasybulus had achieved to gain control of the grain in the Northern Aegean (Byzantium, Lesbos) and other cities as well, but the cost of all his activities was higher than Athens could afford at the time. 58 Nevertheless, Lysias obviously manipulates the fact that Thrasybulus’ activities brought out disastrous consequences in the longer term in order to persuade against the accused.

 53 These trials of eisangelia are listed as n. 73 in Hansen 1975, 88. 54 For these two options, see further Todd 2000, 281. 55 For the role of Thrasybulus in the Athenian expeditions in the Corinthian War (395–387 B.C.), his achievements and successes, the fear of the Athenians because of the cost caused by his military activity and the enforcement of the Peace of Antalcidas by the Great King of Persia, see Todd 2000, 286–287. 56 For the case, see Hansen 1975, 88; Todd 2000, 287–288. 57 For the rhetoric of the case and the historical background, see Todd 2000, 286–288. 58 For Thrasybulus’ expedition and alliances, cf. Lys. 28.5, Xen. Hell. 4.8.25–34; see Todd 2000, 286ff.

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Covert emotional appeals involve primarily arguments from characterization (ēthos). In the beginning of speech 28 (1–2), Ergocles is portrayed as a typical political figure, who has deceived and betrayed his city in the rhetorical techniques of political loidoria: 59 καὶ γὰρ πόλεις προδεδωκὼς φαίνεται, καὶ προξένους καὶ πολίτας ὑμετέρους ἠδικηκώς, καὶ ἐκ πένητος ἐκ τῶν ὑμετέρων πλούσιος γεγενημένος. He has apparently betrayed cities, and he has offended your ambassadors and citizens and he has risen from poverty to riches on account of your own money.

The list of commonplaces usually employed against political figures, i.e. betrayal and injustice against the public interest as well as embezzlement of public property are meant to arouse the judges’ hostility and anger (orgē) against the defendant. This is further emphasized by the statement that he has destroyed the Athenian ships whereas he quickly obtained a large property. The contrast between public and private interests is rhetorically manipulated not only to present Ergocles as an enemy of the city but also to alienate him from the collective civic ideology shared by the judges and the speaker himself. In the context of character assassination, the speaker accuses all the opponents, and he argues that Ergocles had intensely blamed the Athenians of slander when they had requested accounts of the public property administered by Thrasybulus (28.6); arguments of sycophancy were very common to substantiate motivation of litigation and modern scholars have thoroughly explored the aspects of sycophancy involving public conflicts. 60 Here, Lysias employs the commonplace of sycophancy in a reversal and rather effective way, since the prosecutor attributes the accusation of slander to the defendant in order to exaggerate Ergocles’ supposed audacity to dispute the Athenians’ inquiry about the expenditures and further alienate him from the citizen group. 61 This rhetorical technique in association with the tone of irony, as enhanced by the use of direct speech, arouses the judges’ contempt and anger against Ergocles. Moreover, the defendants are presented as greedy, abusers of authority, thieves and enemies of the constitution and the Athenian dēmos, since they wished to be rulers than be ruled by the Athenians (28.7). Ergocles and his friends appear to hate the Athenian dēmos and the statement that they had even wished to establish an oligarchy aims at arousing

 59 For political loidoria, cf. above n. 33. 60 Generally on sycophancy in Athens, see Lofberg 1979; on sycophancy and litigation, see Harvey 1990, 103–121; Osborne 1990, 83–102, Christ 1998, 48–71. 61 For the affect of style in the displays of anger, see Bers 2009, 94–123.

  Eleni Volonaki not only resentment (phthonos) but even more anger, hatred and fear. The rhetorical technique of disunity here is based upon the political contrast between the oligarchic and the democratic constitution to appeal for hostility; the judges “You” and the prosecutor “I” represent the democratic ēthos whereas the defendant, “he” is portrayed as an opponent and conspirator against the democratic constitution. The main topos of political loidoria in the speech is the defendants’ corruption and embezzlement of public money, since they used bribes to win even their enemies in their side (28.9). In general, the focus of accusations is based upon the enrichment of the defendant at the Athenian dēmos’ expense. 62 An outstanding covert emotional call of resentment (phthonos) is the contrast between the defendants, “They”, as the rich, the ones who took away the people’s properties and the judges, “You”, as the poor, the ones who were unjustly deprived of their own properties. 63 Explicit emotional calls involve the direct addresses to the judges who are, for example, discouraged from acquitting the defendants because they are thieves of public property and they have accepted bribes, and the judges are also reminded that they themselves 64 used to condemn to death such offenders in the past (28.3). The polarization between the defendants and the judges is further emphasized by the sarcastic statement that the judges would not have given permission to Thrasybulus to sail out with the Athenians ships, if he and his associates had intended to destroy them and to gain personal benefit against the Athenians’ interests (28.4). The rhetorical antitheseis used to contrast the selfinterested perjurers with the good Athenian judges may imply that the tone of the voice would be accordingly adjusted to arouse hostility. The judges are purposely dissociated from the defendants to such an extent that they are openly urged to prove their integrity and service of justice through the punishment of the ‘corruptors’ for stealing large amounts of public money (28.9). Moreover, they are invited to set an example against thieves of public property at a public trial that involves the city’s interests (28.10, 15). Anger and the feeling of responsibility are openly aroused on the argument that the judges need to protect the city and not to be deceived by men who would be willing to

 62 For the arousal of bribery, corruption and embezzlement in oratorical texts as a form of covert emotional appeal, see Sanders 2012b, 369–387. 63 See Sanders 2012b, 380–381. 64 There was no legal precedent in Athenian courts, but it is an effective rhetorical technique to identify the judges with judges who used to have tried similar cases in the past; on precedents in Athenian trials, see Lanni 2004, 159–171; Rubinstein 2007, 359–371.

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betray the navy to the enemies out of personal profit. Treason is the main argument against the defendants, which is also manipulated to arouse hostile emotions against enemies of the city (28.11). Furthermore, the deception of the judges 65 based on the defendants’ claim of democratic ēthos because they were exiled during the Thirty aims to add hostile emotions; in this context, anger is openly aroused on the grounds that they embezzled public money upon their return after the restoration of the democracy (28.13): τοὺς δὲ ἰδίους οἴκους ἐκ τῶν ὑμετέρων μεγάλους ποιοῦσι, πολὺ μᾶλλον αὐτοῖς προσήκει ὀργίζεσθαι ἢ τοῖς τριάκοντα. You ought to get angry against those who make prosperous their own houses out of our money rather than the Thirty.

Private profit and public interests are purposely contrasted so that the judges are presented as victims of theft similarly as the city itself; they were harmed in person, their children and their wives because of the risks they ran they were put into by the defendants (28.14). The prosecutor advises the judges to impose the most severe punishment in order to gain a benefit, otherwise they will have only achieved the enmity of the Athenians (28.16); the speaker’s piece of advice constitutes an open emotional appeal for fear and responsibility in order to secure their own safety. The emotional call for taking revenge against their enemies is further underlined by the argument that punishment of the offenders will prove their gratitude to their friends (men of Halicarnassus); thus, the need both for individual and public justice becomes an emotional motivation in dealing with traitors (28.17). Ergocles was condemned to death and his property was confiscated; nevertheless, the Athenians thought that they would discover a huge property of over thirty talents, but Ergocles’ property actually proved much less than that. Therefore, they accused Philocrates as an associate of Ergocles that he had taken the swag and they asked for his punishment with death and confiscation of his property. According to the speaker, Philocrates was the closest associate of Ergocles (29.3). Philocrates is said to have been urged to act as a trierarch by Ergocles, even though he had no property at all at the time, obviously for his own benefit (29.4). Embezzlement is an offence with which Philocrates is also charged, but he is also portrayed as a liar, since he attempts to save himself by declaring that Ergocles had shown enmity towards him (29.7). By the time of Philocrates’ trial, Ergocles had already been convicted for embezzlement and betrayal of the constitution.  65 On the variety of rhetorical uses of deception in Attic oratory, see Kremmydas 2013, 51–89.

  Eleni Volonaki Lysias employs the rhetoric of disunity and dissociates Philocles from Ergocles’ cycle in order to associate the former with the judges and succeed to win his acquittal. It may seem a weak argument since both Ergocles and Philocrates must have been known as close friends and associates, but a friendship may have well turned into an enmity in political conflicts and such a change would not probably surprise the Athenian judges. Thus, the rhetoric of disunity here functions in such a way as to reverse the existing principles and to win the judges’ vote. Explicit emotional calls for revenge and punishment are addressed to the judges since they were deprived of their own property by Philocrates, who not only became rich but also an enemy of theirs (29.8–10). Moreover, the argument is that he has stolen public property so in case of his conviction he will not return any of his own but he will only give the Athenians’ property back to the state; thus, anger is aroused but also resentment (phthonos) because Philocrates wrongly possesses the judges’ and the Athenians’ property; fear and hatred are covert emotions that are also aroused so that the judges will realise that they need to take back their own property and therefore they should punish and convict him. 66 The speech closes with an advice to the judges to punish Philocrates in order to get their money back; the emphasis is placed upon the call to the judges for showing wisdom in making their decision (29.14): ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ταῦτα ὑμῖν παραινῶ. πάντες γὰρ ἐπίστασθε ὅτι Ἐργοκλῆς χρηματιούμενος ἀλλ᾽ οὐ πρὸς ὑμᾶς φιλοτιμησόμενος ἐξέπλευσε, καὶ οὐδεὶς ἄλλος ἔχει τὰ χρήματα ἢ οὗτος. ἐὰν οὖν σωφρονῆτε, τὰ ὑμέτερ᾽ αὐτῶν κομιεῖσθε. I, therefore, advise you this. You all know that Ergocles sailed out in order to win money and not to win honour at your hands. The defendant is the one who has got the money and nobody else. If you are wise, you will get back your own belongings.

The emphasis concerning Ergocles’ intention of making money and personal profit against the Athenians’ belongings constitutes a covert emotional appeal for taking revenge with the punishment of the defendant, which is underlined by the rhetoric of disunity contrasting the wise judges on the one hand and the offender who is a money pursuer on the other.

 66 For the covert emotions of anger, resentment, hatred and fear in the case against Philocrates, see Sanders 2012b, 381.

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2.3 Lycurgus, Against Leocrates Towards the end of the fourth century, in 330 B.C., eight years after the battle of Chaeronea, Lycurgus prosecuted Leocrates 67 in an eisangelia based on the charge of treason (Against Leocrates 1.1). 68 Leocrates is falsely accused of having violated the decree voted after the battle, which prescribed that citizens should not send their families away from the city whereas they themselves were committed to serve as its guardians. Leocrates, most probably, fled away from Athens before these measures had been voted. Eight years later, when he returned back to Athens, Lycurgus prosecuted him by an eisangelia for treason (330 B.C.), 69 though Leocrates’ offence cannot be easily identified as treason and the judges are, therefore, asked to act as lawgivers and approve the procedure for Leocrates’ alleged act of treason (Lyc. 1.9). 70 Lycurgus needs to distract his audience’s attention from the legal case and he therefore makes a speech with an epideictic value and emphasis on one’s duty towards the city as opposed to treason and desertion. The theme itself allows for a display of patriotic behaviour to contrast with the alleged treasonable actions of the defendant, which is deliberately exaggerated as the most treacherous of all preceding crimes of treason that had been convicted in the past by the judges. Lycurgus, as a guardian of the city and the democracy and as an ideal public prosecutor, unites and identifies himself with the interests of all the Athenians. He thought it shameful to allow Leocrates to burst into the Agora and share in the Athenian public sacrifices, when he is a disgrace to his country and to all the Athenians and the judges themselves. His motive is purposely presented as altruistic; it is a matter of honour, grace and heroic attitude to undertake the prosecution in this case, because the city and the whole country are at stake (Lyc. 1.3–6). Lycurgus regards his own role as unique, since he considers that the current trial is decisive and influential upon next generations and descendants (Lyc. 1.7). By implication, the judges are emotionally appealed to take responsibility for the

 67 The eisangelia against Lycurgus is included in Hansen 1975, 108. 68 Between 336 and 330 B.C. the impeachment law (eisangeltikos nomos) was published, which prescribed the kinds of offences liable to an eisangelia (i.e. treason, deception of the dēmos by rhētores after bribery, destruction of public documents and places); for the eisangeltikos nomos, its date and the preceding legislation concerning the procedure of eisangelia, see Volonaki 2019, 293–298. 69 For the date of the trial, see Harris 2001, 155–158, Whitehead 2006, 132–151. 70 For the case of eisangelia against Leocrates and the abuse of the procedure by Lycurgus, see Volonaki 2019, 293–314; Roisman 2019, 27–30; for the political climate in Athens after Chaeronea, see Worthington 2013, 255–344; Roisman 2019, 14–18.

  Eleni Volonaki safety of the city by punishing the defendant. Their convicting decision at the present trial would determine the welfare not only of the city but of the whole Greece for ever. Open emotional calls in this speech involve mainly the encouragement of the judges to commit to their forensic duty on account of the defendant’s betrayal of the city, the constitution, the gods and the religious practice, the monuments, the laws. In particular, the judges are urged to act as legislators in order to secure the punishment of traitors and set an example for the future (Lyc. 1.9, 27), to encourage the young people to become virtuous (Lyc. 1.10), to pay full attention to the present case since the defendant has offended the Athenian ancestors (Lyc. 1.14), to vote in accordance with a series of decrees on traitors, the ancestral oaths and the divine will (Lyc. 1.127). Lycurgus praises the judges for their piety and patriotism (Lyc. 1.15) in order to contrast them with Leocrates’ impiety and unpatriotic behaviour and thus to arouse their hostility against him. Lycurgus, as the public prosecutor who defends the city’s interests, represents the moral civic values and associates himself with the judges in respect of the religion of the city. Religion was embedded in the ideology and practice of civic identity as democratic constituent. 71 The rhetoric of disunity, here, is based upon the ideals of civic and religious identity, as best illustrated in the funeral orations, where the ancestral laws and rituals, as well as the bravery shown by the ancestors in war are depicted as the origins of the fifth-century prosperity in Athens; 72 Lycurgus and the Athenian judges are supporters of the Athenian civic-religious ideology whereas Leocrates is portrayed as an enemy of both the city and its religion. Hostile emotions are further appealed by reminding the judges of all the misfortunes that befell the city and themselves personally, and by charging Leocrates as responsible for all these (Lyc. 1.16: τοῖς αἰτίοις ὀργίζεσθαι ‘to get angry with the responsible ones’). Using the imperative and a rhetorical question, Lycurgus urges the judges to kill Leocrates because he betrayed the city during the war, he did not take care of the sacred places, the city and the laws (Lyc. 1.27, 67). Furthermore, the judges are asked to follow the decisions of the Areopagus in the past, according to which traitors had been punished by death, otherwise they will appear ungrateful to those who risk their lives for their country (Lyc. 1.54: πάντων ἄρ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἔσεσθε ἀγνωμονέστατοι καὶ ἐλαχίστους ἕξετε τοὺς ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν κινδυνεύοντας, “you

 71 For a discussion of approaches concerning the relationship between religion and the polis, see Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 1–14. 72 For the commonplaces of the bravery of the ancestors and the observance of the ancestral religious customs, see Volonaki 2013, 165–180; 2016, 125–246. For the civic identity in Athenian oratory, see Filonik et al. 2020, chapters 1, 5, 6.

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will be most ungrateful of all the people and you will consider least those who risk for you”). The contrast between the judges (and all the citizens), who sacrifice their lives for their country, and Leocrates, who is a ‘bad’ citizen, aims to arouse the hatred and to present punishment as imperative (Lyc. 1.74: τοὺς κακοὺς μισεῖν τε καὶ κολάζειν, ἄλλως τε καὶ Λεωκράτην, ὃς οὔτε ἔδεισεν οὔτε ᾐσχύνθη ὑμᾶς, “to hate and punish the bad citizens, especially Leocrates who did not feel fear or shame towards you”). Similarly, hatred and resentment are provoked on account of all the terrible things the Athenians have suffered; moreover, sarcasm is used by the statement that Leocrates alone appears to have the right to undergo a trial, whereas all the other traitors in the past were immediately put to death without a judgement (Lyc. 1.134). The speech closes with a complex emotional appeal which involves the responsibility and authority of the judges on the one hand and the arousal of hatred and anger against the defendant on the other; the acquittal would be equivalent with the betrayal of the city, the sacred places and the Athenian ships, whereas the conviction would mean safety and welfare of the city (Lyc. 1.150). Finally, the judges are encouraged to save the city rather than be emotional and show pity or tears for the defendant: (Lyc. 1.150: ὅτι οὐ πλέον ἰσχύει παρ᾽ ὑμῖν ἔλεος οὐδὲ δάκρυα τῆς ὑπὲρ τῶν νόμων καὶ τοῦ δήμου σωτηρίας, “no pity or tears have more power than the safety of the laws and the dēmos”). Here, Lycurgus employs a clever captatio benevolentiae to make the judges feel that their decisions are “historic” and that they themselves constitute an important part of history. From the beginning of the speech, Lycurgus addresses the judges as legislators since their decision is expected to affect the future decisions for similar cases of treason. At the closure, as well, the speaker appeals to the power of the judges’ decision in the rhetorical figure of cyclos in order to enhance the judges’ legal authority and gain their vote for the conviction of Leocrates. The disunity between Leocrates and the judges is further elaborated by covert emotional appeals for enmity and anger. Lycurgus’ strategy focuses on the depiction of Leocrates as a traitor of the city of Athens, 73 a significant and predominant aspect of which is religion; thus, the religious appeals are incorporated in the argumentation case of treason. Martin in his discussion of divine argumentation in forensic oratory shows how the speeches of Demosthenes, Lycurgus, Andocides and Aeschines, deriving from an intense political background, rely heavily on re-

 73 For an analysis of Lycurgus’ rhetorical strategies, cf. Volonaki 2013, 164–188.

  Eleni Volonaki ligious ideas to such an extent that religion predominantly figures in the argumentation case. 74 In his conclusion, Martin (2009, 202–216) argues that the references to religion (e.g. objects, buildings, customs, officers, authority) are very common in fourth century forensic oratory and the difference between orators lies not only in the type of elements they use to refer to religion but more importantly to the ‘positive’ use of religion. Moreover, as he has shown, the orators’ differences are also connected with their personal knowledge and their compliance with the requirements of piety. Treason is closely associated with impiety, as reflected in the opening of the speech with a pray to the gods to allow for justice (Lyc. 1.1–2). Impiety is defined as desertion of the city and the temples, breach of the customary honours and rites that have been transmitted by the Athenians’ ancestors. Religion is obviously given a priority in this case, but it is closely connected with the civic domain. Thus, the prosecution establishes his case on a three-dimension contrast, justice — injustice, piety — impiety, protection of the city (patriotism) — desertion of the city (treason). Moreover, it appears that piety is interrelated with the ancestral rites and cult; 75 Leocrates is, by implication, dissociated from the ancestral customs and the civic ideology of piety on account of his treasonable flight from the city. In the eisangelia against Leocrates, the prosecution emphatically stresses charges of impiety and misbehaviour towards the gods, the temples and the rites, that is the whole system of Greek religion in practice. The religious dimension strengthens the argumentation of betrayal, inviting for hatred against Leocrates. Lycurgus describes Leocrates’ action of “treason and sacrilege” 76 as the transportation of himself as a human being, his property and his ancestral sacred images away from the city; all three references together reflect the importance and the substance of the Athenian oikos and by implication of the entire city. Another action of impiety is the breach of the ephebic oath, an offence against the democratic constitution but also a potential cause of the gods’ retribution (1.76, 78– 79). 77  74 Martin 2009, 137–202. 75 See Roisman 2019, 82–85. For Leocrates’ neglect of the ancestral rites and surrender of the city to the enemies, cf. also Lyc. 1.8. 76 For an analysis of Lycurgus’ rhetoric that departure is treason and sacrilege, see Filonik 2017, 226–229. 77 For Leocrates’ breach of the ephebic oath resulting in impiety as well as the dereliction of other duties, as stressed throughout the speech, see Filonik 2017, 248; for the idea that the gods show their favour to good men, as illustrated in the example of the young man in Sicily who risked his life in fire to save his parents, cf. Lyc. 1.95–96.

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Covert hostile emotions are stimulated through the contrasts of Leocrates with all the other citizens, including implicitly the judges themselves. Hatred, anger and resentment are aroused to persuade for the accusation of treason and the punishment of death. Thus, Lycurgus employs a ‘patriotic’ encomium to contrast Leocrates’ flight with the loyal behaviour of the rest Athenian citizens who showed self-sacrifice for the safety of their city (Lyc. 1.44–51). He emphatically stresses the bravery of all those who fought at Chaeronea and risked their lives for the common safety and the freedom of the Greeks (Lyc. 1.47). The encomium of the dead is expanded with the encomium of the living Athenians for honouring their benefactors with statues of athletes, successful generals and men who have killed tyrants; they are now asked to punish with the most extreme penalties the traitors of the city (Lyc. 1.51). The focal point of the speech lies in the representation of the past in a form of various digressions combining elements of myth, history, exemplary precedents, inscriptional evidence and cultural components of drama and epic and lyric poetry. All these stories and mechanisms are designed to praise the ideals of the city, its gods and its constitution, since they draw on commonplaces of patriotism and civic ideology as these are fully exploited in the Athenian funeral orations. 78 The poetic citations enhance the actual delivery and performance by Lycurgus himself, addressing the judges as his audience who will benefit and will be emotionally influenced from hearing each lengthy poem separately. 79 He is using poetry as a medium of dramatic mechanism to arouse aggressive emotions against Leocrates, by sharing, with the judges, ideals of patriotism and heroism, and by promoting ancestral heroic prototypes. 80 Thus, Lycurgus expresses his outrage in a variety of dramatic ways to make the judges share the hostility against Leocrates and convict him for treason.

 78 For a full rhetorical interpretation of the poetic digressions in Lycurgus’ speech Against Leocrates, see Volonaki 2017, 251–268; for the praise of the funeral orations, see Volonaki 2013, 165– 180. 79 The poems derive from Euripides Erechtheus, Homer Iliad and Tyrtaeus; cf. Lyc. 1.98–109; particularly for the dramatic and rhetorical use of the prologue of Euripides Erechtheus, cf. Volonaki 2017, 251–268. 80 For the performance of the literary texts in court, cf. Volonaki 2019, 281–301.

  Eleni Volonaki

 Conclusion The rhetoric of disunity in prosecution speeches composed for cases of eisangelia from the beginning until the end of the fourth century B.C. is based upon a variety of rhetorical techniques of arousing hostile emotions against the accused and is generated by the political, social and cultural environment. In the prosecution speeches by Lysias, Against Nicomachus — a public recorder of the Athenian laws of servile origin, and Against Ergocles and Against Philocrates — the generals and friends of Thrasybulus’ circle, the emotional calls for hostility are to be found mainly in the context of political loidoria. The charges involve abuse of authority, bribery, embezzlement of public property. In the case of Nicomachus, the emphasis is placed on the neglect and destruction of ancestral laws and sacrifices which brought numerous damages to the city, its constitution and legislation. In the cases of Ergocles and Philocrates the main accusation is the embezzlement of public property and the sudden and quick enrichment of the accused, which again caused many misfortunes to the city and ripped the citizens off their own properties. Covert emotional appeals are included in the character assassination of the defendants. Open emotional calls are used towards the closure of the speeches encouraging the judges to protect themselves and save the city by convicting the accused and recover the Athenians’ former welfare. The tone, which may be also reflected in the performance of the speeches, is ironic and sarcastic when depicting the personalities of the defendants either in the use of apostrophē or in a narrative form. All these cases derive undoubtedly from personal political rivalries which extend the personal enmity to the public common hostility by arousing the emotions of anger, hatred, fear and resentment. Moreover, these cases were brought to court a few years after the Amnesty agreement of 403 B.C., when the political contrast between oligarchs and democrats may have still been intense and the idea of revenge may have dominated not only the rhetorical argumentation in forensic speeches but also the whole environment and the perception of the Athenian judges. Towards the end of the fourth century, there was an anxiety to secure the Athenian democracy and prevent any kind of overthrow of the constitution. Therefore, there was an abuse in the procedure of eisangelia that extended the definition of treason to include minor or irrelevant offences. 81 Prominent political figures of the period, such as Lycurgus and Hypereides, played a significant role

 81 On the abuse of eisangelia after 338 in Athens, see Volonaki 2018, 293–314.

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either as prosecutors or as synēgoroi in a number of eisangelia cases against politicians or private citizens (idiōtae). As it appears, the argumentation in these cases focuses upon the description and the exemplification of treason in a variety of means and rhetorical techniques. Particularly, Lycurgus does not use political loidoria at all, but instead he emphasizes Leocrates’ treacherous actions through epideictic, historical, mythical, poetic, and inscriptional means of persuasion. Similar with the change in the use of the procedure is also the shift of the rhetoric of disunity in the latter part of the fourth century B.C. It is striking that at a time when the individual political figures started to have more authority the argumentation of disunity represents public civic concepts and matters of patriotism rather than personal political conflicts. In the case against Leocrates, there is no issue of personal enmity or political rivalry. Lycurgus, the volunteer prosecutor, has the role of the guardian of the city to such a degree that he identifies himself with the city, the constitution, the gods, the monuments, the sacred places and finally the ancestors, the heroes and all the soldiers who had recently fought for the safety of the city. Thus, the hostile emotions of anger and hatred as well as resentment are aroused to be shared by all the citizens and the judges. The focus is placed upon treason and all traitors of the past in contrast to Leocrates. Open emotional calls of the judges’ duty and responsibility not only in their forensic duty but also in their civic obligations are placed in various places of the speech from the beginning to the end; the judges are openly asked to punish and kill Leocrates, who stands in the opposite side from them and all those who have supported the city, especially in difficult times. Covert emotional appeals involve the persona of a traitor, all various accusations against Leocrates’ flight in the narrative sections. Finally, delivery here is enhanced with citations from poetry, tragedy and Homeric poems, from decrees and stelae, and from the praise of the ancestors; Lycurgus most probably performed all these citations not only to entertain and educate but also to arouse emotions and move the judges so that they convict Leocrates. On balance, in the beginning of the fourth century, the rhetoric of disunity is associated with intense political rivalries and conflicts, since it was a time of reconstruction after the Amnesty agreement within a rather emotional political climate. In this context, extreme arguments of hostility could be invoked in court, appealing to commonplaces of political loidoria, such as embezzlement, bribery, enrichment, abuse of authority, servile origin. In the end of the fourth century, the city of Athens faced threats of hostile attacks, especially after the defeat at the Chaeronea battle (338 B.C.), and at that time Lycurgus played an authoritative political role to re-organise the city. In this political context, treason appeared as the most severe offence. The emotional calls, open or covert, are placed within a

  Eleni Volonaki dramatic context, emphasizing the hatred and anger that ought to be shared by all the Athenians to survive from the enemy. All prosecution speeches of eisangelia that have been examined in this chapter include emotional appeals to moral values, such as patriotism, piety, respect to laws and divine will, security of the common welfare, self-sacrifice for one’s country against the enemy. Thus, the rhetoric of disunity comprises the opposites of all these Athenian values, but the emphasis and the rhetorical strategy depend on the circumstances of each case, the political and social surroundings, the legal context of the procedure of eisangelia and the role of the prosecutor at the time.

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Volonaki, E. (2016), ‘Homeric values in the Epitaphios logos’, in: A. Efstathiou/I. Karamanou (eds.), Homeric Receptions across Generic and Cultural Contexts in Literature and Performing Arts, Berlin/Boston, 125–146. Volonaki, E. (2017), ‘Euripides’ Erechtheus in Lykourgos’ Against Leokrates’, in: A. Fountoulakis/A. Markantonatos/G. Vassilaros (eds.), Theatre World: Critical Perspectives on Greek Tragedy and Comedy, Berlin/Boston, 251–268. Volonaki, E. (2018), ‘The abuse of the eisangelia procedure in fourth century Athens’, in: C. Carey/I. Giannadaki/B. Griffith-Williams (eds.), Use and Abuse of Law in the Athenian Court, Leiden/Boston, 293–314. Volonaki, E. (2019), ‘Performing the Past in Lykourgos’ Against Leokrates’, in: A. Markantonatos/E. Volonaki (eds.), Poet and Orator: A Symbiotic Relationship in Democratic Athens, Berlin/Boston, 281–301. Worthington, I. (2007), A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, Malden. Worthington, I. (2013), Demosthenes of Athens and the Fall of Classical Greece, Oxford.

Bé Breij

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”: How Maxims May Contribute to Affiliation  Introduction About Roman declamations, the fictitious exercises for political and forensic oratory that formed the crowning piece of ancient education, Mary Beard made an interesting observation almost thirty years ago. She wrote that they “offer an arena for learning, practicing and recollecting what it is to be and think Roman ... [t]he subject matter takes us to the centre of Roman conceptions of private and social behaviour, ideas of the self and personal obligations.” 1 Twenty years later, Neil Bernstein continued in a similar vein: “The controversiae create idealized venues for the discursive exploration of ethical norms. Through the mimesis of a legal dispute, declaimers call into question traditional conceptions of virtue, paternity and authority… Declaimers confront scenarios of familial or social disorder by reasserting the commonly held values of the Roman elite. If the declamatory scenario has momentarily turned the world upside down — a son has beaten his father, or a tyrant has suspended the community’s laws — then it is the student’s task, as future paterfamilias and (perhaps) future local elite, to produce a legitimizing narrative of the reinstatement of authority”. 2 Both authors make it clear, then, that Roman declamation offers opportunities to explore the ways in which rhetoric is employed to create, define and affirm, but also to challenge and distress, unity within communities and the norms and values that sustain it. In what follows I aim to examine how this is done. Since the subject of declamation is quite extensive, I narrow it down by focussing on the ways in which declamation uses (gnomic) sententiae to forge or at least suggest unity sometimes by confirming, but also, occasionally by seeming to challenge common values. First, I will introduce the fundamental principles of the genre of declamation by means of a condensed examination of Sophistopolis, its largely fictitious GrecoRoman background. Then, after a brief survey of the uses and merits of sententiae as they occur in the most prominent rhetorical artes, I focus on two Major Declamations. In The Poor Man’s Torture (Decl. mai. 7), sententiae conform to common  1 Beard 1993, 56, 61. 2 Bernstein 2013, 17–18. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-006

  Bé Breij values, thereby reasserting them and reaffirming the community from which they stem. But in The Son Suspected of Incest with His Mother (Decl. mai. 19), community values appear to be flouted in an outrageous manner. Specifically, the declamation uses techniques for creating disunity which, although they may look convincing at first sight, invite the audience to refute them. But even though these methods of creating unity and disunity would appear to be incompatible, they will turn out to serve the same goal of affirming traditional values.

 The world of declamation: quarrels in Sophistopolis Sophistopolis, 3 it is well known nowadays, is the brilliant name Donald Russell thought up for the city-state in which the conflicts of Greek declamation are played out 4 and which, with very little difference, also provides the background for Roman declamation. 5 Sophistopolis is a democracy that is occasionally under threat of war from a neighbouring city or prey to an aspiring tyrant. It is ruled by a senate which also functions as a court for trials which are apparently felt to affect society as a whole, such as treachery, attempted tyranny and, strangely enough, suicide. 6 But most lawcases, both criminal and civil, are dealt with by unspecified juries in unspecified courts. The laws that are administered there have been designed to suit Sophistopolitan society, which means that no matter whether they are fictitious or rooted in attested Greek or Roman law, they are not meant to solve conflicts, but to engender them: it is after all in the playing out of legal conflicts that Sophistopolis has its main raison d’être. The majority of lawsuits turns around the applicability of a particular law, its scope or interpretation, or its conflict with another law. In many cases the law is interpreted against the background of mos, the range of Roman community values forming the cement of Roman society, which usually results in a preference of equity over law, or of its spirit over its letter. In this way the controversiae reflect contemporary legal

 3 This survey is largely based on Breij 2015b, 224–225. I concentrate on Sophistopolis as it appears in the Major Declamations. 4 Russell 1983, 21–39. 5 See van Mal-Maeder 2007, 1–39. 6 Under the law that qui causas mortis in senatu non reddiderit, insepultus abiciatur (“a man planning suicide who has not first accounted for his reasons before the senate shall have his body cast out and left unburied”). It is especially popular in Greek declamation.

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”  

and ethical thought, and by creating a communal discourse about common values help to contribute to affiliation. The laws can in principle generate a limitless number of conflicts. Some of these are ordinary, involving for example loans, damages or property. More often they concern domestic matters, such as inheritances, adoption or divorce. And then of course there is the most frequent category: the crimes which give declamation its bad name, but which make for exciting and graphic material, like adultery, murder, suicide, poisoning, sorcery, rape, abduction, torture, incest and cannibalism. As for the protagonists in these cases, there is less variety. There are three pairs of personae that most frequently face each other in court: Poor Man and his enemy Rich Man, 7 Parent and Child (Father and Son 8 in an overwhelming majority of cases) and Husband and Wife, who often find themselves in a bitter conflict concerning their children. Apart from them, but occasionally fulfilling one of the aforementioned roles, we meet war heroes, priests, soldiers and generals, merchants, love-sick young men and prostitutes. And then there are yet others — e.g. astrologers, gladiators, doctors, sorcerers and the infamous piratae cum catenis in litore stantes 9 — who function as catalysts for dramas to unfold. For those who wonder how this material was processed, a representative example is found in the tenth Major Declamation. After the catchy title, the argumentum (theme) mentions the declamatory law on maltreatment (Decl. mai. 10): SEPULCRUM INCANTATUM Malae tractationis sit actio. Quae amissum filium nocte videbat in somnis, indicavit marito. Ille adhibito mago incantavit sepulcrum. Mater desiit videre filium. Accusat maritum malae tractationis. THE ENCHANTED TOMB. Let an action lie for maltreatment. A woman saw her dead son in her dreams and told her husband. He hired a magician to enchant the tomb. The mother stopped seeing her son. She accuses her husband of maltreatment. 10

 7 For this pair of declamatory enemies, see, ultimately, Santorelli 2014, 16−21; Breij 2016. 8 A popular pair of antagonists. Principal studies include Sussman 1995; Lentano 2005; 2015; Breij 2006a; 2015a, 14–40. 9 “Pirates standing with chains on the beach”, Petron. Sat. 1.3 (transl. Heseltine 1913). 10 Transl. after Bernstein 2013, 199.

  Bé Breij This law is a Sophistopolitan concoction of attested Greek and Roman laws. 11 It comes with a legal fiction that is useful to generate discussions as to its suitability: although it is officially meant to enable proceedings against husbands who mistreat their wives, it is nearly always employed in cases where those husbands are said to have mistreated, sometimes even murdered, their sons. The argumentum provides an occasion to pit emotion against reason, belief against scepticism, pietas against harshness. The extant declamation consists of a speech for the prosecution on behalf of Mother, and contains many of the stock ingredients one might reasonably expect. The sorcerer acts as a catalyst for a conflict between Father, who is accused of hiding his jealousy of Son behind philosophical scepticism about ghosts, 12 and Mother, a model of reverence and pietas. The text is highly stylized, containing intricate figures, graphic descriptions and scores of sententiae. 13

 Sententia: speech in a nutshell It is impossible within this limited scope to discuss all the various ways in which declamation explores both affiliation and strife by calling common values into question and affirming them. It happens, for example, in the conflict engendered in the argumentum, the choice of arguments, the evocation of pathos, the attitude towards the antagonist — the list is endless. But it is legitimate to take a shortcut: we can take a look at the ways in which sententiae, a hugely popular device, 14 are used to fulfil this important function of declamation. It is evident that gnomic sententiae are especially appropriate for exploring and affirming common values and achieving a sense of community, for as Aristotle already pointed out (Arist. Rh. 2.21.2):  11 The declamatory law combines the Greek law against κάκωσις (maltreatment) of vulnerable people such as aged parents, orphans, heiresses and wives, and the Roman actio rei uxoriae, which enabled divorcees to recover (part of) their dowry. Main surveys are Bonner 1949, 94−95; Hömke 2002, 161−179; Breij 2015a, 60−70. 12 Ironically, it remains unclear why he feels he should hire a sorcerer to get rid of Son’s ghost. 13 Schneider 2013 is a rich commentary that does the rhetorical and literary properties of this text complete justice. 14 Petron. Sat. 1.2 sententiarum vanissimo strepitu (“loud empty phrases,” transl. Heseltine); cf. e.g. Tac. Dial. 26.2; 32.4; Quint. Inst. 8.5.31. There are numerous categories (in numerous divisions) of sententiae, up to the point where every lumen is designated as such. In what follows I will largely limit myself to sententiae that may be called gnomic in accordance with Aristotle’s definition; and see below Quint. Inst. 8.5.3; but in Breij 2006b I also discuss other types.

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Ἔστι δὲ γνώμη ἀπόφανσις, οὐ μέντοι περὶ τῶν καθ᾽ ἕκαστον, οἷον ποῖός τις Ἰφικράτης, ἀλλὰ καθόλου· καὶ οὐ περὶ πάντων καθόλου, οἷον ὅτι τὸ εὐθὺ τῷ καμπύλῳ ἐναντίον, ἀλλὰ περὶ ὅσων αἱ πράξεις εἰσί, καὶ αἱρετὰ ἢ φευκτά ἐστι πρὸς τὸ πράττειν. A maxim is an assertion — not, however, one about particulars, such as what kind of person Iphicrates is, but of a general sort, and not about everything (for example, not that the straight is the opposite of the crooked), but about things that involve actions and are to be chosen or avoided in regard to action. 15

Gnomic sententiae evidently have several advantages: they claim to convey universal truths, which elevates them to a philosophical level. And since, moreover, they pronounce on all that is to be chosen or as the case may be avoided with regard to actions, they belong to practical philosophy or, in other words, ethics (Arist. Rh. 2.21.16): ταύτην τε δὴ ἔχει μίαν χρῆσιν τὸ γνωμολογεῖν, καὶ ἑτέραν κρείττω· ἠθικοὺς γὰρ ποιεῖ τοὺς λόγους. ἦθος δ᾽ ἔχουσιν οἱ λόγοι, ἐν ὅσοις δήλη ἡ προαίρεσις. αἱ δὲ γνῶμαι πᾶσαι τοῦτο ποιοῦσι διὰ το ἀποφαίνεσθαι τὸν τὴν γνώμην λέγοντα καθόλου περὶ τῶν προαιρετῶν, ὥστ᾽ ἂν χρησταὶ ὦσιν αἱ γνῶμαι, καὶ χρηστοήθη φαίνεσθαι ποιοῦσι τὸν λέγοντα. This is one useful aspect of employing maxims, and another is greater; for it makes the speech ‘ethical’. Speeches have character insofar as the deliberate choice is clear, and all the maxims accomplish this because one speaking a maxim makes a general statement about preferences, so that if the maxims are morally good, they make the speaker seem to have a good character. 16

Of course this practical value of gnomic sententiae did not escape the Romans. In the Rhetoric for Herennius we find them similarly defined and warmly recommended (Rhet. Her. 4.24–25): Sententia est oratio sumpta de vita quae aut quid sit aut quid esse oporteat in vita breviter ostendit ... Et necesse est animi conprobet eam tacitus auditor cum ad causam videat adcommodari rem certam ex vita et moribus sumptam. A Maxim is a saying drawn from life, which shows concisely either what happens or ought to happen in life ... Furthermore the hearer, when he perceives that an indisputable principle drawn from practical life is being applied to a cause, must give it his tacit approval. 17

 15 Transl. Kennedy 20072. 16 The former useful aspect to which Aristotle refers (Rh. 2.21.15) is that an uncultivated audience will be pleased by general observations if they match that audience’s individual opinions. 17 Transl. Caplan 1968, who is entirely justified in considering vita et moribus a hendiadys.

  Bé Breij Although the Auctor ad Herennium does not explicitly refer to preferences, he does talk about preferable ways of life; moreover, Roman orators equalled Greek ἦθος to Latin mores. 18 The general character of sententiae is also attributed implicitly: it emerges from the statement that sententiae are transposed from one context to another. It is not surprising, then, that both qualities recur as essential but obvious in Quint. Inst. 8.5.3: Antiquissimae sunt quae proprie, quamvis omnibus idem nomen sit, sententiae vocantur, quas Graeci gnomas appellant: utrumque autem nomen ex eo acceperunt quod similes sunt consiliis aut decretis. Est autem haec vox universalis, quae etiam citra complexum causae possit esse laudabilis, interim ad rem tantum relata … interim ad personam. Oldest of all — and properly called sententiae, though the same name serves for all types — are what are called in Greek gnōmai. (Both names come from the fact that these sayings are like proposals or decrees.) It is a universal pronouncement (such as might be praiseworthy even outside the context of a Cause), relating sometimes simply to things ... sometimes to persons. 19

Quintilian too mentions the two properties that pre-eminently characterize gnomic sententiae: they are universal and can therefore be meaningfully abstracted from their specific context, and they have a moral calibre. 20 However, there are also important differences in the various treatments. First of all, Aristotle regards sententiae as a component of heuresis, because whether they occur independently or as part of an enthymeme, gnomai have the impact of arguments. The Auctor and Quintilian on the other hand discuss them under the heading of elocutio. But if we look at the examples used by the three rhetoricians, we see a development which seems to point in the opposite direction: while Aristotle mainly quotes from Homer and Euripides, the Auctor consults philosophers and Quintilian largely prefers oratory and declamation. In fact the latter shows himself well aware that a good sententia can contribute to all three means of persuasion, which suggests that for Quintilian, too, it might as well be an element of inventio: Quod enim tantum in sententia bona crimen est? Non causae prodest? non iudicem movet? non dicentem commendat? 21 In this fourfold anaphoric interrogatio, which is of course a characteristically iconic example of a

 18 Quint. Inst. 6.2.8; cf. 12.2.15. 19 Transl. Russell 2001. 20 The latter property is again referred to fairly implicitly: similes ... consiliis aut decretis. 21 Quint. Inst. 8.5.32 “For what is the crime in a good sententia? Does it not help one’s Cause? Does it not affect the judge? Is it not a good advertisement for the speaker?”

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good sententia, Quintilian acknowledges the contribution of such a sententia to logos, pathos and ēthos respectively. All three authors proffer some instructions and criteria. Since Quintilian manages to combine conciseness and comprehensiveness, we will look to his Inst. 8.5.7: In hoc genere custodiendum est et id, quod ubique, ne crebrae sint, ne palam falsae (quales frequenter ab iis dicuntur qui haec catholica vocant et quidquid pro causa videtur quasi indubitatum pronuntiant) et ne passim et a quocumque dicantur. With this type of thing, we must also take care, as always, that the sententiae are (1) not frequent, (2) not obviously false (as are many spoken by people who call them catholica — “universal thoughts” — and pronounce as undoubted truths anything that seems to further their case), and (3) not spoken at random or put in the mouth of any person indifferently.

These are the three criteria, then, to which successful sententiae ought to comply: they must not be too frequent; 22 they must be generally valid on the basis of their content, not just by their phrasing; 23 and they must suit the situation and the speaker. 24 The first rule Quintilian evidently finds so important that he rephrases it further on in Inst. 8.5.30–31: Hoc quoque accedit, quod solas captanti sententias multas dicere necesse est leves frigidas ineptas: non enim potest esse delectus ubi numero laboratur. Itaque videas et divisionem pro sententia poni et argumentum, si tantum in clausula clamose pronuntietur... Nec multas plerique sententias dicunt, sed omnia tamquam sententias. We may add that those who aim at sententiae and nothing else must produce many that are trivial, frigid, or foolish. There can be no selection when the object is mere quantity. You therefore find a Division or an Argument used as a sententia, so long as it is pronounced

 22 Cf. Rhet. Her. 4.25 Sententias interponi raro convenit, ut rei actores, non vivendi praeceptores videamur esse. Cum ita interponentur multum adferent ornamenti (“We should insert maxims only rarely, that we may be looked upon as pleading the case, not preaching morals. When so interspersed, they will add much distinction”). 23 Note, however, this interesting observation by Aristotle, to which we will return later: Καθόλου δὲ μὴ ὄντος καθόλου εἰπεῖν μάλιστα ἁρμόττει ἐν σχετλιασμῷ καὶ δεινώσει, καὶ ἐν τούτοις ἤ ἀρχόμενον ἤ ἀποδείξαντα (Rh. 2.21.10 “To speak in universal terms of what is not universal is especially suitable in bitter complaint and great indignation, and in these cases either at the outset or after the demonstration”). 24 Cf. Arist. Rh. 2.21.9, where Aristotle recommends that it should be the old who use maxims, and only on subjects in which they are experienced.

  Bé Breij with bravura at a point of closure ... Many speakers do not give us many sententiae; but they deliver everything as if it was a sententia. 25

This rule will prove important for us not just in theory but also in practice: our controversiae are replete with sententiae, and it will be instructive to take a closer look at them with the ancient praecepta at the forefront of our minds. We will, then, look whether the sententiae make the speeches more ethical, as advocated by Aristotle, and whether they confirm current values or challenge them. To sustain our analysis we will also ask whether the sententiae contain truly general statements or are in fact mere catholica, as Quintilian labels them, and we will try to assess whether they fit their speakers, and whether they occur in a suitable frequency. Applying these criteria will help us to assess whether declamatory sententiae provide convincing material for the creation of unity or, on the contrary, disunity.

 Sententiae in the Declamationes Maiores For the present purpose I have turned to the Major Declamations because these are the only complete Roman declamations we have left. Being complete texts, they can offer us an impression of the distribution and frequency of the sententiae, and also of the ways in which they function in their immediate and broader contexts. The latter will be discussed in detail below; in connection with the former it may be remarked right away that the Maiores contain an inordinate number of sententiae — not just gnomic ones, incidentally, but in a broader sense what Quintilian calls lumina, translated by Russell as “bright thoughts” or, in other words, aphorisms, pithy sayings. As far as gnomic sententiae are concerned, these occur especially frequently at specific points in the mock-forensic speeches. There are some in the exordia, which is hardly surprising because one of the main functions of this pars orationis is to confer a proper ethos on the speaker. Rather more unexpectedly, we find practically none in the perorationes, but on the contrary an abundance in the argumentationes. This means that the sententiae are not simply used as a stylistic device, but are geared clearly to make a major contribution to argument.

 25 Note that the second (non enim ... laboratur) and fourth (nec multas ... sententias) sentences are in fact sententiae, and that the fourth occurs in clausula, clamose.

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 Decl. mai. 7: The Poor Man’s Torture The seventh Major Declamation ascribed to Quintilian is a controversia whose author has taken trouble to make his sententiae conform to the communis opinio prevalent inside Sophistopolis — and presumably outside as well. It pits a traditional pair of declamatory enemies against each other: Rich Man and Poor Man. In the tradition, Rich Man tends to be very much like a proverbial tyrant: he is cruel, greedy, sadistic, power-hungry and arrogant. 26 Often, he vents his cruelty on Poor Man’s children by torturing and/or killing them, or at least trying to corrupt them sexually. Poor Man on the other hand is usually decent and frugal, defenceless in the face of Rich Man’s blatant and wanton atrocities. Decl. mai. 7 faithfully adheres to this tradition, 27 as can be seen at a glance from the argumentum: TORMENTA PAUPERIS Liberum hominem torqueri ne liceat. Pauper et dives inimici. Pauperi erat filius. Nocte quadam pauper cum filio revertebatur. Interfectus est adulescens. Offert se pauper in tormenta dicens a divite eum interemptum. Dives contradicit ex lege. THE POOR MAN’S TORTURE. It shall be illegal to torture a free man. A poor man and a rich man were enemies. The poor man had a son. One night the poor man went home with his son. The young man was murdered. The poor man says that he was murdered by the rich man and offers to undergo torture. The rich man objects in accordance with the law. 28

Right away we spot the traditional enmity, aggravated by Rich Man’s cruelty against Poor Man’s son. Poor Man was evidently the only witness to the murder, so that it is his word against that of his rich enemy. Now he feels that to prove his case, he must take recourse to unconventional measures, and so he requests to be tortured in order to substantiate his testimony. This means that he wants to go against the law – but only against its letter, and not its spirit, 29 as he argues (Decl. mai. 7.4.1–5):

 26 On the stereotypical declamatory tyrant, see Tabacco 1985. 27 For a more detailed discussion see Breij 2016, 276–283. 28 Translations from the Decl. mai. are my own. 29 The status scripti et sententiae (or voluntatis) is the main issue of the controversia. It is discussed, among others, in Cic. Inv. 2.121–143; Rhet. Her. 2.13–14; Quint. Inst. 7.6.1–12; Calboli Montefusco 1984, 153–166. For the connection with the similar distinction between ius and aequitas

  Bé Breij 1.

‘Lex,’ inquit, ‘liberum hominem torqueri vetat.’ Per fidem, iudices, quis non hoc eum respondere credat, cuius tormenta poscantur! (“The law forbids the torture of a free man,” he says. By your good faith, gentlemen, who would not assume that this is what someone would say who is wanted for torture?) 2. Nemini, iudices, credo dubium legem, quae torqueri liberum hominem vetat, hoc prospexisse tantum, ne quis torqueretur invitus, et iura, quae nos a servilium corporum condicione secernunt, inpatientiae tantum succurrisse nolentium. (I believe that nobody doubts, gentlemen, that the law which forbids the torture of free men only provides that no one is tortured against his will, and that the rights which separate us from the condition of slaves’ bodies only come to the rescue of those who do not wish to be tortured because they cannot endure it.) 3. Omnium beneficiorum ista natura est, ut non sit necessitas, sed potestas; quidquid in honorem alicuius inventum est, desinet privilegium vocari posse, si cogas. (The essence of all legal benefits is that they involve opportunities, not compulsions; if you make obligatory a thing which has been devised out of regard for others, it can no longer be called a privilege.) 4. Cuncta, si videtur, iura percurrite: nusquam adeo pro nobis sollicita lex est ut, quod praestat, extorqueat. (Browse through all the rights we have, if it seems appropriate: there isn’t a single case where the law is so anxious in our behalf that it wants to enforce what it has to offer). 5. Dedit caeco talionis actionem: num manus recusantis inpellit? Iniuriarum, caedis agere permisit, sed non cogit invitos. Adeo [paene] levius est ultionem perire quam potestatem. (It has granted an action for punishment in kind to a blind man – but does it force his hands when he declines? It allows people to prosecute for insult or injury, but it does not force them if they do not want to. So much easier is it for retribution to be passed over than for the right to deploy it). 6. Genus servitutis est coacta libertas, et eadem iniquitas, quicquid de invito homine facias. (Compulsory freedom is a type of slavery, and whatever you do to a man against his will, the unfairness is the same.)

 and the impact of both on Roman legal and social discourse see the seminal study of Stroux 1929, 7–80 and the extensive survey by Schiller 20102, 548–586.

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7.

Vis scire, quid lex ista prospexerit? Non exigo, ut torquearis. 30 (Do you want to know for what that law of yours has provided? I do not require you to be tortured).

The whole paragraph, especially 2–6, can be read as an epicheirēma in which it is argued that the right of the free not to be tortured is a privilege, not an obligation to be enforced against the will of the torture candidate. Sentences 1 and 7, neatly enclosing the general argument, make sure that it is applied to the case at hand. If we look a bit more closely, we see that both convey veiled accusations against Rich Man: an objection against torture fits an involuntary candidate for torture, i.e., a suspect (1); and (accordingly) Poor Man would demand him for torture if only the law would permit it (7). The epicheirēma between them sustains the general proposition from different angles. In 2 we find a doublet of synonymous gnomic sententiae, both claiming that the law against the torture of the free was devised to protect free people who do not wish to be tortured. As a stylistic feature familiar from most other Maiores, the first employs comparatively concrete terms while the second is expressed in more abstract mannered terms. It is especially striking because of the double, chiastic, metonymous abstract servilium corporum condicione — inpatientiae ... nolentium, which suggests the homogenous status of free Romans by distinguishing them sharply from their almost reified slaves, using exclusion of an allegedly inferior class to create a sense of unity among the elite, even though it is here represented by one of its poorest members. Incidentally it reminds us that there might be occasional doubts about the reliability of torture, but never about its appropriateness. 31 The sentiment that rights ought not to constitute obligations is repeated twice in another doublet of gnomic sententiae (3) on a more abstract level. Their generic tenor is emphasized by the string of abstract terms beneficiorum, necessitas, potestas and privilegium and especially by generic omnium and quidquid, then rephrased on the same abstract level by means of a personification of lex (4). This sententia serves as a conclusion to an inductive reasoning built by means of exempla: if someone has been blinded 32 or physically or mentally abused, he may  30 I use an alternative numeration in order to facilitate my discussion of the fragment. Gnomic sententiae are in bold script. 31 See Zinsmaier 2015, Coleman 2018, Knoch 2018, 95–118. 32 The assumption caecus = excaecatus is interesting, and probably a Sophistopolitan convention. The punishment is likewise declamatory (cf. Calp. Decl. 9; 43; Decl. min. 297). Günther 1889, 127 remarks that there is not a single case known from Roman history in which blinding was punished by means of talio, but comes up with two Greek laws. One is found in Dem. 24.14 (about the Locrians): ὄντος γὰρ αὐτόθι νόμου, ἐάν τις ὀφθαλμὸν ἐκκόψῃ, ἀντεκκόψαι παρασχεῖν τὸν

  Bé Breij take revenge, but he will not be forced to do so. A further generic sententia (5) repeats the conclusion, which is finally rephrased antonymously in another doublet (6) of gnomic sententiae. These, first in comparatively concrete (note genus servitutis), then in entirely abstract terms (quicquid, homine) approach the situation from the opposite point of view: far from there being a duty to make use of the opportunities offered by the law, it is actually unfair to maintain them forcibly. We have here, then, an epicheirema in which deductive and inductive reasoning alternate and mutually reinforce each other and make proper sense. So what about the criteria Quintilian has set us for the sententiae that make it up? Let us see what we can conclude about their frequency, validity and suitability. As for the first, we cannot deny that the gnomic sententiae are quite “frequent” (crebrae). We must grant our declaimer, however, that he enunciates them as “many sententiae” rather than “everything as if it was a sententia”. This has to do with the second criterion: the sententiae arguably do not resort under the catholica Quintilian despises. Rather, they do not contravene contemporary legal thought or common sense and can be transposed to a different context. By arguing in favour of the spirit of the law, they contribute to the frequent topic of the defence of aequitas against ius, confirming a core value of the Roman elite. The unity of all free Romans is stressed by the contrast with slaves. Compliance to the third criterion may be a bit doubtful. The sententiae suit the argument, certainly, and thus the speaker’s case — but do they suit the speaker? The standard Sophistopolitan Poor Man is a simple soul who would perhaps not normally express such lofty sentiments in such exalted terms. Still, thanks to their general validity and the variatio in their often synonymous phrasing, they will have been useful material for teachers to provide their students with a copia rerum ac verborum, and teach them to explore, and then subscribe to common values.

 Decl. mai. 19: The Son Suspected of Incest with His Mother After the respectable instances of generic sententiae offered us by Decl. mai. 7 it is time to take a look at a declamation in which generically phrased sententiae are used to assert the speaker’s own peculiar moral universe to the exclusion of  ἑαυτοῦ, καὶ οὐ χρημάτων τιμήσεις οὐδεμιᾶς; the other one, quite similar, by Charondas in Diodor. 12.17.4.

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”  

others. The speech, in other words, should offer an exercise in the creation of disunity. This is the case in Major Declamation 19, the theme of which manages to combine two of the three great taboos: 33 INFAMIS IN MATREM Malae tractationis sit actio. Speciosum filium infamem, tamquam incestum cum matre committeret, in secreta domus parte pater torsit et occidit in tormentis. Interrogat illum mater, quid ex iuvene compererit; nolentem dicere malae tractationis accusat. THE SON SUSPECTED OF INCEST WITH HIS MOTHER. Let an action lie for maltreatment. On the suspicion that he was conducting an incestuous affair with his mother, a father tortured his handsome son in a secret part of the house and killed him in the process. The mother asks him what he has learnt from the young man; when he refuses to speak, she accuses him of maltreatment.

We have seen the Sophistopolitan action for maltreatment before, and now we see that here too it functions as a legal instrument for a wife against her husband in a case where a common child has been seriously harmed. But this time we are dealing more obviously with a controversia figurata, i.e. a controversia that is an exercise in veiled speech or innuendo used when it is not safe, or not decent, or simply less fun, to speak outright. 34 In this particular case Father must defend himself against the charge brought against him for his obstinate silence. In doing so, he must also account for the murderous torture, and that means covertly accusing Son of incest. In other words, the formal defence serves as a vehicle for a covert defence of the murder and an accusation of incest. Accordingly, Father’s speech consists largely of string of insinuations 35 that are geared to the creation of disunity: he suggests that his victim (Son) is guilty  33 Parricide and incest. Only cannibalism is lacking, but informs the plot of the singularly horrific Decl. mai. 12. 34 Breij 2012, col. 781. 35 The theme and its implementations incurred the disgust of Quintilian, who wrote (Inst. 9.2.79–80) itaque non solum si persona obstaret rectae orationi, quo in genere saepius modo quam figuris opus est, decurrebant ad schemata, sed faciebant illis locum etiam ubi inutiles ac nefariae essent, ut si pater qui infamem in matrem filium secreto occidisset reus malae tractationis iacularetur in uxorem obliquis sententiis. Nam quid impurius quam retuinisse talem? Quid porro tam contrarium quam eum, qui accusetur quia summum nefas suspicatus de uxore videatur, confirmare id ipsa defensione quod diluendum est? Aut si iudicum sumerent animum, scirent quam eius modi actionem laturi non fuissent, multoque etiam minus cum in parentis abominanda crimina spargerentur (“Consequently, it was not only where personality presented a problem for a straightforward treatment (this calls for moderation more often than for Figures) that they had recourse

  Bé Breij of crimes that have in effect excluded him forever from society. To lend his innuendo authority, it is often embedded in gnomic sententiae which in fact refer to highly idiosyncratic states of affairs. Let us first look at some examples of (quasi-) gnomic sententiae that are meant to help account for Father’s silence: 1. Ita tibi non videtur omnia respondere pro filio qui dicit: ‘occidi’? Decl. mai. 19.5.5: Do you not think that a man who states ‘I killed him’ has given a complete answer concerning his son? 2. Ad quaedam facinora sufficit claudere oculos, vultus avertere, tacere, mirari et incredibilis calamitates relinquere suis causis. Decl. mai. 19.6.1: When confronted with some terrible acts it is enough to close one’s eyes, avert one’s face, remain silent, be stunned and leave incredible disasters to their own causes. 3. Quisquis de tacente queritur, multo minus ferre poterit loquentem. Decl. mai. 19.7.2: Whoever complains about another person’s silence will find his speech much harder to bear. 4. Maior defunctis liberis praestanda reverentia est, nec quicquam minus convenit adfectibus patris, quam si insultare videatur occiso. Decl. mai. 19.11.2: We must pay a greater reverence to our children when they are deceased, and there is nothing more inappropriate for a father’s feelings than being seen to revile a son who has been killed. Without exception these sententiae are phrased generically while at the same time conveying a message that can in fact be anything but taken for granted. The first, in which impersonal qui dicit claims general validity, is reinforced through being couched as a rhetorical question. Moreover, respondere pro (rather than, e.g., de) insidiously suggests that Father is speaking in or on Son’s behalf, while in reality of course a father who after doing away with his son only says “I killed him”, says nothing rather than everything, and has a great deal to answer for. But

 to Figures: they made room for them even where they were useless or downright immoral, for example, if the father, who had secretly killed a son suspected of incest with his mother, was accused of ill-treating his wife, and now launched indirect insinuations against her. What could be more discreditable than keeping a wife like that? What could be more damaging to his case than that a man who is accused because he is held to have had the darkest suspicions of his wife should confirm by his line of defence the very charge which has to be refuted? If they imagined themselves in the judges’ place, the speakers would realize how intolerable they would have found such a pleading — and how even more intolerable when parents were the target of such abominable charges” transl. Russell). Note that with Father’s silence as the occasion for the lawsuit, our anonymous author has adapted the theme, if not, as we will see, the barrage of insinuative sententiae.

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”  

if we believe that “I killed him” is everything, then it is reasonable to believe that the killer must have had a very good reason to kill — in other words, Son must have made himself guilty of a serious crime indeed. A similar trick is played in the second sententia, which in its ponderousness reads like the beginning of a locus communis. Quaedam facinora are ambiguous: but whether they refer to a father killing his own son or a son sleeping with his own mother, they are evidently hideous and calamitous, and the judges should refrain from further investigation. The third sententia uses the blatantly generic 36 to suggest something that is by no means obvious — except for this case, where Father insinuates that he is sparing his wife by suppressing a most uncomfortable truth. The fourth, finally, uses a device familiar from above: it is a doublet of synonymous gnomic sententiae commenting on the same situation from opposing perspectives: the first, more abstract one, views it from the deceased children’s perspective, while the second, more concrete one, focuses on their parents. Abstracted from its context, the sentiment expressed is perfectly consistent with contemporary norms and values. Within its context, Father uses it to urge his wife to be silent about Son and stop asking questions, intimating that the answers to those questions will sully Son’s memory. But in fact it applies to his own behaviour: all his insinuations constitute so many slurs on Son’s reputation. The four samples above differ quite strongly from those cited from Decl. mai. 7. They do not serve argument but insinuation; and they do not occur together in a carefully structured epicheirēma, but are sprinkled throughout Father’s speech. In fact the declaimer seems to make use of a rather dubious piece of advice from Quintilian in Inst. 9.2.75: Quaedam etiam quae probare non possis figura potius spargenda sunt. Haeret enim nonnumquam telum illud occultum, et hoc ipso quod non apparet eximi non potest: at si idem dicas palam, et defenditur et probandum est. Some ideas which you could not actually make good should be sprinkled [throughout the speech] with the help of a Figure. The hidden dart sometimes sticks; it cannot be removed, because it cannot be seen; but if you were to say the same thing openly, the defence can justify it and it needs to be proved. 37

Unable to furnish conclusive evidence about Son’s misbehaviour, Father uses his (quasi)gnomic pronouncements about his silence consistently to suggest that he is suppressing a horrible truth about Son. Their apparent validity, enhanced by

 36 By means not just of an indefinite relative pronoun, but also of a futurum gnomicum. 37 I deviate from Russell 2001, who writes “should be sown in the mind”.

  Bé Breij the use of general and generic terms, suggests an attempt at affiliation, but in fact has a divisive effect. It is not just the sententiae referring to Father’s silence that are used to convey Son’s guilt in veiled terms. Father employs sententiae about the murder for the same purpose: 1. Non est privilegium filium occidere cum fieri potest, nec quisquam tantum ideo fecit, quia liceret. Decl. mai. 19.5.3: While it is possible to kill one’s son, this does not mean that it is a special privilege, nor has any father ever done it just because he could. 2. Nemo filium suum occidit odio; non erit tanti iuvenis invisus. Decl. mai. 19.5.4: Nobody kills a son because he hates him; even if he is detested, no young man is worth paying such a price. 3. Maioris adfectus est filium occidere quam vindicare. Decl. mai. 19.5.5: It takes more love to kill a son than to vindicate him. 4. Summorum facinorum ipsa immanitas innocentia est. Decl. mai. 19.5.6: The very outrageousness of the most horrendous deeds is what proves the innocence of their perpetrators. The first of these, another synonymous doublet, is put with such great aplomb that it simply looks like a truism: of course no father would kill his son just like that. In fact, however, it is quite cunning: not only do cum fieri potest and quia liceret remind subtly of a Roman father’s right to kill his children, 38 it also suggests that this father must have had a good reason to kill his son — in other words, again, that Son was guilty of a terrible crime. The second synonymous doublet, though again couched in generic terms, is anything but obvious: why else would a man kill his own son except from bitter hatred? But Father suggests that he had a better reason — and this, again, can only reside in Son’s guilt of a very serious crime. The third sententia, even pronounced with the authority of a paterfamilias, is outrageous — unless, so we are meant to think, Son has behaved in such a way as to forfeit his right to live: in that case, the killing should be regarded as an act of love. And that, we learn from the fourth sententia, is what acquits the murderer of his own son. There is no need for this Father to defend his extreme actions: their very heinousness guarantees their necessity. If we apply Quintilian’s criteria to the (quasi-)gnomic sententiae in Decl. mai. 19 we find that the results differ from our investigation of Decl. mai. 7. This time, the speaker is a persona more suitable for uttering sententiae. The sententiae are

 38 The vitae necisque potestas for which see, among others, Breij 2006a.

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”  

again “frequent”, but this time they do not together contribute to an argumentative scheme. Instead they serve as “hidden darts” aimed at conveying accusations and intimations that will not hold water if they are made explicitly. Also, they are what Quintilian would call catholicae: although phrased generically, they convey highly idiosyncratic points of view that do not obviously tally with common sense or consensus. 39 Some of them are in fact “obviously false” and incompatible with the assumption that sententiae can contribute to affiliation and the adherence to common values. Nor is it hard to understand why Quintilian disliked this type of controversia figurata and spoke with such caustic disapproval about iaculari obliquis sententiis and spargere abominanda crimina. 40

 Conclusion It might seem the case, then, that only Decl. mai. 7 contributes to affiliation by appealing to common values in genuinely ethical sententiae, while Decl. mai. 19, the textbook example of a controversia figurata, with its insinuating catholicae, signally fails to do so. This is, however, not quite the whole story. Decl. mai. 19 is in fact one of the very few complete declamations to which we have an antilogia: Decl. mai. 18. 41 This controversia contains first of all the mother’s accusations of mala tractatio and murder, and her defence against the accusation of incest. But in the same way that Decl. mai. 19 is a textbook example of how to construct oratio figurata, Decl. mai. 18 shows aficionados of rhetoric how to expose and defuse it. In this controversia, the murder is exposed and condemned as an unjust and spiteful act, and the subsequent silence as a potent form of insinuation. Father’s sententiae are parried with counter-sententiae that in many cases are again only quasi-generic, but at least appeal to common values. As a denouncement of his silence we find, for example, incestum probaretur silentio patris, si taceret et mater: 42 since Mother is anything but quiet and keeps stressing that she has nothing to hide, the judges ought to assume that she and Son are innocent. This is argued more elegantly further on in a strongly antithetical sententia per interrogationem:

 39 One is however reminded of Aristotle’s remark (above, n. 24) that these general terms are quite suitable for complaint and indignation. 40 Inst. 9.2.79–80, cited in n. 35 above. 41 The only other pair of complete declamations is Decl. mai. 14 and 15 (Odii Potio). 42 Decl. mai. 18.2.1 “Incest would be proved by a father’s silence if the mother kept quiet too.”

  Bé Breij an potest mater admittere quod loqui non potest pater? 43 The whole speech is aimed at proving the innocence of Mother and Son and denouncing Father’s abuse of his patria potestas and his paranoid outlook on prevailing sexual mores. In this sense, the controversia can be read as an attempt to restore unity: especially since at no point this potestas and these mores are attacked in themselves. The patria potestas, even the vitae necisque potestas, remain unassailed: incestum qui non credit, torquere non debet; qui credit, statim debet occidere, 44 Mother’s advocate argues forcefully. We can conclude that here too the sententiae eventually contribute to affiliation: by attacking excrescences and abuse of established rights and mores, they implicitly endorse the status quo and confirm our assumption that sententiae are an excellent means to consolidate common values and conceptions of behaviour.

Bibliography Beard, M. (1993), ‘Looking (Harder) for Roman Myth: Dumézil, Declamation and the Problems of Definition’, in: F. Graf (ed.), Mythos in mythenloser Gesellschaft: das Paradigma Roms, Stuttgart/Leipzig, 44–64. Bernstein, N. (2013), Ethics, Identity, and Community in Later Roman Declamation, Oxford. Bonner, S. (1949), Roman Declamation in the Late Republic and the Early Empire, Liverpool. Breij, B. (2006a), ‘Vitae necisque potestas in Roman Declamation’, in: Advances in the History of Rhetoric 9, 55–81. Breij, B. (2006b), ‘Post exitum unici revertor in patrem: Sententiae in Roman Declamation’, in: A. Lardinois/M. van der Poel/V. Hunink (eds.), Land of Dreams, Greek and Latin Studies in Honour of A.H.M. Kessels, Leiden/Boston, 311–326. Breij, B. (2012), ‘Oratio Figurata’, in: HWRh 10, cols. 781–788. Breij, B. (2015a), [Quintilian], The Son Suspected of Incest with His Mother (Major Declamations, 18–19), Cassino. Breij, B. (2015b), ‘The Law in the Major Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian’, in: E. Amato/ F. Citti/B. Huelsenbeck (eds.), Law and Ethics in Greek and Roman Declamation, Berlin/ Munich/Boston, 219–248. Breij, B. (2016), ‘Rich and Poor, Father and Son in Major Declamation 7’, in: R. Poignault/ C. Schneider (eds.), Fabrique de la déclamation antique (controverses et suasoires), Strasbourg, 275−290. Calboli Montefusco, L. (1984), La dottrina degli status nella retorica greca e romana, Bologna. Caplan, H. (1968), [Cornificius], Rhetorica ad Herennium, London/Cambridge, MA.

 43 Decl. mai. 18.10.2 “Can a mother commit something about which a father cannot even speak?” 44 Decl. mai. 18.12.4 “If a person does not believe that incest has been committed, he must refrain from torture; if he does believe it, he must kill at once.”

“It Takes More Love to Kill a Son than to Vindicate Him”  

Coleman, K. (2018), ‘The Fragility of Evidence: Torture in Ancient Rome’, in: S.A. Anderson/ M.C. Nussbaum (eds.), Confronting Torture: Essays on the Ethics, Legality, History, and Psychology of Torture Today, Chicago/London, 105–119. Günther, G. (1889), Die Wiedervergeltung in der Geschichte und Philosophie des Strafrechts I, Erlangen. Heseltine, M. (1913), Petronius, Satyricon, London/Cambridge, MA. Hömke, N. (2002), Gesetzt den Fall, ein Geist erscheint: Komposition und Motivik der ps-quintilianischen Declamationes maiores X, XIV und XV, Heidelberg. Kennedy, G. (20072), Aristotle on Rhetoric: a Theory of Civic Discourse, New York/Oxford. Knoch, S. (2018), Sklaven und Freigelassene in der lateinischen Deklamation: Ein Beitrag zur römischen Mentalitätsgeschichte, Hildesheim. Lentano, M. (2005), ‘“Un nome più grande di qualsiasi legge”. Declamazione latina e patria potestas’, in: Bolletino di studi latini 35, 558–589. Lentano, M. (2015), ‘“Parricidii sit actio”. Killing the Father in Roman Declamation’, in: E. Amato/ F. Citti/B. Huelsenbeck (eds.), Law and Ethics in Greek and Roman Declamation, Berlin/Munich/Boston. Mal-Maeder, D. v. (2007), La fiction des déclamations, Leiden/Boston. Russell, D. (1983), Greek Declamation, Cambridge. Russell, D. (2001), Quintilian: The Orator’s Education, Cambridge, MA/London. Santorelli, B. (2014), [Quintiliano], Il ricco accusato di tradimento (Declamazioni maggiori,11), Gli amici garanti (Declamazioni maggiori, 16), Cassino. Schiller, A.A. (2010 [1978]), Roman Law: Mechanisms of Development, Berlin/Munich/Boston. Schneider, C. (2013), [Quintilien], Le tombeau ensorcelé (Grandes déclamations, 10), Cassino. Stroux, J. (1929), Römische Rechtswissenschaft und Rhetorik, Potsdam. Tabacco, R. (1985), Il tiranno nelle declamazioni di scuola in lingua latina, Torino. Zinsmaier, T. (2015), ‘Truth by Force? Torture as Evidence in Ancient Rhetoric and Roman Law’, in: E. Amato/F. Citti/B. Huelsenbeck (eds.), Law and Ethics in Greek and Roman Declamation, Berlin/Munich/Boston, 201–218.



Part II: Emotions

Dimos Spatharas

Projective Uses of Emotions, Out-groups and Personal Characterization: The Case of Against Aristogeiton I (Dem. 25) As early as Aristotle, ancient rhetoric emphasizes the importance of emotions for persuasion in forensic oratory. 1 According to Aristotle, who offers the first systematic definition of individual emotions in the second book of his Rhetoric, emotions’ persuasive potentialities rely on the fact that they affect judgments (1378a). The emphasis on the implications of (especially) negative sentiments for public speakers’ argumentation in recent scholarly work coincides with a burgeoning literature on several aspects of ancient emotions. 2 Interdisciplinary approaches to ancient emotions have enabled us to investigate the history of ancient pathē with better hopes of accuracy. 3 Despite the salience of emotions in ancient rhetoric and in the speeches of the Attic orators, recent legal theorists are sometimes more reluctant than ancient rhetoricians to pay attention to emotions’ role in the dispensation of justice. 4 This reluctance is sometimes mirrored in the work of classicists who have done much to enhance our understanding of ancient societies’ legal institutions. 5 Their main objection, namely that the Athenian courts decided cases by rationally measuring relevant evidence against the existing laws, is presumptive: not only does this line of thinking turn a blind eye to the elaborate ways in which emotions are en-

 1 My warmest thanks to the editors for inviting me to participate in the conference from which this volume arose and for their comments on earlier drafts of this chapter. 2 Scholarly works on emotions and public discourse, ideology, and, more broadly, politics, include the following items: Cairns 2003; Fisher 2003; Sanders 2014 on envy; Hall 1995; Konstan 2001, 2005; Tzanetou 2005; Sternberg 2005 and 2006 on pity; Rubinstein 2004 on anger in forensic oratory. Also: Allen 2000; Harris 2017 (whose treatment, however, does not take into account recent advancements in the study of emotions). Negative emotions in general are discussed by Sanders 2012. On anger and pity, see Rubinstein 2013. The edited volume by Sanders and Johncock 2016 focuses on emotions and persuasion in the orators and other literary genres. See also Spatharas 2019. 3 For an excellent methodological analysis, see Cairns 2008. 4 On this point, see Bandes-Blumenthal 2012, 162, arguing that the category emotion “has long functioned as catchall category for much of what law aspires to avoid or counteract: that which is subjective, irrational, prejudicial, intangible, partial, and impervious to reason”. 5 See for example Harris’ recent essay (2017). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-007

  Dimos Spatharas listed in support of speakers’ cases, but it also involves the commonsensical assumption that emotions are the opposite of rational thinking. Since I have recently treated this topic elsewhere, 6 I do not intend to go into detailed discussion here. But my arguments below provide further evidence that approaches to forensic uses of emotions which do not take into account the delicate ways in which speakers seek to manipulate their audiences’ feelings, behavioural traits, and ideological conceptions detract much from our understanding of forensic oratory in classical Athens. The vast majority of recent discussions of emotions’ deployment in ancient trials lays stress on audiences. This is hardly surprising if we take into account the fact that Aristotle’s Rhetoric is commonly used as the basis for our interpretation of speakers’ arguments. As Aristotle explains programmatically, the inclusion of pathē in the Rhetoric is due to the fact that emotions influence audiences’ evaluation of individual cases. 7 Hence, several definitions of individual emotions in book 2 of the Rhetoric end with locutions that underscore their usefulness for public speakers’ manipulation of listeners’ emotional disposition. 8 In this contribution, I would like to depart from treatments which lay stress directly on audiences’ emotions and discuss a different use of emotions in forensic contexts, a use which, as I suggest, is more akin to character assassination. One of the most salient ways in which we typecast others is based on the arbitrary and selective projection of emotional or other relevant personality features upon them. The projective uses of emotions are pertinent to our cognitive capacity of mind reading, i.e. humans’ self-protective ability to understand others’ feelings and sense what their emotional experiences feel like. 9 The importance of mind reading for our emotional responses in our social interactions with others should alert us to the limitations of our understanding of audiences’ responses to forensic oratory: the extant speeches are scripts for performances which we are unable to observe in vivo. 10 But the implications of mind reading for rhetoric also suggest that treatments of the forensic uses of emotions that rely  6 See Spatharas 2019. 7 On this issue, see Dow 2015, 134–135, 137–142; Konstan 2006, 36–37. 8 Cp. for example the concluding lines of Aristotle’s definition of “indignation” (to nemesan) at 1378b: “And so if the speech puts the judges into this [hostile or indifferent] frame of mind [toward the opponent] and shows that those who think they deserve to be pitied (and to be pitied on certain grounds) are unworthy to attain it and worthy not to attain it, it is impossible for pity to be felt”. 9 On this topic see Blundell et al. 2013, 13–14, with references to modern experimental approaches to the emotion responses elicited by visual and verbal narratives. 10 On this point, see O’Connell 2017, Introduction.

Projective Uses of Emotions, Out-groups and Personal Characterization  

exclusively on relevant lexical markers, e.g. “anger”, “envy”, or ”pity”, fail to do justice to the complexity of the phenomenon EMOTION. As I argue below, the emotion scripts that speakers put together in their speeches enhance their attempts to project upon their opponents’ sentiments which contribute to their negative characterization by presenting them as belonging to morally defiled outgroups. Speakers’ scripts are significantly enhanced by descriptions which emphasize socially intelligible actions, types of behaviour and gestures, and, indeed, physical expression of emotions. The projective uses of emotional traits or behaviour in which this chapter finds its focus are typically facilitated by narrativity. 11 Speakers invite their audiences to respond to mini-narratives (sometimes of anecdotal nature) detailing emotionally charged incidents which reveal their opponents’ negative personality traits. In these mini-narratives, the targets’ emotions are frequently presented indirectly through references to facial expressions or other extra-linguistic means of communication, e.g. gestures and actions. In this respect, the deployment of opponents’ public expressions of emotion underpins characterization in a way which is comparable to authors’ orchestration of characters’ emotional performances in fiction. Emotions reveal one’s dispositional personality traits, explain meaningfully (albeit arbitrarily) one’s motives, or indicate — again, selectively and arbitrarily — the causes which lead to specific forms of action. * * * Some years ago, I invited students from North American Universities, who attended my class on Modern Greek in the frame of a study abroad programme in Athens, to discuss their stereotypes about the people in the country where they would spend fall semester. A number of students (especially female students) said that Greek men are stereotyped as “sleazy”. According to the online Cambridge Dictionary, a person characterized as sleazy is “dirty, cheap, or not socially acceptable, especially relating to moral or sexual matters”. As this definition of “sleaziness” indicates, stereotypes projected on others are informed by appraisive qualifications that give rise to emotions: a “dirty” and “cheap” person, especially “in sexual matters”, is likely to elicit sentiments of disgust, contempt or anxiety. The projection of stereotypes on social groups invites specific emotional responses, but stereotypes also encourage selective and arbitrary interpretation of targets’ emotional traits.

 11 On forensic narratives, see the recent volume by Edwards and Spatharas. On emotions and forensic narratives, see Spatharas 2019, Ch. 3.

  Dimos Spatharas Recent studies exploring the interfaces between emotions and social identities show that a key factor in the construction of out-groups is the extent to which we are ready to grant others with basic mental capacities. Hackel et al., for example, concluded that “out-group members required more humanness than ingroup members to be perceived as having a mind”. 12 It is unsurprising, then, that in a world that defined humanness by contrasting men to animals (animals are another self-defining “otherness”), comic ad hominem attacks marginalize prominent political figures by frequently assimilating them with beasts or monsters (e.g. Aristophanes presents Cleon as a camel-anused monster with filthy testicles, V. 1030–1035). Hackel et al. correlatively suggest on the basis of their experimental findings “that mind perception is a dynamic process in which relevant contextual information such as social identity and out-group threat change the interpretation of physical features that signal the presence of another mind” (the emphasis is mine). In another study, researchers argued that the types of threat which people associate with specific out-groups are directly relevant to the emotions that these groups elicit. As they point out, “specific classes of threat were linked to specific, functionally relevant emotions, and groups similar in the threat profiles they elicited were also similar in the emotion profiles they elicited”. 13 The conclusions of these studies confirm that our emotional responses to others are shaped by unreflective evaluations of stereotypical characteristics. My discussion in this contribution emphasizes the implications of projective uses of emotions for negative characterization in forensic contexts: I explore how speakers sketch their opponents’ emotional traits by way of marginalizing them and hence isolating them from the dikasts. As I argue, the deployment of the opponents’ emotions are pivotal to ad hominem attacks. Implicit to my line of argument is the notion that in ancient forensic oratory character is typically presented as unchanging. 14 A corollary of this monolithic conceptualization of ēthos is that an opponent’s personality will unequivocally yield stereotypical types of unwanted behaviour. My discussion is thus complementary to critics’ treatments of forensic pathopoiia typically emphasizing the rhetorical means through which speakers appeal directly to their audiences’ emotions. As I suggest, elaborate descriptions of the emotional traits of speakers’ opponents enhance their isolation

 12 Hackel et al. 2014, 18. On the exploitation of allegorical typology of animals in Aristophanic drama, see Taillardat 1965; Hall 2013. 13 Cottrell/Neuberg 2005. 14 On character argumentation in the speeches, see Lanni 2005, 121–123.

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from the community of healthy citizens — typically represented by the dikasts, who are strategically presented as being speakers’ allies. 15 In this chapter, I use as a test case Demosthenes’ Against Aristogeiton. The vehemence of ad hominem attacks in this speech shows lucidly how projective uses of emotions facilitate forensic invective through social marginalization. The authenticity of the speech has been disputed, but authorship is irrelevant to my argument, insofar as the speech reflects Athenian thinking and mentalities — and, despite Edward Harris’ recent arguments (mainly an inventory of words which do not appear in other forensic speeches) against Demosthenic authorship, I am inclined to side with MacDowell’s and others’ view that there is nothing in the speech to suggest decisively that it was not composed by Demosthenes. 16 Aristogeiton is accused of delivering speeches in the assembly and bringing prosecutions to the courts despite the fact that he owed money to the state treasury. Another prosecution speech emphasizing the legal aspects of the case was delivered by Lycurgus who, according to Demosthenes, spoke first. 17 This presumably allowed Demosthenes to embark on the powerful invective that he launched against Aristogeiton. Aristogeiton’s marginalization relies on his classification as an archetypical sycophant. Sycophancy, a term that resists definition, has received sufficient discussion, and I, therefore, omit detailed analysis of the concept. However, let me note in passing that, in addition to its more technical, legally specific meaning, in classical Athens sycophancy was a strong evaluative term indicating anti-social behaviour and moral baseness. For example, the condemning qualification ponēria (“villainy”) recurs in contexts referring to sycophants. 18 What concerns me here are the ways in which Demosthenes projects on Aristogeiton emotional

 15 On the presentation of dikasts as litigants’ allies, see O’Connell 2019. 16 Harris 2018, 195 n.10 offers an inclusive overview of the literature on the authorship of the speech and concludes that the speech was composed during the Hellenistic era. 17 “I have been sitting here for a long time, men of the court, and listening like you to Lycurgus’ accusations”. Throughout this contribution I have used E.M. Harris’ recent translation of the speech. 18 On this topic, cp. Harvey’s analysis of the term (1990). Harvey points out that the most salient characteristics of sycophancy are: “monetary motivation”; “false charges”; “sophistic quibbling”; “slanderous attacks”; the sycophant “frequently takes people to court”; “acts after the event and rakes up old charges”. Lastly, the sycophant is a “fluent speaker” (114). For a broad discussion of litigiousness in classical Athens, see Christ 1998. Osborne 1990 has argued that sycophancy was a professional activity, but his argument has been disputed (rightly in my view) by Harvey 1990.

  Dimos Spatharas dispositions or behavioural traits thereby presenting him as a person who belongs to a detestable and threatening category that jeopardizes the polis’ unity. Deviant out-groups foster comforting myths of normality and, thereby, their marginalization has an assertive function for the “healthy” in-groups. For this reason, the rhetoric of marginalization or stigmatization commonly, if not always, imagines society as a divided entity which comprises us and threatening others. This dualism is reflected in Demosthenes’ extensive deployment of bipolar pairs in the speech: the wilderness and lawlessness of nature are contrasted to the organized and civilized city; violence is opposed to the law; humanness is opposed to bestial behaviour. The prominence of these conceptual antinomies grants the speech with “philosophical” tonality. In the context of the speech, the construal of the community as a divided entity is frequent, but it acquires cosmic dimensions when Demosthenes presents Aristogeiton’s enjoyment of unwarranted privileges as commensurate with upsetting the order in nature. 19 The clearcut distinction between in-groups and out-groups is also encapsulated in a passage highlighting that only the enforcement of the law keeps villains at bay: τοὺς νόμους οὖν δεῖ τηρεῖν καὶ τούτους ἰσχυροὺς ποιεῖν τοὺς ἀεὶ δικάζοντας ὑμῶν· μετὰ γὰρ τούτων οἱ χρηστοὶ τῶν πονηρῶν περίεισιν εἰ δὲ μή, λέλυται πάντα, ἀνέῳκται, συγκέχυται, τῶν πονηροτάτων καὶ ἀναιδεστάτων ἡ πόλις γίγνεται. Therefore, those of you who at any time serve as judges must observe the laws and keep them strong. With their help the good prevail over the wicked. If not, everything is destroyed, split open, thrown into confusion, and the city falls into the hands of the most wicked and shameless men (24–25, translation E.M. Harris).

The verb συγκέχυται (“thrown into confusion”) indicates a nightmarish situation in which the boundaries of moral behaviour are confounded and the polis is consequently defenseless (ἀνέωκται, 25) against shameful people like Aristogeiton. Another example of Aristogeiton’s isolation from the body of morally responsive citizens is offered in a passage whose powerful imagery is enhanced by the metaphorical description of a dystopian civic space in which free speech is controlled through violence and physical strains (28). In Athens, however, a city compared with harmoniously living families and, therefore, characterized by a spirit of con-

 19 “Is it that the earth is on top and the stars below? That cannot be — and may it not happen! But when your will gives rights to men to whom the laws deny rights, when evil is honoured, and the good thrown out, when justice and your interests are overcome by envy, one must think that everything has been turned upside down” (75, translation E.M. Harris).

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cord (ὁμόνοια) and philanthrōpia (87–90), the citizens’ freedom of speech is regulated by the law. 20 Aristogeiton inflicted atimia on himself on account of his lawlessness and the abuse of free speech which he deployed in order to bring harm to his fellow-citizens (28). Notably, this passage is introduced with the word μιαρέ which I discuss below. The conceptualization of the community as a divided entity comprising morally responsive citizens and deviants who must be kept at bay is underscored by projective uses of emotions or the attribution of negative dispositional characteristics. As already argued, the projection of specific negative emotions to one’s opponents is an effective medium of negative characterization, but also a means through which members of individual societies or communities perpetuate their stereotypes: unwanted groups of people, we tend to imagine, share the same emotional traits. 21 Demosthenes’ arbitrary attribution of specific sentiments to Aristogeiton enables him to bring to the fore his anti-Athenian and anti-social ēthos. The emotion scripts describing the sentiments allegedly fostered by Aristogeiton provide dikasts with the conceptual context in the frame of which they are invited to assess his dangerous behaviour. One of the most striking features of the speech is Demosthenes’ frequent use of the word physis to describe Aristogeiton’s character. 22 Among the many instances where Aristogeiton’s nature, i.e. his ingrown, unchanging villainy is emphasized, I would like to focus on a passage in which the virtues of dikē, eunomia and aidōs are quite literally embodied. 23 These virtues, Demosthenes says, are

 20 On homonoia in the speech under discussion, see Christ 2012, 52–54. 21 Note that in his definition of hatred in the Rhetoric (1382a), Aristotle argues that “hatred” (echtra or misos) is directed against types of wrongdoers (and notably he uses sycophants as an example) rather than against specific individuals who have slighted us (as is the case with “anger”, orgē). Hence, on Aristotle’s account, hatred makes us want to see our target dead. E.g. Adolf Hitler has not harmed (most of) this paper’s readers personally, but it is possible that they foster feelings of hatred for him on account of the misery that he caused to millions of people. 22 Note that in the proem of his speech (2), Demosthenes claims that the dikasts’ physis has already issued a negative verdict for Aristogeiton because they naturally endorse feelings of hatred for villains. This statement anticipates the contradistinctive characterization of the speech which seeks to establish that Aristogeiton’s problematic nature differs dramatically from the nature of sociable and law-abiding citizens. At 5, Demosthenes claims explicitly that Aristogeiton’s life was not the life of a normal human being (οὐ τὸν ἑαυτοῦ βίον ἀνθρώπινον) and at 15 he opposes law to nature. On the polarity physis/nomos in the speech, which plays an important role in the thought of the Sophists, see Wohl 2010, 92–94. 23 “All men have altars for Justice, Law and Order, and Shame, and the most beautiful and holy are in the very soul and nature of each man, set up for all men to honour in common. But there

  Dimos Spatharas worshipped in sacred precincts, but the most beautiful and holy altars of these values lodge in the nature and the soul of each individual. This is indeed extremely powerful rhetoric. Unlike other human beings, Aristogeiton’s soul is bare of the qualities that bond together humans in communities. The deities that lodge in Aristogeiton’s heart, and, hence, the objects of his personal worship, are shamelessness, sycophancy, perjury, and ingratitude. This elaborate metaphor conceptualizes Aristogeiton’s body as a container of moral defilement, a defilement which is also present in his bestial, unsociable conduct. Hence, Aristogeiton’s behaviour mirrors a problematic inner world “housed” in his body. Aesthetic appreciation (kallistoi) and morality are here presented as being interrelated realms: the most beautiful altars of socially and morally commendable values are immaterial and invisible, because they are hidden in our bodies. The visual representations of these values in the sacred space of altars are effigies of decent citizens’ souls. The limits between the source and the target domains of the metaphor are intentionally blurred: good citizens quite literally embody the cardinal values they worship. Demosthenes’ invites his audience to contrast Aristogeiton’s unholy, misanthropic nature with the nature of sociable Athenian citizens, represented by the dikasts. Unlike the defendant, dikasts bring “from their home” (), because this is their unchanging physis, pity, understanding, and philanthrōpia. The use of oikothen here mirrors Demosthenes’ use of the word at the beginning of the speech (), where the phrase physis oikothen designates his audience’s inner nature. Aristogeiton, however, once more qualified as a miaros, should not venture to appeal to dikasts’ inherent understanding or pity as other litigants are entitled to do by emphasizing their past services to the city (). Notably, Demosthenes anticipates his audience’s righteous irresponsiveness to Aristogeiton’s hypocritical appeals to pity by comparing it with an unwelcoming and inapproachable wilderness, full of steep precipices which are commensurate with Aristogeiton’s cruel and savage nature (76–77). The dikasts’ rejection of Aristogeiton’s appeals to their innate benevolence is caused by their understanding that when one’s physis is problematic and corrupt, the enforcement of the law, in itself a reflection of decent citizens’ good nature, guarantees social order. 24 Aristogeiton’s most alarming feature is his emotionlessness, a feature which is highlighted by Demosthenes’ recurring attempts to present his opponent as a

 are none for Lack of Shame, Blackmail, Perjury, or Ingratitude, which are all the qualities of this man” (translation E.M. Harris). 24 On this point, see Wohl 2010, 52–53.

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wild beast. 25 Through his opponents’ assimilation with snakes, wolves, spiders, and scorpions, beasts which, as I argued elsewhere (Spatharas 2013), invite anthropomorphic readings, Aristogeiton is dehumanized. He is dehumanized because his comparison with insects and reptiles and their locomotor activity elicits mental images of non-human (and, indeed, threatening) physical characteristics. Aristogeiton’s visits the agora like a scorpion with a raised stinger ready to attack his fellow-citizens. His movements are reminiscent of scorpions’ and vipers’ darting (ᾁττων δεῦρο κἀκεῖσε, 52). Towards the end of the speech, Demosthenes advises his audience to treat Aristogeiton like a venomous spider (a black widow?) and kill him before it/he bites them (96). Demosthenes’ metaphorical use of the word thērion throughout the speech acquires specificity through the elaborate use of animal imagery. In order to elucidate my point about Aristogeiton’s dehumanization through animal imagery, I cite here a short passage from a Belgian senator’s (Edmond Picard) 1896 description of a caravan of African slaves in Belgian Congo: Unceasingly we meet these porters … black, miserable, with only a horribly filthy loin-cloth for clothing … pitiful walking caryatids, beasts of burden with thin monkey legs, with drawn features … an arm raised to steady the load, the other leaning on a long walking-stick, dusty and sweaty, insects spreading out across the mountains and valleys … dying along the road or the journey over, heading off to die from overwork in their villages.

This is a rich script of disgust which enhances the authors’ attempt to dehumanize Congo slaves, an attempt that serves his utilitarian purposes. What is particularly relevant to my argument is the way in which Picard underscores his presentation of slaves as less than human by assimilating them with insects and by treating their death – caused by exhaustion — with overt contempt. In Picard’s eyes, the slaves that he describes are moving objects, or rather, liminal creatures — “pitiful walking caryatids” as he puts it. Demosthenes’ assimilation of Aristogeiton with wild beasts does not aim to justify the exploitation of slave-work. It is more akin to modern racist uses of the dichotomy between civilized and thus sociable people (commonly white, educated, and upper-class) and uncivilized “others” who are characterized by the instinctive nature, desires, or predatory qualities and physical characteristics of beasts. Note, for example, that the Nazi propaganda in WWII presented the Jews

 25 Some uses of the word θηρίον in the speech denote monsters rather than beasts (as is the case with Empousa’s description in Ar. Frogs 288–93) and can be read as metaphorical (cp. for example 8, where Aristogeiton is qualified as an archetypical monster).

  Dimos Spatharas and the Japanese as rats. 26 More recently, a magazine in Rwanda under the title Kangura dehumanized the Tutsis by calling them inyenzi (cockroaches) and inzoka (snakes, see Hussein 2013). And finally, in 1993 a Florida preacher argued that homosexuals are “like rats, skulking in their closets, copulating in mad frenzies, unable to control their appetites, sniffing around the doors of school classrooms for fresh prey”. 27 Aristogeiton’s comparison with threatening beasts implies that he does not possess human cognitive abilities. This presentation is in line with the emphasis that Demosthenes places throughout the speech on the defendant’s anti-social behaviour and rawness. His assimilation with threatening beasts — especially insects and reptiles frequently imagined as animals to be crushed on sight — indicates the underhandedness and cruelty of a person who is unable to experience the emotions that make humanness and communal life possible: e.g. gratitude, compassion, and shame. Indeed, when Aristogeiton is granted with a mind, this mind is seriously impaired. The word aponoia appears three times in the speech (32, 33, 55), and, as the behaviour that exemplifies it in Theophrastus’ Characters  suggests, it prototypically signifies “a social misfit”, a “psychopathic” person, or just a “freak”. But it is equally important to note, that Aristogeiton’s assimilation with insects and reptiles is intended to emphasize the consequences of his behaviour rather than just his inhuman nature. Although Demosthenes’ description of the physical symptoms caused by bites is not as graphic as, say, Nicander’s vivid presentation of their effects in the Theriaca, his rhetoric undoubtedly invites his audience to supply through their autobiographic memory the sensory aspects of their physical contact with venomous beasts. Aristogeiton’s dehumanization reaches a climax when Demosthenes compares him with a cancerous tumour on the polis’ body (95). 28 The projection of emotions on Aristogeiton — or lack thereof — is mainly attempted in mini-narratives concerning his private life or public conduct. 29 Narrative specificity frames his dispositional misanthropic and antisocial emotive  26 Note for example that the Nazi “documentaty” Der Ewige Jude compared the Jews’ wanderings with the restlessness of rats. Cp. also the following locution from Das Schwarze Korps, the newspaper of the SS (10 April 1941, 90): “the Jew is a thing that only zoologists will recognize as a human being”. 27 Cited in Nichols 1996. 28 On medical imagery in the orators, see Brock 2013, 156–157 and 180 n. 94. Brock suggests that “it is tempting and, I think, plausible to suggest that in this case some of the similarities are due to influence from the theoretical writers on practicing politicians” (157). On the Theriaca and disgust, see Overduin 2016. 29 Aristogeiton’s private life is discussed by Apostolakis 2014.

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traits. Let me start with ingratitude and untrustworthiness. At some point of the speech, Demosthenes recounts a story concerning Aristogeiton’s behaviour towards a certain Zobia, a girlfriend or possibly a courtesan, as the use of κεχρημένος perhaps suggests (57). 30 When Aristogeiton escaped from the desmōtērion where he was kept as prisoner because of his parental debt, this woman not only kept him in safe during the first days that he was hiding, but also gave him money and clothes and packed him off to Megara. But when Aristogeiton returned to the city and became a powerful politician, he was so full of himself that he not only showed insensitivity to her complaints, but also assaulted her and brought her before the magistrates in an attempt to put her up for sale presumably by abusing the procedure of apagōgē. Zobia’s complaints are expressed in the frame of an erotic relationship ideally regulated by reciprocal charis. Despite the different context in which it appears, Tecmessa’s appeal to charis in the speech that she delivers in Sophocles’ play in order to make Ajax realize that his suicide will result in his shaming, offers a good example. Although it is impossible to determine Zobia’s status, her situation is comparable with that of Tecmessa, a captured slave that a fifth-century Athenian would perhaps describe as a pallakē. In her speech in Sophocles’ play, the bed that she (forcibly) shared with Ajax generated charis and is therefore deployed, among other strong arguments, as a tool of negotiation which relies on a wide understanding of a noble man’s obligations and sense of honour. As she says, “A true man should cherish remembrance, if anywhere he takes some pleasure. It is kindness (charis) that always begets kindness (charis)” (520–522, translation by Jebb). Aristogeiton’s insolence and heartlessness leads him to turn a blind eye to the requests of a woman who saved his life and who in an utterly hopeless condition seeks to secure the help of her acquaintances. Aristogeiton’s dispositional traits — and his heartlessness — are here portrayed through the use of metaphors. Aristogeiton’s arrogance and self-centeredness are conveyed through the phrase “he was all puffed up and famous in your city” (ὡς πολὺς παρ᾽ ὑμῖν ἔπνει καὶ λαμπρός). The phrase πολύς … ἔπνει is an embodied metaphor indicating a man who thinks-big, 31 while the sarcastic use of lampros in this context further highlights his negative reputation in the civic space of Athens. The qualification

 30 Note that the phrase ὡς ἔοικε (“it seems likely”) indicates that Demosthenes assumes that Zobia was Aristogeiton’s lover. It seems impossible to reach a definitive conclusion about the woman’s status and the nature of her relationship with Aristogeiton, but in so far as Demosthenes presents Zobia as a lover, my discussion is not affected by the issue of her status. 31 In Against Neaira, Apollodorus uses the verb φυσάω (literary “to blow”) twice to indicate arrogance (38, 97).

  Dimos Spatharas lampros and the noun lamprotēs are terms which typically qualify prominent public-minded individuals who spend profusely for the city — especially chorēgoi who enjoyed public visibility. 32 Public services in classical Athens were ideally regulated by reciprocity and, thus, the anecdote about Zobia underscores Aristogeiton’s acharistia (“ingratitude”), another negative characteristic of the defendant closely related to his sycophantic activity (35). Aristogeiton’s ingratitude in his private life parallels the ingratitude that he displayed in his public conduct especially through his sycophantic activity. Aristogeiton’s problematic nature is also highlighted through the emphasis placed on the pitilessness with which he treated the victims of his sycophantic prosecutions. He showed no compassion for the wrongfully accused citizens’ female relatives, while it was common practice for Aristogeiton to target weak citizens by employing ferocious and indecorous forensic performances. These performances are similar to Cleon’s terrorizing style of delivery in Aristophanic comedy, where Cleon’s rhetoric is compared with the barking of a bloodthirsty dog. 33 In some instances, Aristogeiton’s pitilessness is combined with the qualification pikros (“bitter”) signifying vindictiveness: Aristogeiton relishes the destruction of his fellow-citizens. At 96, for example, Demosthenes claims that Aristogeiton’s sycophantic activity and vindictiveness must be punished immediately because they reflect a snake’s underhandedness. 34 Before I move on to discuss projective uses of disgust in this speech, I would like to turn my attention to shame, or lack thereof. As argued above, aidōs is one of the three deities that, according to Demosthenes, lodge in each (normal) individual’s soul. This embodied presentation is interesting because it may be taken to reflect an important element of the emotion’s conceptualization. Although shame centers on our own view of how significant others judge our actions, the voice that tells us that our behaviour does not meet the demands of our ideal self

 32 Note that Demosthenes uses lampros and lamprotēs sarcastically in the speech Against Meidias (e.g. at 153, 179, 194) — a speech whose rhetoric relies heavily on contradistinctive characterization emphasizing the speaker’s public spending and his opponent’s self-centeredness and contempt for the Athenian demos. On lampros/lamprotēs and Athenian liturgists, see Wilson 2000, 138–140. 33 Cp. for example Demosthenes’ description of how Aristogeiton attempted to destroy through his flamboyant and loud rhetoric a certain Agathon (47): “He shouted and screamed about the oil-seller Agathon (this happened yesterday) and went ‘Woe! Woe!’ turning everything upside down at meetings of the Assembly”. On Aristogeiton’s presentation as a watch-dog, see Spatharas 2013, 92–96. On Cleon’s style of delivery and haranguing in general, cp. Worman 2008, 230– 233. 34 On the assimilation of orators with snakes, cp. Spatharas 2013, 87 n. 18.

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is the voice of internalized social norms. 35 Displaying shamelessness suggests that we have not adequately internalized the values approved by the community. The mini-narratives that Demosthenes includes in the speech do not always include the word anaischuntia (but the word appears at 9, 24, 25, 35, 68). But some of his anecdotal stories are so designed as to construct scripts revolving around shamelessness. Three notable instances revolving around family obligations concern Aristogeiton’s alleged disregard for his father’s burial, the violence with which he treated his mother and his attempt to sell his half-sister. Besides the fact that these actions were serious crimes, they underline extremely effectively Aristogeiton’s shamelessness and insensitivity to fundamental normative concerns. According to Demosthenes (65), even beasts are more responsive to their family obligations on account of their adherence to the law of nature. Aristogeiton’s failure to share even animals’ affection for their parents reduces him to a monster — he is neither a man, nor an animal. I conclude this paper with brief discussion of Demosthenes’ use of disgust. 36 As we saw, in this speech Demosthenes calls Aristogeiton recurrently miaros. Nick Fisher has pointed out that miaros, a word which is common in low register comedy, is semantically close to disgust, but does not always involve physical repulsion. It primarily designates pollution or “morally outrageous, shameless, and disgusting behaviour and people” (2016, 108). Religious pollution is certainly one of the most salient aspects of miaria in the speech, for Demosthenes presents Aristogeiton as impious (ἀσεβής, 53, 54). Although the question of how physical and moral disgust are related has not received a definitive answer, it is seems clear that in the projective uses of the emotion physical disgust frequently morphs into moral disgust. In addition, moral disgust is regulated by the law of contagion which is central to the cognitions that give rise to the emotion. The law of contagion means: “once in contact always in contact”. 37 Hence, even as repulsiveness is not a necessary constituent element of pollution, the ideation of pollution determines our responses to foul substances or morally defiled people. Furthermore, unlike other moral emotions which normally require ethical judgements, disgust is distinctively reflexive. Due to the emotion’s visceral nature and the ideations that inform the cognitions that give rise to it, disgust is one of the most powerful weapons of dehumanization. 38 Indeed, bdeluria is used twice in

 35 On this point, see Lazarus 1991, 241. 36 The emotion’s forensic uses are discussed in Fisher 2016 (Demosthenes) and Spatharas 2016 (Aeschines, Against Timarchus). 37 On these topics, see Lateiner/Spatharas 2016. 38 See Lateiner/Spatharas 2016, 3.

  Dimos Spatharas the speech. In the first instance (27), it is associated with anaideia, a notion which, as I showed in a recent publication (Spatharas 2016), fosters the scenarios of disgust in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus. The second use of the word, however, introduces the gory description of a violent incident which took place in the desmōtērion. This incident literalizes through narrative specificity the metaphorical use of miaiphonia (84), a particularly strong word of moral condemnation, with which the speaker stresses his opponent’s cruelty or rather his bloodthirstiness. 39 As Demosthenes says, when Aristogeiton was in the desmōtērion he attacked a man from Tanagra so ruthlessly as to bite off his nose. As is typically the case with narratives, or, more specifically, forensic narratives, internal spectators’ responses, in this case the responses of the prisoners, are employed to guide audiences’ emotions: the rest of the prisoners, Demosthenes says, held an informal trial and voted unanimously for his conviction (ψηφίζονται περὶ αὐτοῦ, 61). Dikasts must a fortiori follow their example because it would be extremely shameful to acquit a man who was condemned to isolation from a community of villains. The penalty that the prisoners imposed on Aristogeiton is also significant: they excluded him from their daily commensalities thereby isolating him from their community. This response to Aristogeiton’s cannibalism is the deserved punishment of a person who, throughout the speech, is described as unfit to lead a civilized and socially responsive life and, of course, a man who polluted his mouth with another man’s blood. Indeed, their response is reminiscent to a community’s response to a murderer. Just like wild beasts or liminal mythical monsters, Aristogeiton is “unappeasable” (ἄσπειστος), “unstable” (ἀνίδρυτος) and “unsociable” (ἄμεικτος). 40 Interestingly, this privative tricolon appears immediately after the presentation of Aristogeiton’s misanthropic behaviour in the Athenian agora, emphasizing his unsociability. Demosthenes thus appeals to his audience’s shared knowledge about citizens who socialize in the agora thereby further emphasizing Aristogeiton’s marginalization. Notably, immediately after this tricolon Demosthenes claims that Aristogeiton goes about in the agora  39 For μιαιφονία, cp. Euripides’ Orestes (523), where Tyndareus stresses the political repercussions of Clytemnestra’s and Helen’s domestic conduct, which he denounces as “beastly” and “murderous” (θηριῶδες … καὶ μιαιφόνον) and proclaims his intention to check it by enforcing the law. Cp. also Plato (Rep. 565e3–566a4), equating the demos’ leaders in democratic anarchy with tyrannical “wolves” who indulge in cannibalism: these people seek to establish their power through murderous prosecutions against their fellow citizens whose flesh “they taste” (μιαιφονῇ) in courtrooms 40 These qualifications are attributed to monsters in E. Cycl. 428–430; E. Her. 389–93; cp. also S. Tr. 1095.

Projective Uses of Emotions, Out-groups and Personal Characterization  

“joined by those whom the painters depict in the company of the impious in Hades, he walks around with Curse, Slander, Envy, Discord and Quarrel” (52). Demosthenes perhaps induces his audience to recall paintings of mythical wrongdoers who suffered divine punishment, such as Polygnotus’ Nekyia in the Lesche of Cnidians at Delphi. 41 Mingling with a person who has tasted the blood of another man is physically repulsive and morally dangerous. Note, for example, that the rich disgust script constructed by Demosthenes frames the characterization of Aristogeiton as ameiktos: Aristogeiton is physically and socially untouchable. Using a person who has polluted his mouth with human blood as a public speaker (σύμβουλος) is outrageous. Aristogeiton’s improper use of the mouth turns him from a figurative into a real monster. In this contribution, I argued that that projective uses of emotions enhance significantly Demosthenes’ attempt to classify Aristogeiton in the socially marginal category of sycophants and characterize him as an out-group. Demosthenes’ attempt to isolate his opponent from the “healthy” members of Athenian society represented by the dikasts is also facilitated by dehumanization. Besides Aristogeiton’s presentation as a social predator, Demosthenes also emphasizes that his opponent is unable to experience or express noble emotions, and even worse, his deranged mental condition suggests that he is destitute of sensible human thinking. Because emotions and mind reading are vital to our social interactions with others and integral to our moral judgments, the projection of unbecoming emotional behaviour on one’s opponents is an extremely effective weapon of negative characterization, but also a means of perpetuating comforting myths of normality. Social outcasts reassure in-groups about their moral healthiness and the commendable values that bond them together. Hence, projective uses of negative emotions facilitate speakers’ understanding of dikasts as their allies. 42 Yet, the projective uses of emotions in modern antidemocratic, racist, or other types of stereotypes should alert us to the dangers involved in these discursive strategies. Indeed, dehumanized individuals identified as ‘monsters’ or ‘beasts’ cannot receive just punishment because they lack the mental capacities which are a prerequisite for the judgments that make morality possible. The arbitrary and selective attribution of problematic emotional traits (or, for that matter, heartlessness) to social or ethnic groups generates violence and hatred.

 41 For a reconstruction of the painting, see Stansbury-O’Donnell 1990. 42 On the use of forensic narratives as a means of presenting the dikasts as litigants’ allies, see O’Connell 2019.

  Dimos Spatharas

Bibliography Allen, D.S. (2000), The World of Prometheus: The Politics of Punishing in Democratic Athens, Princeton. Apostolakis, K. (2014), ‘Ιδιωτικά σκάνδαλα και δημόσια εικόνα: Ο Αριστογείτων στο στόχαστρο της δικανικής ρητορείας ([Δημ.] 25 και 26)’, in: L. Athanassaki/T. Nikolaides/D. Spatharas (eds.), Ιδιωτικός βίος και δημόσιος λόγος στην ελληνική αρχαιότητα και στον διαφωτισμό, Iraklio, 201–230. Bandes, S.A./Blumenthal, J.A. (2012), ‘Emotion and the Law’, in: The Annual Review of Law and Social Science 8, 161–181. Blundell, S. et al. (2013), ‘Introduction’, in: S. Blundell/D.L. Cairns/N. Rabinowitz (eds.), Vision and Viewing in Ancient Greece, Helios 40, Lubbock, 3–37. Brock, R. (2013), Greek Political Imagery from Homer to Aristotle, London/New York. Cairns, D.L. (2003), ‘The Politics of Envy: Envy and Equality in Ancient Greece’, in: D. Konstan/ N.K. Rutter (eds.), Envy, Spite and Jealousy: The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece, Edinburgh, 232–252. Cairns, D.L. (2008), ‘Look Both Ways: Studying Emotion in Ancient Greek’, in: Critical Quarterly 50, 43–62. Christ, M. (1998), The Litigious Athenian, Baltimore/London. Christ, M. (2012), The Limits of Altruism in Democratic Athens, Cambridge. Cottrell, C.A./Neuberg, S. (2005), ‘Different Emotional Reactions to Different Groups: A Sociofunctional Threat-based Approach to “Prejudice”’, in: Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 88, 770–789. Dow, J. (2015), Passions and Persuasion in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, Cambridge. Edwards, M./Spatharas, D. (eds.) (2019), Forensic Narratives in Athenian Courts, London. Fisher, N. (2003), ‘“Let Envy Be Absent”: Envy, Liturgies and Reciprocity in Athens’, in: D. Konstan/N.K. Rutter (eds.), Envy, Spite and Jealousy: The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece, Edinburgh, 181–215. Fisher, N. (2016), ‘Demosthenes and the Use of Disgust’, in: D. Lateiner/D. Spatharas (eds.), The Ancient Emotion of Disgust, Oxford/New York, 103–124. Hackel et al. (2014), ‘Group Membership Alters the Threshold for Mind Perception: The Role of Social Identity, Collective Identification, and Intergroup Threat’, in: Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 52, 15–23. Hall, E. (1995), ‘Law court Dramas: The Power of Performance in Greek Forensic Oratory’, in: BICS 40, 39–58. Hall, E. (2013), ‘The Aesopic in Aristophanes’, in: E. Bakola/L. Prauscello/M. Telò (eds.), Greek Comedy and the Discourse of Genres, Cambridge. Harris, E.M. (2017), ‘How to ‘Act’ in an Athenian Court: Emotions and Forensic Performance’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. Da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice: Aspects of Performance in Greco-Roman Oratory and Rhetoric, Leiden/Boston, 223–242. Harris, E.M. (2018), Demosthenes, Speeches 23–26, Austin. Harvey, F.D. (1990), ‘The Sykophant and Sykophancy: Vexatious Redefinition?’, in: P. Cartledge/P.C. Millett/S. Todd (eds.), Nomos: Essays in Athenian Law, Politics and Society, Cambridge, 103–201. Hussein, J.W. (2013), ‘Discursive and Processual Socialization of the Mass into Acts of Violence: The Case of Rwandan Genocide’, in: Ethnic Studies Review, 77–104.

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Konstan, D. (2001), Pity Transformed, London. Konstan, D. (2005), ‘Pity and Politics’, in: R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Ancient Athens, Cambridge, 48–66. Konstan, D. (2006), The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature, Toronto. Lanni, A. (2005), ‘Relevance in Athenian Courts’, in: M. Gagarin/D. Cohen (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Law, Cambridge, 112–128. Lateiner, D./Spatharas, D. (eds.) (2016), The Ancient Emotion of Disgust, Oxford/New York. Lazarus, R.S. (1991), Emotion and Adaptation, Oxford. Nichols, J. (1996), The Gay Agenda, Amherst. O’Connell, P.A. (2017), The Rhetoric of Seeing in Attic Forensic Oratory, Austin. O’Connell, P.A. (2019), ‘The Story About the Jury’, in: M. Edwards/D. Spatharas (eds.) Forensic Narratives in Athenian Courts, London, 81–101. Osborne, R. (1990), ‘Vexatious Litigation in Classical Athens: Sykophancy and the Sykophant’, in: P. Cartledge/P.C. Millett/S. Todd (eds.), Nomos: Essays in Athenian Law, Politics and Society, Cambridge, 83–102. Overduin, F. (2016), ‘Beauty in Suffering: Disgust in Didactic Greek Poetry’, in: D. Lateiner/ D. Spatharas (eds.), The Ancient Emotion of Disgust, Oxford/New York, 141–155. Rubinstein, L. (2004), ‘Stirring Up Dicastic Anger’, in: D.L. Cairns/R.A. Knox (eds.), Law, Rhetoric, and Comedy in Classical Athens: Essays in Honour of Douglas M. MacDowell, Swansea, 187–204. Rubinstein, L. (2013), ‘Evoking Anger through Pity: Portraits of the Vulnerable and Defenceless in Attic oratory’, in: A. Chaniotis/P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions II. Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images, Material Culture. Heidelberger althistorische Beiträge und epigraphische Studien (HABES) 55, Stuttgart, 136–165. Sanders, E. (2012), ‘“He is a Liar, a Bounder and a Cad”: the Arousal of Hostile Emotions in Attic Forensic Oratory’, in: A. Chaniotis (ed.), Unveiling Emotions. Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World. Heidelberger althistorische Beiträge und epigraphische Studien (HABES) 52, Stuttgart, 259–287. Sanders, E. (2014), Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens: A Socio-Psychological Approach, Oxford/New York. Sanders, E./Johncock, M. (eds.) (2016), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart. Spatharas, D. (2013), ‘The Sycophant’s Farm: Animals and Rhetoric in Against Aristogeiton I’, in: Ariadne 19, 77–95. Spatharas, D. (2016), ‘Sex, Politics, and Disgust in Aeschines’ Against Timarchus’, in: D. Lateiner/D. Spatharas (eds.), The Ancient Emotion of Disgust, Oxford/New York, 125– 139. Spatharas, D. (2019), Persuasion and Emotions in the Public Discourse of Classical Athens, Berlin/New York. Stansbury-O’Donnell, M.D. (1990), ‘Polygnotos’s Nekyia: A Reconstruction and Analysis’, in: AJA 94.2, 213–235. Sternberg, R.H. (2005), ‘The Nature of Pity’, in: R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Classical Athens, Cambridge, 15–47. Sternberg, R.H. (2006), Tragedy Offstage: Suffering and Sympathy in Ancient Athens, Austin. Taillardat, J. (1965), Les images d’Aristophane. Études de langue et de style, Paris

  Dimos Spatharas Tzanetou, A. (2005), ‘A Generous City: Pity in Athenian Oratory and Tragedy’, in: R.H. Sternberg (ed.), Pity and Power in Classical Athens, Cambridge, 98–122. Wilson, P. (2000), The Athenian Institution of the Khoregia: The Chorus, the City and the State, Cambridge. Wohl, V. (2010), Law’s Cosmos: Juridical Discourse in Athenian Forensic Oratory, Cambridge. Worman, N. (2008), Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens, Cambridge.

Ed Sanders

Xenophon on Strategies to Maintain Unity in Armies under Stress  Introduction In 401 B.C., Cyrus “the Younger”, satrap of Lydia, Greater Phrygia and Cappadocia, 1 led an army of Persian troops and Greek mercenaries against his brother, the Persian King Artaxerxes II, in an attempted coup d’état. Artaxerxes defeated and killed Cyrus at the battle of Cunaxa. Subsequently, most of the Greek generals were tricked into attending a parley and murdered, and the Greeks’ Persian allies switched sides. This left a leaderless and fissiparous army of “ten thousand” Greeks stranded and imperilled, more than 1000 miles from Greek territory. Xenophon was elected as one of the new generals, and his Anabasis famously recounts (his version of) the expedition into, and return from, Persia. 2 Leadership and its pedagogy are well established as key concerns of Xenophon’s writings, not least the Anabasis, which (as Michael Flower puts it) “has encoded within it paradigms for good leadership”. 3 This chapter focuses on one aspect of Xenophon’s leadership, or more precisely generalship: maintaining the unity of a fighting force under chronic stresses. As both one of the most senior generals leading the Greeks’ retreat, and later an experienced historiographer, Xenophon provides in his Anabasis a unique insight into managing the leadership and maintaining the unity of an army that — through rout, disease, starvation, deaths, attacks, disappointments and betrayals — frequently threatened to dissolve into undisciplined bands of marauders, that could well have been wiped out to a man. These insights from Anabasis are supplemented by several episodes in Hellenica and Cyropaedia, and Xenophon’s instructions on commanding cavalry in his treatise Hipparchicus.

 I am very grateful to the late Matthew Trundle for his comments and suggestions on a draft of this chapter, at a time when I was unaware he was seriously ill.  1 Xen. Ana. 1.9.7. All references are to Anabasis unless otherwise stated. 2 On the genre of the Anabasis (historiography, biography, apology, war memoir etc.), see Dillery 1995, 59–98; LaForse 2005; Marincola 2017. 3 Flower 2012, 118. On leadership in Xenophon, see Wood 1964; Nussbaum 1967, 96–146; Hutchinson 2000; Gray 2011; Tamiolaki 2012; Winter 2016a. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-008

  Ed Sanders Most of the strategies Xenophon’s generals use centre on managing the emotions of their soldiers, particularly through oratory. 4 Herodotus and Thucydides had established set-piece speeches as a staple element of historiography, 5 but Xenophon surpasses them in the subtlety and variety of the speeches he includes, especially in his vivid accounts of assemblies and smaller meetings in which participants respond to each other’s arguments in dynamic interplay. 6 To a far greater extent than his predecessors, he depicts how audiences react to the speeches they hear: not just the decisions they take, but also their emotional and psychological states while doing so, partly engendered by those speeches. And when Xenophon (as literary character) is the persuader, Xenophon (as author) grants us additional insights into his persuasive strategies as those situations unfold. 7 These emotional techniques are supplemented by other techniques, and nowhere more so than in the following case study.

 Anabasis 1.3 Early in Anabasis, Xenophon provides a scene in which the Spartan Clearchus, the general in overall charge of the Greek mercenaries, 8 has to quell a mutiny in his troops. Its cause is the soldiers’ realisation that they have marched too far east for their ostensible aim – to help Cyrus drive marauding Pisidians out of his province (1.1.11; 1.2.1) — and they become suspicious (1.3.1: ὑπώπτευον) that they are being used to make war on the Persian King. In attempting to quell that suspicion, and persuade them to accompany him and Cyrus onward, Clearchus resorts to a battery of persuasive techniques.

 4 On emotions in Xenophon, see Tamiolaki 2013 (on Hellenica) and 2016 (on Cyropaedia), Winter 2016b (on Anabasis). 5 On Herodotus see especially Zali 2014. On Thucydides see Stadter 1973; Roman 2005; Morrison 2006. More generally on speeches in Greek historiography: Fornara 1983; Brock 1995; Marincola 2007; Pausch 2010. 6 On speeches in Xenophon, see Gray 1989; Pontier 2014; Baragwanath 2017. Specifically on Anabasis, see Rood 2004 and 2006; Tuplin 2014; Winter 2016a and 2016b. 7 On Xenophon’s self-representation, see Bradley 2001; Grethlein 2012; Flower 2012, 40–59; Brown Ferrario 2012, 361–373. 8 Henceforth “the Greeks”, for simplicity. The Persian soldiers were directly under Cyrus’ control, with Ariaeus as second-in-command (ὕπαρχος, 1.8.5). Ariaeus survived the battle of Cunaxa, and led the Persian troops thereafter, until turning his coat and assisting Tissaphernes to trick and murder Clearchus and the other Greek generals (Ana. 2.5.35 ff.; cf. Diod. Sic. 14.26.5).

Xenophon on Strategies to Maintain Unity in Armies under Stress  

He initially stands before the army weeping (1.3.2: ἐδάκρυε), 9 performing an emotion he describes with the phrase χαλεπῶς φέρω (1.3.3), suggesting anguish or annoyance — real or feigned. His men watch him weep in amazement (ἐθαύμαζον), and in silence. Clearchus then makes a speech (1.3.3–6) in which he attempts to arouse a great many emotions: 10 sympathy for him aiding his friend Cyrus, in fulfilment of a debt; gratitude for spending a gratuity on his soldiers rather than himself; pride and pleasure in a common victory over Thracians who behaved unjustly; sympathy again, for his quandary in being compelled to desert either his friend or his men — he claims he does not know which is right; gratitude again, for being (supposedly) willing to choose them over his friend, and suffer the consequences with them; and goodwill for his flattery of them: henceforth they shall be his fatherland, friends and allies. 11 The rhetorician Anaximenes says that pity (closely related to sympathy), 12 gratitude and goodwill are the three emotions orators should try to arouse for themselves in forensic (law-court) situations, 13 so the fact Clearchus resorts to them here is unsurprising: his men believe he has lied to them, and he is attempting to win back their good opinion – his future leadership is on trial. The soldiers respond to Clearchus’ speech with praise (1.3.7: ἐπῄνεσαν), and some are won over. Xenophon then tells us that Clearchus is being duplicitous: Clearchus secretly (1.3.8: λάθρᾳ) suggests a stratagem to Cyrus, aimed at convincing the soldiery, falsely, that they are estranged. Clearchus makes a second speech (1.3.9–12), to those he has won over and others, pretending to be ashamed (3.1.10: αἰσχυνόμενος) at his conduct towards Cyrus, and fearful (3.1.10: δεδιώς) of being seized and punished by him. He continues with logical arguments about  9 See Lateiner 2009 on tears in Greek historiography; Hagen 2016 on the persuasive use of tears in Roman historiography. 10 The dense argumentation suggests the speech is given in précis, probably to maintain dramatic tension. This is common in historiography: Herodotus’ few addresses to armies (e.g. 9.26; 9.27) are of comparable length; Thucydides’ can be shorter (4.95), comparable (2.11; 2.87), longer (7.61–64; 7.66–68), or summarised in indirect speech (the four at 5.69); Xen. Hell. similarly has shorter (2.4.18; 7.1.30), comparable (2.4.13–17; 5.1.14–17), and reported speeches (1.1.24; 6.2.34). 11 While some aspects of emotions vary between cultures, others do not — see e.g. Cairns 2003, 12–14. In Aristotle’s discussion of the emotions used in oratory (Rh. 2.2–11), most definitions of emotions and situations they arise in sound reasonable to modern ears. This provides good evidence that we can frequently assign a Greek orator’s intended emotion to his arguments without concerns about falsely universalising. 12 Aristotle’s definition of pity requires the ability to put oneself in another’s shoes (Rh. 2.8.1385b14–15: ὃ κἂν αὐτὸς προσδοκήσειεν ἂν παθεῖν ἢ τῶν αὑτοῦ τινα “which he might expect himself or one of his own to suffer”). 13 [Arist.] Rh. Al. 36, 1444b35–45a12, and see further Sanders 2016a.

  Ed Sanders the logistical and security problems with staying where they are, then attempts to arouse fear of Cyrus’ enmity because of his military resources, and desire for his friendship. Following this speech, he uses other speakers — proxies — to reinforce his warnings. One uses deception to pretend (1.3.14: προσποιούμενος) that Clearchus would no longer be in command, duplicitously reinforced by Clearchus. Another speaks against the previous arguments, and re-proposes putting Clearchus in charge of negotiations with Cyrus. During those negotiations, Cyrus himself lies about their target. Although the soldiers’ suspicion (1.3.21: ὑποψία) is unabated, they agree to follow him, with a fifty percent rise in pay. 14 In this episode, we see a variety of strategies for quelling mutinies: performing (real or fake) emotions, arousing and suppressing emotions, logical argumentation, deception and increasing pay. I believe it is significant that Xenophon includes such a lengthy account of quelling this mutiny — rather than simply saying, e.g., “Here the army was delayed for twenty days because of a mutiny, which Clearchus quelled”. 15 To understand this, we must consider its historiographic context. Anabasis 1.1 includes the cause of Cyrus’ quarrels with his brother and Tissaphernes, 16 and the gathering of multiple armies, using deception, under named and later sometimes competing generals: important themes for the entire work. In 1.2, the army covers some 320 parasangs (around 1000 miles) 17 from Sardis to Tarsus, over three months, with Xenophon focusing on the marches, the distance of the stages, length of pauses, alliances made on route, and the provisioning of the army — again, major themes of Anabasis. 1.3 covers a mere twenty days, and the course of one mutiny. The difference in scale is marked, and strongly suggests that Xenophon intended the management of armies, including dealing with the stresses that constantly threaten to tear them apart, as another major theme of the work. This would both fit with his desire to teach the necessary skills of a general (cf. Hipparchicus), and explain the far higher number of mutinies, splits, panics and other dissatisfactions described in Anabasis than in Hellenica or Cyropaedia (or indeed in Herodotus or Thucydides). Anabasis 1.3 is intended as a textbook example. 18

 14 At 3.1.10, Xenophon says most of them went on out of shame (aischunē), i.e. so as not to lose face, in front of each other and Cyrus. 15 See Finley 1972, 26–27, in turn quoting Dion.Hal. Thuc. on the historiographer’s choice of what material to include. 16 Satrap of Caria, and prior to Cyrus’ appointment, Lydia. 17 On parasangs in Xenophon, see Rood 2010. 18 Cf. Winter 2016b, who argues that Xenophon intends Anabasis to include practical examples complementing instruction given in Hipparchicus.

Xenophon on Strategies to Maintain Unity in Armies under Stress  

 Emotional argumentation Emotional argumentation is an extremely important element of Xenophon’s management techniques: arousing or dispelling emotions occur in nearly every case of discontent. We should remember this is not a traditional army, with generals imposed or elected by the state. Xenophon and his co-generals essentially sought the positions after Clearchus and his colleagues were murdered (2.5), and — at least in Xenophon’s case — achieved the position by persuading more senior officers, and afterwards the wider soldiery, that they should be followed (3.1.15– 47). This makes the army of Anabasis far more like a democratic Assembly on the move: Xenophon and his co-generals must constantly re-win their primacy through persuasion. 19 Thus, just as in deliberative, and indeed other types of speech, emotional argumentation is a crucial technique. It will be helpful here to outline the emotions most frequently utilised in Classical Greek oratory — both the Attic corpus and historiographic speeches. These fall into four distinct groups. The first, as we saw, comprises friendly feelings (pity, gratitude, goodwill), which an orator should arouse for himself and suppress for his opponent. Anaximenes suggests a second group too, of hostile emotions (anger, hatred, envy), which an orator should arouse against opponents and suppress for himself. 20 A third group of emotions deals with future expectations (fear, confidence, hope, despair) and desires (for plunder, honour etc.). The remaining commonly used emotions deal with our view of ourselves — individually or civically — as we are (shame, pride), or as we might become (emulousness, scorn). 21 As Anaximenes notes, the first two groups are particularly useful in forensic oratory, i.e. when judging. 22 The third group and shame/pride are particularly

 19 As, for example, Thucydides shows Pericles doing at Athens: sometimes the Athenians panic and threaten to overturn his policies, before he re-persuades them. On the army as assembly, see Hornblower 2004. On the army as polis, see Nussbaum 1959, 16. Flower 2012, 118 for “polis on the move”. 20 [Arist.] Rh. Al. 36.1445a12–29. 21 While the last two groupings (as groupings) have no ancient Greek pedigree, the tendency of these emotions to co-occur in certain types of speech is marked — see further below, and Sanders 2016b. The emotions listed here are not exhaustive, but others (e.g. respect, grief) are only occasionally aroused and fit no clear pattern. 22 Generally in matters of public law. Emotional arguments are usually much more sparingly used in private matters — Rubinstein 2004 (anger/hatred); Sanders 2014, 79–99 (envy). However, appeals to goodwill are considerably more common in private cases — Sanders 2016a.

  Ed Sanders relevant to deliberative (policy-making) oratory. 23 The terms “judging” and “policy-making” can also refer to parts of speeches. For instance, some public lawcourt speeches contain sections arousing fear and shame — here the jury is asked to consider the effect of condemning/acquitting on the city’s future prosperity, making these sections quasi-deliberative. 24 Conversely, Assembly speeches can utilise anger or other “judging” emotions, e.g. when a stronger city aims to (judge and) punish a weaker one — these arguments are quasi-forensic. 25 A politician might also arouse hostility against rivals, to weaken support for their proposals, 26 or friendly emotions for himself to make his more popular. 27 In historiography, envoy speeches are commonly a hybrid: envoys must establish bonafides — by quelling hostility, showing friendship, or arousing goodwill or gratitude — before their policy proposals will gain the most receptive hearing. 28 Eulogistic epideictic (e.g. funeral) speeches arouse pride in, and emulousness of, ancestral or recent achievements; 29 vituperative arguments, contrastingly, arouse shame and scorn. 30 Pre-battle speeches in historiography mostly suppress fear of the enemy, and arouse confidence of victory or fear of the consequences of defeat — though emotions such as pride, desire or anger can also be utilised. 31 This framework is helpful for understanding the emotional arguments used in quelling dissatisfactions and mutinies in Anabasis. Early in the work, Xenophon depicts Cyrus’ emotional astuteness in dealing with disloyalty (1.4.7–9): when two generals flee his army with their property, Cyrus does not pursue and punish them, as his soldiers expect, because he does not want a reputation for using people, then punishing them when they try to leave. Instead, he grants a

 23 Sanders 2016b. The principal reason is that law-courts are concerned with past crimes, but deliberation relates to the future (Arist. Rh. 1.3, 1358a36–b20). Per Aristotle’s definitions (Rh. 2.2– 11), the six “judging” emotions are concerned with past events (anger, gratitude) or present impressions arising from them (pity, goodwill, hatred, envy); expectation emotions (fear, confidence, hope) are future-directed (and, through Aristotle does not treat it, desire is likewise); and shame (and by implication pride) relate to all time periods. 24 E.g. Dem. Ag. Lept. 9–14 (shame), 31–35 (fear). 25 E.g. Thuc. 3.37–40; Xen. Hell. 5.3.12. 26 See Carey 2016. 27 E.g. Thuc. 6.16.2–3 and 6. 28 Teams of envoys sometimes speak in relay, each making specific arguments — see Rubinstein 2016. 29 E.g. Thuc. 2.43.4: οὓς νῦν ὑμεῖς ζηλώσαντες “you now shall feel emulousness for them”. 30 E.g. Dem. 4.38–50. 31 I discuss Thucydidean pre-battle speeches in my as-yet-unpublished paper “Thucydides and emotional incitement to war” (Classical Association conference, 14th April 2014), available on request.

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favour for their past services by restoring them their wives and children. This, comments Xenophon, made those continuing to serve him gladder and more eager (1.4.9: ἥδιον καὶ προθυμότερον), i.e. loyal. Cyrus shows this astuteness again in the night-before-battle address before Cunaxa, to the Greek generals and captains (1.7.2–8). He is aware that, not being Greek, he is an outsider and thus faces a potentially hostile audience. This gives his speech similarities to those of envoys, as well as pre-battle speeches. To get his audience onside, he initially arouses goodwill by flattering the Greeks on their military prowess and political freedom. Only once he has their ear does he turn to more typical pre-battle speech emotions: pre-emptively supressing the fear that first sight of the Persian army will instil, arousing confidence in being able to beat them, and desire for the gifts he hints he will give them: he will make each man ζηλωτόν (1.7.4). Following a probably planted question from a trusted (πιστός) soldier — a proxy — expressing fear he might forget, Cyrus gives reasons why he will not, suppressing that fear; and he arouses desire again by promising them each a golden crown. This makes them more eager (1.7.8: προθυμότεροι), and they spread Cyrus’ arguments through the army. We see such emotional management of an army in Cyropaedia too. Cyrus the Great is portrayed as able an army manager as his namesake, and as emotionally astute. During a lull in campaigning, he notes that his soldiers constantly vie with each other, and so competitively that many feel mutual jealousy, as Cyr. 3.3.10 indicates (ἔτι δ’ ὁρῶν ὅτι φιλοτίμως ἔχοντες, ἐν οἷς ἀντηγωνίζοντο, πολλοὶ καὶ ἐπιφθόνως εἴχον πρὸς ἀλλήλους). Accordingly, he wishes to make war quickly, knowing that common dangers — i.e. shared fear — would make them feel kindly (φιλοφρόνως; ἀσπάζονται) towards each other rather than envious (οὐτε... φθονοῦσιν). 32 He thus demonstrates an awareness that one dominant emotion might override other undesirable ones. 33 While the hagiographic nature of Cyropaedia precludes Cyrus suffering mutinies, on one occasion he does have to deal with his soldiers’ fear of the enemy (6.2.13: φόβον; 6.2.14: πεφοβημένοις, δέδοικεν; 6.2.15: δεδοικότες; 6.2.19: φοβούμενοι), with some feeling despair (6.2.13: ἀθυμούντων). Cyrus argues that they should instead feel confident (6.2.14: θαρρεῖτε) because the enemies’ numbers are fewer, they are much worse equipped, their

 32 At Hipp. 1.8, Xenophon advises that fear also calms those feeling a grievance (βελτίονες γὰρ ἂν εἶεν φοβούμενοι, καταπραΰνωσί τε τὴν βουλήν, ἤν τι παρὰ καιρὸν χαλεπαίνῃ “for they [the Council] would be better feeling fear, and they [cavalrymen who are members of the Council] might calm the Council down, if it should be indignant at the wrong time”). 33 Cf. Arist. Rh. 2.9, 1387a3–5.

  Ed Sanders leader Croesus is a coward who fled the battlefield, and they are desperately recruiting mercenaries who might fight more bravely. In sum, Cyrus uses model pre-battle arguments to dispel fear and build confidence, as we would expect Xenophon’s model leader to do. 34 Returning to Anabasis, we find a particularly difficult case of army management after the defeat at Cunaxa and the murder of the generals. This episode sees Xenophon’s rise to prominence, dramatically portrayed as a result of three masterly speeches. Until this point he was apparently, if implausibly, present only as a friend of the general Proxenus (3.1.4). 35 In the midst of despair (3.1.2: ἀθύμως ἔχοντες, cf. 3.1.40; 3.1.11: ἀπορία ἦν), Xenophon persuades first the captains of Proxenus’ company (3.1.15–30), and then the generals and captains of the other companies (3.1.35–44), 36 to follow his proposals and leadership. Finally, alongside two other generals, he persuades the rest of the army (3.2.8–33). These speeches occur in what amount to informal assemblies, albeit in the first two cases of small size. The emotions Xenophon appeals to reflect this quasi-deliberative situation, yet each of the three speeches is carefully crafted for its audience. Before the first speech, Xenophon calls together the captains of Proxenus’ company. No further explanation is given before he starts to speak, and we can assume that – despite his supposedly informal status — he is by now well known to them, 37 and his wish to speak and the advice he gives will be accorded due respect. His arguments begin by pointing out the enemy’s lack of preparedness for a fight, though even so the Greeks are frightened into immobility (3.1.16). These early reasons for hope are practical first steps toward dispelling despair. 38 He next raises the spectre of what the King will inflict on them, should they fall into his hands: torture, death, and post-death mutilation. These covert arguments clearly aim to arouse fear — and a stronger fear at these results of not fighting than he later says he feels (3.1.20: ἐφοβούμην) at that of fighting. 39 He

 34 On the plausibility of pre-battle speeches to entire armies (as opposed to captains alone, as at Ana. 1.7.2–8), see Hansen 1993 and 1998; contra Pritchett 1994. See Zoido 2007 on the rhetorical content of such speeches. 35 Flower 2012, 121–122 believes 1.8.15 casts doubt on Xenophon’s claimed civilian status. Lee 2007, 54 n. 66 suggests he might in fact have been Proxenus’ second-in-command. 36 On the threefold organisation of the army — generals, captains and men — and its importance to Xenophon’s account, see Nussbaum 1959; 1967. 37 Lee 2007, 53–54 makes a similar point. 38 A similar comment is made by Demosthenes (1.21) re Philip’s lack of preparedness; and at Dem. 4.2 he too argues that despair would only be appropriate if the Athenians had attempted to redress the situation and failed, not when they have not yet tried. 39 Demosthenes likewise claims to feel fear when he wishes to inspire it (e.g. 1.15, 1.26, 3.8, 5.19).

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then engenders desire for the potential rewards of fighting — good land, abundance of provisions, servants, herds, gold, clothing – shortly afterwards referring to them as prizes (3.1.21: ἆθλα) that have been put “into the middle” for whichever side is the stronger. He describes the Persians’ actions as hubris, an argument aiming to arouse anger, 40 and points out that they broke the truce — another anger argument. This implies impiety, since truces are sworn on oath, and he makes this explicit by saying the gods will be on their side — a confidence argument. He next makes some logical arguments for confidence, pointing out the Greeks’ supposedly greater capacity for dealing with winters, summer heat and toils – arguments that also might arouse pride, and contempt for the enemy. Finally he spurs their amour propre in wishing to be foremost in courage (3.1.24: ἄρξωμεν... ἐπὶ τὴν ἀρετήν) and the best (ἄριστοι) captains, then makes his policy proposals: to take the lead in gathering the other companies, and choose him as their own leader – which, with one dissentient, they agree to. 41 Xenophon is, by contrast, probably little known to his second audience – around 100 generals and captains of the wider army — and has to be recommended to speak (3.1.33–34). He may be likened here not to an experienced politician, gaining a hearing by dint of his prominence and past good advice, but to an aspiring one attempting to gain a hearing for the first time. He begins this speech by briefly mentioning the King’s attempts to destroy them, but quickly moves on to recommending tactics to thwart this. Perhaps the very appearance of a determined, hopeful band of captains has in itself dispelled any despair his audience felt, obviating the hope arguments Xenophon made to Proxenus’ band. More likely, his position as a young unknown makes emotional arguments less appropriate, and less persuasive, than practical advice. 42 But he advises that the generals and captains should themselves “act” emotions, so as to arouse those same emotions in the soldiery: i.e. they should attempt to engender confidence and bravery by appearing not to be in despair (3.1.36: κἂν μὲν ὑμᾶς ὁρῶσιν ἀθυμοῦντας “if they see you in poor spirits”); if they behave as if they are confidently putting a plan into operation, the soldiers will try to imitate them. We can note that this acting need not reflect the captains’ real emotions: they can act deceptively by hiding an emotion they feel (despair) and portraying a different one (confidence). This marries two techniques – emotion portrayal and deception —

 40 See further Sanders 2012, 364–367. 41 His vituperative arguments against the dissentient (likely engendering anger and scorn) are so persuasive that the others drive him away. 42 Demosthenes’ early deliberative speeches 13–16 contain significantly less emotional argumentation than those against Philip (1–6, 8–10).

  Ed Sanders that we saw Clearchus use. Xenophon follows this with a shame (or pride) argument: that the generals and captains were previously greedier for money and honour than their subordinates, so should now earn it by acting more bravely than them. He returns to how despairingly (ἀθύμως) the soldiers are acting, and how the captains should enhearten them (παραθαρρύνητε) so they are in better cheer (εὐθυμότεροι, 3.1.39–41), before finishing with the abductive argument that those primarily seeking to save their own lives usually die in ignominy, while those acting most courageously generally survive. His speech is hailed by Cheirisophus (later elected overall leader of the army), and Xenophon is confirmed as commander of Proxenus’ company. The newly elected commanders address an assembly of the soldiers. Both the word used for summoning it (3.2.1: συγκαλεῖν), and the subsequent vote by hands on a course of action (3.2.33), are explicit authorial indications that it is an assembly. Each speaker chooses emotional arguments to stimulate the soldiers. 43 Cheirisophus makes a typically Spartan appeal that, win or die, they do it bravely (3.2.3: καλῶς) — playing to their pride. He says either is better than falling into their enemies’ hands — a fear argument. Cleanor vituperates about Tissaphernes’ and Ariaeus’ perjury and impiety (3.2.4: ἐπιορκίαν καὶ ἀσέβειαν), aiming to arouse anger against them, 44 to stiffen the men’s resolve to act as instruments of divine punishment (3.2.5: οἱ θεοὶ ἀποτείσαιντο). 45 Finally Xenophon, dressed in his best armour — in itself likely making an emotional impact — provides his own enheartening speech at length. He starts by saying their position gives them fine hopes of safety (3.2.8: καλαὶ ἐλπίδες εἰσὶ σωτηρίας; repeated 3.2.10). He arouses confidence in having the gods on their side (taking a sneeze as an omen); then pride in their ancestors’ bravery in repulsing Persian bondage, and their own bravery and performance against the Persians, not shaming (3.2.14: οὐ... καταισχύνετε) their forefathers’ example. He urges more confidence (3.2.16: θαρραλεωτέρους), since they beat the Persians, who now fear to counter-attack. He suppresses fear of Ariaeus’ cowardly men, and tells anyone despondent (3.2.18: ἀθυμεῖ) about the opponents’ cavalry that it is useless. If they become confident (3.2.20: θαρρεῖτε) about that, they should not be troubled (ἄχθεσθε) by thoughts of Tissaphernes, finding food for themselves or crossing rivers — for which he gives logical reasons. He ends by proposing how to proceed. Cheirisophus supports his proposals,

 43 Cf. n. 28 on team speaking. 44 Possibly also hatred: Arist. Rh. 2.4, 1382a3–7 says anger is felt for crimes against us, but hatred too (καὶ) for classes of people committing them, e.g. thieves and malicious prosecutors. Perjurers and the impious would qualify. 45 Rubinstein 2004 shows how calls for anger and hatred correlate with those for punishment.

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and the soldiers unanimously so vote (3.2.33: πάντες ἀνέτειναν). In the course of these three episodes, we have seen the army go from a collection of individuals paralysed by despair, to a heartened and purposeful fighting company. This is achieved almost entirely through emotional persuasion, with emphasis on the kind of emotions typically stimulated in deliberative oratory. Very different sorts of arguments are seen at Anabasis 5.8 where, during a rebellious inquiry by soldiers into his past conduct, Xenophon has to respond to accusations of hubris (arrogant humiliating violence) in striking his men. 46 This is a trial (5.8.1: δίκην), so it is no surprise that we find emotional strategies in play that are typical in forensic situations. Hubris is a crime that arouses anger, 47 and Xenophon needs to quell this anger to ensure he is not censured and passes his scrutiny. On cross-examining one accuser, Xenophon establishes that the man was not a soldier but a mule driver; he remembers him, and recounts how he refused to carry a sick soldier, “one of us” (5.8.8: εἷς ἡμῶν — a phrase intended to unite soldiers with Xenophon against his accuser), and after being ordered to, was discovered attempting to bury him alive in the snow. The listeners (quasijudges) all shout that the man should have been beaten more. Xenophon’s other accusers fall silent. Xenophon agrees that he did sometimes strike men, but this was not hubris: he did so for negligence, plundering while others fought to protect them, trying to surrender to enemies to escape the gruelling march, or for their own protection when they were risking death; now they are out of danger he does so no more. Having dispelled their anger, he mentions times when he helped people who were cold, sick or in danger — like the “one of us” argument, stimulating goodwill and gratitude. 48 Others chime in with their anecdotes (sc. of his caring leadership), and the matter ends well. This strategy — defusing anger aroused by accusers, before engendering friendly emotions — is common in defence speeches. 49 One final episode in Anabasis is worth examining here. This involves dissuasion, a kind of reverse exhortation, aiming to decrease an emotional rationale for committing some action. The Spartan admiral Anaxibius breaks a promise to give the Greeks their overdue pay and, after marching them out of Byzantium, tells them to re-provision from Thracian villages. The soldiers instead storm the gates

 46 The verb used is παίεσθαι, suggesting treating them like a παῖς (slave/boy). 47 See n. 40. 48 At Hipp. 6.1–2, Xenophon says it is important for a commander to be regarded with friendly feelings (φιλικῶς … ἔχειν) by his men, and suggests ways to win their goodwill (εὐνοικῶς … ἔχειν). 49 E.g. Lys. 16, 19, 25; Isoc. 16.

  Ed Sanders of Byzantium, and rush inside. Xenophon is desperate to stop them pillaging and causing irreparable harm (7.1.18: δείσας μὴ... ἀνήκεστα κακὰ γένοιτο), but knows they are in no mood to listen. Therefore, he rushes into the city as if one of them, whereupon they invite him — with control of a city, triremes and money – to lead. He duplicitously pretends to agree, and thus manages to get them to ground arms and into battle formation. This restores some semblance of calm (7.1.24: κατηρεμίσθησαν) for his address. He starts by owning their anger, first placing himself separately from “you” (7.1.25: ὅτι μὲν ὀργίζεσθε... οὐ θαυμάζω “I do not wonder … that you are angry”), then switching to “we” (ἢν δὲ τῷ θυμῷ χαριζώμεθα “but if we gratify our anger”). Only by making himself appear to be one of them, equally angry and wishing for vengeance for the Spartans’ deception (ἢν… Λακεδαιμονίους τε τοὺς παρόντας τῆς ἐξαπάτης τιμωρησώμεθα), can he gain a hearing for the logical arguments that ensue: that Byzantium is blameless, they will show themselves as enemies of Sparta and its allies, and — given that rich, powerful Athens was unable to defeat Sparta (in the Peloponnesian War) — how will they fare against Sparta, now allied to Athens and its allies, with hostile Persians behind them too? He begs them not to die as enemies to their cities, friends and kinsmen (7.1.29), kindling their shame. He observes that, having refrained from plundering barbarian cities, “we” can hardly plunder (7.1.29: ἐξαλαπάξομεν) the first Greek one encountered — the use of the striking word “plunder” reminding them it would be a crime. He says the Spartans would justly (δικαίως) oppose such a deed done “by you” (7.1.30: ὑφ’ ὑμῶν) — maintaining ambiguity in his positioning, and implicitly inviting them to re-join him as non-plunderers. Finally, agreeing that they have been wronged, he nevertheless advises that their most sensible option is to put up with it, so at least they reach home. This combination of rhetorical techniques dissuades the soldiers from their incipient plundering, and they follow Xenophon’s advice.

 Techniques that support emotional argumentation Most of the situations in which dissatisfactions and mutinies occur involve heightened levels of emotion. It is for this reason that emotional argumentation — dissuasion as much as persuasion — is so central to handling them. Sometimes, however, emotional argumentation alone is insufficient, and the situation needs additional techniques. One such is logical reasoning, which we have already sev-

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eral times seen in tandem with, and enhancing, emotional persuasion: 50 Clearchus logically described the logistical and security problems with remaining in situ (1.3.11); Cyrus the Great’s arguments for confidence (Cyr. 6.2.14–20) were logical as well as emotional; so were Xenophon’s for confidence (3.2.20–22), and for not antagonising the Spartans (7.1.25–29). From these, it appears that logical reasoning particularly enhances fear or confidence arguments. A related technique is frankness, when a general appears to confide his real reasons for doing something to his listeners. Bringing them (apparently) into his confidence flatters them, and makes them psychologically more susceptible to changing their minds in his favour, perhaps giving more weight to the supposedly privileged knowledge. We see this when Menon’s soldiers attack Clearchus after he punishes one of them (1.5.11–17). In their anger (1.5.11: ἐχαλέπαινον καὶ ὠργίζοντο) they throw stones and an axe at him and he, angered in turn (1.5.14: ἐχαλέπαινεν), moves to retaliate with his troops. Cyrus intervenes, lecturing both sides on the dangers of the Greeks losing their unity: if things go badly between them, their Persian allies will turn on them and cut them down. Clearchus comes to his senses, and both sides abandon the quarrel. Cyrus here is notably frank about the dangers of their position, arousing fear by (truthfully or otherwise) confiding that their Persian contingent is only conditionally loyal, but underneath deeply hostile. We see such apparent frankness again after Cunaxa (2.4.2–7), when the Greek and Persian armies are in a stand-off, Tissaphernes pretends to be negotiating between them, and Ariaeus looks less loyal. Many Greeks are concerned about waiting, and complain to Clearchus. His response is initially to say he completely agrees with them, 51 but then he frankly confides his (possibly genuine) concerns about doing otherwise, arousing fear of the terrible consequences of leaving. Again, frankness combines with emotional manipulation to quell discontent. Another occasion apparent frankness is persuasive is after Xenophon thinks of founding a polis (5.6.15 ff.). The plan leaks from Xenophon’s horrified soothsayer, via generals hostile to Xenophon, to the army. Xenophon is forced to change his mind because of the soldiers’ anger (5.7.2: χαλεπῶς ἔφερον), not just at this plan, but at his duplicity in hiding it from them. To avoid their anger running out of control, he immediately calls an assembly, pretends he never had this

 50 Aristotle notes three modes of argument: logical (logos), emotional (pathos), and through character (ēthos). Arguments can work in more than one mode. We saw Xenophon use character arguments (his versus his accuser’s) in the trial at 5.8, as part of a strategy to deflect the soldiers’ anger from him to his opponent. 51 Compare Xenophon pretending to share the soldiers’ anger and intent to pillage at 7.1.18–32.

  Ed Sanders plan or wished to deceive them, and says his opponents are slandering him through jealousy (5.7.5–12: the verb exapatan appears seven times, diaballein and phthonein twice each). 52 During this speech, he asks rhetorically how anyone could attempt to deceive the soldiers about where they were going, when they know which directions the sun rises and sets, and from where the wind blows? As soon as they were on a ship, it would become obvious from their direction that Xenophon was deceiving them, and they would turn on him. His apparently frank willingness to address the possibility of his deceiving them persuades the men to calm their anger, and he is eventually able to turn the tables on his opponents. This brings us to another tool to disarm mutinies: deception. At 5.6.15, Xenophon tells his readers that the plan to found a polis originated with him, and his formulation καλὸν αὐτῷ ἐδόκει is close enough to the traditional ἔδοξε τῷ δήμῳ to suggest he was thinking in terms of a formal proposal to the army in assembly. Accordingly, when he denies that this was his plan, we know he is lying, and he is happy for us to know it. He could have passed over the whole episode or dissimulated as to his own views, but he chose (as author) to be open about his duplicity. This tells us that he does not find deception unadmirable, something to be eschewed. On the contrary, it is repeatedly used by leaders in Xenophon. 53 At Hipparchicus 5.9 he advises that a commander should contrive deceptions for every occasion, since in war nothing is more profitable than trickery (μηχανᾶσθαι αὐτὸν χρὴ πρὸς τὸ παρὸν ἀεὶ ἀπατᾶν· ὄντως γὰρ οὐδὲν κερδαλεώτερον ἐν πολέμῳ ἀπάτης). Various deceptive tricks are recommended throughout Hipp. 5, with the aim of undermining enemies’ confidence and increasing their fear (phobos/ phobein and tharros/tharrein — 5.3, 5.8). We saw Cyrus use deception when gathering the army (1.1); Clearchus combine it with emotional techniques to quell a mutiny (1.3); and Xenophon with logical techniques to suppress anger and dissuade plundering (7.1). We saw Xenophon use it again in an assembly, combined with frankness, to suppress anger and secure his position (5.6–7). He also deploys it, more subtly, in an earlier assembly (5.1.14–15). Then, although soldiers agree most of his proposals, they are hostile to his idea that they should mend roads — which they would have to march along if they cannot acquire ships — since they do not want to go by road. Xenophon therefore does not put his proposal to the vote, but instead approaches

 52 Sanders 2014, 45 shows that slander is a frequent tool of jealousy — accusations of diabolē and phthonos regularly co-occur. 53 On deception in the Anabasis, see Hirsch 1985; in Cyropaedia, Whidden 2007. For a wider perspective on deception in warfare, see Krentz 2000. On Spartan deception, Bradford 1994. On Tissaphernes’ deceit and trickery in Anabasis, see Danzig 2007.

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local cities behind his men’s back, and gets them to mend the roads themselves. Deception also saves the day when the Greeks are camping near the Persian army, immediately after Cunaxa (2.2.17–21). The back of the Greek army makes such a racket that the Persians disencamp and flee; even the King is terrified (2.2.18: ἐξεπλάγη). The Greek army too take fright (2.2.19: φόβος — twice), thinking they are under attack, but Clearchus quickly proclaims a reward for whoever let an ass loose, implying that the din resulted from a clever stratagem to frighten the Persians. This defuses the Greeks’ fear. Another technique that can combine with emotion is setting an example. Sometimes this is the general’s own example, such as when a new Spartan commander, Cleander, is sent to the army (6.6). He arrives after a plundering expedition. A certain Dexippus seeks to denounce someone to Cleander for robbery, but the alleged robber’s captain, Agasias, tries to have Dexippus stoned. Cleander, caught up in the resulting panic, is so angry that he threatens to leave and have the army banned from any polis, unless they surrender Agasias for punishment. Though Agasias is Xenophon’s friend, Xenophon recognises the gravity of the situation and points out in assembly that they are in no position to refuse, arousing fear of Cleander’s retribution. He himself will accept Cleander’s authority, and even his punishment if Agasias blames Xenophon for commanding his actions. Agasias follows Xenophon’s example and submits himself for punishment. This assuages Cleander’s anger: Agasias is chastised, but not punished. This is not the first time Xenophon sets an example to quell trouble. On a long march, one Soteridas is too weary to continue marching, and complains Xenophon has it easy on horseback (3.4.47–49). Xenophon leaps off, pushes Soteridas out of line, and marches with Soteridas’ shield and his own breastplate in his place. The other soldiers are angered at Soteridas, and bully him into retaking his place. At Hellenica 5.1.13–18, Xenophon describes another general setting an example. Spartan sailors refuse to sail for their commander Eteonicus, because they remain unpaid. After Teleutias takes over the ships he persuades them by saying they will see him hungry, hot, cold, and keeping vigil alongside them, so he expects no less from them, and he shames them by talking about other Spartans who suffer hardships for a greater good. The sailors change their minds and sail, despite remaining unpaid. Sometimes generals make examples of other people, by punishing them. In Anabasis, when Orontas, a Persian noble, is discovered to be intending to defect, Cyrus convenes a jury, consisting of Clearchus and seven Persian nobles, who convict Orontas and sentence him to death (1.6). There are no other identifiable traitors, so no one to whom verbal emotional persuasion could have been used.

  Ed Sanders The death sentence, however, ensures anyone else contemplating betrayal will fear similar punishment. After the murder of the Greek generals (3.2.30–31), Xenophon advises that anyone being disobedient in future must be punished (κολάζειν), both by their commander and anyone else present at the time — this will create 10,000 Clearchuses. The reference is to Clearchus’ reputation as a disciplinarian. In Xenophon’s encomium of Clearchus after his murder, he states that Clearchus gained obedience by being severe, appearing sullen, harsh of voice, punishing strongly, sometimes in anger; yet he punished with judgment, for he thought there was no use in an undisciplined army, since a soldier must fear his commander more than his enemies (2.6.9–10). 54 Like setting an example, punishing — sometimes combined with performance of emotions (e.g. anger) — can arouse other emotions (anger, fear, shame) to form a successful persuasion strategy. A final action that is emotionally persuasive is rewarding: increasing pay or giving gratuitous gifts. We saw that Clearchus, having persuaded some Greeks to continue following Cyrus, convinced the rest partly by increasing pay (1.3.20–21). We find similar tactics twice in Hellenica. On one occasion, the Persian satrap Pharnabazus puts heart into the Peloponnesian army after a defeat. He urges them not to despair (Hell. 1.1.24: παρακελουσάμενος μὴ ἀθυμεῖν) over lack of shiptimber, since he can provide this, and he gives each soldier a cloak and two months’ food. Such measures likely aim to arouse confidence and gratitude, and he uses these to motivate the Peloponnesians to man his coastline and rebuild his navy (1.1.24–26). Another general, Dercylidas, wins a very large amount of money, and has it distributed to the men. This is nearly a year’s pay, and the gratuity — which will certainly arouse pleasure, gratitude and loyalty — is intended to boost their discipline and morale (Hell. 3.1.28: γιγνώσκων ὅτι ... πολὺ εὐτακτότεροι καὶ θεραπευτικώτεροι ἔσονται “knowing that … they would be more well-disciplined and inclined to serve”). In Cyropaedia too, on one occasion Cyrus gives captains money that he has won, to pass on to soldiers who deserve rewarding (3.3.6). Xenophon notes in Hipparchicus that soldiers feel goodwill (6.2: εὐνοϊκῶς ... ἔχειν) for commanders who clearly look after them, in various ways; and that whenever he has something extra, it is profitable for a commander to share it (6.3: καὶ ὅταν γε πλέον ἔχῃ τι, τὸ μεταδοῦναι κερδαλέον τῷ προεστηκότι). Sometimes we find that it is not necessary even to make a payment; merely a promise to pay, from someone trusted (such as Teleutias rather than Eteonicus, Hell. 5.1.13–18), can be sufficient. When the Greeks find out they are marching  54 Tritle 2004 argues that Clearchus’ behaviour suggests he suffers from PTSD.

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against the King, they are angry (1.4.12: ἐχαλέπαινον) with their generals and refuse to continue without more pay. However, Cyrus sends a promise via his generals that they will receive money later, and the greater part are persuaded to go on (1.4.13). The night before Cunaxa, too, we saw that Cyrus promised his listeners a golden crown each if they won; and when others approach him, he offers whatever will satisfy them (1.7.7–8). This persuades them to fight. One final type of reward involves not money, or its promise, but bringing succour. While marching through Armenia in the snow, near nightfall, pursued by enemies, some soldiers fall behind and collapse in the snow (4.5.15 ff.). Xenophon does all he can to make them get up: he begs, tries to arouse their fear of the pursuing Persians, and eventually displays anger (4.5.16: ἐχαλέπαινεν) — nothing works. Xenophon therefore decides to charge the enemy and frighten them off, to relieve the pressure on the invalids. After succeeding, the next day he sends men to chivvy them into continuing. As well as these techniques used regularly alongside emotional persuasion, one final tactic is used, possibly intentionally, to quell one specific mutiny (6.2.4– 6.4.11). After a disagreement over re-provisioning by force from local Greeks, and a failed attempt by the Arcadians and Achaeans to do so, the latter groups refuse to follow Cheirisophus and Xenophon (who had opposed the attempt), and elect their own generals. Instead of trying to dissuade them, Cheirisophus and Xenophon accept the army being split. On reaching Calpe, the Arcadians and Achaeans separate still further into companies, to attack individual Thracian villages, and swiftly get into dire straits. Many are killed; the remainder end up surrounded, besieged and in despair (6.3.9: ἀπορία πολλὴ ἦν). Xenophon brings his soldiers in relief, their fires scare off the Thracians, and they reunite with the Arcadians and Achaeans, who are delighted (6.3.24: ἄσμενοι). The latter have learned their lesson, and in assembly propose that anyone who mentions dividing the army in future be put to death, and that Cheirisophus and Xenophon be restored to leadership (6.4.11). Xenophon does not tell us why the latter accepted the division of the army — whether they were tired of dealing with their fractious subordinates, or intentionally decided to teach them a lesson — but we might wonder whether they tactically accepted temporary disunity, expecting disaster to ensue, in strategic pursuit of willing re-unity.

 Conclusions We have seen a large number of techniques generals can, and do regularly, employ to deal with dissatisfactions, splits, panics and mutinies in the troops. The

  Ed Sanders most important of these is emotion arousal through oratorical persuasion, which is used to some, frequently great, extent in almost all instances. The emotions used to persuade vary, and a major factor in the choice of emotion was shown to be the genre of speech: forensic (in a trial), deliberative (to the army as assembly), exhortation (pre-battle), or some other type. In many of these crises the soldiers are motivated by emotions — e.g. anger, fear, greed — and the generals’ emotive counter-arguments are chosen carefully with the aim of dispelling those emotions, or arousing others that will eclipse them. Emotive argumentation is frequently shown to be supported, and enhanced, by a range of other techniques. These include the general displaying (real or fake) emotions of his own, stating himself to be feeling the same or a different emotion to the soldiers, or using logical argumentation. Specific types of the latter include an apparent frankness, or anything from mild deception to clear duplicity, sometimes supported by proxies. Generals sometimes themselves set an example, make an example of someone else by punishing them, or use money or other desirable goods to reward soldiers — all three actions being persuasive. Finally, in one instance disunity was tactical pursued, possibly intentionally, with the effect of discrediting opponents within the army, allowing re-unity. Throughout Anabasis, and in various similar episodes in other works, Xenophon — as both moral and practical teacher, and (later) historiographer — shows that the good general must be resourceful in his persuasive techniques, and practiced in their utilisation.

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Cairns, D.L. (2003), ‘Ethics, ethology, terminology: Iliadic anger and the cross-cultural study of emotion’, in: S. Braund/G.W. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen, Cambridge, 11–49. Carey, C. (2016), ‘Bashing the establishment’, in: E. Sanders/M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart, 27–39. Danzig, G. (2007), ‘Xenophon’s wicked Persian or, What’s wrong with Tissaphernes? Xenophon’s views on lying and breaking oaths’, in: C. Tuplin (ed.), Persian Responses: Political and Cultural Interaction with(in) the Achaemenid Empire, Swansea, 27–50. Dillery, J. (1995), Xenophon and the History of his Times, London/New York. Finley, M.I. (1972), ‘Introduction’, in: R. Warner (trans.), Thucydides: History of the Peloponnesian War, London, 9–32. Flower, M.A. (2012), Xenophon’s Anabasis, or The Expedition of Cyrus, Oxford. Fornara, C.W. (1983), ‘The speech in Greek and Roman historiography’, in: The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley/Los Angeles, 142–168. Gray, V. (1989), ‘Part II: Formal speeches’, in: The character of Xenophon’s Hellenica, London, 79–140. Gray, V. (2011), Xenophon’s Mirror of Princes: Reading the Reflections, Oxford. Grethlein, J. (2012), ‘Xenophon’s Anabasis from character to narrator’, in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 132, 23–40. Hagen, J. (2016), ‘Emotions in Roman historiography: The rhetorical use of tears as a means of persuasion’, in: E. Sanders/M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart, 199–212. Hansen, M.H. (1993), ‘The battle exhortation in ancient historiography’, in: Historia 42, 161– 180. Hansen, M.H. (1998), ‘The little grey horse — Henry V’s speech at Agincourt and the battle exhortation in ancient historiography’, in: Histos 2, 46–63. Hirsch, S. (1985), ‘Trust and deceit in the Anabasis’, in: The Friendship of the Barbarians: Xenophon and the Persian Expedition, Hanover, 14–38. Hornblower, S. (2004), ‘“This was decided” (edoxe tauta): The army as polis in Xenophon’s Anabasis — and elsewhere’, in: R. Lane Fox (ed.), The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, New Haven/London, 243–263. Hutchinson, G. (2000), Xenophon and the Art of Command, London. Krentz, P. (2000), ‘Deception in Archaic and Classical Greek warfare’, in: H. Van Wees (ed.), War and Violence in Ancient Greece, London, 167–200. LaForse, B. (2005), ‘Xenophon’s Anabasis: The first war memoir’, in: Syllecta Classica 16, 1–30. Lateiner, D. (2009), ‘Tears and crying in Hellenic historiography’, in: T. Fögen (ed.), Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, Berlin, 105–134. Lee, J.W.I. (2007), A Greek Army on the March: Soldiers and Survival in Xenophon’s Anabasis, Cambridge. Marincola, J. (2007), ‘Speeches in classical historiography’, in: J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Malden, MA/Oxford, 118–132. Marincola, J. (2017), ‘Xenophon’s Anabasis and Hellenica’, in: M.A. Flower (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon, Cambridge, 103–118. Morrison, J.V. (2006), ‘Interaction of speech and narrative in Thucydides’, in: A. Rengakos/ A. Tsakmakis (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides, Leiden, 251–277. Nussbaum, G.B. (1959), ‘The Captains in the Army of the Ten Thousand’, in: Classica et Mediaevalia 20, 16–29.

  Ed Sanders Nussbaum, G.B. (1967), The Ten Thousand: A Study of Social Organisation and Action in Xenophon’s Anabasis, Leiden. Pausch, D. (ed.) (2010), Stimmen der Geschichte: Funktionen von Reden in der antiken Historiographie, Berlin/New York. Pontier, P. (ed.) (2014), Xénophon et la rhétorique, Paris. Pritchett, W.K. (1994), ‘The General’s Exhortation in Greek Warfare,’ in: Essays in Greek History, Amsterdam, 27–109. Roman, A. (2005), ‘La rhétorique du discours chez Thucydide’, in: Cahiers des Études Anciennes 42, 279–298. Rood, T. (2004), ‘Panhellenism and Self-Presentation: Xenophon’s Speeches’, in: R. Lane Fox (ed.), The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, New Haven/London, 305–329. Rood, T. (2006), ‘Advice and advisers in Xenophon’s Anabasis’, in: D. Spencer/E. Theodorakopoulos (eds.), Advice and its Rhetoric in Greece and Rome, Bari, 47–61. Rood, T. (2010), ‘Xenophon’s Parasangs’, in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 130, 51–66. Rubinstein, L. (2004), ‘Stirring up dicastic anger’, in: D.L. Cairns/R.A. Knox (eds.), Law, Rhetoric, and Comedy in Classical Athens: Essays in Honour of Douglas M. MacDowell, Swansea, 187–203. Rubinstein, L. (2016), ‘Envoys and ethos: Team speaking by envoys in Classical Greece’, in: P. Derron/M. Edwards (eds.), La rhetorique du pouvoir: une exploration de l’art oratoire délibératif grec, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique de la Fondation Hardt Vol. 62, Vandœuvres, 79–128. Sanders, E. (2012), ‘“He is a liar, a bounder, and a cad”: The arousal of hostile emotions in Attic forensic oratory’, in: A. Chaniotis (ed.), Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World, Stuttgart, 359–387. Sanders, E. (2014), Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens: A Socio-Psychological Approach, New York. Sanders, E. (2016a), ‘Generating goodwill and friendliness in Attic forensic oratory’, in: R.R. Caston/R.A. Kaster (eds.), Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World, New York, 163–181. Sanders, E. (2016b), ‘Persuasion through emotions in Athenian deliberative oratory’, in: E. Sanders/M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart, 57–73. Stadter, P.A. (ed.) (1973), The speeches in Thucydides: A Collection of Original Studies with a Bibliography, Chapel Hill. Tamiolaki, M. (2012), ‘Virtue and leadership in Xenophon: Ideal leaders or ideal losers?’, in: F. Hobden/C. Tuplin (eds.), Xenophon: Ethical Principles and Historical Enquiry, Leiden, 563–590. Tamiolaki, M. (2013), ‘Emotions and historical representation in Xenophon’s Hellenika’, in: A. Chaniotis/P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions II. Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images, Material Culture, Stuttgart, 15–52. Tamiolaki, M. (2016), ‘Emotion and persuasion in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia’, in: Phoenix: Journal of the Classical Association of Canada 70, 40–63. Tritle, L. (2004), ‘Xenophon’s portrayal of Clearchus: A study in post-traumatic stress disorder’, in: C. Tuplin (ed.), Xenophon and His World: Papers from a Conference in Liverpool Held July 1999, Stuttgart, 325–339. Tuplin, C. (2014), ‘Le salut par la parole: les discours dans l’Anabase de Xénophon’, in: P. Pontier (ed.), Xénophon et la rhétorique, Paris, 69–120.

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

Part III: Drama and Poetry

Ioannis Konstantakos

Divided Audiences and How to Win Them Over: The Case of Aristophanes’ Acharnians The Greeks know a few things about disunity. Repeatedly in the course of their long history the Greek people have been divided by profound ideological schisms over crucial questions, which concern the very identity of their tribe or the future of their polity. This is their own, peculiarly Hellenic version of the Nietzschean eternal return; the Greeks are condemned to replay the tragedy of Eteocles and Polyneices, the rending drama of disunity and internal strife, again and again, in countless variations, to the end of time. The earliest poem of Greek literature, the Iliad, begins appropriately with a quarrel between two Bronze Age chieftains. In the latter half of the fourth century B.C. Athenians were split into pro- and antiMacedonians, the adherents of an old-style, independent city-state versus the supporters of a new and multi-collective imperial reality. On the bulwarks of besieged Constantinople, in A.D. 1453, laymen and theologians disputed whether to choose submission to the Islamic conqueror or to the Papal church. In more recent times, the years that surrounded the First World War witnessed a fratricidal conflict between the partisans of Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos and the royalist supporters of King Constantine; in itself, this clash reflected a deeprooted disharmony between two fundamentally opposed visions of Modern Greece — a country following the modern nations of Western Europe or a traditionalist kingdom of the Balkans. Much of the Greek intellectual history in the twentieth century has been dominated by an insurmountable rift between rival concepts of identity: will Greece be a small but stalwartly modernized state of the enlightened Europe, or will it fold back towards its age-old Near Eastern roots, as embodied in Orthodox spirituality and folk tradition? This latter schism is not irrelevant to present-day ideological clashes about the place of Greece in an increasingly alienated Eurozone. Under such historical conditions, the poets of the Greek people — traditionally the most prominent and respected kind of public intellectual in the Hellenic world — have often found themselves in the tough situation of addressing a deeply divided audience. This was also the fate of young Aristophanes in the winter of 425 B.C., when he decided to stage his first peace play, the Acharnians, in an embattled city which had been absorbed already for six years in a large-scale war of domination over the Greek world. As indicated by the available information about the political atmosphere and the fluctuation of public opinion in

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-009

  Ioannis Konstantakos Athens at that time, the spectators in the theatre would most probably have been split with regard to their attitude towards the ongoing armed conflict. There were certainly those that favoured the continuation of the war against Sparta, either out of patriotic sentiment and a vengeful will to punish the enemy, or because the war served their practical interests. The former category comprised parts of the Attic population which had been severely harmed by the Spartan invasions, such as the citizens of the large deme of Acharnai, whose lands had been entirely ravaged by Archidamus’ troops. 1 On the other hand, the radical and populist demagogues, who dominated the political life of Athens, were continuing Pericles’ intransigent imperialistic policy and strove to uplift the warlike morale of the dēmos. Aristophanes constantly accuses these statesmen, especially Cleon and his faction, of promoting war policies for personal gain, in order to retain their power in the city, monopolize the state offices and extract large bribes. 2 The mass of the Athenian populace which backed the radical demagogues, that is, the lower classes of the thētes and the poor labourers of the astu, may also have found the war situation to their advantage. Paid service in the navy, in the capacity of rowers, afforded a good regular salary to these unprivileged citizens and a means to support their families in hard financial conditions. 3 By contrast, the majority of the rural population, the farmers and smallholders of Attica, as well as the landed aristocracy, were the groups most seriously damaged by the Spartan raids. Their crops and agricultural properties were recurrently pillaged by the enemy invaders, and they were themselves obliged to abandon their

 1 See Thucydides 2.21f.; Aristophanes, Acharnians 225–233; Osborne 1985, 188f.; Whitehead 1986, 399f.; Bowie 1993, 39–42; MacDowell 1995, 48; Bertelli 1999, 45–48; Olson 2002, 126; Bertelli 2013, 110f. Aristophanes also makes more general references to the resentment and hatred felt by the Athenian rural population against the Spartan invaders who destroyed their crops: see Acharnians 509–512; Peace 628f.; cf. Newiger 1980, 220f. 2 See e.g. Aristophanes, Acharnians 56–152, 595–619; Knights 802–809, 1388–1395; Wasps 672– 695; Peace 632–648. Cf. Sirago 1961, 33–38; Walcot 1971, 42f.; Iwasaki 1987; Gočeva 1987; Henderson 1990, 282–284; Olson 1991; MacDowell 1995, 46–79, 108, 191f.; Olson 1998, xxxi, xli–xlii, 111f., 154, 167f., 196, 202–207; Olson 2002, xxxix–lii, 227–234; Brockmann 2003, 86–96; Lauriola 2010, 29, 47f., 193–195, 220f. More generally, on Aristophanes’ persistent hostility and criticism against Cleon and the other radical demagogues see the enlightening analyses of Sommerstein 1996, 334–337; Rosenbloom 2002; Sommerstein 2004; Rosenbloom 2012, 405–416; Fileni 2012; Bertelli 2013; Sommerstein 2014, 294–299; Rosenbloom 2014, 304–307; Burns 2014. 3 On the poor populace of the astu see Ober 1989, 129–138, 194–198; concerning their support of the populist demagogues and their pro-war attitude in particular see Ehrenberg 1962, 306– 308, 314–316; Cantarella 1969, 336f.; Stark 1987; Henderson 1990, 283f.; Rosenbloom 2002, 284f., 322–327; Ludwig 2007, 481; Bertelli 2013, 111.

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hearths and take refuge behind the city walls, largely in uncomfortable conditions and under great psychological distress. 4 These categories of people were likely to become exasperated with the prolonged and tiresome war and to hanker for some kind of peaceful agreement. The division of public sentiment is reflected in the plot and the characters of Aristophanes’ comedy. 5 The protagonist, Dicaeopolis, stands mainly for the class of farming smallholders who resented the war and its dire effects on their rural lifestyle. 6 The bellicose Chorus of Acharnian elders, on the other hand, are emblematic of the sections of the Attic dēmos who supported military action against Sparta. The powerful elite of the corrupt statesmen, who were advocating the war in order to forward their own public careers, is personified in general Lamachus, who appears in the comedy as a boastful and self-interested commander antagonizing the comic hero. 7 It is noteworthy that the poor populace of the astu, the mainstay of the demagogues and their pro-war policy, do not find an exact equivalent in the world of the play. Aristophanes has merged this significant class of people into the rural group of the Acharnians, slyly suppressing their essentially

 4 On these classes of Athenian people, the damage they suffered due to the invasions and their resulting attitude towards the war, see mainly Thucydides 2.13–17, 2.52, 2.59, 2.65; Aristophanes, Acharnians 71f.; Knights 792–794; Peace 628–635; Sirago 1961; Ehrenberg 1962, 88–93, 306–309, 313–315; Cantarella 1969, 337; Kagan 1974, 339–341; Carter 1986, 78–98; Pretagostini 1989; Foxhall 1993; MacDowell 1995, 46–48; Wilkins 2000, 130–141; Olson 2002, xxxvi–xxxix; Bertelli 2013, 110f. It has been pointed out that the actual damage caused by the Spartan military raids to the crops must have been much smaller than the impression given by ancient sources (most notably Thucydides and Aristophanes) and the extent claimed in some modern studies; see Hanson 1998, 14–41, 49–76, 103–116, 131–194, 206–209, 218–224, 231–239; Hanson 1999, 142f., 162f., 367f. However, the effect on the Attic farmers’ morale, the disturbance of their lifestyle, the psychological distress and the resulting pressures to the social unity of the Athenian population would have been severe. 5 On the division of Athenian public opinion with regard to the war cf. Gomme 1938, 105; Dover 1972, 86; Sommerstein 1980, 32; Kraus 1985, 44f.; Bowie 1993, 41–44. 6 Cf. Edmunds 1980, 26f.; Compton-Engle 1999, 360–362; Rosenbloom 2002, 319–321; Ludwig 2007, 480f.; Lauriola 2010, 147; Bertelli 2013, 111. Of course, Dicaeopolis, like all Aristophanic protagonists, is a complex and composite creation; his character evolves in the course of the play and assimilates many elements characteristic of an urban persona; see Compton-Engle 1999; Xanthou 2010; cf. already Whitman 1964, 63; and below, note 28. However, this development mostly takes place in the second half of the play, after the parabasis (729ff.), when Dicaeopolis has established his private world of peace and has overcome all significant opposition, i.e. when the main conflict of the drama is over. In the earlier part of the comedy, which is the main focus of this essay, Dicaeopolis’ identity as a countryman and farmer prevails. 7 See in detail below, note 22.

  Ioannis Konstantakos urban identity, perhaps in an effort to deny the hateful demagogues their considerable base in Athenian public opinion. 8 We will have to wait until the old Dēmos of the Knights to see an Aristophanic version of this population group on stage, although their portrait is merged again into a composite, multi-layered dramatic figure. 9 Nevertheless, the poet would doubtless have been conscious of the existence of this social category among his audience. The clash between the dramatic incarnations of these opposed points of view dominates the earlier half of the comedy. The comic hero Dicaeopolis wishes to get rid of the war and makes a private peace treaty with the Spartan coalition. The Chorus of Acharnian elders obstruct him, disrupt his rustic celebrations and threaten to stone him to death as a traitor. In face of this dangerous opposition, the hero resorts to the cunning art of political oratory, which has always exercised a strong appeal on the Greek collective spirit. Dressed in the pitiable costume of a tragic character, the wounded Telephus, which he has borrowed from Euripides, Dicaeopolis makes a speech on the origins of the Peloponnesian War (496– 556). His lengthy oration is a masterful piece of comic oratory and uses all the familiar artifices of populist demagoguery so as to exploit the listeners’ deeprooted prejudices and mental stereotypes in the speaker’s favour. 10 Many scholars have wondered whether anyone in the embattled Athens could have paid serious attention to such a travesty of political discourse, 11 which seems to be simply a pastiche of literary parodies, myth burlesque, slanderous gossip and stock jokes. 12 Perceptive experts, however, have traced the authentic popular opinions which lurk under Dicaeopolis’ comic distortions and which must have been shared at least by a part of the Athenian public of the time. 13 First of all, Dicaeopolis attributes the origin of the war to the conflict between Athens  8 Cf. more generally the remarks of Bertelli 1999, 46–48; Rosenbloom 2002, 325; Whitehorne 2005, 42–44. 9 Cf. Ludwig 2007, 481. 10 On Dicaeopolis’ demagoguery and tricky rhetoric see Whitman 1964, 64–69; Dover 1972, 80; Foley 1988, 46; Fisher 1993, 35f.; Demont 1997, 470f.; Hesk 2000, 263–269; Olson 2002, 231; Ludwig 2007, 488; Zumbrunnen 2012, 83–91, 125; Bertelli 2013, 112; Gavray 2013, 504; Burns 2014, 247f.; cf. already Murphy 1938, 99–104. 11 See e.g. Forrest 1963, 6–9; Whitman 1964, 66f.; Carey 1993, 251–261; Fisher 1993, 37f.; Hesk 2000, 266f.; Silk 2000, 346–348. 12 On the extensive literary parodies (Euripides’ Telephus, the opening of Herodotus’ Histories, a sympotic skolion by Timocreon) interwoven in Dicaeopolis’ speech see Rau 1967, 37–40; Foley 1988, 37–43; Carey 1993, 254–256; Bertelli 1999, 52f.; Olson 2002, liii–lxi, 200–219. 13 See Dover 1972, 86f.; MacDowell 1983, 148–155; Kraus 1985, 53–56; Reckford 1987, 183; MacDowell 1995, 59–67; Bertelli 1999, 52–54; Olson 2002, xxxii–xxxix; Brockmann 2003, 116– 119; Bertelli 2013, 112–114.

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and Megara and the ensuing embargo against Megarian commerce, which Pericles imposed by means of the so-called Megarian Decree, shortly before 432 B.C. (515–523, 530–540). This was doubtless a common belief in Athens. Thucydides attests that the Spartans repeatedly sent embassies to Athens and claimed every time with emphasis that the war could be avoided if the Megarian Decree were repealed (1.139). In the discussions held on those occasions in the Athenian assembly, the issue was seriously taken up by some speakers, who claimed that the ban against the Megarians should not be allowed to stand in the way of peace (1.139.4). Under such circumstances, the Megarian Decree would appear, in the eyes of an ordinary Athenian, to be the basic cause of the conflict between the two cities. Pericles himself implies this in the speech attributed to him by Thucydides, in the context of the fateful meeting of the ekklēsia on the eve of the war (1.140.4f.): the great statesman warns the Athenians not to think that the Megarian Decree is a trifling matter to go to war for; it is not the maintenance or cancellation of a decree that is at stake, but rather the city’s capacity to implement its own decisions without yielding to the enemy’s pressure. 14

 14 See Thucydides 1.139.1: Λακεδαιμόνιοι ... φοιτῶντες παρ’ Ἀθηναίους ... μάλιστά γε πάντων καὶ ἐνδηλότατα προύλεγον τὸ περὶ Μεγαρέων ψήφισμα καθελοῦσι μὴ ἂν γίγνεσθαι πόλεμον, ἐν ᾧ εἴρητο αὐτοὺς μὴ χρῆσθαι τοῖς λιμέσι τοῖς ἐν τῇ Ἀθηναίων ἀρχῇ μηδὲ τῇ Ἀττικῇ ἀγορᾷ, “the Lacedaemonians ... frequently came to Athens ... and above all they declared in the plainest terms that war could be avoided, provided that the Athenians repealed the decree about the Megarians, in which it was stipulated that they must not use any of the harbours of the Athenian empire or the markets of Attica”. Id. 1.139.4: καὶ παριόντες ἄλλοι τε πολλοὶ ἔλεγον ἐπ’ ἀμφότερα γιγνόμενοι ταῖς γνώμαις καὶ ὡς χρὴ πολεμεῖν καὶ ὡς μὴ ἐμπόδιον εἶναι τὸ ψήφισμα εἰρήνης, ἀλλὰ καθελεῖν, “and many others came forward and argued in support of both sides of the matter, some saying that war must be waged, others arguing that the decree should be annulled and should not become an obstacle to peace”. Id. 1.140.4f.: ὑμῶν δὲ μηδεὶς νομίσῃ περὶ βραχέος ἂν πολεμεῖν, εἰ τὸ Μεγαρέων ψήφισμα μὴ καθέλοιμεν, ὅπερ μάλιστα προύχονται, εἰ καθαιρεθείη, μὴ ἂν γίγνεσθαι τὸν πόλεμον, μηδὲ ἐν ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς αἰτίαν ὑπολίπησθε ὡς διὰ μικρὸν ἐπολεμήσατε. τὸ γὰρ βραχύ τι τοῦτο πᾶσαν ὑμῶν ἔχει τὴν βεβαίωσιν καὶ πεῖραν τῆς γνώμης. οἷς εἰ ξυγχωρήσετε, καὶ ἄλλο τι μεῖζον εὐθὺς ἐπιταχθήσεσθε ὡς φόβῳ καὶ τοῦτο ὑπακούσαντες, “Let no one of you think that we are going to war for a trivial matter if we do not annul the Megarian Decree (because this is what they especially insist upon, namely, that there will be no war if the decree is repealed); nor should you feel any kind of self-reproach, that you made war for a small reason. For this ‘small’ thing involves nothing less than the confirmation and the proof of your conviction. If you yield on this point, you will immediately be confronted with some greater demand, because they will think that you conceded this first matter through fear”. Cf. Gomme 1938, 106f.; Dover 1972, 86f.; MacDowell 1983, 151–154; Kraus 1985, 53f.; MacDowell 1995, 63–66; Bertelli 1999, 52–54; Olson 2002, xxxii–xxxvi; Brockmann 2003, 116–120; Bertelli 2013, 112f.

  Ioannis Konstantakos Dicaeopolis also blames Pericles and his dark personal motives for the outbreak of the hostilities. The great Athenian leader is said to have obstinately upheld the disastrous Megarian Decree because of personal animosity against the Megarians, who had abducted two pretty prostitutes from the “salon” of his beloved Aspasia (524–540). This is a crass parody of the age-old mythological tales about rapes of women as the fatal cause of great wars. 15 Under the comic travesty, however, lies the widespread antipathy of the Athenian body politic against Pericles, as it was manifested at least in the turbulent circumstances of the early years of the Archidamian War. Thucydides attests again that Pericles was indeed held responsible by public opinion for the outbreak of the war and the consequent misfortunes of the Athenian population; therefore, he was temporarily removed from office and punished with a monetary fine. 16 Another comedy produced shortly after the beginning of the hostilities, Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros,  15 Many scholars detect at this point more particularly a parody of the beginning of Herodotus’ Histories (1.1–5), where the origins of the hostility between Europe and Asia (and hence also of the Trojan and Persian Wars) are traced back to mutual rapes of women by Greek and oriental kidnappers. See e.g. Forrest 1963, 8; Whitman 1964, 67; Dover 1972, 87; Sansone 1985; Fisher 1993, 37; Olson 2002, liii–liv, 209–211; Brockmann 2003, 112–121; Wright 2007, 414–417. In any case, the theme is very old and hallowed in Greek mythical thinking. Paris’ abduction of Helen as the cause of the Trojan War is the classic example, and it was also used in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros as a satirical mythical parable for the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War (see below, note 17). Reciprocal abductions of women may also have been mentioned, as a kind of background to the Trojan War, in Telephus’ defence speech in the homonymous Euripidean tragedy, which is the main model of Aristophanes’ parody (Kraus 1985, 55; Heath 1987). More broadly, the outbreak of a great feud because of illicit love-affairs and womanizing is a persistent pattern in the popular imaginary. It survives, for example, in another celebrated body of legends, from a much later time, concerning the clash between Guelphs and Ghibellines in 13th-century Florence. As narrated in the Cronica of Giovanni Villani (VI 38), Buondelmonte de’ Buondelmonti, a young Florentine dandy, was pledged to marry a lady from the distinguished Amidei family; but he fell in love with a beautiful damsel from the house of the Donati, and for her sake he broke his engagement with the Amidei girl. The Amidei clan and their relatives took revenge for this insult by murdering Buondelmonte on Easter day 1216. Thus the city of Florence was thrown into generalized civil strife, because all the noble families took sides either with the Buondelmonti (who joined the Guelph party) or with the Amidei and their relatives the Uberti (who were the leaders of the Ghibellines). Once again, a bloody historical conflict of genuinely political nature is attributed to the allure of a beautiful woman and the consequent amatory troubles. Cf. Dante, Inferno XXVIII 103–111, Paradiso XVI 136–147, and Singleton 1989, 516–519. 16 Thucydides 2.65: ὁ Περικλῆς ... ἐπειρᾶτο τοὺς Ἀθηναίους τῆς τε ἐς αὑτὸν ὀργῆς παραλύειν καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν παρόντων δεινῶν ἀπάγειν τὴν γνώμην. οἱ δὲ ... ἰδίᾳ δὲ τοῖς παθήμασιν ἐλυποῦντο, ὁ μὲν δῆμος ὅτι ἀπ’ ἐλασσόνων ὁρμώμενος ἐστέρητο καὶ τούτων, οἱ δὲ δυνατοὶ καλὰ κτήματα κατὰ τὴν χώραν οἰκοδομίαις τε καὶ πολυτελέσι κατασκευαῖς ἀπολωλεκότες, τὸ δὲ μέγιστον, πόλεμον ἀντ’ εἰρήνης ἔχοντες. οὐ μέντοι πρότερόν γε οἱ ξύμπαντες ἐπαύσαντο ἐν ὀργῇ ἔχοντες αὐτὸν πρὶν

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similarly satirized Pericles for bringing about the war as a by-product of his irrepressible philandering. According to a synopsis of the plot preserved on a papyrus (P.Oxy. 663, Dionysalexandros test. i Kassel/Austin), the Athenian leader was travestied under the personage of the cowardly and womanizing Dionysus, who disguised himself as Paris and took the latter’s place as arbiter in the famous beauty contest of the three goddesses. Ceding to Aphrodite’s alluring promises, the lustful Dionysus-Pericles abducted Helen from Sparta and thus provoked the Lacedaemonians into invading Ilium and ravaging the land. All this functioned as a transparent comic metaphor or allegory for the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War and the Spartans’ destructive invasions into Attica. 17 Once again, comedy may have mirrored a strand of public opinion. There must have been a diffused popular belief in Athens that Pericles had dragged the city into a gratuitous conflict due to his sombre personal vices. 18 Topical reasons and petty motivations of this kind may be scorned by profound thinkers such as Thucydides, who search for the deepest forces of necessity under the historical process; but in the immediate circumstances they were bound to have considerable impact on the collective popular conscience. The common man in the agora always was and is ready to accept such simplistic and reductionist explanations of the events, all the more so since he is incapable of penetrating into the depths of Thucydidean analysis. By exploiting these vulgar prejudices and conspiracy theories, Dicaeopolis indirectly suggests a broader message about the causes and purposes of the Peloponnesian War. This conflict (the comic hero insinuates) is not about important strategic or geopolitical interests of the city but was caused by more or less insignificant provocations, such as minor skirmishes with marginal members of the Peloponnesian coalition and personal grudges of the political leaders. Therefore, since the clash was occa-

 ἐζημίωσαν χρήμασιν, “Pericles ... tried to appease the Athenians’ anger toward him and to divert their thoughts away from their immediate sufferings. But ... in private they were distressed by their afflictions. For the common people, who had had little to start with, were now deprived even of this; while the upper classes had lost their beautiful estates in the country with their houses and luxurious equipment, and above all they had war instead of peace. Indeed, all of them persisted in their resentment against Pericles and did not give up until they condemned him to pay a fine”. 17 On Cratinus’ play and its political symbolisms see Luppe 1966; Schwarze 1971, 6–24; Rosen 1988, 49–55; Casolari 2003, 78f., 98–112, 122–125; Sifakis 2006, 26–29, 36–43; Wright 2007, 417– 426; Bakola 2010, 81–102, 180–208, 253–272, 285–304; Bianchi 2016, 198–301. 18 Cf. Gomme 1938, 106f.; MacDowell 1983, 154; Kraus 1985, 55f., 97; MacDowell 1995, 66; Bertelli 1999, 53; Olson 2002, xxxix, 209–212; Brockmann 2003, 118–120.

  Ioannis Konstantakos sioned by such trivial matters and involves no crucial stakes for the Athenian empire, the war may easily be ended, if only the Athenian leaders show less intransigence. 19 Given the solid grounding of Dicaeopolis’ speech in collective mental stereotypes, it is no surprise that half of the Chorus are persuaded and won over to the hero’s side. They expressly acknowledge that everything stated by Dicaeopolis is right and true (560f.); and they are willing to come to his defence and protect him from the physical assault of his opponents, namely, the other half of the Chorus (564f.). 20 For indeed the other semichorus persist in their warlike attitude, even though they implicitly admit that Dicaeopolis’ argumentation is right; what they dispute is the appropriateness of openly declaring such foul backstage transactions in the present circumstances, while the city is toiling under the war effort (562f.). 21 The dissident Chorus-men, therefore, call general Lamachus to assistance (566–571). In the ensuing scene Dicaeopolis, encouraged by his first successful bout of oratorical chicanery, launches a second round of demagogic rhetoric in order to discredit the warmongering Lamachus and gain the favour of the remaining pro-war Acharnians. For this purpose, Dicaeopolis denounces Lamachus as a cowardly dodger, who hunts after military office in order to be appointed ex officio to various diplomatic missions and thus avoid active service in the battlefield (597–619). Paradoxically, Lamachus has put himself up for election to the stratēgia not with a view to leading the Athenian army in battle but with the purpose of escaping war duty altogether. In this respect, Lamachus is held up in the play as the emblematic representative of the entire faction of warmongering Athenian demagogues and is associated with a long list of contemporary statesmen of the same clique; all of them are men of high political ambition who exploit the turbulent circumstances of the war in order to advance their own public careers and secure wellpaid state offices and honours (601–606). 22 The implication is that the war serves only the interests of these avid elites, not those of the city at large.

 19 Cf. Edmunds 1980, 12f.; Reckford 1987, 183f.; Olson 2002, xxxii, xxxv–xxxvi, xxxix, xlii; Bertelli 2013, 113f.; Gavray 2013, 502. 20 Cf. MacDowell 1983, 154f.; MacDowell 1995, 67. 21 Cf. Kraus 1985, 57; Carey 1993, 251; Olson 2002, 219. 22 On Lamachus’ figure, its political background and implications, see the most recent discussion by Konstantakos 2016a with further bibliography; see also Walcot 1971, 42f.; Henderson 1990, 305f.; Olson 1991, 201f.; Olson 1998, 132f.; Olson 2002, xl–xlii; Whitehorne 2005, 41f.; Lauriola 2010, 193–195, 220f.

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By contrast, Dicaeopolis promotes himself as the exact opposite of such unscrupulous careerists: he describes himself as a plain and good citizen, who conscientiously serves as a soldier in the war, endures the tough life of military campaigns and fights for his home city (594–597). ΔΙΚ. ἐγὼ γάρ εἰμι πτωχός; ΛΑΜ. ἀλλὰ τίς γὰρ εἶ; ΔΙΚ. ὅστις; πολίτης χρηστός, οὐ σπουδαρχίδης, ἀλλ᾽ ἐξ ὅτου περ ὁ πόλεμος, στρατωνίδης, σὺ δ᾽ ἐξ ὅτου περ ὁ πόλεμος, μισθαρχίδης. DICAEOPOLIS. You think I am a beggar? LAMACHUS. Well, what are you then? DICAEOPOLIS. What am I? A good citizen: not a placehuntsman, but ever since the war began, an armyman, while you, ever since the war began, you are a highpayman!

This pattern of contrast between the loyal patriot and the cowardly deserter is of course a staple ingredient of ancient Athenian political invective, both in comic poetry and in oratory. The statesmen and demagogues who are satirized in the plays of Old Comedy are often cast as faint-hearted dodgers and inveterate avoiders of the battlefield. 23 The same topos persists in the public debates of the fourth century over the vexed Macedonian question. In his acrimonious harangues against Demosthenes, Aeschines accuses his opponent of being a military deserter (2.148) and at the same time presents himself as a staunch soldier who has served his homeland in many expeditions and has won distinction for his bravery in battle (2.167–172). 24 In the Acharnians, however, this standard antithesis reveals another interesting aspect. The hero’s new self-portrait, which emerges through his confrontation with Lamachus, is at odds both with his peace campaign and with the manner of his presentation in the earlier scenes of the play. Up to this point, Dicaeopolis has been introduced as a disgruntled farmer who hates his coercion in the city and longs for his former peaceful life in the fields. Now, for the first time, he poses as a committed soldier and takes pride in his military discipline and impeccable army service. This shift of perspective may be connected with Dicaeopolis’ attempt to ingratiate himself with the hardcore supporters of the war, the Chorusmen who remain hostile to his peace project. If they were not won over by his  23 See e.g. the notorious Cleonymus in Aristophanes, Knights 1369–1372; Clouds 353f.; Wasps 19–23, 592, 822f.; Peace 444–446, 673–678; Birds 1470–1481; Eupolis fr. 352; and the cowardly Peisandros in Birds 1556–1564; Phrynichus fr. 21; Eupolis fr. 35. Cf. Konstantakos 2015, 58f.; Konstantakos 2016a, 151f. 24 Cf. Serafim 2015, 105.

  Ioannis Konstantakos exploitation of popular prejudices about the causes of the conflict, they will be moved by his patriotic credo and his jingoistic profession of military loyalty. Once again, the comic hero proves to be an expert in the psychology of the populace. While Lamachus is taken aback and humiliated by Dicaeopolis’ torrent of abuse, the remaining semichorus are appeased and convinced about the justice of the hero’s cause (626f.). 25 The description of Dicaeopolis’ behaviour hitherto might create the impression that he is a rather sinister figure: a man nearly as unscrupulous as the politicians he execrates, ready to exploit all the demagogic artifices and the misleading rhetorical methods of the accursed populists, even though he does so for an ostensibly good cause; in short, a kind of “Machiavelli of peace”. 26 Nonetheless, it would be wrong to evoke this one-sided picture of the protagonist in order to draw broader conclusions about the ideological meaning of the play or the poet’s stance towards peace and its supporters. Firstly, it must be taken into account that this kind of ponēria (to use Cedric Whitman’s term) — the cunning appropriation of every craft of speech, practical trick or even shameless fraud — is a standard constituent of the character of the Aristophanic hero, part of his vital force and irresistible scenic charm, as well as an inevitable means for the realization of his wonderful fantastic plan. 27 Secondly and most importantly, the script of the comedy repeatedly identifies Dicaeopolis with the voice, the experiences and the intentions of the comic poet. 28 Even the hero’s masterful practice of rhetorical apatē, by means of which he divides and then wholly converts to his own side an

 25 Cf. Whitman 1964, 68f. 26 On the dark and sinister aspects of Dicaeopolis’ personality, considered from various angles, see the discussions of Dover 1972, 87f.; Bowie 1982, 38–40; Foley 1988, 45f.; Bowie 1993, 27–44; Fisher 1993, 34–36, 39–44; Wilson 2007, 271–278. As I attempt to show in the following pages, this is a one-sided view. In defence of Dicaeopolis cf. the remarks of Kraus 1985, 76f., 100f.; Parker 1991, 204–206; Carey 1993, 247–251; Vanhaegendoren 1996, 94–100; Demont 1997, 471f.; Hesk 2000, 267; Wilkins 2000, 140f.; Slater 2002, 258f.; Nelson 2016, 125–131. 27 Whitman 1964, 29–58; cf. Konstantakos 2017, 122–124. Regarding Dicaeopolis in particular cf. Whitman 1964, 64–70, 76–79; Olson 2002, xliii–xliv. 28 Much has been written on the connections and parallels between Dicaeopolis and the comic poet: see Edmunds 1980, 9–12, 25, 29; Bowie 1982, 29–32, 39f.; MacDowell 1983, 148f.; Kraus 1985, 44–47, 50f., 95f.; Reckford 1987, 174, 179, 181, 189f.; Perusino 1987, 20f., 25–30; Foley 1988; Sutton 1988; Parker 1991, 207f.; Hubbard 1991, 43–47; van Steen 1994, 213, 219–222; MacDowell 1995, 77f.; Riu 1995; Dobrov 1995, 82–94; Demont 1997, 472f.; Dobrov 2001, 33–37, 48–51; Olson 2002, xlv–l, 172f., 200f.; Slater 2002, 50–52, 56–58, 65f., 253–255, 258; Brockmann 2003, 142–147, 156–174, 178f.; Imperio 2004, 27–30, 58–67, 122, 133; Saetta Cottone 2005, 265f., 275, 315–319; Ludwig 2007, 487–490; Lauriola 2010, 22–31, 170–175, 191f., 195–199, 210f., 226; Biles 2011, 57f., 70–96; Rosen 2012, 7–14. Some scholars emphasize the multiple roles played by Dicaeopolis in

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initially hostile party, finds a close parallel in the relationship between the poet and his audience, as it is reflected in the play. 29 Like Dicaeopolis after his oration, so Aristophanes is confronting a strongly divided body of his fellow-citizens in the theatre. Some of the spectators would have been weary of the war and ready to embrace the protagonist’s peace project; others would have shared the aggressive desire for revenge against Sparta or the belief that the war benefited themselves and the city. The comic poet needs to ensure the favour of both parties, so far as possible, in order to win the prize. He therefore adopts an ambiguous rhetorical strategy similar to his hero’s doublesided tactics. The entire plot of the Acharnians is an advocacy of peace and a denunciation of warmongering. Aristophanes shows the Athenians all the marvellous pleasures of peacetime which they have been deprived of for so many years because of the military conflict: freedom of movement and commerce, abundance of luxurious foodstuffs in the market, leisurely life in the fields, celebration of country festivals, carefree enjoyment of nature and its resources. Simultaneously, he insinuates that the war brings no real profit to Athens and benefits noone but a greedy clique of corrupt politicians. Thus, the total of the comic script has much the same function, by relation to the audience, as Dicaeopolis’ speech within the world of the play. The comic hero’s intra-dramatic rhetorical show and

 the course of the action and the resulting “destabilization” of his voice or its “fragmentation” into different personae, which would supposedly render his identification with the comic poet problematic: see Goldhill 1991, 186–196; Bowie 1993, 28f.; Fisher 1993, 32–44; Hesk 2000, 264– 272; Ruffell 2011, 350f.; Nelson 2016, 132–139; cf. Carey 1993, 254–257. This stems from a misunderstanding of the essential nature of Aristophanes’ characters. Especially the main heroes of Aristophanes’ plays are very complex, kaleidoscopic personalities, who assimilate and merge together many dramatic identities, standard comic types, character aspects, ethological models and patterns of behaviour. Each one of them is a vast “Walt Whitman” containing multitudes, an anthropological Aleph. See the seminal discussions of Silk 1990 and Silk 2000, 207–255, and cf. Konstantakos 2016b, 405. In Dicaeopolis’ case, the intra-dramatic reflection of the comic poet is one of the elements which make up the comic hero’s composite and multilayered personality — one among many others (such as the agroikos, demagogic orator, tragic parodist, Telephus, buffoonish bōmolochos, master cook etc.). This does not mean that Dicaeopolis cannot stand for the comic poet when he indicates so, or that he should not be taken to represent the comic writer’s views when he expressly claims to advocate them. The identity of the Aristophanic protagonist is accumulative; it is a mosaic in which each one of the tesserae is visible as a separate entity and all of them together are combined to create a larger picture. The coexistence with other ingredients does not annul or cast into doubt the substance and value of any single element in itself. 29 Regarding the parallelism between internal and external audience in the Acharnians cf. Perusino 1987, 29f.; van Steen 1994, 216–218; Ruffell 2011, 289–292, 298–300, 349f.; Rosen 2012, 13– 17.

  Ioannis Konstantakos the comic poet’s overall dramatic performance share the same purpose of delegitimizing the war, denouncing the vicious political elites which pursue it, and cultivating a desire to end the conflict. In the parabasis, however, the comic poet, speaking through the mouth of his Chorus, fosters a different image of himself. Now Aristophanes poses as an excellent military counsellor that will help his compatriots defeat Sparta. 30 The poet claims that the fame of his outspoken public poetry and his righteous comic invective reached the ears of the Great King of Persia, who was impressed by the young writer’s bravery. As the king remarked, the city which is assisted by the advice of such a counsellor is bound to win the war (646–651): ὄντως δ᾽ αὐτοῦ περὶ τῆς τόλμης ἤδη πόρρω κλέος ἥκει, ὅτε καὶ βασιλεὺς Λακεδαιμονίων τὴν πρεσβείαν βασανίζων ἠρώτησεν πρῶτα μὲν αὐτοὺς πότεροι ταῖς ναυσὶ κρατοῦσιν, εἶτα δὲ τοῦτον τὸν ποιητὴν ποτέρους εἴποι κακὰ πολλά· τούτους γὰρ ἔφη τοὺς ἀνθρώπους πολὺ βελτίους γεγενῆσθαι καὶ τῷ πολέμῳ πολὺ νικήσειν τοῦτον ξύμβουλον ἔχοντας. Indeed, the fame of his boldness has already travelled so far that even the Persian King, when he was interrogating the Spartans’ embassy, asked them first of all which one of the two sides has the supremacy in ships, and then which side is plentifully abused by this poet; for, as the King said, those people have become better men and will gain a great victory in the war with him for an adviser.

Aristophanes forwards himself as a symboulos of his fellow-citizens in matters of war. Behind the obvious irony and the tongue-in-cheek self-assertiveness of the young genius, we must not miss the notably belligerent stance. 31 The comic author is now depicted as a major contributor to the city’s war effort, a figure that can lead Athens to victory. In fact, the poet’s comic self-aggrandizement borders on alazoneia. With his boasts about his boldness and wide-reaching literary fame, Aristophanes becomes a poeta gloriosus, comparable, to some extent, to the boastful general Lamachus and other military braggarts of the same type. 32 The poet takes pride in

 30 Cf. (once again from the corpus of fourth-century public oratory) Demosthenes’ self-presentation as a sound and patriotic counsellor of the Athenians at a time of acute military crisis (18.170‒179); Serafim 2015, 101–105. 31 On the belligerence of the parabasis and its emphasis on military victory cf. Forrest 1963, 4; Bowie 1982, 40; Bowie 1988, 184; Hubbard 1991, 52; Goldhill 1991, 198f.; Carey 1993, 256; Demont 1997, 474; Olson 2002, xlvii; Imperio 2004, 27f., 134. 32 Aristophanes’ alazoneia at this point is also noted by Whitman 1964, 79f.; Bowie 1982, 39f.

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his daring and courageousness (τόλμης, 646), which he displayed by openly criticizing the ills of Athenian foreign policy and of the relations between Athens and its allies (633–645). 33 He stresses that he placed himself at risk (παρεκινδύνευσ’, 645) by exercizing this brave kind of critique, because of the ready slander of his enemies and the mutability of Athenian public opinion (630–632). 34 In a way, these claims of great audacity recall the typical comic soldier’s boasts about his bravery in war; the miles gloriosus similarly describes his indomitable resistance against his enemies, the berserk quality of his fighting, the great battles he has given and won, the terror he inspires to his opponents, the grave wounds he has sustained in combat. 35 Aristophanes practically transfers the soldier’s warlike braggadocio to his own field of activity, that is, poetic creation and especially the public and admonitory function of theatrical art. Like the magniloquent captain of the comic stage, the poet asserts that he faces his dangerous enemies and the unpredictable Athenian audience without fear and without flinching from his duty. The same kind of transposition is applied to another emblematic trait of the typical braggart soldier. The latter, especially in later Greek and Roman comedy, regularly boasts of enjoying a special relationship and high favour with powerful kings or potentates of his contemporary world, especially with despots of the great empires of the Orient, such as Seleucus (Plautus, Miles 72–77, 947–951) and other Hellenistic magnates of Asia (Terence, Eunuchus 397–413, Phoenicides fr. 4.6–8) or even Alexander the Great himself (Theophrastus, Characters 23.3). 36 This kind of boast can be viewed as a standard ingredient of the comic type of the miles, on a par with his tales about his supposed feats of bravery and battle exploits. Once again, Aristophanes transplants and adapts this quality of the military blowhard to his own authorial activity and his reputation as a dramatist. The

 33 On the content and implications of Aristophanes’ criticism of Athens in these lines see Bowie 1982, 29–31, 38–40; Perusino 1987, 20–25; Hubbard 1991, 49–52; Olson 2002, 237–240; Imperio 2004, 122–133; Saetta Cottone 2005, 269–282, 315; Lauriola 2010, 24f., 198f.; Biles 2011, 76–83. 34 The claim of courage and boldness is a recurrent topos in Aristophanic parabases; see Lauriola 2010, 43–51. 35 See e.g. Aristophanes, Acharnians 1190–1226; Ephippus fr. 2; Mnesimachus fr. 7; Menander, Misoumenos fr. 4 Arnott; Menander fr. 607 Kassel/Austin (= Kolax fr. 7 Arnott); Phoenicides fr. 4.4–10; Plautus, Curculio 533f., 555f., 572–576; Epidicus 442–455; Miles 11–54; Terence, Eunuchus 482f.; Lucian, Dialogues of Courtesans 13. Cf. Ribbeck 1882, 27–42; Legrand 1917, 95–97, 163–165; Konstantakos 2015, 43f., 74; Konstantakos 2016a, 132f. with further references. 36 Cf. also Antiphanes fr. 200 (the Cypriot king of Paphos); Damoxenus fr. 1 and Adesp. Com. fr. 934 (famous Macedonian field marshals); Theophrastus, Characters 23.4 (Antipater of Macedon); Konstantakos 2000, 217.

  Ioannis Konstantakos greatest monarch of the world, the king of Persia, knows Aristophanes’ name and admires his work — not of course his capacities in war operations or his social skills in the symposium (as happens in the case of the ordinary milites gloriosi of comic theatre), but the outspokenness, the wisdom and the public value of his poetic writings. The pattern has been transformed in accordance with Aristophanes’ area of distinction, but the analogy with the swaggering officer’s attitude is evident. In the following verses of the parabasis the comic poet goes so far as to advise the Athenian public not to accept the peace terms offered by the enemy. Sparta is purportedly proposing a peace treaty on condition that the Athenians give away Aegina, the island which is apparently considered here as the comic dramatist’s home or place of origin. 37 The Athenians are strongly warned against conceding this; they should stick to their great writer even at the cost of waging war (652– 656). διὰ τοῦθ᾽ ὑμᾶς Λακεδαιμόνιοι τὴν εἰρήνην προκαλοῦνται καὶ τὴν Αἴγιναν ἀπαιτοῦσιν· καὶ τῆς νήσου μὲν ἐκείνης οὐ φροντίζουσ᾽, ἀλλ᾽ ἵνα τοῦτον τὸν ποιητὴν ἀφέλωνται. ἀλλ᾽ ὑμεῖς τοι μή ποτ᾽ ἀφῆσθ᾽· ὡς κωμῳδήσει τὰ δίκαια· φησὶν δ᾽ ὑμᾶς πολλὰ διδάξειν ἀγάθ᾽, ὥστ᾽ εὐδαίμονας εἶναι. This is why the Spartans propose peace and demand the return of Aegina. They are not concerned, of course, about that island; what they have in mind is to take away from you this poet. But as for you, never you let go of him; for in his comedies he will present what is right. He says that he will teach you many excellent things, which will bring you good fortune.

All this is permeated again with self-sarcasm and the jeering spirit of comic reversal. Nevertheless, it can hardly escape notice that Aristophanes is here contradicting the message of peace which dominates the rest of his play. Athenians should not have started the war for the sake of a few prostitutes; but now that their arch-poet is being claimed by the enemy, they must pursue the armed clash until final victory. The poet’s sudden shift is analogous to Dicaeopolis’ self-presentation as a patriotic soldier. The comic hero posed as a dutiful army man in order to win the favour of the belligerent faction of the Acharnians, those who were not persuaded

 37 Concerning Aristophanes’ connections to Aegina see the survey of possibilities in Figueira 1991, 54–57, 79–93; Olson 2002, 241f.; Brockmann 2003, 184–192; and Imperio 2004, 135–137 with further references.

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by his discourse on ending the war. Aristophanes similarly dresses up as a consultant of war and an unyielding rejectionist of compromizing peace terms, with a view to appeasing the pro-war part of the audience, those spectators who were infuriated against Sparta and were not convinced by his demonstration of the pointlessness of the conflict. The play in its entirety is an attempt to transmit a message in favour of peace, to promote among the Athenian public a tendency towards termination of the hostilities. However, for the spectators who remain stalwart partisans of the war policy, Aristophanes has included a loud caveat, prominently placed at the centre of his play, so as to avoid their displeasure. 38 Indeed, the comic poet displays the same kind of ambiguous attitude in other instances in the course of his drama, whenever he attempts to formulate a controversial message concerning debated issues of Athenian public life. 39

 38 This does not mean that the audience is called to take the poet’s ironical self-portrait as literally true. As in the case of Dicaeopolis’ oration on the causes of the war (which is also not to be viewed as literal truth and historical reality), so also with regard to the parabasis the true importance lies in the symbolical value of the passage: namely, the poet’s claim to patriotism and participation in the communal war effort. Within his polyphonic work, Aristophanes includes elements that are appropriate for each one of the factions of the divided Athenian people: every spectator, regardless of his stance on the war, would find something to identify with in the world of the play. 39 A miniature example, as though “in a nutshell”, is found in the second part of the parabasis (676–718). The old men of the Chorus complain of the harsh and unjust treatment they receive from ruthless young prosecutors in the courts of justice. These young rascals are said to use the full force of their rhetorical eloquence in order to confuse and trap the pitiable elderly defendants during the trial; the latter are so weak from old age that they cannot properly speak in their own defence and are thus condemned to heavy fines. The epirrhēma (676–691) and the antode (692– 702) describe this phenomenon in general terms, as though it were a common occurrence in Athens. The antepirrhēma (703–718) refers specifically to the case of Thucydides son of Melesias, a prominent aristocratic statesman and Pericles’ main political rival in older times (the 450s and 440s). The elderly Thucydides had been lately prosecuted on some public charge but failed to defend himself effectively in court and was presumably sentenced to pay an enormous fine, which resulted in his definitive removal from political action (see Borthwick 2000; Napolitano 2002; Olson 2002, 252–256; and Imperio 2004, 157–163 with further references). Clearly, this more or less recent judicial incident has inspired the entire tirade about the tribulations of old men in Athenian courts (cf. Kraus 1985, 65f.; Bertelli 1999, 56f.; Olson 2002, 245, 252; Napolitano 2002, 90, 101f.; Imperio 2004, 111f.; Lauriola 2010, 201f.). Aristophanes devotes half of the parabasis to defending an oligarchic politician, an opponent of radical democrats such as Pericles, and to complaining of his unfair treatment at the hands of unscrupulous and depraved demagogues — doubtless men of the radical, populist faction of Pericles’ successors, like the demagogue Euathlus (cf. Wasps 590–593 and Napolitano 2002). Nevertheless, at the end of the antepirrhēma, after he has insinuated his political message, the poet employs again, in lieu of a caveat, a cunning artifice. The Chorus turns everything into a joke by proposing a fantastic and ludicrous counter-

  Ioannis Konstantakos The Acharnians, as a whole, appears thus to be a masterly exercise in ambivalence. Both the comic poet and the hero, who serves as the poet’s intra-dramatic reflection, amply use the rhetorical weapons of their opponents, the fallacious and corrupt demagogues. 40 Popular stereotypes and prejudices, slander and unfounded gossip, conspiracy theories, crass simplification, psychological manipulation and even chauvinism and jingoism are exploited in order to denounce the purveyors of these same methods in Athenian public life. Like the populist demagogues, the comic poet and his protagonist employ these oratorical techniques in order to exploit the deep rift in the Athenian public opinion and turn it to their own advantage. The immediate goal is to divide the body of the opponent’s supporters and convert as many of them as possible to the hero’s side. The ultimate aim is to isolate the opponent and unite virtually the totality of the Athenian citizenry against him. In order to fulfil this circle of division and unification, the comic writer and his intra-dramatic representative display the same rhetorical ruthlessness as their execrable enemies. Overall, the result looks somewhat like those nightmarish fictions of Borges, in which the hero and his enemy prove to be doppelgängers, each one an alter ego or a flipside of the other. 41 Aristophanes is obliged to become a Lamachus among poets, and Dicaeopolis manipulates his listeners with the guile of another Cleon. We are not far from the vicious universe of the Knights, where the great villain of the state can be countered and ousted only by a rival who is equally base and degenerate. However, in a city like ancient Athens (as also in a state like Modern Greece) the public intellectual has perhaps no other way. Straightforward and sound advice is not potent enough to get into the hearts of an obstinate and gullible population. A good measure of ponēria is necessary. The adverse forces must be fought with their own weapons and be beaten in their own game. The price to pay  measure: trials should be conducted separately for different age groups, so that young men prosecute only young defendants and old men only elderly ones (713–718). In this way, the entire discourse, albeit politically charged with a specific ideology, is finally travestied as a plain comic fantasy. The poet thus strives to avoid the displeasure of those members of the audience who were attached to the radical democratic ideas and would not have felt sympathy for the aristocratic Thucydides. Cf. the similar argument of Slater 2002, 260 with regard to the Megarian’s scene. 40 Cf. Demont 1997, 470–478. In particular, on the demagogic tactics of the comic poet, which are similar to those of his hero (see above, note 10), cf. Hesk 2000, 269–272; Olson 2002, xlviii– lii. 41 See e.g. the stories The Shape of the Sword, Theme of the Traitor and the Hero, Death and the Compass, Three Versions of Judas, The End, The Theologians, Biography of Tadeo Isidoro Cruz, Deutsches Requiem, The Confrontation, The Duel: Borges 1974, 491–507, 514–521, 550–556, 561– 563, 576–581, 1039–1043, 1053–1057.

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for a good civic cause is to lose something of oneself and appropriate a portion of the enemy’s self, so as to attract and convert the enemy’s supporters. And in the Acharnians the cause is truly a good one: not simply to end a destructive and pointless war, but to combat public strife and division, the perennial vice of the Greek collective psyche. The great comic poet strives to enforce a hard-earned mythopoeic unity on a harsh reality of profound civic discord. Classical Athenian democracy is arguably, in some respects, one of the most overrated forms of polity. With its unabated ideological clashes, the turmoil of the public assembly and the lay courts, the unashamed populism and the widespread corruption of the politicians, the inveterate inconstancy of a people that were at once hopelessly undisciplined and very easily misled by demagoguery, the city of ancient Athens would have been far from the well-ordered democracies of the modern West and probably closer to the chaotic conditions of Modern Greek political experience. Perhaps only someone who has suffered at first hand the disorder and confusion of the present-day Greek state can fully comprehend the ills and tribulations of public life in Classical Athens. This, however, is a topic for a different study.

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  Ioannis Konstantakos Riu, X. (1995), ‘Gli insulti alla polis nella parabasi degli Acarnesi’, in: Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica n.s. 50, 59–66. Rosen, R.M. (1988), Old Comedy and the Iambographic Tradition, Atlanta. Rosen, R.M. (2012), ‘Efficacy and Meaning in Ancient and Modern Political Satire: Aristophanes, Lenny Bruce, and Jon Stewart’, in: Social Research 79, 1–32. Rosenbloom, D. (2002), ‘From Ponêros to Pharmakos: Theater, Social Drama, and Revolution in Athens, 428–404 BCE’, in: Classical Antiquity 21, 283–346. Rosenbloom, D. (2012), ‘Scripting Revolution: Democracy and its Discontents in Late Fifth-Century Drama’, in: A. Markantonatos/B. Zimmermann (eds.), Crisis on Stage. Tragedy and Comedy in Late Fifth-Century Athens, Berlin/Boston, 405–441. Rosenbloom, D. (2014), ‘The Politics of Comic Athens’, in: M. Fontaine/A.C. Scafuro (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford/New York, 297–320. Ruffell, I.A. (2011), Politics and Anti-Realism in Athenian Old Comedy. The Art of the Impossible, Oxford. Saetta Cottone, R. (2005), Aristofane e la poetica dell’ingiuria. Per una introduzione alla λοιδορία comica, Roma. Sansone, D. (1985), ‘The Date of Herodotus’ Publication’, in: Illinois Classical Studies 10, 1–9. Schwarze, J. (1971), Die Beurteilung des Perikles durch die attische Komödie und ihre historische und historiographische Bedeutung, München. Serafim, A. (2015), ‘Making the Audience: Ekphrasis and Rhetorical Strategy in Demosthenes 18 and 19’, in: Classical Quarterly 65, 96–108. Sifakis, G.M. (2006), ‘From Mythological Parody to Political Satire: Some Stages in the Evolution of Old Comedy’, in: Classica et Mediaevalia 57, 19–48. Silk, M.S. (1990), ‘The People of Aristophanes’, in: C. Pelling (ed.), Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature, Oxford, 150–173. Silk, M.S. (2000), Aristophanes and the Definition of Comedy, Oxford. Singleton, C.S. (1989), Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy: Inferno, vol. II: Commentary, Princeton. Sirago, V.A. (1961), ‘Campagna e contadini attici durante la guerra archidamica’, in: Orpheus 8, 9–52. Slater, N.W. (2002), Spectator Politics. Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes, Philadelphia. Sommerstein, A.H. (1980), The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. I: Acharnians, Warminster. Sommerstein, A.H. (1996), ‘How to Avoid Being a Komodoumenos’, in: Classical Quarterly 46, 327–356. Sommerstein, A.H. (2004), ‘Harassing the Satirist: The Alleged Attempts to Prosecute Aristophanes’, in: I. Sluiter/R.M. Rosen (eds.), Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, Leiden/Boston, 145–174. Sommerstein, A.H. (2014), ‘The Politics of Greek Comedy’, in: M. Revermann (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Comedy, Cambridge, 291–305. Stark, I. (1987), ‘Die Friedensstücke des Aristophanes’, in: M. Erxleben (ed.), Der Friedensgedanke im antiken Drama. Protokoll eines Kolloquiums, Stendal, 53–60. Sutton, D.F. (1988), ‘Dicaeopolis as Aristophanes, Aristophanes as Dicaeopolis’, in: Liverpool Classical Monthly 13, 105–108. Vanhaegendoren, K. (1996), Die Darstellung des Friedens in den Acharnern und im Frieden des Aristophanes. Stilistische Untersuchungen, Hamburg.

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Andreas N. Michalopoulos

Fighting Against an Intruder: A Comparative Reading of the Speeches of Pentheus (3.531–563) and Niobe (6.170–202) in Ovid’s Metamorphoses In this chapter, I attempt a comparative reading of the speeches of Pentheus and Niobe to the Thebans in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. 1 Although located in different books, the third 2 (3.531–563) and the sixth (6.170–202) respectively, these two speeches offer ample grounds for comparative treatment, since they share a major common theme: a Theban king and a Theban queen resist their citizens’ worship of a deity. Pentheus does not recognize the divinity of the new god Bacchus, while Niobe denounces the worship of Latona claiming that she herself is far superior. In what follows I discuss and compare the argumentation of Pentheus and Niobe and the language they employ. I explore if and how both speakers try to forge their proximity with the Thebans and promote their bonding and affiliation with them. I also investigate how they attempt to distance themselves from Bacchus and Latona respectively and to arouse their people’s hostility against these religious intruders. 3

 The two stories in brief This is a brief outline of the two stories: a) Pentheus’ story 4 comes right after the story of Narcissus, which proved the power and precision of Tiresias’ prophecies. Pentheus is introduced in the story  1 For Ovid’s rhetorical education and its influence on his poetry, see Brück 1909; Deratani 1916; Fränkel 1945; Bonner 1949, 149 with bibliography in n. 3, 150–156; Arnaldi 1958; Higham 1958; Naumann 1968; Oppel 1968, 35–36; Kennedy 1972, 405–419; Michel 1976 on Her. 7; Tarrant 1995; Fantham 2009. 2 For book 3 of the Metamorphoses as a “ktisis narrative recounting the foundation and early development of Thebes”, see Feldherr 1997, 40. 3 My approach has benefited greatly from Hardie 1990; Feldherr 1997; Janan 2004, 2009; McNamara 2010; Gildenhard/Zissos 2016. 4 For the closeness of the Pentheus episode to drama (extensive use of mimetic direct speech, inclusion of a narrative messenger speech, responses of a chorus) and for its tragic intertexts, see Wilkinson 1955, 226; D’Anna 1959; Otis 1966, 371–372; Currie 1980; McNamara 2010. For the https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-010

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos as Echionides and contemptor superum (3.513–514): spernit Echionides tamen hunc ex omnibus unus/contemptor superum Pentheus (“Still, Pentheus, the son of Echion, in scorn of the gods, alone amongst all of them, rejected the seer”). When he foolishly mocks Tiresias for his blindness (3.514–516: praesagaque ridet/verba senis tenebrasque et cladem lucis ademptae/obicit “[Pentheus] laughed at the old man’s words of augury, and taunted him with the darkness, and the ruin of his lost sight”), the prophet warns Pentheus about the imminent arrival of Bacchus. And when Bacchus arrives, the king Pentheus rejects the foreign and the unbelievable, and rebukes the citizens of Thebes for welcoming this unmanly new god and for allowing their city to be captured by an unarmed boy. He laments the fall of his kingdom and even sends men to arrest the pretender (3.531–563). 5 b) Niobe’s story comes right after the story of Arachne’s harsh punishment by Minerva. Niobe is the queen of Thebes, wife of the king Amphion. The women of Thebes following the advice of Tiresias’ daughter, Manto, are worshipping the goddess Latona. Niobe mocks her people for listening to Manto and orders them to abandon any worship of Latona and to honour herself instead as a true goddess.

 General similarities Before treating the speeches of Pentheus and Niobe in detail, the following general similarities between the two cases can be pointed out. Strikingly, both speeches have the same length, 33 lines in total. Pentheus and Niobe face a similar problem: their people participate in large numbers in the worship of a foreign deity. Tiresias is involved in both stories, either in person or through his daughter, Manto. In both stories there is a similar prophecy for Pentheus (3.517–518: “‘quam felix esses, si tu quoque luminis huius/orbus’ ait ‘fieres, ne Bacchica sacra videres!’” “How happy you would be if these dispossessed orbs were yours, so as not to see the sacred rites of Bacchus!”) and for Niobe (6.155–156: et felicissima

 importance of tragic conventions and Dionysian themes in the whole Theban section of the Metamorphoses, see Keith 2002, 263–264. 5 Ovid’s treatment of Pentheus’ story is largely based on Euripides’ Bacchae, see Bӧmer 1969, 570–624, Keith 2002, 264–265; Pentheus’ hostility to Dionysus (Met. 3.531–561 ~ Bacch. 215–370), his order that the imposter be apprehended (Met. 3.562–563 ~ Bacch. 352–357), the opposition of Cadmus and the rest of the Thebans to Pentheus (Met. 3.564–565 ~ Bacch. 330–469).

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matrum/dicta foret Niobe, si non sibi visa fuisset. 6 “And Niobe would have been spoken of as the most fortunate of mothers, if she had not seemed so to herself.”) Both rival gods of Pentheus and Niobe are pursued by Juno because a) Dionysus is the son of Jupiter and Semele, and b) Latona slept with Jupiter and gave birth to Apollo and Artemis. 7 Both Pentheus and Niobe fight against rivals with whom they have familial — or almost familial — ties: Dionysus is Pentheus’ cousin (he is the son of Semele, the sister of Agave, Pentheus’ mother). Niobe boasts that Zeus is her father-in-law, since Zeus is Amphion’s father from Antiope. Consequently, both Niobe’s mother-in-law (Antiope) and Latona have been Zeus’ mistresses. Last, but not least, neither Pentheus nor Niobe will be punished directly by the gods they offended. 8 Their punishment will be inflicted by the Maenads (Pentheus) and by Diana and Apollo (Niobe).

 Pentheus and Niobe address the Thebans Pentheus speaks to the Theban audience all alone, without anyone accompanying him, as one might expect given that he is the king of Thebes. It soon turns out that this isolation carries a special symbolism. On the other hand, Niobe arrives with an escort and looks angry but beautiful (6.165–167: ecce venit comitum Niobe celeberrima turba/vestibus intexto Phrygiis spectabilis auro/et, quantum ira sinit, formosa. “Look, Niobe comes, followed by a crowded throng, visible, in her Phrygian robes woven with gold, and as beautiful as anger will let her be.”). In the build-up towards her oration, the narrator points out that Niobe was not warned by Arachne’s harsh punishment (6.150–151: nec tamen admonita est poena popularis Arachnes,/cedere caelitibus verbisque minoribus uti. “Nevertheless she was not warned by her countrywoman’s fate, to give the gods precedence, and use more modest words”), hence, one can only expect that Niobe is going to use verba magna/maiora. 9

 6 Cf. Tiresias’ prophecy for another Theban, Narcissus (Ov. Met. 3.348): fatidicus vates “si se non noverit” inquit. (“the seer with prophetic vision replied ‘If he does not discover himself’”). 7 Niobe, however, suppresses the fact that Apollo and Diana are the children of Zeus, see Rosati 2009 on 6.188–189. 8 On blasphemy as a common signal of impending disaster in the Metamorphoses, see Hill 1992 on Met. 5.11. 9 On the metaliterary implications of these verba maiora in association with the imminent tragic ending of Niobe’s story, see Rosati 2009, ad loc.

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos Unlike Pentheus, Niobe takes particular care in her posture and her movements before addressing her audience (6.167–9): movensque decoro/cum capite inmissos umerum per utrumque capillos/constitit, utque oculos circumtulit alta superbos (“Turning her lovely head with the hair falling loose over both her shoulders, she pauses, and looks around with pride in her eyes, from her full height”). She seeks to impose on her audience and to earn their attention. All of them as a group and each one independently become the recipient of her words.

. Αudience Pentheus needs to tackle with the huge participation of the Thebans in Dionysus’ cult; young men, old men, women, noblemen and common people worship the new god (3.529–530): 10 turba ruit, mixtaeque viris matresque nurusque/vulgusque proceresque ignota ad sacra feruntur (“The crowd all run, fathers, mothers, young girls, princes and people, mixed together, swept towards the unknown rites”). It is precisely because of this wide participation that he must try to reverse the climate and get the Thebans back on his side. Nevertheless, persuasion is not directed to the women but only to the men of the city, although it was the women who were mainly involved in Dionysian worship. Pentheus’ choice may be justified by the contemporary social and political conditions, 11 but it is also extremely ironic, since he will find tragic death as a central figure in a worship rite he rejects and in the hands of the women (his mother among them), the members of the audience that he ignored. 12 Hence, right from the start, Pentheus’ strategy is problematic, which partly explains his eventual failure. On the other hand, Niobe needs to tackle with Manto’s exhortation to the Theban women to worship Latona and her children. Manto’s speech occupies only four lines and contains three imperatives, which highlight the urgency of her commands (6.159–162): “Ismenides, ite frequentes/et date Latonae Latonigenisque duobus/cum prece tura pia lauroque innectite crinem:/ore meo Latona iubet” (“Women of Thebes, Ismenides, go, as a crowd, and wreathe your hair with laurel, and bring incense with holy prayer to Latona, and Latona’s children, Diana and Apollo. Latona commands it through my mouth”). Manto closes her  10 For the large numbers in the crowd indicated by the accumulation of nouns and the conjunctive -que (polysyndeton), see McNamara 2010, 177. 11 For Pentheus as a tyrant, see Janan 2009, 187 n. 7. For a more sympathetic treatment of Pentheus, see McNamara 2010, 188–189. 12 See McNamara 2010, 179–180. On the contrary, in Euripides’ Bacchae Pentheus reprimands the women of Thebes specifically (215–232, 260–262).

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speech stating that she utters the words of the goddess herself (162): ore meo Latona iubet. Unlike Pentheus, Niobe faces only the women of Thebes, because only the women worship Latona (162–164). It is on the women that Niobe will impose her auctoritas, as will be seen shortly.

. Addressing the audience It is noteworthy that both speeches begin in the same way, the question quis furor? (3.531–532): quis furor, anguigenae, proles Mavortia, vestras/attonuit mentes? 13 (“What madness has stupefied your minds, children of the serpent, people of Mars?”) and (6.170–171): “quis furor auditos” inquit “praeponere visis/ caelestes?” (“What madness”, she says, “to prefer the gods you are told about to the ones you see?”). Both Pentheus and Niobe accuse their audience of being under the influence of furor; ironically, it is Pentheus and Niobe, rather than their audience that are overwhelmed by furor. 14 Pentheus calls the Thebans anguigenae, proles Mavortia “children of the serpent, people of Mars” (531). Both these names are of special importance and serve specific goals. The adjective anguigenae picks up the origin of the Thebans from the Sown Men, from the fighters who grew out of the serpent’s teeth which Cadmus had managed to kill in an epic struggle. As regards proles Mavortia, Pentheus obviously refers to Cadmus’ wife, Harmonia, who was the daughter of Mars and Venus. What’s more, the serpent killed by Cadmus was dedicated to Mars (cf. Met. 3.32). Hence, on a first level the modifier proles Mavortia for the Thebans is expected and justified. At second reading, this name serves the main goal of Pentheus’ oration, i.e. his attempt to address the Thebans’ honour and get them on his side. One of his main arguments, as will be discussed in more detail below, is the contrast between the unwarlike and effeminate followers of Bacchus and the tough Thebans, who are experienced in war and must now defend their city. Niobe does not address the Theban women in any particular way. In fact, she does not use the second person until about halfway through her speech (quaerite 184, audete 185) and later shortly before the end (fingite 197, ite 201, ponite 202).

 13 Ascanius used similar phrasing to rebuke the Trojan women for burning the Trojan ships (Verg. Aen. 5.670: “quis furor iste novus?” “What is this new madness of yours?”). Anderson (1993) 116 highlights the contrast between Ascanius’ piety and Pentheus’ blasphemy. Barchiesi (in Barchiesi-Rosati 2007 on Met. 3.531) notes that the phrase quis furor is frequent in Roman appeals against civil discord. 14 Anderson 1972 on Met. 6.170–172; Hardie 1990, 225; Rosati 2009 on Met. 6.170.

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos

. Forging bonds with the audience Pentheus’ aim is to persuade the Thebans to reject Bacchus. He attempts to unite the Theban community around the exclusion and punishment of the foreign god. To achieve his goal, he designates two opposing sides in his speech: “Us, the Thebans, our identity and origin, our principles and features” and “Him, our opponent, his principles and features”. Pentheus’ speech is practically a public suasoria, an exercise in persuasion by the king to his people. 15 To achieve his political goal Pentheus employs techniques of praise and blame: 16 he praises the Thebans and attacks Bacchus. The appeal to their common origin and their common past is the best way for Pentheus to identify with his audience. He addresses both the elders (3.538–540: vosne, senes, mirer, qui longa per aequora vecti/hac Tyron, hac profugos posuistis sede penates,/nunc sinitis sine Marte capi? “Should I admire you, elders, who, sailing the deep seas, sited your Tyre here, your exiled Penates, and now let them be taken without a fight?”) 17 and the young men of the city (3.540–542: vosne, acrior aetas,/o iuvenes, propiorque meae, quos arma tenere,/non thyrsos, galeaque tegi, non fronde decebat? “Or you younger men, of fresher age, nearer my own, for whom it was fitting to carry weapons and not the thyrsus, your heads covered with helmets not crowns of leaves?”). In fact, he attempts to associate himself mainly with the young Thebans, by stressing that he is closer to their age, that he is one of them (540–541: vosne, acrior aetas, / o iuvenes, propiorque meae). In his clear effort to win over the Thebans and unite them in a common front against the foreign intruder, Pentheus invests his speech with military garb and character. He speaks to the Thebans like a general to his army and refers to the arrival of Dionysus’ cult using terminology relevant to a military invasion. 18 The common origin and military past that Pentheus shares with the Thebans forge the bonds with them. The positioning of the words in line 561 nicely reflects the con-

 15 See McNamara 2010, 177–178 who further underlines the peculiarity of king Pentheus’ public speech being addressed to a large audience of Bacchic revelers (3.528–530). In this aspect, Pentheus’ speech also bears a resemblance to epideictic oratory. 16 For such techniques in ancient rhetorical theory, see Arist. Rh. 1366a9–1368a41, Cic. Inv. 2.59.177–178, Orat. 2.340–349, Quint. Inst. 2.4.20–21, 3.7.1–28. 17 Pentheus’ vocabulary (per aequora uecti, penates, profugos) is reminiscent of the Aeneid, see McNamara 2010, 180. On the association between the foundation legend of Thebes and Rome in Ovid’s Theban history see Hardie 1990. 18 See McNamara 2010, 179–180 on Pentheus’ defining the Thebans by their military strength as a way of vituperating them for their supposed fear of the unwarlike and effeminate Dionysus.

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cord, the unity and the common action of Pentheus and the Thebans (3.561): Penthea terrebit cum totis advena Thebis? (“Should Pentheus and the rest of Thebes be terrified of his arrival?”). Pentheus and Thebes, at the beginning and the end of the line, are joined together in their common fight against a foreigner (advena). Pentheus is introduced by the narrator of the story as the son of Echion, who was one of the Spartoi, the Sown Men (Echionides 513, cf. Echione natus 526); i.e. he is the son of a man whose name means “serpent”. Hence, it is only natural that Pentheus accuses the Thebans of having forgotten their origins as men born from the serpent’s teeth sown by Cadmus and of surrendering their city to an effeminate boy pretending to be a god. Pentheus sanctifies the serpent which Cadmus killed after it had wiped out many of his soldiers. Now, the serpent becomes an ideal model for the Thebans; Pentheus promotes it as a national and patriotic symbol of bravery, resistance, patriotism and autochthony; the serpent is portrayed as the proto-Theban par excellence, as a model of Theban quintessence (3.543–548): 19 este, precor, memores, qua sitis stirpe creati, illiusque animos, qui multus perdidit unus, sumite serpentis! 20 pro fontibus ille lacuque interiit: at vos pro fama vincite vestra! ille dedit leto fortes: vos pellite molles et patrium retinete decus! Remember, I beg you, from what roots you were created, and show the spirit of the serpent, who, though one alone, killed many. He died for his spring and pool, but you should conquer for your own glory! He put brave men to death, but you should make craven men run, and maintain the honour of your country!

Pentheus presents himself as a defender of Thebes. He is not after his personal interest but the welfare of the city. He invests his confrontation with Bacchus with a patriotic dimension. By urging the Thebans to follow the example of the serpent, Pentheus essentially urges them to stand by his side, since he, the son of  19 Janan 2004, 133, Janan 2009, 196–197, 202, 204; McNamara 2010, 181. Janan 2009, 197 observes that Pentheus’ rehabilitation of the serpent oddly conforms with the Roman use of myth, i.e. the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus. At 204–205 she notes: “Most surprising of all, Pentheus fashions this national anthem out of the very data that spelled the rout of Theban pride before his intervention. In all this…he merely retraces the process by which the wolf, her nurseling fratricide Romulus, and his victim Remus become the icons of Roman identity and dignity”. 20 McNamara 2010, 181 points out the highly sibilant sound of Pentheus’ words (qua sitis stirpe … sumite serpentis) evoking the serpent phonetically as well as directly.

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos Echion (= the viper man) is now the new serpent defending Thebes, a symbol of resistance and autochthony. 21 There is irony here: one cannot forget that the Thebans are not indigenous, since Cadmus came from Tyre. On the other hand, Dionysus is not entirely foreign to Thebes, since he is the son of the Theban Semele, so he may easily claim that he is returning home. 22 Whereas Pentheus goes to such length to ingratiate himself with the audience and promote the strong bonds between them and himself, Niobe strikingly does nothing of the kind. Whereas Pentheus flatters the Thebans and speaks about their glorious origin from the Spartoi, and about their common interests and future, Niobe promotes her personal importance by speaking proudly of her descendance from Zeus, Atlas, Tantalus and Dione (6.172–176). 23 She takes the issue as a personal confrontation with Latona and this affects the style, content and goal of her speech. Unlike Pentheus’ stance towards Dionysus, Niobe does not treat Latona as an intruder, but confronts her about her divinity and personal grandeur. Niobe takes it for granted that she herself is a goddess. She prides in her ancestry, her regal power, her husband’s artistry, but mostly in her children. She does not feel the need to forge ties with her audience in the face of a common fight against a potential intruder. In fact, Niobe does not hesitate to actually confront her audience, accusing them of audacity (audete 185) for worshipping Latona, whom she belittlingly calls dea vestra (6.188): nec caelo nec humo nec aquis dea vestra recepta est (“Land, sea, and sky were no refuge for your goddess”). Niobe does not care to persuade; she only cares to impose her will. Contrary to Pentheus, she addresses only the women of Thebes and speaks as an absolute and arrogant monarch demanding obedience from her subjects 24 (6.177–178): me gentes metuunt Phrygiae, me regia Cadmi/sub domina est (“The peoples of Phrygia fear me. Cadmus’ royal house is under my rule.”). She asks the Theban women not simply to reject Latona’s worship, but also to worship herself as a goddess. Her speech is not a speech of persuasion (suasoria); it is fundamentally the announcement of a command following a powerful display of self-promotion and a venomous attack on her absent opponent, Latona. In essence, Niobe delivers a hymn to herself, to prove that she is a greater goddess than Latona. 25  21 For the identification of Pentheus with the serpent, see Hardie 1990, 225; James 1991–1993, 87–89, Feldherr 1997, 50. 22 See Feldherr 1997, 44–46. 23 Anderson 1972 on 6.172–176. 24 For analogies between Niobe and Cleopatra, see Schmitzer 1990, 244–249; Feldherr 2004– 2005. 25 Anderson 1972, 177; Hill 1992 on Met. 6.177–179; Barchiesi 1999, 124; Fuhrer 1999, 364; Rosati 2009 on Met. 6.165–203 and 6.177–179; Feldherr 2004–2005, 133.

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. Attacking one’s rival In addition to his effort to associate himself with the Thebans and unite them on the grounds of their common origin and past, Pentheus also seeks to clearly differentiate himself and his people from Dionysus and his values. As stated above, he builds his speech on the antithesis “us and him”: the attributes of Dionysus (aera aere repulsa, tibia, magicae fraudes, femineae voces, mota insania vino, obscenique greges, inania tympana, thyrsus, frons) are contrasted with the attributes of the Thebans (ensis, tuba, agmina, galea). Pentheus flatters the Thebans by calling them fearless in war (3.534–535): quos non bellicus ensis,/non tuba terruerit, non strictis agmina telis (“who were not terrified by drawn swords or blaring trumpets or ranks of sharp spears”). He rebukes them for being terrified by the loud sounds and the magic tricks and the shrieks of women (3.532–534: aerane tantum/aere repulsa valent et adunco tibia cornu/et magicae fraudes “Can the clash of brazen cymbals, pipes of curved horn, and magical tricks be so powerful”, and 3.536–537: femineae voces et mota insania vino/obscenique greges et inania tympana vincant? “The shrieks of women, men mad with wine, crowds of obscenities, and empty drumming?”). 26 He constantly disparages Bacchus and his followers (cf. also molles 3.547, 3.553–556: at nunc a puero Thebae capientur inermi,/quem neque bella iuvant nec tela nec usus equorum,/sed madidus murra crinis mollesque coronae/purpuraque et pictis intextum vestibus aurum “But now Thebes will be taken by an unarmed boy, who takes no pleasure in fighting, or weapons, or the use of horses, but in myrrh-drenched hair, soft wreathes of leaves, and embroidered robes woven with gold”). 27 What Bacchus does not like (3.554: quem neque bella iuvant nec tela nec usus equorum) is what the Thebans stand for, and viceversa what Bacchus likes (3.555–556: madidus murra crinis mollesque coronae/ purpuraque et pictis intextum vestibus aurum, “in myrrh-drenched hair, soft wreathes of leaves, and embroidered robes woven with gold”) is what the Thebans despise. In his verbal attack on Bacchus, Pentheus depicts the foreign youthful god as soft and effeminate, as one who does not like war and dresses in

 26 For the exclusively female thiasoi of maenads following Dionysus, see e.g. Eur. Bacch. 115– 119: Βρόμιος ὅστις ἄγῃ θιάσους –/εἰς ὄρος εἰς ὄρος, ἔνθα μένει/θηλυγενὴς ὄχλος/ἀφ’ ἱστῶν παρὰ κερκίδων τ’/οἰστρηθεὶς Διονύσῳ (“when Bromius leads the holy company to the mountain, to the mountain! Where the throng of women waits, driven from shuttle and loom, possessed by Dionysus!”). See Dodds 1960 on Eur. Bacch. 115. 27 McNamara 2010 shows how Pentheus’ powers of persuasion gradually erode as his anger increases, and that the increasingly fragmented rhetorical structure of his oration is a prefiguration of his brutal physical sparagmos.

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos womanly dresses. 28 Pentheus’ sexist and xenophobic criticism of the effeminacy of the decadent Easterner recalls the criticisms against Aeneas and the Trojans by manly characters of the Aeneid, such as Iarbas (Aen. 4.215–217), Numanus Remulus (Aen. 9.614–620), and Turnus (Aen. 12.97–100), as well as similar speeches of Roman generals in Livy who tried to encourage their soldiers by highlighting the effeminacy and lack of martiality of their opponents, 29 or perhaps even Livy’s account 39.8–19 of the attempts of the Romans to suppress the worship of Dionysus in 186 B.C.; 30 in this way, Ovid bridges the gap between mythical Thebes and contemporary Rome. 31 On her part, Niobe intends to arouse hostility against her rival, Latona, and launches vituperative attacks on her on many grounds: 32 Latona is not a visible goddess, but one people have only heard of (6.170–171: “‘quis furor auditos’ inquit ‘praeponere visis/caelestes?’” “What madness, to prefer the gods you are told about to the ones you see?”); she is the daughter of a worthless Titan (6.185–186: nescio quoque audete satam Titanida Coeo/Latonam praeferre mihi “and then dare to prefer Latona to me, that Titaness, daughter of Coeus, whoever he is”); the earth had once denied her a place to give birth to her children (6.186–187: cui maxima quondam/exiguam sedem pariturae terra negavit “whom the wide earth once refused even a little piece of ground to give birth on”); most importantly, Latona is the mother of only two children, whereas Niobe boasts about her seven sons and seven daughters (6.191–192: illa duorum/facta parens: uteri pars haec

 28 On the long hair and feminine beauty of Dionysus, see Eur. Bacch. 453–459 with Dodds 1960 ad loc. For the collapse of gender boundaries in the Bacchae see Segal 1997, 158–214; Bremmer 1999; Janan 2009, 192. Pentheus’ disapproval of Dionysus’ effeminate dress in Ovid’s Metamorphoses is extremely ironic in the light of Euripides’ Bacchae, where Pentheus, persuaded by the disguised Dionysus, wears women’s clothing in order to spy on the maenads undetected (Bacch. 810–846, 912–976). See Seaford 1996, 222–228; Segal 1997, 170; McNamara 2010, 182–183. 29 Feldherr 1997, 45–46; Janan 2004, 132; Janan 2009, 193–194. 30 On the suppression of the Bacchanalian cult in Rome of the second century and the relations between the Bacchic episode of 186 B.C. and Ovid’s Pentheus story, see Feldherr 1997, 44–45; Barchiesi-Rosati 2007, 210, 218. 31 Galinsky 1975, 221 notes the connections between Theban and Roman origins. Hardie 1990 discusses in great detail the parallels between Theban and Roman civil war, between the founding of Thebes and the founding of Rome, especially as represented in the Aeneid. On Pentheus’ speech as bridging the gap between mythical Thebes and contemporary Rome see also Feldherr 1997, 44. 32 On how emotion is involved in the formation of both personal and collective identity and how emotions strengthen the cohesion and solidarity of relational or group ties, see Heise/O’Brien 1993; Frijda/Mesquita 1994; Parkinson 1996; Keltner/Haidt 1999; Lawler et al. 2000; Spoor/Kelly 2004; de Rivera 2014; Kelly et al. 2014; Lawler et al. 2014.

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est septima nostri “There she gave birth to twins, only a seventh of my offspring”). 33 To Niobe’s mind, all the above are solid reasons for the Theban women to side with her and desert Latona.

 Style and language The intention and disposition of Pentheus and Niobe towards their audience is reflected on the language and style that they use. Very tellingly, Pentheus employs the first person plural when he refers to the common struggle of himself and the Thebans against the foreign intruder (3.548–552): si fata vetabant stare diu Thebas, utinam tormenta virique/moenia diruerent, ferrumque ignisque sonarent!/essemus miseri sine crimine, sorsque querenda,/non celanda foret, lacrimaeque pudore carerent (“If it is Thebes’ fate to stand for only a short time, I wish her walls might be destroyed by men and siege engines, that fire and iron might sound against her! Then we would be miserable but not sinful, we would lament our fate not try to hide it, our tears would be free from shame”). And when, a few lines later, he announces his clear intent to oppose Dionysus and reveal his fraud, he makes sure to place the Thebans on his side, in complete harmony and collaboration (3.557–558): quem quidem ego actutum (modo vos absistite) cogam/adsumptumque patrem commentaque sacra fateri (“But, if you stand aside, I will quickly force him to confess that his pretended parentage and religion are inventions”). Naturally, his speech does not lack imperatives, which are vital for his effort to persuade the Thebans towards a specific plan of action: este memores (543), animos sumite (544–545), vincite (546), pellite (547), retinete (548), absistite (557), ite x2 (562), attrahite (563), abesto mora (563). On the contrary, in her speech to the Theban women Niobe does not use the first person plural, which is indicative of the way she treats them; it also reveals her character and intentions. Dominant in Niobe’s speech are the personal and possessive pronouns of the first person (meum 172, mea 174, me-me 177, mei 178, a me 179, nostra 184, mihi 186, me 194, mihi 196, mea 197, meorum 198) and also verbs in the first person singular (glorior 176, adverti 180, sum and manebo 193,  33 On Niobe’s fertility as the main reason for her arrogance, cf. also Met. 6.152–155: multa dabant animos; sed enim nec coniugis artes/nec genus amborum magnique potentia regni/sic placuere illi, quamvis ea cuncta placerent,/ut sua progenies (“Many things swelled her pride, but neither her husband Amphion’s marvelous art in music, nor both of their high lineages, nor the might of their great kingdom of Thebes, pleased her, though they did please her, as much as her children did”).

  Andreas N. Michalopoulos sum 195, redigar 199), which highlight her self-centredness and pave the way for her final isolation in the story: after the killing of her sons and daughters Niobe will be left all alone.

 The effect of the two speeches — Evaluation and Conclusions Pentheus’ and Niobe’s speeches which begin in a similar manner, also end in a similar manner, with an exhortation or command for immediate action: ite (3.562–563): “ite citi” (famulis hoc imperat), “ite ducemque / attrahite huc vinctum! iussis mora segnis abesto!” (“Go quickly”, he ordered his attendants “bind him and drag him here, this conqueror! Do not be slow in carrying out your orders!”) // 6.201–202: ite — sat est — propere sacris laurumque capillis/ponite! (“Go home — enough of holy things — and take those laurel wreaths from your hair!”). Pentheus demands the arrest of Bacchus, Niobe demands the immediate cessation of Latona’s worship. What is the effect of these two speeches? Do they actually achieve their goal? The relatively mild suasoria of Pentheus fails. 34 The response to his speech is uniformly negative; all his familiars try to dissuade him from his opposition to Bacchus (3.564–565): hunc auus, hunc Athamas, hunc cetera turba suorum/corripiunt dictis frustraque inhibere laborant. (“His grandfather, Cadmus, his uncle, Athamas, and the rest of his advisors reprove his words, and try in vain to restrain him”). He does not win over the Thebans and his extended monologue is disregarded: the reactions are visible, both in his inner family circle (his grandfather Cadmus, his uncle Athamas) and in his advisors and the other Thebans. No one is convinced, nevertheless, in any case, Pentheus has already taken his decisions and does not need anyone’s approval. Conversely, Niobe’s speech to the Theban women seems to be working, at least on the surface: the Theban women obey to their queen, they lay down the symbols of Latona’s worship and stop offering incense and sacrifices; however, they keep on worshipping Latona silently (6.202–203): deponunt et sacra infecta relinquunt,/quodque licet, tacito venerantur murmure numen (“They relinquish them, and leave the rite unfinished, except what is their right, reverencing the goddess in a secret murmur”). Hence, Niobe actually fails to persuade the Theban

 34 For the tendency of the speeches in the Metamorphoses to fail see Tarrant 1995.

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women with her speech. She becomes isolated from her subjects, who separate themselves from their queen. To conclude: at first reading, Pentheus fails with his suasoria not because it is an unsatisfactory speech or because it is badly structured or because he does not use convincing arguments, but simply because his opponent is a god, who is far more powerful and whose authority defies reason. The Thebans have been won over by a superior force. Under Dionysus’ overwhelming influence they cannot possibly be persuaded by rational arguments. On a metaliterary level, however, Pentheus’ suasoria fails, because he employs old-fashioned rhetoric. The Roman readers know very well that the xenophobic and sexist rhetoric against a foreigner coming from the East is most likely to fail, as the stories of Iarbas and Turnus emphatically demonstrate in the Aeneid. On the other hand, Niobe seems to succeed with her speech, not because it is a great speech or because her argumentation is convincing, but simply because she imposes her will on her audience thanks to her royal status and auctoritas. The power of her arguments means nothing compared to totalitarian political power. Queen Niobe earns a temporary victory over the Theban women, but she will soon pay the heavy price of her hybris.

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  Andreas N. Michalopoulos de Rivera, H.J. (2014), ‘Emotion and the formation of social identities’, in: C. von Scheve/ M.E.M. Salmela (eds.), Collective Emotions: Perspectives from Psychology Philosophy and Sociology, Oxford, 217–231. Deratani, N. (1916), Artis rhetoricae in Ovidi carminibus praecipue amatoriis perspicuae capita quaedam, Moscow. Dodds, E.R. (1960), Euripides: Bacchae, Oxford. Fantham, E. (2009), ‘Rhetoric and Ovid’s Poetry’, in: P.E. Knox (ed.), A Companion to Ovid, Chichester, 26–44. Feldherr, A. (1997), ‘Metamorphosis and Sacrifice in Ovid’s Theban Narrative’, in: MD 38, 25–55. Feldherr, A. (2004/05), ‘Reconciling Niobe’, in: Hermathena 177/78, 125–146. Fränkel, H. (1945), Ovid, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Frijda, H.N./Mesquita, B. (1994), ‘The social roles and functions of emotions’, in: S. Kitayama/ H.R. Markus (eds.), Emotion and Culture: Empirical Studies of Mutual Influence, Washington, 51–87. Fuhrer, T. (1999), ‘Der Gӧtterhymnus als Prahlrede — Zum Spiel mit einer literarischen Form in Ovids Metamorphosen’, in: Hermes 127, 356–367. Galinsky, K. (1975), Ovid’s Metamorphoses. An Introduction to the Basic Aspects, Oxford. Gildenhard, I./Zissos, A. (2016), Ovid, Metamorphoses, 3.511–733. Latin Text with Commentary, Cambridge. Hardie, P. (1990), ‘Ovid’s Theban History: The First “Anti-Aeneid”?’, in: CQ 40, 224–235. Heise, R.D./O’Brien, J. (1993), ‘Emotion expression in groups’, in: M. Lewis/J.M. Haviland (eds.), The Handbook of Emotions, New York, 489–498. Higham, T.F. (1958), ‘Ovid and Rhetoric’, in: N.I. Herescu (ed.), Ovidiana, Recherches sur Ovide, Paris, 32–48. Hill, E.D. (1992), Ovid: Metamorphoses Books V–VIII, Warminster. James, P. (1991–1993), ‘Pentheus Anguigena: Sins of the “Father”’, in: BICS 38, 81–93. Janan, M.W. (2004), ‘The Snake Sheds Its Skin: Pentheus (Re)imagines Thebes’, in: CP 99, 130–146. Janan, M.W. (2009), Reflections in a Serpent’s Eye: Thebes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Oxford/ New York. Keith, M.A. (2002), ‘Sources and genres in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1–5’, in: B. Weiden Boyd (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Ovid, Leiden, 235–269. Kelly, R.J./Iannone, E.N./McCarty, M. (2014), ‘The function of shared affect in groups’, in: C. von Scheve/M.E.M. Salmela (eds.), Collective Emotions: Perspectives from Psychology, Philosophy and Sociology, Oxford, 175–188. Keltner, D./Haidt, J. (1999), ‘The social functions of emotions at four levels of analysis’, in: Cognition and Emotion, 13, 505–522. Kennedy, G.A. (1972), The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World, Princeton. Lawler, J.E./Thye, R.S./Yoon, J. (2000), ‘Emotion and group cohesion in productive exchange’, in: American Journal of Sociology 106, 616–657. Lawler, J.E./Thye, R.S./Yoon, J. (2014), ‘The emergence of collective emotions in social exchange’, in: C. von Scheve/M.E.M. Salmela (eds.), Collective Emotions: Perspectives from Psychology, Philosophy and Sociology, Oxford, 189–203. McNamara, J. (2010), ‘The Frustration of Pentheus: Narrative Momentum in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, 3.511–731’, in: CQ 60, 173–193.

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George Paraskeviotis

Humorous Unity and Disunity between the Characters in Vergil’s Eclogues 1 and 2 Vergil’s educational training is closely related to rhetoric, and certain rhetorical features have already been identified and examined in the Vergilian oeuvre. 1 A vital rhetorical device, however, which has not received adequate scholarly attention so far is humour. This chapter aims to fill this crucial interpretative gap by examining humour and investigating its function in the Vergilian collection. It focuses on Tityrus’ non-justified indignation for the wrongdoing he believes that he suffered in town (Ecl. 1.27–35), on the mythological exempla used skilfully by Corydon (Ecl. 2.19–27) and his self-address (Ecl. 2.56–57). Its goal is to demonstrate that humour constitutes a dynamic rhetorical strategy that creates unity or division between the characters in Eclogues 1 (Tityrus and Meliboeus) and 2 (Corydon and Alexis). The importance of humour in rhetoric has already been recognised even in antiquity. The views of Plato, Aristotle and Quintilian on humour come with cautionary warnings about its rhetorical efficacy, confirming that it is a strong tool of persuasion. 2 Humour studies constitute a complex and difficult scientific field that encompasses more than a hundred theories, equally used across several disciplines (e.g. biology, psychology, cognitive science, anthropology, linguistics, and literary criticism). Nonetheless, it is crucial to realise that there are central overlaps between these theories; as a result, these various humour theories can be grouped in the following widely accepted categories: a) Superiority Theory, b) Release/Relief Theory and c) Incongruity Theory. 3 The Superiority Theory is based on the view that we laugh at something that is inferior; 4 traces of this theory can be identified in Greek and Roman literary

 1 See Roberts 1983, 193–199; Rutherford 1995, 19–29; and Powell 2011, 184–202. 2 Cf. e.g. Cic. De Or. 1.17; 2.289; Quint. Inst. 6.3.1 and 6.3.9. See also Perks 2012, 129 who concludes that “humour has the potential to be a powerful tool of persuasion, but like any other potent weapon (discursive or otherwise) it should be used with caution.” 3 For these three humour theories, see Raskin 1984, 30–41; Attardo 1994, 47–50; Plaza 2006, 6– 7 and n. 10; Morreall 2009, 4–23; and Michalopoulos 2014, 336–337 and n. 4 with further bibliography. 4 Humour originates from an act of aggression that stirs an ill-natured laughter at the wrongdoings of other individuals considered morally inferior, and thus bestows a sense of superiority. See Hobbes 1994, 43 who said that humour arises from a “sudden glory” felt when we recognize our supremacy over others. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-011

  George Paraskeviotis sources. 5 The Release/Relief theory was first introduced by Herbert Spencer 6 and received its most famous formulation by Sigmund Freud, who was greatly influenced by Spencer. 7 Its main view is that something ridiculous constitutes a saving of psychic energy that is released through laughter and humour; thus, leaving aside psychology, the Relief/Release Theory has also been used extensively by the Freudians in literary criticism. Nevertheless, elements of this humour category can be traced in ancient literary sources. 8 The Incongruity Theory, traces of  5 Plato first argued that the laughable is a vice and that the lack of knowledge and humour in particular is malice, because we are used to laughing at the other’s faults (cf. Phileb. 49e–50a). In view of that, he lays special emphasis on the ambivalent nature of humour, thereby concluding that the pleasure caused by laughter is mixed with the pain caused by malice. Moreover, he suggests that the ridiculous is closely related to the hateful, claiming that weak self-ignorance causes laughter while strong self-ignorance causes feelings of hatred. Therefore, he believes that the guardians of the ideal state should avoid laughter because of its tendency to cause violent reactions and that literature should also be censored because respectable characters should not be laughing (cf. Rep. 388e). On the other hand, Aristotle explains in a uniquely different way that the ridiculous is something ugly which, however, does not cause pain (Poet. 1449a). Moreover, he argues that humour should be carried by a well-bred and educated man, suggesting that excessive humour is a feature of vulgar buffoons (cf. Eth. Nic. 4.8), an observation which later had considerable influence on the Roman rhetorical tradition (cf. Cic. De Orat. 2.235–290, Orat. 26.87–89 and Quint. Inst. 6.3). Cicero strongly believes that the ridiculous is something inferior that should not receive either great hate or great sympathy (cf. De Orat. 2.238) and should be criticised in no inferior manner (cf. De Orat. 2.236). However, the De Oratore is not a systematic theoretical study on humour; it is a practical guide concerned with the way in which the orator should use humour, thus explaining his choice not to deploy laughter in speeches (cf. De Orat. 2.235). Nevertheless, Cicero refers to the kind of humour that is more appropriate for a gentleman, and he believes that illiberal humour, too, may cause laughter, although it is entirely inappropriate for the orator (cf. De orat. 2.236–237 and De Off. 1.104). Quintilian similarly describes laughter as a cruel punishment for eccentric behaviour, arguing that what is said or done foolishly, angrily, or fearfully is object of laughter and therefore its origin is doubtful, since laughter is not far from mockery (cf. Inst. 6.3.7). Moreover, he classifies jokes as joyful, bitter, malicious or mild (cf. Inst. 6.3.27), thereby suggesting a contrast between a hurtful and a harmless speaker (cf. De orat. 2.254); however, he also observes that the most careful orator will avoid the ridiculous, especially when the ridiculous lays emphasis on a serious issue or a subject that demands extreme compassion (cf. De orat. 2.258–259). 6 Spencer 1884. 7 Freud 1905. 8 Plato’s most relevant view of this humour category can be found in Philebus, where he claims that humans will never rightly be able to examine pleasure apart from pain, arguing that pleasure is released when pain is eventually removed (cf. Phileb. 32a–b). In other words, Plato anticipates the Relief/Release Theory by emphasizing the resolution of the effective dialectical tension that yields pleasure (cf. Perks 2012, 125). There are also scholars who have tried to reconstruct the Aristotelian theories from Poetics 2, a work concerned with humour that has come down to

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which can easily be identified in Greek and Roman authors, is based on the view that humour comes from a mismatch between two or more components of an object, event, idea or even a social expectation. 9 As a result, there is enough evidence to assume that, although these three widely accepted humour theories denote modern inventions, traces of them can without a doubt be identified in ancient authors, 10 with some of their literary works and theoretical treatises anticipating these theories. When trying to identify humour in the Eclogues, one does not expect to burst out laughing since Vergil’s humour is far from the realistic and coarse humour  us in a fragmentary form (cf. Cooper 1922 and Janko 1984). Cooper argues that Aristotle’s theories on comedy lay emphasis on the physiological and psychological effects of humour, thus highlighting that humour can yield catharsis (Cooper 1922, 61 and 69). Aristotle’s view that someone undergoes a process of emotional exchange when viewing a tragic drama suggests that the philosopher also dealt with the emotional features of comedy. This suggestion can be further reinforced by some Aristotelian fragmentary passages that display the strong relationship between comedy and a calm emotional state (Cooper 1922, 69).What is more, Aristotle claims that tragedy helps someone to remove their negative emotions through secondary exposure to their representation in drama; therefore, building up immunity to tragedy and comedy helps someone to relieve themselves of negative emotions by substituting them with positive feelings (cf. Rhet. 2.3.12–13 and Cooper 1922, 69). Finally, the view about the relationship between humour and emotion is much clearer in Quintilian, who argues that orators can use jokes successfully in order to advance an argument and cultivate a friendly mood among the audience. Furthermore, he suggests that laughter removes negative emotions and can revive one’s mind when he has begun to get bored or wearied by the case in the court (cf. Inst. 6.3.1), thereby stressing the fact that laughter can be a strong convincing instrument that drives out negative feelings (cf. Inst. 6.3.9). 9 Plato’s dialogue between Socrates and Glaucon on gender equality in the Republic associates laughter with incongruity even in characteristically anti-intellectual meetings, since people laugh at what is new or unsuitable to their existing scheme (Rep. 5.452b). Additionally, Aristotle observes in a similar way that a speaker causes laughter and humour by shattering the audience’s expectations when he says something unexpected, the soundness or truth of which is thereupon recognised (cf. Rhet. 3.11.6). Moreover, Cicero argues that the most common type of joke is when a character’s sayings go against the audience’s expectations (cf. De Orat. 2.255). He uses the term “dissimulatio” as saying something different from what one thinks, when through the whole course of a speech one is seriously jocose and then their thoughts can actually be different from your own words (cf. De Orat. 2.269.). Quintilian, on the other hand, building on this idea, moves one step further by speaking about “dissimulatio”, which is concerned with feigning, namely “that someone does not understand someone else’s meaning”, and about “simulatio”, which refers to pretence, namely that “someone is pretending to have a certain opinion of one’s own” (cf. Inst. 6.3.85). In other words, according to Quintilian, irony constitutes a type of allegory in which what is expressed is quite contrary to what is meant (cf. Inst. 8.6.54), underlining also that when a speaker utters a serious delivery of an ironic statement, the jest will be much richer (cf. Inst. 6.3.68). 10 For the ancient roots of the three humour theories, see Perks 2012, 119–132.

  George Paraskeviotis found in Theocritus. 11 A notable example of this can be found in Damoetas’ reply (Id. 6.21–41) to Daphnis’ earlier song (Id. 6.6–20) about Polyphemus’ and Galateia’s love story with a song similar in subject in which he assumes Polyphemus’ persona and narrates the actions of the Cyclops whilst Galateia is trying to win him. Damoetas-Polyphemus tries to reject Daphnis’ earlier statement that love can make bad things look good, along with the herdsman’s innuendo that this is the only reason why the Cyclopean monster seems beautiful to the sea Nymph (Id. 6.18–19). In addition, he argues that he is not ugly, given that, by leaning forward over the calm sea, he realised that his only eye, his beard and his white teeth are in fact beautiful. Therefore, although the Cyclops finds certain features of his face to be beautiful, the reader is aware that they are ugly and Polyphemus can rightly be characterised as naïve and humorous. In other words, Theocritean humour is based on Damoetas-Polyphemus’ naïve voice that is appropriate for this speaking character (i.e. herdsman/Cyclops). In contrast, Vergilian humour stems from rustics who are singers-herdsmen rather than herdsmensingers 12 and from the learned literary density of their language. 13 Corydon in Eclogue 2 provides a typical example of Vergilian humour. This herdsman consciously violates the rules of appropriateness, ironically alluding to Theocritus and using the language of Polyphemus in Idyll 11. Therefore, Vergilian humour is not based on the naïve but on the conscious or, in other words, knowing voice of this literary/speaking persona. I turn now to the Vergilian text to apply the humour theories that have been discussed above as interpretative tools to identify humour. Eclogue 1 is concerned with the meeting between the herdsmen Meliboeus and Tityrus, placed in the historical background of the land confiscations ordered by Octavian. Meliboeus is forced to leave his land and travel into exile while Tityrus is allowed to remain on

 11 For humour in Theocritus, see Hortmann 1976; Kantzios 2004, 49–62 and Kossaifi 2008, 41– 59. 12 Schmidt 1987, 108, observing that the Vergilian collection is always concerned with herdsmen-singers, reached the final conclusion that the Eclogues are actually “Dichtung über Dichtung.” See also Davis 2012, 10–11. 13 See Breed 2006, 12, who observes that there is an inherent disjunction between the naïve herdsmen’s personae and the literary language they use, because they regularly speak with the words of poets. Nonetheless, it should also be mentioned that this inappropriateness could recall the Incongruity Theory, according to which humour comes from a mismatch between two or more components of an object, event, idea or even a social expectation (here, the mismatch is the herdsman character ≠ his literary doctrina).

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his farm, enjoying his rustic leisure, which is the outcome of a divine deed. 14 Tityrus’ vigorous gratitude to the divine benefactor arouses Meliboeus’ curiosity and urges him to enquire the god’s name (cf. sed tamen iste deus qui sit, da, Tityre, nobis [Ecl. 1.18]). Tityrus’ reply is an encomium of Rome (Ecl. 1.19–25) which, in turn, provokes Meliboeus’ next question concerning the reason for Tityrus’ journey to Rome (Ecl. 1.26). Tityrus answers that he is an ex-slave who has recently been set free, because the spendthrift Galateia did not leave him enough money to buy his freedom and because, cheated by the townspeople, he returned home with less money than he should have: Libertas, quae sera tamen respexit inertem, candidior postquam tondenti barba cadebat, respexit tamen et longo post tempore uenit, postquam nos Amaryllis habet, Galatea reliquit. namque fatebor enim dum me Galatea tenebat, nec spes libertatis erat nec cura peculi. quamuis multa meis exiret uictima saeptis, pinguis et ingratae premeretur caseus urbi, non umquam grauis aere domum mihi dextra redibat. Freedom, who, though late yet cast her eyes upon me in my sloth, when my beard began to whiten as it fell beneath the scissors. Yet she did cast her eyes on me, and came after a long timeafter Amaryllis began her sway and Galatea left me. For — yes, I must confess — while Galatea ruled me, I had neither hope of freedom nor thought of savings. Though many victim left my stalls, and many a rich cheese was pressed for the thankless town, never would my hand come home money-laden. (Ecl. 1.27–35)

Galateia is the first humorous element that can be identified in these verses; she is actually presented as an autarchic and extravagant female character who is thus emphatically alien to the pastoral genre but familiar to Roman comedy and satire. 15 The introduction of a stock character from comedy or satire into a noncomic text is an important humorous signpost. This recalls various examples of stock figures used for the same literary effect in the Vergilian collection and

 14 Cf. Ecl. 1.6–7: O Meliboee, deus nobis haec otia fecit/ namque erit ille mihi semper deus “O Melibeous, it is a god who gave us this peace — for a god he shall ever be to me”. 15 Coleman 1977, 78–79. See also Cucchiarelli 2012, 151.

  George Paraskeviotis especially Eclogue 3, where scholars have already observed certain comic elements, 16 thus confirming the humorous tone of the Eclogues. Consider, for instance, ipse Neaeram / dum fouet ac ne me sibi praeferat illa ueretur,/hic alienus ouis custos bis mulget in hora (“while your master fondles Neaira, and is afraid that she prefers me to him, this hired keeper milks his ewes twice an hour, and the flock are robbed of their strength and the lambs of their milk” [Ecl. 3.3–5]), which deal with a master in love who is afraid of a real or a potential erotic rival and refer to the subject of the comic adulescens in love. This recalls Argyrippus against Diabolus in Plautus’ Asinaria, Phaedromus against his rival miles in Plautus’ Curculio, Pleusicles against Pyrgopolynices in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus, or Phaedria against Thraso in Terence’s Eunuchus. 17 Consider also Phyllida amo ante alias; nam me discedere fleuit/et longum ‘formose, uale, uale,’ inquit, Iolla (“I love Phyllis most of all; for she wept that I was leaving, and in halting accents cried, Iollas: ‘Farewell, farewell, my lovely!’” [Ecl. 3.78–79]), which describe an erotic triangle consisting of a lady and two men fighting for her love, which is a typical comic and elegiac scenario 18 (cf. Tib. 1.6.5–6, Prop. 1.8a.3–4; 1.15.1–2, Ov. Am. 3.4.1–8). Finally, the phrase Amaryllidos irae “the anger of Amaryllis” (Ecl. 3.81) refers to the theme of the mulier irata that calls to mind Artemona in Plautus’ Asinaria and Nausistrata in Terence’s Phormio. 19 However, Tityrus’ second excuse for having remained in slavery for so long is much funnier. More specifically, the ingrata urbs constitutes the second reason for which Tityrus could not save enough money to buy his freedom. It has already been noticed, even in antiquity, 20 that Tityrus’ pinguis caseus (i.e. “creamcheese” 21) is an easily produced and perishable product and therefore the herds-

 16 Currie 1976, 411–420 and Wills 1993, 3–11. 17 Karakasis 2011, 100. 18 Schäfer 2001, 140. 19 Karakasis 2011, 116. 20 Cf. Varro Rust. 2.11.3: et etiam est discrimen, utrum casei molles ac recentes sint, an aridi et veteres, cum molles sint magis alibiles, in corpore non resides, veteres et aridi contra “there is also a difference depending on whether the cheeses are soft and fresh or dry and old, as the soft cheeses are more nutritious and less constipating, while the old, dry cheeses are just the opposite” and Columella Rust. 7.8.6: Hoc genus casei potest etiam trans maria permitti; nam is, qui recens intra paucos dies absumi debet, leviore cura conficitur, quippe fiscellis exemptus in salem muriamque demittitur et mox in sole paulum siccatur “This kind of cheese can even be exported beyond the sea. Cheese which is to be eaten within a few days while still fresh, is prepared with less trouble; for it is taken out of the wickerbaskets and dipped into salt and brine and the dried a little in the sun”. 21 Coleman 1977, 79 and Clausen 1994, 45–46. See also Cairns 2015, 29–31.

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man could not have been expected to receive a high price for it from the townspeople. 22 The autarchic and extravagant character of Galateia and Tityrus’ nonjustified indignation for the wrongdoing he believes that he suffered in town aims to provoke laughter not only for the readers but most significantly for the characters in this Eclogue. 23 Thus, it soothes, through humour (or, in other words, relieving the psychic energy of the herdsmen), Tityrus’ indignation and, at least for the moment, Meliboeus’ misery as he is forced to leave his land and go into exile. This suggestion is further reinforced by Tityrus’ humorous self-characterization (inertem) that can also cause Meliboeus to laugh since Tityrus is actually not iners (cf. quamuis multa meis exiret uictima saeptis,/pinguis et ingratae premeretur caseus urbi “though many victim left my stalls, and many a rich cheese was pressed for the thankless town” [Ecl.1.33–34]). Tityrus’ inertia is that of the lover and is associated with the theme of seruitium amoris, 24 the comic and humorous overtones of which have already been identified by scholars. 25 Moreover, the humorous tone in these verses is confirmed by Meliboeus’ next words, which can distract, at least for the moment, his mind from the exile (cf. Ecl. 1.37–40). The earlier (Ecl. 1.1–5, 11–18 and 26) and following (Ecl. 1.46–58 and 64–78) verses all refer to the land confiscations, to the way Tityrus managed to secure his land property, to the country leisure he will enjoy, and to Meliboeus’ misery and exile. In other words, humour forces the unity between Tityrus and Meliboeus who used to enjoy a similar way of life but whose destinies are now diametrically opposed due  22 Cf. Columella Rust. 7.8.6: Non nulli ante quam pecus numellis induant, virides pineas nuces in mulctram demittunt et mox super eas emulgent nec separant, nisi cum transmiserunt in formas coactam materiam. Ipsos quidam virides conterunt nucleos et lacti permiscent atque ita congelant “Some people, before they put the shackles on the she-goats, drop green pinecones into the pail and then milk the she-goats over them and only remove them when they have transferred the curded milk into the moulds. Some crush the green pine-kernels by themselves and mix them with the milk and curdle it in this way”. See also Cairns 2015, 27–32, who observes that there is humour in Ecl. 1.33–34 that is in accord with the Callimachean background (i.e. the Vergilian phrase pinguis uictima may recall the Callimachean prologue …]… ἀοιδέ, τὸ μὲν θύος ὅττι πάχιστον/θρέψαι, τὴ]ν Μοῦσαν δ᾽ ὠγαθὲ λεπταλέην, “make your sacrifice as fat as you can, poet, but keep your Muse on slender rations”, given that Callimachus had a sense of humour). 23 Given the fact that this is a literary study, laughter as a physical action (i.e. I am laughing now) and humour as a human feature (i.e. I have a sense of humour) fall outside the scope of this article and therefore laughter and humour will be examined together. See also Plaza 2006, 6. 24 Cf. Tib. 1.1.5: me mea paupertas uita traducat inerti “but let the humble fortune that mine lead me along a quiet path of life”; 1.1.57–58: tecum/dum modo sim, quaeso segnis inersque uocer “let me only be with thee, and I will pray folk call me sluggard and idler,” and Prop. 3.7.72: ante fores dominae condar oportet iners “I would rather lie indolent at my lady’s portals.” See also Du Quesnay 1981, 121. 25 For the motif of seruitium amoris, see Copley 1956 and Lyne 1979, 117–130.

  George Paraskeviotis to the harsh historical reality; at the same time, however, it soothes their disunity and the disunity of the pastoral world which is compelled by the political turmoil caused by the land confiscations. Tityrus’ intention of causing laughter in the verses under consideration is reinforced by the last words in this Eclogue, which are an invitation to Meliboeus 26 to spend one last night with him in the country before travelling into exile: Hic tamen hanc mecum poteras requiescere noctem fronde super uiridi: sunt nobis mitia poma, castaneae molles et pressi copia lactis, et iam summa procul uillarum culmina fumant maioresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae. Yet this night you might have rested here with me on the green leafage. We have ripe apples, mealy chestnuts, and a wealth of pressed cheeses. Even now the housetops yonder are smoking and longer shadows fall from the mountain heights. (Ecl. 1.79–83)

Invitations between herdsmen to meet each other constitute a typical pastoral topos. 27 However, the emphasis here should be placed on the humble dinner offered to Meliboeus, 28 which consists of ripe apples, soft chestnuts and plenty of fresh cheese (pressi lactis). 29 The simplicity of the dinner and the profusion of the fresh cheese can indeed be considered as evidence that cheese constitutes a humble, easily produced and perishable country product, confirming that Tityrus’ earlier indignation for the wrongdoing he believes that he suffered in town was unjustifiable and intentional and has thus been used consciously by the herdsman to cause laughter. What is more, Tityrus’ deliberate reference to soft cheese appears to be a call-back, which further highlights the humorous intent of his

 26 Tityrus’ uocatio ad cenam to Meliboeus receives a thorough analysis in Du Quesnay 1981, 90– 97. 27 Cf. e.g. Id. 1.12–14; 15–22; 5.31–32; 50–52; 55–57 and 11.42–49. 28 Cf. [Verg.] Copa 17–19: sunt et caseoli, quos iuncea fiscina siccat,/sunt autumnali cerea pruna die/castaneaeque nuces et suaue rubentia mala, “and cheeses small there are, which baskets made of rushes dry, and waxen are the plums from autumn days and chestnuts, nuts as well, and apples blushing sweetly”. See also Tac. Germ. 23.1: Potui humor ex hordeo aut frumento, in quandam similitudinem vini corruptus; proximi ripae et vinum mercantur. cibi simplices, agrestia poma, recens fera aut lac concretum, “a liquor for drinking is made out of barley or other grain, and fermented into a certain resemblance to wine. The dwellers on the river-bank also buy wine. Their food is of a simple kind, consisting of wild-fruit, fresh game, and curdled milk”. 29 Cf. Hor. Carm. 1.17.14–16: hic tibi copia/manabit ad plenum benigno/ruris honorum opulenta cornu, “from lavish horn rich plenty of country honours here will pour out abundantly into your lap”. See also Cucchiarelli 2012, 169–170.

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earlier remark about cheese (pinguis caseus and pressi lactis). 30 Pressi lactis recalls the earlier pinguis caseus and thus constitutes a topic/anecdote-based callback because it calls to mind a topic that has already been used before. 31 Nonetheless, call-backs do not only increase humour but also reinforce the connection between joke-teller and audience by creating a “bonding” effect, 32 according to which audiences like call-backs because repeated references cause them to feel as if they are part of a shared experience. 33 Therefore, through the phrase pressi lactis, Tityrus’ reminds to Meliboeus his earlier humorous incident, thereby allowing him to forget his misery, especially the night before his final exile from the pastoral world. 34 Eclogue 2 is concerned with the herdsman Corydon who is in love with the urban boy Alexis and tries in vain to convince the scornful erotic object to enter the countryside (cf. Ecl. 2.1: Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin, “the shepherd Corydon with love was fired for fair Alexis”), where the characterizations pastor [Corydon] and formosum [Alexin] highlight from the beginning of the poem the disunity between these two characters). Having already failed to seduce Alexis by describing his hopeless erotic situation (Ecl. 2.6–7) and by warning him of the transience of physical beauty (Ecl. 2.17–18), Corydon tries again by reciting his credentials as farmer, musician and handsome suitor (Ecl. 2.19–27). The musical excellence of the lovesick herdsman is stressed through the mythological exemplum of the legendary singer Amphion: canto quae solitus, si quando armenta uocabat, Amphion Dircaeus in Actaeo Aracyntho. I sing as Amphion of Dirce used to sing, when calling home the herds on Attic Aracynthus. (Ecl. 2.23–24)

The herdsman Corydon compares his musical talent to that of the mythical singer Amphion, who built the walls of Thebes by enchanting the stones with his sevenchord lyre. Through disclosing to the love object his musical repertoire and identifying it with that of Amphion, Corydon claims the same orphic power 35 and thus creates a striking incongruity that provokes humour to the readers and to the  30 For call-backs, see Chauvin 2017, 174–175. 31 For the topic/anecdote-based call-back, see Chauvin 2017, 176. For the various types of callbacks, see Chauvin 2017, 175–177. 32 Cf. Chauvin 2017, 175, 182. 33 Cf. Helitzer/Schatz 2005, 247. See also Chauvin 2017, 175. 34 For Tityrus’ and Meliboeus’ humorous relief, see Paraskeviotis 2020, 171–181. 35 For Amphion and the orphic power of his music, see Schmidt 1987, 145–146.

  George Paraskeviotis characters of the Eclogue (Alexis). Moreover, by obliquely placing his musical activity in such a long tradition (Ecl. 2.36–39), the rustic shows his awareness that his music is his only hope of winning the urban Alexis. 36 Hence, the reference to his musical excellence comes after the reference to his pastoral activities, emphatically placed in the middle of his long boasting 37 and expressed with a strong rhetorical device, the mythological exemplum. 38 What is more, Corydon sings a laborious Hellenistic verse, whose unusual geographical learning (Dircaeus is an adjective often used by metonymy for “Theban”, and Actaeo Aracyntho, “Attic Aracynthus”, cannot refer to the famous mountain in Acarnania but instead to some other unknown synonymous mountain situated in Boeotia or partly in Attica). 39 In addition, the metre (Actaeo Aracyntho shows a hiatus without correption of the unelided vowel, which is a Greek metrical feature found in the Eclogues and especially in Hellenistic contexts), 40 and mythological exemplum (Amphion) are both consistent with high-flown diction, creating a humorous effect by being placed in the mouth of an uneducated herdsman. 41 As a result, Corydon’s comparison of his musical talent to that of the legendary singer Amphion and his factitious doctrina appear to be humorous for the cultivated and urbane Alexis, who

 36 Cf. Ecl. 2.1–2: Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin,/delicias domini, nec quid speraret habebat “Corydon, the shepherd, was aflame for the fair Alexis, his master’s pet, nor knew he what to hope” and 2.56–57: rusticus es, Corydon; nec munera curat Alexis,/nec, si muneribus certes, concedat Iollas “Corydon, you are a clown! Alexis cares naught for gifts, nor if with gifts you were to vie, would Iollas yield”. These lines recall the elegiac (although it is also found in other literary genres) love-triangle motif, which consists of the poor lover (here, the rustic Corydon), the love object (Alexis) and the rich rival (Iollas), according to which the lover’s musical talent is the only way to vie with the rich rival in order to win over the love object. See Kenney 1983, 51 and Papanghelis 1995, 44. 37 It is worth noticing the structural symmetry that the lovesick herdsman’s long boasting shows, demonstrated in Corydon’s pastoral activities in Ecl. 2.20–22 (three lines), music in Ecl. 2.23–24 (two lines) and beauty in Ecl. 2.25–27 (three lines). For symmetry in the Eclogues, see Skutsch 1969, 153–169. 38 For the mythological exemplum in Vergil’s Eclogues, see Paraskeviotis 2014, 431–460. 39 Clausen 1994, 71. 40 See Coleman 1977, 97, who further observes that this line has four heterodyne feet along with the fifth and a main caesura after the third foot trochee that is yet another Graecism (− − − − − ∪|∪ − − − ∪∪ − −). 41 Even though it is customary for readers to assume that Corydon’s doctrina is entirely based on Vergil himself, who puts these words into the mouth of this herdsman, scholars argue that we do not have evidence or a right to form unjustifiable assumptions concerning an author’s intentions (see e.g. Lyne 1994, 187–189). Thus, either Vergil’s intention (if we could know it) is to present Corydon in a humorous way or Corydon’s intention is to present himself as a cultivated and educated character in order to seduce the urban Alexis.

Humorous Unity and Disunity between the Characters in Vergil’s Eclogues 1 and 2  

continues to remain untouched. In other words, the lover’s most powerful way to win the unresponsive erotic object (music) fails and this lays special emphasis on the distance that separates these two characters. Corydon soon understands that this is not going anywhere, and his selfawareness is emphatically expressed through a self-address (rusticus) that shows his incongruous love for the urban slave boy: rusticus es, Corydon; nec munera curat Alexis, nec, si muneribus certes, concedat Iollas. Corydon you are a clown! Alexis cares naught for gifts nor if with gifts you were to vie, would Iollas yield. (Ecl. 2.56–57)

Here, the humour, which is caused for the readers and for the characters of the Eclogue, comes from the superiority of the character who is laughing at some inferior character. But the laughing character and the character at whom he laughs is the same (Corydon). Corydon consciously laughs at himself, realizing the incongruity of the love relationship (or in other words the distance that separates him and the erotic object) with an urban and urbane slave boy through a selfaddress (rusticus), followed also by two country metaphors that highlight his return to the hard reality: heu heu, quid uolui misero mihi? floribus Austrum perditus et liquidis immisi fontibus apros. Alas, alas! What hope, poor fool, has been mine? Madman, I have let in the south wind to my flowers, and boars to my crystal springs! (Ecl. 2.58–59)

Corydon condemns himself and pejoratively stresses that he is only a simple countryman, thereby explaining what the urban and urbane Alexis would think of him and of his gifts, which is emphatically expressed in a proverbial way through the two country metaphors. The rainy storms that ruined his flowers and the wild boars that spoiled his crystal springs obliquely refer to the lovesick rustic, who realises that his rusticitas ruined everything. Corydon’s self-awareness about the reason for which he has been rejected by Alexis is also confirmed by his effort to justify himself for his earlier behaviour through a new series of country analogies: torua leaena lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam, florentem cytisum sequitur lasciua capella, te Corydon, o Alexi: trahit sua quemque uoluptas

  George Paraskeviotis The grim lioness follows the wolf, the wolf himself the goat, the wanton goat the flowering clover, and Corydon follows you, Alexis. Each is led by his liking. (Ecl. 2.63–65)

Nonetheless, these rustic analogies are also used by the herdsman Corydon to describe his love for the urban and urbane beloved and therefore they create a striking incongruity, which causes humour for the readers and for the characters of the Eclogue (Alexis and/or Iollas); more importantly, however, these analogies show the disunity between these two characters. What is more, Ecl. 2.56–57 could also refer to an unreal incident that only exists in the fantasy of Corydon, who imagines that Iollas is sarcastically laughing at his rusticitas. 42 Thus, the humour emerges from a superior character, namely the rich erotic rival Iollas based in town, who is laughing at the humble rustic Corydon based in the countryside. Hence, it reinforces the humorous result by enabling both Corydon and the readers of the Eclogue to imagine Iollas laughing ironically at the humble herdsman-lover. However, either the first or the second reading lays special emphasis on the humorous division between the rustic lover Corydon and the urban love object Alexis who could never be together because the antithesis between city and country is invariably the cultural barrier that renders such love affairs incompatible and unfulfilled. 43 Therefore, humour enhances the disunity between Corydon and Alexis, which is the subject of the Eclogue, and most importantly the unity of Alexis and Iollas, thereby intensifying Corydon’s grief and desperate situation which culminate in the last lines of the poem (Ecl. 2.66–73). To sum up, humour constitutes, in fact, a dynamic rhetorical device, which is closely associated with the unity and division between the characters in Eclogues 1 and 2. It importantly reinforces the friendly relationship between Tityrus and Meliboeus even though this happens through Meliboeus’ exile, which shatters the unity of the herdsmen and of the pastoral world, which is currently threatened by the land confiscations. More specifically, it provides psychological relief to the herdsmen by soothing the indignation of Tityrus and the misery of Meliboeus who is forced to leave the pastoral world forever thereby mitigating with humour the gloomy atmosphere that runs through the Eclogue. What is more, it is closely associated with the division between the lovers Corydon and Alexis, laying emphasis on the fact that their erotic relationship is incompatible

 42 The thesis that we may consider everything in the Eclogues as an imagined story (i.e. fiction) mediated by the author or by an internal character has recently been proposed by Kania 2016. 43 See Alpers 1979, 121–122, who argues that although Eclogue 2 does not clearly separate country and city, it is obvious that Corydon and Alexis live in two different worlds.

Humorous Unity and Disunity between the Characters in Vergil’s Eclogues 1 and 2  

and unfulfilled. As a result, it reinforces the erotic unity between Alexis and Iollas, who are both based in the town and for this reason they constitute an appropriate erotic couple. Therefore, either serious (disunity of the pastoral world) or less serious (erotic relationships) matters in the pastoral world are always treated with humour, which plays a significant role for the lives of the herdsmen and the pastoral world.

Bibliography Alpers, P. (1979), The Singer of the Eclogues: A Study of Virgilian Pastoral with a New Translation of the Eclogues, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London. Attardo, S. (1994), Linguistic Theories of Humor, Berlin. Breed, B.W. (2006), Pastoral Inscriptions: Reading and Writing Virgil’s Eclogues, London. Cairns, F. (2015), ‘Fat victim and fat cheese (Vergil Eclogue 1.33–35)’, in: H.-C. Günther (ed.), Virgilian Studies. A Miscellany Dedicated to the Memory of Mario Geymonat (Studia Classica et Mediaevalia 10), Nordhausen, 27–38. Chauvin, C. (2017), ‘Callbacks in stand-up comedy: constructing cohesion at the macro level within a specific genre’, in: K. Aijmer/D. Lewis (eds.), Constructive Analysis of Discoursepragmatic Aspects of Linguistic Genres, Yearbook of Corpus Linguisticsand Pragmatics Vol. 15, Cham, 165–183. Clausen, W.V. (1994), Virgil. Eclogues with an Introduction and Commentary, Oxford. Coleman, R. (1977), Vergil. Eclogues, Cambridge. Cooper, L. (1922), An Aristotelian Theory of Comedy with an Adaptation of the Poetics and a Translation of the ‘Tractatus Coislinianus’, New York. Copley, F.O. (1956), Exclusus Amator. A Study in Latin Love Poetry, New York. Cucchiarelli, A. (2012), Publio Virgilio Marone. Le Bucoliche. Introduzione e Commento. Traduzione di Alfonso Traina, Roma. Currie, H.M. (1976), ‘The third Eclogue and the Roman comic spirit’, in: Mnemosyne 29, 411– 420. Davis, G. (2012), Parthenope: The Interplay of Ideas in Vergilian Bucolic, Leiden/Boston. Du Quesnay, I.M. (1981), ‘Vergil’s first Eclogue’, in: F. Cairns (ed.), Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 3, Liverpool, 29–182. Freud, S. (1905), Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious, Translation. James Strachey, New York. Helitzer, M./Schatz, M. (2005), Comedy Writing Secrets, Cincinnati. Hobbes, T. (1994), Leviathan with selected variants from the Latin edition of 1699, edited with introduction and notes by Edwin Curley, Indianapolis. Hortmann, A. (1976), Ironie und Humor bei Theokrit, Hain. Janko, R. (1984), Aristotle on Comedy. Towards a Reconstruction of Poetics II, Berkeley. Kania, R. (2016), Vergil’s Eclogues and the Art of Fiction. A Study of the Poetic Imagination, Cambridge. Kantzios, I. (2004), ‘Χιούμορ και ειρωνεία στο ενδέκατο Ειδύλλιο του Θεοκρίτου και στη δεύτερη Εκλογή του Βιργιλίου’, in: Hellenica 54, 49–62.

  George Paraskeviotis Karakasis, E. (2011), Song Exchange in Roman Pastoral, Berlin/Boston. Kenney, E.J. (1983), ‘Virgil and the elegiac sensibility’, in: Illinois Classical Studies 8, 44–59. Kossaifi, C. (2008), ‘Erudition et humour dans les idylles bucoliques de Theocrite’, in: AC 77, 41–59. Lyne, R.O.A.M. (1979), ‘Seruitium amoris’, in: CQ n.s. 29, 117–130. Michalopoulos, C.N. (2014), Μύθος, γλώσσα και φύλο στο Corpus Priapeorum, Athens. Morreall, J. (2009), Comic Relief. A Comprehensive Philosophy of Humor, Oxford. Papanghelis, R.D. (1995), Ἀπὸ τὴ βουκολικὴ εὐτοπία στὴν πολιτικὴ οὐτοπία: μιὰ μελέτη τῶν Ἐκλογῶν τοῦ Βιργιλίου, Athens. Paraskeviotis, G.C. (2014), ‘The mythological exemplum in Vergil’s Eclogues’, in: Hermes 142, 431–460. Paraskeviotis, G.C. (2020), ‘Verg. Ecl. 1.27–35. Tityrus’ and Meliboeus’ humorous relief’, in: CW 113.2, 171–181. Perks, L.G. (2012), ‘The ancient roots of humor theory’, in: Humor 25, 119–132. Plaza, M. (2006), The Function of Humour in Roman Verse Satire. Laughing and Lying, Oxford. Powell, J.G.F. (2011), ‘Aeneas the spin-doctor: rhetorical self-presentation in Aeneid 2’, in: PVS 27, 184–202. Raskin, V. (1985), Semantic Mechanisms of Humour, Dordrecht. Roberts, J.T. (1983), ‘Carmina nulla canam: rhetoric and poetic in Vergil’s first Eclogue’, in: CW 76, 193–199. Rutherford, R. (1995), ‘Authorial rhetoric in Virgil’s Georgics’, in: D.C. Innes/H. Hine/C. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric. Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, Oxford, 19–29. Schäfer, A. (2001), Vergils Eklogen 3 und 7 in der Tradition der lateinischen Streitdichtung, Frankfurt am Main. Schmidt, E.A. (1987), Bukolische Leidenschaft, oder über antike Hirtenpoesie, Frankfurta/Main/ Bern/New York. Skutsch, O. (1969), ‘Symmetry and Sense in the Eclogues’, in: HSPh 73, 153–169. Spencer, H. (1884), ‘The physiology of laughter’, in: H. Spencer (ed.), Illustrations of Universal Progress. A Series of Discussions, New York, 194–209. Wills, J.E. (1993), ‘Virgil’s cuicum’, in: Vergilius 39, 3–11.



Part IV: Historical and Technical Prose

Vasileios Liotsakis

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander: Plutarch, Arrian and Curtius Rufus  Introduction Disunity in Alexander’s army traditionally attracts plentiful scholarly attention, as discord affected both the fate of leading figures of the army as well as Alexander’s decision-making. However, although issues of crisis have been widely discussed by modern historians of the period, 1 there is no comparative literary analysis into the way that ancient authors on Alexander shaped their narratives in their efforts to address themes related to discord and crisis. 2 In this paper, I would thus like to shed some light on the ways three authors on Alexander differentiate themselves from one another with regard to the way they allowed the issue of discord to affect their narrative style. In particular, the comparison will focus on Plutarch, Arrian, and Curtius Rufus. The accounts of the first historians of Alexander have survived only in fragments, which makes it unfortunately impossible for us to reconstruct the way these writers incorporated the issue of discord in their accounts. We can therefore only discern the presence and not the structuring of dispute in those fragments, thus confining ourselves in faded tesserae of the traditional themes of crisis we find in our extant — later — sources. 3 For example, Plutarch typically attributes the Macedonians’ unwillingness to follow Alexander to their inclination to wealth and luxury (see Section 2). Accordingly, there are a number of fragments, especially those descending from participants in the expedition, which betray the excitement of the army about Asian wealth. 4 Most of these passages are nothing more than short fleeting references found in later geographers and naturalists

 1 See, e.g., Heckel 1977a/b; Carney 1980; Holt 1982; Hammond 1983; Carney 1996; Badian 2000; Müller 2003; Olbrycht 2008; Brice 2015. Invaluable discussions of scholarship on each case of disunity are also found in the more general studies of Müller 2014 and Heckel 2016. 2 For these issues separately in each ancient author, see Baynham 1998 for Curtius; Bosman 2011 for Plutarch; Liotsakis 2019 for Arrian. 3 These are Diodorus’ seventeenth book of his Bibliotheke, Plutarch’s Alexander, Arrian’s Anabasis of Alexander, Curtius Rufus’ history, and Justin’s epitome of Trogus’ history. 4 FGrH 123 F1 and F3–5; FGrH 125 F3; FGrH 134 F28 and F32; FGrH 711 F1; FGrH 713 F2. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-012

  Vasileios Liotsakis (such as Strabo and Pliny). However, these fragments can also help us understand what Plutarch must have read in the Alexander literature that made him focus on the Macedonians’ avarice. On other occasions we read of the Persian kings’ luxurious lifestyle, 5 which was occasionally adopted by Alexander himself. 6 Once again, we cannot always know whether this information was offered by the first historians in a neutral fashion or one that was pejorative towards Alexander. Nor can we know whether or not this information was associated in the original accounts with the dissatisfaction of the army. Nonetheless, these references allow us to reshape parts of the intertexts from which later historians drew in the passages where they address issues of disunity elicited by Alexander’s orientalism. A handful of fragments which betray their author’s explicit resentment towards Alexander are very helpful in this respect, especially when the author also participated in the enterprise. 7 We are, though, in a position to confirm that only the most celebrated episodes of disunity or issues related to these episodes, such as flattery and rivalry for royal favour, were widely discussed in the early sources too, as is evident in the generous source citations of later authors. 8 These first accounts offer us a window into the traditional themes of discord which the next generations of authors found in their sources. In this paper, my main point of argument will be that Plutarch, Arrian, and Curtius, who all included in their accounts most of the pre-existing topoi of disunity, each emphasized different aspects of this theme through distinctive narrative schemes.

 5 FGrH 122 F6; FGrH 125 F2. 6 FGrH 125 F3. On the Macedonians’ and Alexander’s inordinate consumption of wine, see FGrH 125 F19a; FGrH 126 F1 and F3; FGrH 127 F1–2; FGrH 143 F3. 7 Ephippus (FGrH 126 F1–5) can hardly have participated in the expedition (HCA I, 276; AAA I, 474); Polyclitus (FGrH 128 F1), on the other hand, is believed to have followed Alexander to Asia (Droysen 1833, 338, 342). 8 Plu. Alex. 54.4–6 and 55.9 on Chares of Mytilene (FGrH 125 F14a and F15 respectively) on Callisthenes’ opposition to Alexander and his death; Arr. An. 3.26.1–2 on Ptolemy (FGrH 138 F10) and Aristobulus (FGrH 139 F15) for the Philotas affair; Arr. An. 4.13.5 and 4.14.1–3 on Ptolemy (F13) and Aristobulus (F24–25) on the conspiracy of the pages and Callisthenes’ involvement. On flattery and rivalry the royal favour, see Chares of Mytilene FGrH 125 F4 and F10 and Ephippus of Olynthus FGrH 126 F5.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

 Plutarch In his Alexander, Plutarch discusses a great number of topoi of discord. However, through specific narrative choices, he leads the reader to attribute the moments of disruption in Alexander’s relationship with his men mainly to the following factors: (a) the contrast between the Macedonians’ inclination towards wealth and luxury and Alexander’s moderation and his excessive love for military glory; and (b) Alexander’s proneness towards boastfulness for his feats. The chapters on Alexander’s childhood (Alex. 4–10) shape an atmosphere of discord for the second most important moment in Alexander’s life, his enthronement. 9 At the core of disunity lies the distance between Philip’s and Alexander’s natures. Alexander’s early life both begins (Alex. 4–5) and ends (Alex. 9–10) with issues of differences between characters and with the element of envy. At the beginning of this ring composition, we read of Alexander’s moderation concerning the means by which he aspired to secure his glory. Plutarch strikingly chooses to stress this virtue of Alexander by juxtaposing it with Philip’s flaws. Alexander is praised for distancing himself from the rhetorical bragging of his father (Alex. 4.9–11). In support of this view, Plutarch narrates the episode in which Alexander, in Philip’s absence, hosted a group of Persian envoys (Alex. 5.1–3). 10 The Persian guests were impressed by the maturity of young Alexander and “regarded the much-talked-of ability of Philip as nothing compared with his son’s eager disposition to do great things” (Alex. 5.3). Although Plutarch is here quite vague about exactly what virtues of Alexander the Persian envoys were enthused about, the second speech On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander notes that Plutarch associated this anecdote with the antithesis between Alexander’s love for military feats and other kings’ love for wealth (342a–c). 11 This anecdote is  9 Alexander’s birth is also introduced with an atmosphere of disunity, between Olympias and Philip (2.1–3.4). 10 See also Hamilton 1969, xlii–xliii and Stadter 1996 on how Alexander’s words are confirmed by the anecdotes of the bios. 11 Most scholars agree that these works should be included in Plutarch’s early writings (Sandbach 1939, 196 n. 3; Hamilton 1969, xxiii). Some believe that Plutarch’s goal in composing them was to draw parallels between Alexander and Roman emperors (Eicke 1909, 53ff. and Hirzel 1895 on Traian). Tarn (1939, 56 n. 86) doubts their authenticity, but his arguments are weak. These works must partly have served as rhetorical exercises (Badian 1958, 436; Hamilton 1969, xxix– xxxi; Whitmarsh 2002). However, the coincidence of some of the views expressed in those works with verdicts found in the bios suffices to prove that Plutarch expressed in those two works too some of his genuine views about Alexander (cf. Wardman 1955, 5–12). See also Wardman 1955, who bases his arguments on a comparative examination of the speeches and the bios. His view

  Vasileios Liotsakis followed by another story that is exemplary of Alexander’s preference of military glory over wealth (Alex. 5.4–6). It should be noted that Plutarch is not so interested in the bad relationship of Alexander with his father, but mainly in the differences between their characters. Philip, as a literary figure, does not serve as Alexander’s foe but merely as his foil. 12 Still, what matters for our analysis is to note that this foil is also aimed to exemplify the general Macedonian mentality; the distance between Philip and Alexander thus serves as a prelude to ensuing disagreements in the circles of the Macedonian army in Asia. In particular, Philip’s immoderation prefigures the Macedonians’ overindulgence and highlights Alexander’s self-control, his disdain for wealth and his obsession with military kleos. These elements predominate in the Plutarchean portrait of the Macedonians and Alexander 13 and are the main reasons for collisions between the king and his men during the campaign. In this way, this kind of disunity between father and son insinuates Alexander’s superiority over Philip, an element which prepares the reader for Alexander’s moral superiority over the Macedonians too, which will be a predominant factor of disruption of concord in Macedonian circles found throughout the rest of the work. 14 After a series of incidents of discord between Philip and Alexander (Alex. 9.5– 10.4), Plutarch introduces us to Alexander’s reign with the following words (Alex. 11.1): Παρέλαβε μὲν οὖν ἔτη γεγονὼς εἴκοσι τὴν βασιλείαν, φθόνους μεγάλους καὶ δεινὰ μίση καὶ κινδύνους πανταχόθεν ἔχουσαν. Thus it was that at the age of twenty years Alexander received the kingdom, which was exposed to great jealousies, dire hatreds, and dangers on every hand.

 that Plutarch intended in the bios to stress Alexander’s rage is rightly questioned by Hamilton 1969. 12 Philip never expresses his antipathy towards his son. Except the episode of Attalus in Philip’s marriage with Cleopatra, nowhere else in the work is Philip presented as envying or disliking Alexander. On the contrary, he frequently expresses his affection, pride, and admiration for Alexander (Alex. 3.9; Alex. 6.5; Alex. 7.1; Alex. 9.4). For Philip as a foil to Alexander in Alexander, see Beneker 2012, 107–113. On Darius’ similar role in Curtius, see Rutz 1984; Baynham 1998, 132, 145. 13 Duff 2008; Beneker 2012, 106 and 103–152 on these character features in Caesar; Bosman 2011, 91. 14 A less significant factor of crisis is the belligerent nature of Olympias (Alex. 10.7; Alex. 39.7– 8; Alex. 68.4–6).

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

These words markedly reveal Plutarch’s intention to associate Alexander’s enthronement with the atmosphere of discord previously delineated in ch. 4–10 (cf. de fortuna 327d). Furthermore, Plutarch links the dawn of Alexander’s reign with external enemies, both barbarian and Greek. As a result, Alexander’s victories in Europe (Alex. 11–13) are introduced in such a way that they are presented as efforts which restore both inner and external turbulences in the kingdom. Once again, Alexander’s political and military virtues are stressed here through a foil. Still, Alexander is not this time contrasted with Philip but with the Macedonians. The latter believe that Alexander should adopt a moderate attitude both towards the Greeks and foreign nations (Alex. 11.3). 15 Alexander’s entire activity in Europe is introduced by the phrase “but he himself set out from opposite principles […] by boldness and a lofty spirit” (Alex. 11.4). In this way Plutarch presents Alexander’s choices in a certain historical period as opposed to the Macedonians’ opinion and mentality. 16 This technique will also recur in the introductions of major phases of the expedition in Asia. Similarly to Alexander’s birth, his enthronement, and his activities in Europe, the fourth and most significant stage of his career (the beginning of the expedition in Asia) is also introduced by a contrast between Alexander and the Macedonians. This contrast emerges through the focus on two themes: (a) Alexander’s meeting with Diogenes, and (b) the state of the army at the dawn of the enterprise in Asia. As for (a), Alexander meets the Cynic philosopher Diogenes at Corinth. Alexander asks the philosopher if he wishes for anything and the philosopher asks him and his men to move aside, because they hide the sun (Alex. 14.1– 4). Plutarch touches upon a typical virtue of Alexander in the literary tradition about his life, that is, his love of philosophy and the frugal lifestyle represented by Diogenes. 17 Once again, this virtue of the king is highlighted by an antithesis with the Macedonians. The latter are presented as mocking Alexander because Diogenes scorned him, but the king answers them: “But verily, if I were not Alexander, I would be Diogenes” (Alex. 14.5). Although Plutarch does not here explicitly refer to what virtue of Diogenes Alexander expressed his admiration for, in the first speech On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander, Plutarch explains that Alexander was fond of Diogenes’ frugality (332a). So, we are met with a divergence between Alexander’s admiration for the deeper meaning of Diogenes’ words about frugality and the Macedonians’ incapability to appreciate values such as those expressed by the philosopher.  15 Cf. D.S. 17.2.1–5.2 and 17.8.1–15.5. 16 Hamilton 1969, 29. 17 For a meticulous collection and discussion of the sources, see Koulakiotis 2006, 59–147.

  Vasileios Liotsakis This divergence will serve as the main prism of discord, through which the reader will be invited to interpret the dissension between Alexander and his men about the continuation of the expedition after the battles of Issus and Gaugamela, as well as in India. Alexander’s love of a frugal lifestyle is evident in ch. 15 too. Similarly to other surviving sources, Plutarch begins his account of the expedition in Asia by registering the numbers of the forces (Alex. 151–2). 18 However, he is the only one who mentions, apart from the army, the funds Alexander had at his disposal at the beginning of the enterprise. Also, only Plutarch associates this lack of money with Alexander’s moderation, contempt for wealth, and generosity. On the occasion of the information about the low funds, Plutarch mentions that Alexander, before leaving for Asia, distributed the Macedonian land to the aristocrats (Alex. 15.3–6). This association between the financial state of the kingdom with Alexander’s magnanimity does not emerge accidentally, but rather reflects Plutarch’s general goal-setting: the biographer confirms the message of ch. 5.3 and ch. 5.4– 6 about Alexander’s preference of military glory over wealth. The reader is thus led to the conclusion that the expedition was not motivated by the king’s desire for wealth, but for glory through military feats (cf. de fortuna 330e). Similar associations between the poor funding of the expedition and Alexander’s tendency towards frugality in the first speech On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander betray Plutarch’s intention in both the speech and the bios to stress that Alexander entered Asia, with his sole inheritance being not Philip’s money but Aristotle’s philosophical doctrines about moral values, such as moderation, generosity, prudence, and bravery (de fortuna 327d–e). The more the Macedonians distance themselves from this way of thinking, the more discord between them and the king will arouse. 19 The question about whether Alexander’s choices should be governed by financial expediency or his need for proper conduct of war gradually takes the form of a dispute between Alexander and his men and introduces the chapters about the king’s conquest of the Asian coastline. First, we have Alexander’s thoughts in ch. 17.2–3. Plutarch informs us that Alexander, after conquering Miletus and Halicarnassus, was faced with the dilemma whether he should move further inland and pursue a battle with Darius, or whether he should first secure the coastline as a basis for his navy. This quandary is related to the contrasting pair of money — glory which we saw in ch. 5.3, ch. 5.4–6, and ch. 15.1–2, although this is not explicitly stated by Plutarch in ch. 17.2–3. But ch. 17.2–3 should be read next to ch.  18 Cf. D.S. 17.9.3 and 17.17.3–4; Arr. An. 1.11.3; Justin 11.6. 19 Cf. D.S. 17.16.1–2.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

24.3–4, where this contrast arises in an overt way: Alexander’s wish to reinforce his naval power (or, to be more precise, to annihilate the navy of the Persians) through the occupation of Tyre clashes with the Macedonians’ wish to hunt the Persian gold by pursuing Darius in inner Asia. Once again, Plutarch is the only one among the sources who highlights this kind of disagreement between Alexander and his men about the future of the expedition during the enterprise in Tyre. It is worth examining the narrative technique through which Plutarch prepares the reader for the dispute on the siege of Tyre. The contrast between Alexander’s moderate focus on the proper conduct of war and the Macedonians’ inclination towards wealth emerges in ch. 24.3–4 only after an elaborate preparation of the reader for this subject in the preceding chapters (Alex. 21–23). In ch. 21, we read of one further famous incident in Alexander’s life: his meeting with Darius’ family. 20 Plutarch follows the traditional practice of the Alexander literature and praises him for showing respect not only towards Darius’ wife, Stateira, but also towards any other Persian female captive. However, Plutarch is the only author to take advantage of this opportunity by juxtaposing Alexander’s abstinence with the Macedonians’ licentiousness. For, immediately after discussing Alexander’s sophrosyne towards Asian captive women, Plutarch records three short anecdotes, through which he contrasts this sophrosyne with the lack of selfcontrol of soldiers in this respect (Alex. 22.1–3). 21 After a series of stories about Alexander’s continence with regard to wine, food and lifestyle (Alex. 22.5–23.6) , Plutarch comments that the sole flaw in Alexander’s character lay in how he was vulnerable towards haughtiness, which is why he loved flattery, and as a result of which he was unpleasant to moderate individuals of his army (Alex. 23.7) . So, in ch. 21–23, Plutarch touches upon those points in which Alexander differed from the Macedonians and which generated the most significant points of disunity in the expedition in Asia, noting both the Macedonians’ lack of self-restraint and the king’s moderation and his arrogance and inclination to flatterers (cf. Alex. 10.1) . As said above, on a level of narrative macro-structure, ch. 4–10 create an atmosphere of discord surrounding Alexan-

 20 D.S. 17.35.4–38.7; 17.54.7; 17.67.1; and 17.84.1; Plu. Alex. 21; 22.5; 30; and 43.4; Arr. An. 2.12.3– 8; 3.22.6; and 4.20.1–3; Justin 11.9 and 11.12. 21 On Plutarch’s goal-setting in ch. 22, see Hamilton 1969, 56–58. For this technique in Plutarch’s Alexander, see Hamilton 1969, xl. On its presence in Plutarch’s biographical oeuvre in general, see Hägg 2012, 239–277; Weizsäcker 1931, passim and esp. 80–84; Stadter 1996; Chrysanthou 2018, 9 and with n. 26 with further bibliography.

  Vasileios Liotsakis der’s enthronement, and this is also the role of ch. 11.1–4 for Alexander’s activities in Europe. Chapters 21–23 similarly produce an atmosphere of dissension for characters and goals, in which the reader is forced to read the occupation of Tyre and Phoenicia in ch. 24.4–25.8. 22 The pivotal point in the escalation of crisis in Alexander’s relationship with the Macedonians is found in ch. 39–43. 23 In ch. 39, Plutarch composes a group of nine incidents which reflect Alexander’s generosity towards the Macedonians. In eight out of these nine stories, Plutarch emphasizes the wealth offered by Alexander to his friends, his mother and people with whom he had no close relationship, as an exchange for their services. These examples are intended to stress not only Alexander’s generosity, but also his contempt for money (cf. de fortuna 333b: ἢ οὐχ ὁμοίως καταφρονεῖν χρημάτων δοκοῦμεν τὸν μὴ προσιέμενον καὶ τὸν χαριζόμενον; “Or is the bountiful person not to be thought as much a contemner of money as he that refuses it?” transl. Goodwin), thus juxtaposing Alexander’s lack of interest in money with the Macedonians’ avarice. Almost in the middle of this unit, Plutarch presents Olympias as warning Alexander that his generosity will spoil his men and turn them against him (Alex. 39.7). Olympias’ words have a special meaning in our understanding of the negative effect of Alexander’s generosity upon his relationship with his men. Olympias foreshadows, through her warnings, the future deterioration in Alexander’s relationship with the Macedonians due to their gradual ‘addiction’ to luxury and wealth. Indeed, in ch. 40 Plutarch draws our attention to the consequences of Alexander’s expensive gifts for his men’s mentality. The latter are described as caricatures of a luxurious lifestyle. As a result, Alexander was advising them in a philosophical tone to ignore wealth and to focus instead on battles. Alexander, for his part, decides to dedicate himself to warfare with even greater zeal, in order to distract his men from the dissolute way of life they have chosen (Alex. 40.4–5). On the contrary, “his friends, whose wealth and magnificence now gave them a desire to live in luxury and idleness, were impatient of his long wanderings and military expeditions, and gradually went so far as to abuse him and speak ill of him” (Alex. 41.1). As a result (Alex. 42.3–4): ἀλλ’ ὕστερόν γ’ αὐτὸν ἐξετράχυναν αἱ πολλαὶ διαβολαί, διὰ τῶν ἀληθῶν πάροδον πίστιν ἐπὶ τὰ ψευδῆ λαβοῦσαι, καὶ μάλιστα κακῶς ἀκούων ἐξίστατο τοῦ φρονεῖν, καὶ χαλεπὸς ἦν καὶ ἀπαραίτητος, ἅτε δὴ τὴν δόξαν ἀντὶ τοῦ ζῆν καὶ τῆς βασιλείας ἠγαπηκώς.

 22 Cf. Hamilton 1969, 61. 23 Hamilton (1969, xlii) connects the excursus with ch. 4.8, ch. 5.5, ch. 13.2, and ch. 45.1.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

But afterwards the multitude of accusations which he heard rendered him harsh, and led him to believe the false because so many were true. And particularly when he was maligned he lost discretion and was cruel and inexorable, since he loved his reputation more than his life or his kingdom.

This pivotal development is for the worse and constitutes the first culmination in the divergence between Alexander’s mentality and that of his men. So far, we have seen that Alexander’s love of a frugal way of life and glory through battles and labours created a sharp contrast with Philip’s rhetoric and boastfulness. We also saw that these very features of Alexander were juxtaposed with the sluggishness and reluctance of the Macedonians in their operations in Europe and Phoenicia. In each of these examples, the crisis in the relationship of Alexander with his men was manifested in a mild way, in the form of a disagreement in the process of decision-making. In this case, we have something stronger than a disagreement: an augmentation of pre-existing features, which leads to a much more essential rupture. The Macedonians increase their greed and unwillingness to continue the expedition. On the other hand, Alexander becomes more obsessed with battles, crueler and more suspicious. The significance of ch. 39–44 also lies in the fact that they make us examine two celebrated stories of discord in Alexander’s history (those related to Philotas and Callisthenes) through a prism that is unique in the surviving literature of Alexander. The Philotas and Callisthenes affairs have served to readers as the most illustrative mirrors of the corrosive effect of the expedition over time on the concord in the Macedonian army. Plutarch differs from Arrian and Curtius in that he foregrounds in these episodes the Macedonians’ inclination to luxury and wealth (apart from Alexander’s suspiciousness, and the subsequent incautiousness with which he allowed flatterers to distort his judgment). Philotas is presented as causing Alexander’s and others’ antipathy due to his haughtiness and boastfulness about his wealth and social status (Alex. 48.1–5). Moreover, flatterers and his rivals in the pursuit of Alexander’s favour had a critical role in Alexander’s decision to execute him (Alex. 49.8–12). A similar, though even more intense, focus on the effect of flatterers upon Alexander’s judgment is the main distinctive feature of the Callisthenes episode. Plutarch’s message in his account about Callisthenes is that flatterers contributed the most to Alexander’s alienation from, and animosity towards, Aristotle’s cousin (Alex. 52–55). The expedition in India is also introduced by the contrast wealth – military achievements. Alexander decides to cross the Indus only after burning the booty both of his own and that of the Macedonians. He does so in order to facilitate the crossing of the river (Alex. 57.1–3). Lastly, Plutarch informs us that the Macedonians were dissatisfied by Alexander’s generous gifts to the Indian Taxiles (Alex.

  Vasileios Liotsakis 59.5). This incident also exemplifies Alexander’s vision to unite the Western and Eastern civilizations with his generosity and respect to both cultures. However, the Macedonians’ avarice is once again presented as an obstacle to Alexander’s plan.

 Arrian Arrian incorporates elements of discord in his Anabasis of Alexander in a special way and with purposes that are different than those of Plutarch and Curtius. As for the differences between Arrian and Plutarch, Arrian is not interested in — or deliberately avoids — touching upon the black spots in Alexander’s relationship with his father. Of course, as in Plutarch’s Alexander, here too Philip is occasionally implied or stated to be inferior to Alexander (An. 1.3; An. 7.9.6–7). Philip’s role as a foil for Alexander’s qualities in both Arrian and Plutarch strengthens the possibility of a pre-existing narrative topos in the Alexander literature. However, Arrian, differently from Plutarch, uses the antithesis Philip — Alexander only in the aforementioned two occasions. Alexander’s love for his father is evident throughout the work (An. 1.10.5; An. 2.14.5; An. 9.2–5). Also, in Arrian, we read of no disagreement between Alexander and his men with regard to the policy and tactics he should follow in the operations in Europe and Asia. Only in ch. 2.25.1–2 is Parmenio presented as advising Alexander to accept Darius’ offer and to end the expedition. However, at this point Arrian merely follows a common topos which is used by all the surviving sources. 24 Nowhere in the work, until the point when Macedonians decisively refuse to move forward on the banks of the Hyphasis (An. 5.25–29), can we discern any intention on Arrian’s part to frame the expedition with pivotal passages of discord in terms of tactics and goal-setting, such as those we find in Plutarch. Contrary to what Plutarch does, in Arrian no phase of the enterprise is introduced beforehand with contrasts between mentalities and conflicting opinions. In Arrian the passages which reveal aspects of disunity in the Macedonian army are (a) the four short and scattered stories of conspiracies; (b) the digressive group of the episodes about Clitus, Callisthenes, and the conspiracy of the pages; (c) and the mutinies of the Hyphasis and Opis.

 24 D.S. 54.4–5; 56.2–3; Plu. Alex. 16.3; 19.3; 29.8; 31.10–11; 32.1–4; 33.9–11; 32.6–7; Arr. An. 1.13.2–14.1; 1.18.6–9; 2.4.9; 2.25.1–2; 3.9.3–4; 3.10; 3.18.11; Curt. 3.6.4–5; 3.7.8–9; 4.11.10–18; 4.13.7–10; 4.13.19ff.; Justin 11.8; 11.13.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

To begin with (a), Arrian relates four cases of betrayal: those of the Lyncestian Alexander (An. 1.25), Amyntas (An. 1.17.9), Harpalus (An. 3.6.4–7), and Philotas (An. 3.26). In none of these Arrian penetrates the reasons why each individual decided to betray Alexander. Of course, we read that the Lyncestian Alexander was bribed by Darius (An. 1.25.3–4) and that Harpalus was influenced by Tauriscus, “a scoundrel” (An. 3.6.7). 25 However, the ultimate reasons of their treachery are omitted. This also applies to Philotas’ story, in which one would expect Arrian, given the gravity of the case, to draw special attention to the motives of Parmenio’s son. 26 Arrian’s silence might reflect his wish to omit any black spot in Alexander’s attitude towards these men. Last, we also read that Amyntas deserted in order not to be punished by Alexander, but Arrian clarifies that this man had never suffered anything by Alexander and thereby treats him as ungrateful and his fears as unjustified. 27 Besides the omission of the traitors’ motives, another typical mode of presentation of these defections is the technique of flashback. Arrian always traces back the prehistory of Alexander’s relationship with each traitor, in order to highlight the king’s generosity and faith to the man who betrayed him (An. 1.25.1–2; for the Lyncestian Alexander; An. 3.6.4–7; for Harpalus; and An. 3.26.1 for Philotas). In this way, Arrian leads the reader to the conclusion that, in all these cases, the reason for the betrayal is not to be sought in Alexander’s misbehaviour or in his character’s flaws, but in the traitors’ ingratitude. 28 A third technique lies in the way that these short references are not gathered together but are found scattered throughout the work. Arrian thereby conveys the impression that these were individual cases of unthankful men, who, as exceptions, do not represent a repeated unease in Alexander’s relationship with his men. Besides, in all these episodes Arrian defends Alexander, either in a covert or explicit fashion. The disruption of linearity also marks the major episodes of discord. Let us begin here with the central digression of ch. 4.7–14. On the occasion of Bessus’ mutilation, Arrian castigates Alexander’s cruelty, which he attributes to the king’s lack of self-control. One of the things that prove this view, according to Arrian, is Alexander’s adoption of barbaric customs (An. 4.7.3–5). In order to strengthen his view about the king’s arrogance due to his military feats, Arrian gathers at this point the episodes on Clitus’ murder (An. 4.8.5–9.6), Callisthenes’

 25 For Arrian’s Anabasis I use throughout Roos 1967 edition and Brunt’s 1976–1983 translation. 26 For a detailed list of bibliography on the matter, see Liotsakis 2019, 152 n. 55. 27 Liotsakis 2019, 109 and 153–154. 28 Liotsakis 2019, 149–155.

  Vasileios Liotsakis opposition to Alexander’s proskynesis (An. 4.9.7–12.7), and the conspiracy of the pages (An. 4.13.1–14.4). These events are not related in a strict chronological order, as Arrian twice admits (An. 4.8.1 and An. 4.14.4). However, the atemporal gathering of these episodes in an extensive digression is not to be attributed to Arrian’s innovativeness, since we find the same scheme both in Plutarch (Alex. 48–55) and Diodorus (index 17 κζ – κη) as well. What, though, distinguishes Arrian from Plutarch in this non-linear presentation of crisis is that he typically mentions the subject retrospectively. In the Clitus account, we read that Clitus had already started to express his annoyance at Alexander’s adoption of the oriental lifestyle and his flatterer’s inordinate praise, long before the night he was murdered by Alexander (An. 4.8.4). This information is contrasted with the absence of any comment on Arrian’s part about Alexander’s relationship with his flatterers in the preceding three books. The reader, being informed that Clitus was enraged by, inter alia, the flatterers’ claims that Alexander descended from Zeus, is invited to consider retrospectively the negative impact of Alexander’s choices in Book III on his relationship with the Macedonians. Specifically, the reader is invited to think about the propaganda promoted by the king since his visit to the oracle of Ammon Zeus about his alleged origin from the god (An. 3.3.1–4.5). The same technique is also used in the episode of the pages’ conspiracy. According to Arrian, some say that Hermolaus was led in front of the Macedonians, whereupon he explained that, in his decision to assassinate Alexander, he was motivated by his indignation for Alexander’s hubristic conduct, the illegal execution of Philotas and Parmenio, Clitus’ murder, the king’s adoption of the Persian royal dressing, and his inordinate inclination to wine (An. 4.14.2). Through this flashback, Arrian offers us the opportunity to see with a different eye the deaths of Philotas, Parmenio, and Clitus. In other words, he allows us to feel the impact of the execution of leading military figures on the army’s attitude towards Alexander. Once again, it is worth noting the sharp contrast between Hermolaus’ pejorative perspective and Arrian’s silence in his narrative of Philotas’ case, or his cold attitude towards Alexander’s decision to have him and his father killed. 29 This scheme recurs in Coenus’ speech at the Hyphasis (An. 5.27.2–9). At this stage we have reached the point at which Alexander is faced with his men’s unwillingness to continue the march in India beyond that river (An. 5.25.1–2). As a response to Alexander’s speech to his men (An. 5.25.3–26.8), Coenus delivers a speech in which he tries to convince Alexander to respect his soldiers’ wish to end the expedition and return home. This is the first time that Arrian allows us to  29 Liotsakis 2019, 135–136.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

feel the Macedonians’ dissatisfaction for Alexander’s unquenched thirst for military operations. Coenus puts this in a clear-cut way: he will speak on behalf of the mere soldiers and not of the privileged officers (An. 5.27.2). What strikes us again as particularly strange is the fact that, similarly to the episodes of Clitus and Hermolaus, issues which have so far been treated by Arrian in an either laudatory or neutral way are now touched upon by Coenus with a critical eye. First, the reader is invited to re-evaluate Alexander’s foundation of cities. Throughout the work Arrian records when and where Alexander founded a city, 30 but he never addresses the dissatisfaction and reluctance of the veterans who were ordered by Alexander to populate those cities. Now, however, Coenus essentially lets Alexander and the reader know that the cities which were seen by Alexander as the source of his glory were identified by the retired soldiers with the end of their hopes to see their homes again (An. 5.27.5). We are led to similar thoughts by Coenus’ compassionate comment that a great number of soldiers have died either in battle or due to disease (An. 5.27.5– 6). An even sharper contrast is created by Coenus’ revelation that Alexander had been forced to absolve the Thessalians of their duties because they were unwilling to follow him (An. 5.27.5). This analeptic reference has nothing to do with Arrian’s linear report of the same event, in which the historian conceals the true reasons of Alexander’s decision to send the Thessalians back home (3.29.5). 31 Another subject that is related analeptically is the Macedonians’ general discontent towards Alexander’s adoption of Persian royal protocol and his choice to incorporate Anatolians in his forces. In ch. 7.6.1–7, Arrian informs us that the satraps of the conquered areas visited Alexander at Susa, bringing to him 30,000 recruit young Asians, who had been trained by Alexander in the Macedonian military manner and provided with Macedonian armours and weaponry. At this point, Arrian reveals to us that there was a general annoyance among the Macedonians about Alexander’s choice to include in his army these Anatolians and, in providing this information, the historian gathers a number of Alexander’s decisions which long ago had elicited his men’s resentment. These decisions included the king’s wearing of the Persian royal dressing, the weddings he organized between his companions and Asian women (weddings which had caused the displeasure even of the grooms), and Peucestas, who had also embraced the Persian language and lifestyle. Arrian ends his account with a list of Asian officers who had been incorporated in the army and had thus irritated the Macedonians. Nowhere in his main narratives of these events (An. 7.4.4–8: weddings with Asian  30 An. 3.5.1–2; 3.18.4; 4.1.3–4; 4.22.4–5. 31 Liotsakis 2019, 157–159.

  Vasileios Liotsakis women; An. 6.30.3: Peucestas’ respect to the Asian culture; and incorporation of foreign troops in the main body of the army 32) did Arrian explain that these issues caused the Macedonians’ dissatisfaction. 33 Arrian proceeds with a similar analepsis, in which he explains the reasons of the mutiny at Opis (An. 7.8.2–3). In this case too, he addresses the issues discussed in the aforementioned flashback, adding one further detail: the Macedonians mockingly asked Alexander to repatriate them all and to continue his expedition with the Asians and his father Ammon Zeus (An. 7.8.3). This is the first time we are invited to judge Alexander’s propaganda about his descent from Ammon from the point of view of his men. Once again, it is worth noting that, in Book III, where he linearly narrated Alexander’s visit to the oasis of Siwah, Arrian may have treated in an ironic way Alexander’s claim of his divine origins (An. 3.3.2 and An. 3.4.5), but omitted the issue of the Macedonians’ negativity towards the king’s boastfulness. As transpires from the aforementioned passages of the Anabasis, Arrian systematically leads the reader to consider the issue of discord in the Macedonian army in a way that stands in opposition to that of Plutarch. While Plutarch states beforehand — and thus foreshadows — the disunity between Alexander’s views and mentality and those of his men for a certain period of time, Arrian forces the reader to examine similar issues retrospectively. What is more, and again in contrast to Plutarch, Arrian does not doubt the Macedonians’ willingness to follow Alexander in the operations in Europe and Asia until their opposition on the banks of the Hyphasis. We have seen that Plutarch’s typical practice of presenting several phases of Alexander’s career as manifestations of the divergence between the king’s selfdiscipline and his men’s avarice mirrors the biographer’s intention to present Alexander as a model of the philosopher-king, who serves the virtues of moderation and endurance in action through his deeds. We also saw that this general goal of Plutarch in his bios of Alexander emerges in a far clearer way only if we read the bios next to Plutarch’s two rhetorical works On the fortune or the virtue of Alexander. In the same vein, it is worth posing similar questions with regard to Arrian too: what general views of Arrian about Alexander and the expedition in Asia, and what compositional aims, dictated Arrian’s adoption of this analeptic gaze at the Macedonians’ discontent with their king? It would be more charitable not to adopt a one-sided answer for these questions but to take into consideration

 32 An. 4.17.3; 4.22.7–8; 4.28.6; 5.2.4; 5.3.6; 5.21.2. 33 Liotsakis 2019, 159–160.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

both the portrait Arrian aspired to sketch for Alexander and the compositional restrictions imposed by the literary genre in which he wished to include his work. To begin with the compositional necessities which emerge from an annalistic account such as the Anabasis, 34 it is always worth keeping in mind that Arrian chose to relate the events of 334–323 B.C. in a linear narrative. The Macedonian army marched in Asia divided in units and Arrian’s narrative focuses on the troops led by Alexander and, in its greatest part, respects the actual chronological order of the events. 35 Arrian chose to exclude from his main linear narrative the Macedonians’ dissatisfaction with Alexander’s decisions and their unwillingness to follow him in certain periods of the expedition. He did so, I believe, in order to play down as much as possible the issue of disunity in the Macedonian army. As we saw, even the conspiracy episodes, although narrated linearly, are quite short and, scattered as they are distributed throughout the work, always convey the message that they were isolated cases of ungrateful men. Similarly, the striking absence of the army’s reactions to Alexander’s decisions and their gathering — and thus their marginalization — only in the most pivotal moments of the expedition transfers the issue of crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men to the background. The emphasis of this march-narrative is laid on the movements of the army from place to place, movements which, Arrian wished to stress, were invariably made in an atmosphere of order, obedience, and concord. The divergence of opinions is extensively addressed only three times, when it is inescapably relevant to the main subject of the work: in the digression on the consequences of Alexander’s vanity for his relationship with his men, and in the chapters on the two mutinies at the Hyphasis and Opis. In this way, Arrian strikes a happy medium between his laudatory goal-setting and his desire to present to the reader a more rounded truth. 36 On the one hand, by avoiding interruption with recurring authorial comments about the Macedonians’ reactions to the king’s choices, Arrian conveys the impression that the enterprise was undertaken mostly under circumstances of concord. On the other hand, through these analeptic gatherings of stories about the Macedonians’ discontent, he invites the reader to reflect on some of Alexander’s decisions and deeds previously related. The truth is, however, that, through this ‘hypnotic’ rectilinear account, which is free in its majority from any sign of crucial disagreement, Arrian tips the scale in

 34 Stadter 1980, 76; Hammond 1993, 261; AAA I, XXXVII–XXXVIII. 35 For anachronies in the Anabasis see Hidber 2007 and Liotsakis 2019, 123–125. 36 On the co-existence of praise and criticism in the Anabasis, see Montgomery 1965, 162–233; Burliga 2013; Liotsakis 2019.

  Vasileios Liotsakis favour of concord. As will be demonstrated below, Curtius adopted a diametrically opposite path in this respect. Before moving to Curtius, it is nevertheless worth reflecting on how this marginalization of disunity in the Anabasis serves one further goal of Arrian with regard to his portraiture of Alexander. It is widely accepted that Arrian wished to compose a dynamic image for Alexander. 37 We also saw that Plutarch similarly addressed the issue of the development in Alexander’s character and associated this evolution with Alexander’s relationship with his men. 38 The shift of Alexander’s character is closely related to his relationship with his men in Arrian too. Arrian avoids criticisms over Alexander in the first three books, which is why most of the flashbacks on the Macedonians’ complaints to the king are found from Book IV onwards, thus covering the gap created by Arrian’s silence on these issues in the first three books. 39 It is from the central digression of ch. 4.7–14 onwards that the deterioration of Alexander’s character starts, and this aggravation of his flaws will each time elicit his men’s reaction. Exactly at this point we may discern a difference between Arrian’s Anabasis and Plutarch’s Alexander. Plutarch seems to attribute to the Macedonians an equal — if not a greater — share of responsibility than Alexander for their alienation from their king. As we saw, Plutarch conveys the impression that the increasing inclination of the Macedonians towards voluptuousness and wealth gradually led them to disrespect, hubris, accusations and betrayal against their king. Alexander initially excused them, but he eventually became harsher, more suspicious and more vulnerable to flatterers and sycophants. Of course, Alexander is presented as carrying his own part of responsibility for this development, given that he contributed, through his generosity, to the intensification of the Macedonians’ greed. He should have followed, Plutarch implies, the sibylline advice of his mother not to create aspiring pretenders of his power by offering them gold. However, Alexander’s responsibility for this unpleasant turn carries an inherent laudatory message, as it represents the responsibility of a generous father, who, unintentionally and merely out of excessive affection, spoils his children and pays the price for it. In Plutarch, it is the Macedonians who are principally responsible for this vicious circle of character distortion and the subsequent rupture between the king and the army.

 37 See further: Liotsakis 2019. 38 Scholars have discerned the development of Alexander’s character in the bios (Hammond 1993, 179–184; Bosman 2011; Hamilton 1969 n. on ch. 52.7), without, though, associating it with his relationship with the Macedonians. 39 Liotsakis 2019, 81–121, 132–136 and 231–234.

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By contrast, in Arrian it is not disunity between Alexander and the Macedonians that causes the deterioration in Alexander’s character. In other words, Arrian does not put the blame on the Macedonians for their king’s moral fall. On the contrary, whenever they react to the king’s megalomania and greed, they have Arrian on their side. In the digression of ch. 4.7–14 Arrian is the first to accuse Alexander of arrogance. It is not his men’s opposition that leads him to a development of character and behaviour. Conversely, Alexander is the only responsible — along with the flatterers — for his inclination towards immoderation. Clitus and Callisthenes are no doubt presented as responsible for what they suffered, due to their disrespect to Alexander as a king. However, as a man, Arrian’s Alexander was justifiably criticized by Clitus and Callisthenes, neither of whom is to blame for Alexander’s conceit, which Arrian discerns mostly in Alexander’s inability to control his pride for his military achievements. On the contrary, the Macedonians do not evolve as characters. They are rather regularly mute figures who react only — and always justifiably — to Alexander’s flaws. In the Anabasis, the opposition of the army to Alexander principally serves as a convenient way for Arrian to mark the moments when Alexander’s immoderation crossed the line. It would thus be safe to conclude at this point that, both in Plutarch and in Arrian, the disunity in Alexander’s relationship with his army is linked causally with the deterioration of Alexander’s character. Still, each author interprets this causal association in an opposing way. In Plutarch it is the deterioration of Alexander’s relationship with the Macedonians (for which the Macedonians are mostly to blame) which leads Alexander to suspiciousness and cruelty. In Arrian, conversely, it is the deterioration of Alexander’s character (for which he and only he, along with his flatterers, is to blame) which leads to the crisis with his men.

 Curtius Rufus Curtius’ history of Alexander is marked by a vividness which is greater than that of Plutarch’s, Arrian’s, and Diodorus’ accounts and by its author’s remarkable novelistic style. 40 Besides its literary qualities, Curtius’ account is also to be praised for broadening his scope in the way he approaches issues of disunity. Apart from offering the most elaborate and detailed accounts of the central epi-

 40 McQueen 1967, 17–23; Rutz 1986; Currie 1990, 69–72, who discerns Cleitarchus’ influence behind Curtius’ sensational and emotive style.

  Vasileios Liotsakis sodes of discord (Philotas, Clitus, Callisthenes), he penetrates the crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men from a far richer and more multidimensional perspective than those of Plutarch and Arrian. In what follows, we will analyze the passages which support this view. Curtius frees Philotas’ case from the narrow limits of Alexander’s traditional presentation, to which Plutarch and Arrian confined themselves. He broadens the reader’s scope towards wider and multi-dimensional associations between Philotas’ conspiracy and Macedonian collective institutions. First, from the very beginning of his extensive account of the case, the Roman historian invites the reader to consider the consequences of the success of the conspiracy, not only for Alexander but also for the Macedonian institution of kingship itself. In particular, Alexander asks Demnus what harm he did to him that led him to prefer Philotas as a king of the Macedonians (6.7.30). 41 Through this question, Curtius draws our attention to the fact that this attempt against Alexander was motivated by Philotas’ and Parmenio’s wish to claim the throne. Although this thought is presented merely as Alexander’s fear and is not verified by Curtius — on the contrary, it is rejected (6.8.3–4) — the idea, given Parmenio’s and Philotas’ leading role in the Macedonian army, emerges as quite plausible. Second, throughout Philotas’ account, Curtius lays a special emphasis on the collective dimension of Alexander’s decision to condemn Philotas and have Parmenio killed. Alexander does not conclude by himself that Philotas is guilty. On the contrary, although he initially seems to have a reserved attitude (6.7.35), it is the council of the officers which collectively judges that Philotas is guilty (6.8.2– 14). Also, it is the same men who decide that Philotas be tortured (6.8.15). The councillors also have an energetic role not only in the investigation of the case and the imposition of the penalty but also in its realization. Hephaestion, Craterus, Coenus, Erigyius and others visit Alexander in the middle of the night, in order to organize Philotas’ arrest, which is made by Atarrhias (6.8.17–22). In the ensuing chapters, the council of the officers gives its place to the assembly of the Macedonian army (6.8.23–9.12). Curtius pays particular attention to the decisive role of the Macedonian soldiers in Philotas’ fate, as he is the only source which explicitly refers to the Macedonian law that, in trials, the decision was to be taken by the army (6.8.25). Curtius stresses this institutional and military framework of legal cases by offering details about the composition of the army in Philotas’ trial (6,000 soldiers and many servants who attended the trial) (6.8.23). 42  41 For Curtius’ text I use Lucarini’s (2009) edition and Rolfe’s (1946) translation. 42 Cf. Rollinger 2009.

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Curtius forces the reader to view from the same perspective one further motif of the Philotas case in the literature of Alexander: Philotas’ rivals. As already demonstrated, Plutarch notes that one of the reasons why Philotas and Callisthenes were condemned is to be sought in their enemies’ and flatterers’ influence upon Alexander’s judgment. Curtius again broadens the sphere of these men’s effectiveness, by referring, apart from their influence upon Alexander himself, to the way they manipulated the masses. To begin with these men’s influence upon Alexander, let us repeat that Alexander was at the outset cautious in believing that Philotas indeed participated in the conspiracy. However, it is Craterus’ speech which eventually turns him, once and for all, against Philotas (6.8.2–9). Curtius comments that Craterus acted out of a competitiveness towards Philotas in terms of currying Alexander’s favour. Philotas was one of the most powerful friends of the king and Craterus found this occasion as the most convenient opportunity to get rid of a strong enemy in the pursuit of the king’s favour. Philotas himself, both when being arrested (6.8.22) as well as in his speech in front of the Macedonian army (6.10.13–14), comments that it is not the king’s lack of magnanimity but his enemies’ cruelty that put him in this situation (cf. the authorial comment in ch. 6.11.15). 43 Curtius differs from Plutarch in that he treats this theme from the army’s perspective. Twice the army is presented as feeling pity for Philotas and Parmenio, and twice the army’s attitude is turned against Philotas by his enemies’ rhetoric. Curtius interrupts Alexander’s speech to the army in order to inform us that, while the king was talking to them, the soldiers were crying, either because of their sadness for the king or because of their rage against Philotas (6.9.3; 6.9.6). However, the way in which the plot unfolds suggests that it was not the king’s speech (6.9.2–24) which struck the final blow for Philotas. For, after Alexander’s words, as soon as Philotas appears in front of the army, the soldiers are presented as sympathizing with him (6.9.25). The troops’ favourable stance towards Philotas indicates that the king’s arguments did not suffice to make his men’s positive feelings for Philotas go away. It is Amyntas who succeeds in doing so. In a fierce speech, Amyntas reinforces the army’s rage by eliciting their fear that they will be trapped in Asia: if the king dies, the army will not be in a position to return to Macedonia, and no one will see his home and family again (6.9.28). Similarly, when the Macedonians begin pitying Parmenio for his fate in old age, it is another

 43 The coincidence of scope between Philotas’ thoughts and Curtius’ comment strengthens the view (Hammond 1983, 136; Heckel 1994, 69–70) that the speeches and dialogues in the Philotas affair are fictitious.

  Vasileios Liotsakis Macedonian, Bolon, who poses a negative attitude towards Philotas, this time by reminding the troops of Philotas’ arrogance (6.11.1–7). 44 It is worth noting that both speeches (Amyntas, Bolon) are followed by the army’s reaction: the troops are raised against Philotas (6.9.28–29; 6.11.8). These two shifts of the army’s attitude due to the words of Philotas’ enemies reveals that this traditional factor of disruption of concord in the literature of Alexander (the flatterers and the pretenders of Alexander’s favour) is presented by Curtius through multiple points of view. It interacts not only with the king but also with the troops and, what is more, it involves a multiplicity of factors, such as the soldiers’ insecurity that they will not see their homes again, their envy towards leading officers, and their resentment for these officers’ arrogance. 45 Furthermore, in contrast with Plutarch’s and Arrian’s indifference in the effects of the Philotas’ affair upon Alexander’s relationship with his men, in Curtius’ account this affair has clear consequences in the development of the events in the ensuing books, and once again with a widened scope, which covers not only Alexander but also the army. 46 In the chapters about the battle with the Malli, we read about Alexander’s friends’ advice that he should avoid fighting on the front line (9.6.24–27). This story is included by Arrian too (An. 6.13.4–5), but only Curtius associates this episode with the issue of domestic dangers, as are introduced in the Philotas’ episode. Alexander, after thanking his friends for their affection, asks them not to protect him from external foes but also from domestic ones (9.6.24: ab intestina fraude et domesticorum insidiis praestate securum). Alexander’s words echo Craterus’ advice to him that he should be careful about internal enemies (6.8.9: latus a domesticis hostibus muni). Alexander’s shift towards suspiciousness, one further subject which is also found in Plutarch, seems to be attributed here to the influence of advisors and pretenders of the king’s favour.

 44 Cf. Willing 1996, 106–112; Baynham 1998, 165 about Curtius’ greater emphasis in Book VI and particularly in the Philotas affair on the elements of “flattery and rivalry for imperial favour” in comparison with other sources. Cf. Baynham 2008, 430–431, in connection to the Dioxippus affair. 45 See Gissel 1995 (esp. 223–233) on Curtius’ emphasis upon the crowd’s influence on the fate of individuals and on how the emotion of the crowd prevails over its reason, which is reflected, according to Gissel, by the efforts of each speaker to affect the audience. 46 Both Plutarch (Alex. 48.1 and 49.2) and Arrian (An. 1.26.1–4) touch upon Alexander’s thoughts about Philotas’ and Parmenio’s influence on the troops only in their main narratives of the Philotas affair, without creating any cross-references with the ensuing plot development. Apart from Curtius, Diodorus (17.80.3–4) discusses this subject at a later stage of his account. For the connection of Philotas’ case with the ensuing books (especially concerning the issues of flattery and rivalry and dissimulatio), see Baynham 1998, 172.

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The Philotas episode is also echoed by the reaction of Alexander’s friends to his decision to punish Parmenio’s murderers with death (10.1.1–6). In his absence they perpetrated salacious crimes against natives and sacrileges at the expense of temples of the area, which they were assigned by Alexander to govern. Curtius writes that Alexander’s friends were pleased by Agathon’s and Cleander’s fate because, by murdering Parmenio, they had once served as instruments of Alexander’s wrath. These words foreground the issue of the troops’ dissatisfaction over Philotas’ and Parmenio’s executions which were previously addressed both in the Philotas’ episode (7.1.1–5) as well as in Hermolaus’ words (8.7.4–5) in the narrative about the conspiracy of the pages. 47 The episode of Clitus’ death also demonstrates a particularly elaborate connection, in comparison with Arrian and Plutarch, with the issue of the discord in the army. In this case, disunity takes the form of a division between the old and young members of the troops, the former being moulded on Philip’s side and the second on Alexander’s. Similarly to Arrian, Curtius mentions that the source of Alexander’s quarrel with Clitus was Alexander’s arrogant disparagement of Philip’s feats. Alexander claimed that the achievements of his father were greatly inferior to his own. Even the Macedonian victory at Chaeronea should be attributed to Alexander and not to Philip. Besides, Alexander succeeded where Philip never did, namely in conquering the Persian Empire (8.1.23–26). Plutarch and Arrian inform us that those boastings irritated only Clitus, while they pay no attention to the impact of those claims on the rest of the Macedonians present at the banquet. Differently, Curtius turns a disagreement between Alexander and Clitus into a contention between young and old Macedonians. The older ones present, Philip’s companions, recoiled at Alexander’s boastfulness (8.1.23) and their emotions are contrasted with the younger ones’ satisfaction (8.1.27). Conversely, the latter rebuked Clitus’ effort to understate the value of the expedition in Asia in comparison with what Philip achieved in Europe (8.1.30–31). The divergence of opinions and emotions of the two generations culminates in an open dispute not only between Alexander and Clitus but also between the young and the old. Through this picture of disruption, Curtius offers us something we find in no other sources, namely the division in the way each generation evaluated and identified with different periods of the Macedonian history. Against the backdrop of this general division among the Macedonians, Clitus emerges not only as an isolated figure of disrespect towards his king, but also as a representative of an entire generation, which is not the case in Plutarch and  47 Atkinson (2009, 74) notes that Arrian does not recall the role of Cleander in the murder of Parmenio.

  Vasileios Liotsakis Arrian. Neither Arrian nor Plutarch mentions that Clitus belonged to the old generation. Arrian does not even record that Alexander insulted Clitus, while Plutarch writes that Alexander doubted Clitus’ bravery but does not associate this underestimation with anyone else of the old generation (Alex. 50.9–10). By contrast, the very first piece of information which Curtius offers us about Clitus is that he belonged to the old generation and that he was a loyal companion of Philip (8.1.20). The introductory remarks offered by Greco-Roman historians about individuals very often have a decisive role in the delineation of the individuals’ characters and in the way the reader perceives their interactions with the events. 48 In reading that Clitus belonged to the veterans, the reader is thus invited to treat him as a representative of the warriors of Philip’s age. His objections, therefore, not only reflect his own resentment but also represent the attitude of the other Macedonian veterans towards Alexander’s choices in Asia. This is the role Curtius wants him to have, which is also why he presents him as referring not only to his own action which saved Alexander in the battle of the Granicus (8.1.41) but also to Atarrhias, another aged Macedonian, whose experience had saved many young and inexperienced Macedonians during the siege of Halicarnassus (8.1.36–37) . If the Philotas episode brings to the foreground the close attachment of the soldiers with their leaders and the impact of this attachment on the soldiers’ stance in moments of domestic crisis, the Clitus narrative highlights one further element related to the discord among the troops: the rivalry of generations in terms of their effectiveness in battle, and their contribution to the glory of Macedon. Similarly to the Philotas account, the Clitus episode is also echoed by the ensuing books, and again from the twofold perspective of both the king and the Macedonians. In ch. 8.4.28–30 we read of their shame for Alexander’s choice to marry an Asian villager, Rhoxane. Besides the originality of the issue of shame, which is found in no other surviving account of this event, 49 this passage’s significance for our analysis is signalled by the way that it echoes the case of Clitus. The Macedonians, although embarrassed by their king’s marriage, do not dare express their disagreement, because they fear that they will have the same end with that of Clitus (8.4.30). This comment fulfils the foreshadowing in Alexander’s fear after Clitus’ death that his friends will no longer wish to discuss openly with him about their thoughts (8.2.7). We find one further cross-reference, between Alexander’s regret about Clitus’ death and his self-control towards Meleager’s irony over his decision to offer  48 Hornblower 1994a, 161; Tsagalis 2009. 49 Cf. Plu. Alex. 47.6–9.

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money to Taxiles (8.12.17). Alexander’s gifts to Taxiles are mentioned by Arrian (An. 5.8.2) and Plutarch (Alex. 59.5) too. However, Arrian only records the incident in a neutral fashion without touching upon the Macedonians’ reaction. Plutarch captures the Macedonians’ dissatisfaction, but, as explained above, judging from the preceding account, I believe that he includes the event as a further proof of the contrast between Alexander’s generosity and his men’s avarice. Only Curtius links the event with Clitus’ murder, commenting that “the king, not forgetting how deeply he had regretted having killed Clitus because of his rash language, restrained his anger” and did no harm to Meleager (8.12.18). In Curtius’ account, the episodes on Philotas and Clitus, along with those on Callisthenes and the conspiracy of the pages, are not gathered in a single unit, as is the case in Plutarch and Arrian. Instead, they shape a narrative thread of discord in Books VI–VIII, which also creates, as demonstrated above, echoes in the last two books of the work. 50 In this way, Curtius turns the issue of the disunity in the Macedonian army into a central thematic axis of the last four books, that is, of almost the half of the work. These episodes are also linked with the preceding books as well, given that Curtius has already foreshadowed the crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men in ch. 3.12.18–21 and ch. 6.2.1–5. Most importantly, discord is penetrated to a high degree and is attributed, from multiple points of view, to factors additional to Alexander’s arrogance. In this way Curtius brings to life an extensive helical development of behaviours and relationships not only between Alexander and the Macedonians but also between the Macedonians themselves. So, if we were to define the two distinctive features of Curtius’ presentation of the crisis, we could say (a) that from a technical point of view the crisis evolves in the shape of a narrative thread/thematic axis and (b) that this axis is thematically linked to the soldiers’ psychology far more intensely than the simplified models of Plutarch and Arrian. 51 As already explained, Plutarch and Arrian followed different, and individualized, methods of incorporating the issue of crisis in their narratives. We also saw that the methods which each of them adopted were dictated by their wider compositional aims and the overall picture they wished to convey of Alexander’s relationship with his men. What remains for us is to see whether or not Curtius too follows his own methodological principles in the way he narrated the episodes of Philotas and Clitus.

 50 Cf. Baynham 1998, 166, 172. 51 On Curtius’ interest in the troops’ emotions and motives, see McQueen 1967, 29; Morrison 2001; Bichler 2016. Curtius’ emphasis on the psychology of the troops has been attributed to Cleitarchus’ influence (Hammond 1983, 142, 154).

  Vasileios Liotsakis In Curtius’ account, both qualities of his presentation of the crisis (narrative thread and interest in the army’s psychology) comply with his general practices in his History of Alexander. As far as the technique of weaving narrative threads, the crisis is depicted in the same way in Book IV too, in the narrative which covers the events between the battles of Issus and Gaugamela, and again with great emphasis on the army’s psychology. The first passage of this narrative thread pertains to the siege of Tyre. Curtius is the only source which mentions that the soldiers lost their spirit and hope that they will succeed in occupying such an inaccessible place. Alexander, Curtius writes, tried to encourage his men by claiming that he saw a dream, in which he conquered Tyre with the help of Heracles (4.2.16–18). 52 Both Plutarch (Alex. 24.5–9) and Arrian (An. 2.18.1) mention similar dreams, but they do not explain that these were fabricated by Alexander in his effort to convince his men to take over the enterprise. 53 Curtius wished here to touch upon Alexander’s ability to face signs of disobedience in his troops by taking advantage of their superstition. This theme, as will be demonstrated below, will recur throughout the narrative thread under examination from Issus to Gaugamela. The unwillingness of the soldiers to follow Alexander in his ambitious enterprises recurs in the chapters on the crossing of the Tigre (4.9.17–21). Here, the infantry struggles to cross the river on foot, but the slippery stones and the heavy burden from their booty makes it difficult for them. The soldiers fear that they will lose their spoils and start fighting each other, when Alexander admonishes them to focus on their salvation and not on the spoils. However, they do not listen to him, first because they are panic-struck and second because they shout at each other. The crossing of rivers was a typical motif in the historiography of Alexander. Arrian too discusses the difficulties faced by the Macedonians in their efforts to cross some other rivers except Tigre, but he never mentions the soldiers’ inability to obey their king due to their love for goods. We saw that avarice lies at the centre of Plutarch’s interest too. However, he uses this theme in order to foreground the moral superiority of the king and the gradual corruption of the Macedonians by the eastern customs and their unwillingness to follow him in the expedition. Here, we are met with a different use of this motif. The Macedonians do not refuse to follow Alexander, but they find it difficult to accomplish his orders

 52 On the masses’ psychology in Curtius, see Diadori 1981. 53 Cf. Rutz 1965, 374. See, also, Atkinson 1980, 299 and Hammond 1983, 123–124, especially on the discrepancy between Arrian and Curtius.

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due to their focus on spoils. Alexander’s ability to control his men’s fears is also stressed here. 54 The army’s turbulence on its way to Gaugamela culminates in the episode about the lunar eclipse some days before the battle (4.10.1–7). The soldiers panic and complain that their decision to follow Alexander in his vainglorious expedition has put them in great danger. They also attribute the dark omen to divine anger towards his hubristic belief that he descends from Zeus. They nostalgically recall their country, which they believe that they will never see again due their king’s arrogance. However, Alexander manages, with the Egyptian soothsayers’ help, to convince his men that the omen signals divine favour for them and not for the Persians. In this episode, Curtius again innovates in comparison to the rest of the surviving sources, as he projects the way in which traditional themes of the Alexander historiography (the Macedonians’ objections to Alexander’s arrogance, his underestimation of Philip and his claim of divine origins) nearly caused a mutiny in the forces shortly before the most significant battle of the expedition. Plutarch (Alex. 31.8) and Arrian (An. 3.7.6) record the eclipse, but they nowhere mention that it nearly brought about a mutiny. 55 The troops’ reluctance to follow Alexander due to their fears recurs as a subject in ch. 4.12.14–17, where the army is faced with Mazaeus’ forces. Alexander succeeds again in raising the morale of his men. 56 Of greater significance are the two last passages of the narrative thread under examination. In the first of these, we read that Darius sent a letter to the Greek forces of Alexander, a letter in which he, offering great rewards, invited the Greeks to kill Alexander. The letter reaches Alexander, who, after Parmenio’s advice, decides not to reveal its content to the troops, because he fears that some soldiers might be tempted by the Persian king’s offer (4.10.16–17). Darius’ letters constitute one further typical theme in the sources of Alexander. However, the rest of the authors confine their comments in the correspondence between Darius and Alexander, without mentioning any letter to the army. 57 Curtius is again the only one who addresses the issue of Darius’  54 Wolf 1964, 52; Rutz 1981, 178ff. 55 Atkinson (1980, 387) aptly observes that this episode includes some topoi which are recurrent in other incidents too about the mutinous atmosphere in the troops. 56 On this passage, ch 4.12.2 and ch 4.12.24, Atkinson (1980, 411) notes that Arrian included so many passages about the army’s camps in order to expand his narrative at this point. I would add that, apart from these passages, the chapters examined in this section too suggest that Curtius creates a retarding and thus suspenseful narrative from Issus to Gaugamela, in order to present the victory at Gaugamela as the victorious culmination in a series of adventurous tasks faced by Alexander and his army. 57 D.S. 17.39.1–3; 17.54.1–5; Plu. Alex. 29.7–9; Arr. An. 2.14; 2.25.1–3; Justin 11.12.

  Vasileios Liotsakis communication with Alexander’s camp as a menace for the concord between Alexander and his men. Also unique among the sources is Curtius’ version that, during the battle of Gaugamela, Alexander feared that the men who were guarding the army’s supplies would abandon their positions in order to save the goods from the enemy (4.15.12–14) . In no other source do we find a similar example of potential disobedience during a battle, due to the soldiers’ care for supplies and booty (cf. above, on the episode of the Tigre’s crossing). 58

 Conclusion The fragmentary surviving relics of the first histories of Alexander do not suffice for us to reconstruct the very first accounts of crisis in the literature of the Macedonian king. We are only in a position to discern the mere presence of traditional subjects about disunity in the Macedonian army: Alexander’s adoption of the Asian culture, his arrogance, the Macedonians’ avarice, conspiracies, and the distortive effect of an exhaustive eleven-year journey to nowhere upon the king’s and his men’s psychology and character. From Alexander’s age to the reign of Hadrian, these subjects had been gradually consolidated and turned into topoi of the Alexander literature. However, the classical nature of these themes merely lies in their recurrent presence and not in typical modes of interpretation, as these motifs were treated by each author in an extraordinarily distinctive fashion. The accounts of Plutarch, Arrian, and Curtius unveil a remarkable plurality of viewpoints and opinions about the major reasons of crisis in Alexander’s relationship with his men. Plutarch responds to the traditional accusations against Alexander’s orientalism by conveying, through a ubiquitous series of points in his narrative, the verdict that it was not Alexander’s character which was contorted by the exotic lures of Asia. Rather, Asian treasures matched with and amplified the Macedonians’ greed. 59 Conversely, Arrian found that the major moments of crisis in the expedition were not triggered by the Macedonians but primarily by Alexander’s immoderate temperament. However, differently than Plutarch and Curtius, Arrian chose not to create a coherent narrative thread on the basis of the major episodes of discord. Last, Curtius demonstrates an intense interest in the army’s psychology as a factor of turbulence and crisis, and in this

 58 For ch. 4.9.17–21 as a foreshadowing of ch. 4.15.12–14, see Atkinson 1980, 383. 59 Diodorus (17.35.1; 17.70.4–6; 17.77.4) and Trogus (Justin 11.5 and 11.10) stand in the middle, supporting that the Persian gold and luxuries affected both Alexander and his men.

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way he manages to offer us a much more perplexing and realistic picture of the Macedonian disunity. This robust abundance of interpretations and scopes reveals, if anything, that issues pertaining to Macedonian monarchy still attracted a vivid interest from Greco-Roman literates. In the Imperial Era, this interest in Macedonian politics did not manifest itself in the form of a sterile reproduction of topoi, but in the form of engaged intellectual interactions with these topoi and speculations about the boundaries between literary convention and reality concerning Alexander’s relationship with his men.

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  Vasileios Liotsakis Dorey, T.A. (ed.) (1967), Latin Biography, London. Duff, T. (2008), ‘How Lives Begin’, in: A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.) The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: Moralia Themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia, Berlin/New York, 191–203. Eicke, L. (1909), Veterum philosophorum qualia fuerint de Alexandro Magno iudicia, Rostock. Gilhaus, L. (2017), Fragmente der Historiker. Die Alexanderhistoriker (FGrH 117–153), Stuttgart. Gissel, Jon A.P. (1995), ‘The Philotas Affair in Curtius’ Account of Alexander (VI.7–11): A Rhetorical Analysis’, in: C&M 46, 215–236. Grethlein, J./Rengakos, A. (eds.) (2009), Narratology and Interpretation, Berlin/New York. Guittard, C. (2014), ‘Prières aux dieux, prières aux hommes: Quinte-Curce et la «proskynèse»’ in: Mahé-Simon/Trinquier (eds.) L’histoire d’Alexandre selon Quinte Curce, Paris, 53–60. Hägg, T. (2012), The Art of Biography in Antiquity, Cambridge. Hamilton, J.R. (1969), Plutarch, Alexander. A Commentary, Oxford. Hammond, N.L.G (1983), ‘The Text and the Meaning of Arrian VII, 6, 2–5’, in: JHS 103, 139–144. Hammond, N.L.G. (1993), Sources of Alexander the Great. An Analysis of Plutarch’s Life and Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandrou, Cambridge. HCA: Bosworth, A.B. (1980–1995), A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, vols. I–II, Oxford. Heckel, W. (1977a), ‘The Conspiracy against Philotas’, in: Phoenix 31, 9–21. Heckel, W. (1977b), ‘The Flight of Harpalos and Tauriskos’, in: CPh 72, 133–135. Heckel, W. (1994), ‘Notes on Q. Curtius Rufus’ History of Alexander’, in: AC 37, 67–78. Heckel, W. (2014), Alexander’s Marshals: A Study of the Makedonian Aristocracy and the Politics of Military Leadership, London. Hidber, T. (2007), ‘Arrian’, in I.J.F. de Jong/R. Nünlist 2007, 183–195. Hirzel, R. (1895), Der Dialog: ein literarhistorischer Versuch, Leipzig. Holt, F.L. (1982), ‘The Hyphasis «Mutiny». A Source Study’, in: AncW 5, 33–59. Hornblower, S. (1994a), ‘Narratology and Narrative Techniques in Thucydides’, in: S. Hornblower 1994, 131–166. Hornblower, S. (1994b), Greek Historiography, Oxford. Howe, T./Garvin, E.E. (eds.) (2015), Greece, Macedon, and Persia: Studies in Social, Political and Military History in Honour of Waldemar Heckel, Philadelphia. Jacoby, F. (1923–), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin/Leiden. Kornemann, E. (1935), Die Alexandergeschichte des Königs Ptolemaios I. von Aegypten. Versuch einer Rekonstruktion, Leipzig/Berlin. Koulakiotis, E. (2006), Genese und Metamorphosen des Alexandermythos. Im Spiegel der griechischen nichthistoriographischen Überlieferung bis zum 3. Jh. n. Chr., Konstanz. Lindskog, Cl./Ziegler, K. (1968), Plutarchi Vitae Parallelae, vol. II, fasc. 2, Leipzig. Liotsakis, V. (2019), Alexander the Great in Arrian’s Anabasis: A Literary Portrait, Berlin/Boston. Lucarini, C.M. (2001), Q. Curtius Rufus. Historiae, Berlin. Mahé-Simon, M./Trinquier, J. (eds) (2014), L’histoire d’Alexandre selon Quinte-Curce, Paris. Marincola, J. (ed.) (2007), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Oxford. McQueen, E.I. (1967), ‘Quintus Curtius Rufus, in: T.A. Dorey (ed.), Latin Biography, London, 17– 43. Montgomery, H. (1965), Gedanke und Tat. Zur Erzӓhlungstechnik bei Herodot, Thukydides, Xenophon und Arrian, Lund. Morrison, G. (2001), ‘Alexander, Combat Psychology, and Persepolis’, in: Antichthon 35, 30– 44.

Disunity and the Macedonians in the Literature of Alexander  

Müller, S. (2003), Maßnahmen der Herrschaftssicherung gegenüber der makedonischen Opposition bei Alexander dem Großen, Frankfurt. Müller, S. (2014), Alexander, Makedonien und Persien, Berlin. Nikolaidis, A.G. (ed.) (2008), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: Moralia themes in the Lives, Features of the Lives in the Moralia, Berlin/New York. Olbrycht, M.J. (2008), ‘Curtius Rufus, the Macedonian Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy in 324 B.C.’, in: J. Pigoń (ed.) The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres, Newcastle, 231–252. Pearson, L.I.C. (1960), The Lost Histories of Alexander the Great, New York. Pédech, P. (1984), Historiens, compagnons d’Alexandre. Callisthène — Onésicrite — Néarque — Ptolémée — Aristobule, Paris. Perrin, B. (1967), Plutarch’s Lives, vol. XI, Cambridge. Pigoń, J. (ed.) (2008), The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres, Newcastle. Prandi, L. (1985), Callistene. Uno storico tra Aristotele e i re macedoni, Milan. Prandi, L. (1996), Fortuna e realtà dell’opera di Clitarco, Stuttgart. Rollinger, R. (2009), ‘Die Philotas-Affäre, Alexander III. und die Bedeutung der Dexiosis im Werk des Q. Curtius Rufus’, in: Gymnasium 116, 257–273. Roos, A.G. (1967), Flavii Arriani quae exstant omnia, vols. I–II, Leipzig. Rutz, W. (1965), ‘Zur Erzählungskunst des Q. Curtius Rufus. Die Belagerung von Tyrus’, in: Hermes 93, 382. Rutz, W. (1981), ‘Alexander’s Tigris-Übergang bei Curtius Rufus’, in: WJA 7, 177–182. Rutz, W. (1984), ‘Das Bild des Dareios bei Curtius Rufus’, in: WJA 10, 147–159. Rutz, W. (1986), ‘Zur Erzählkunsts des Q. Curtius Rufus’, in: Aufsteig und Niedergang der römischen Welt 32, 2329–2357. Sandbach, F.H. (1939), ‘Rhythm and Authenticity in Plutarch’s Moralia’, in: CQ 33, 194–203. Simon, M. (2014), ‘Quinte-Curce et ses sources: le cas de Parménion’, in: M. Mahé-Simon/ J. Trinquier (eds.) L’histoire d’Alexandre selon Quinte-Curce, Paris, 93–108. Sisti, F./Zambrini, A. (2001–2004), Arriano. Anabasi di Alessandro, vols. I–II, Milan. Squillace, G. (2015), ‘The Comparison between Alexander and Philip: Use and Metamorphosis of an Ideological Theme’, in: W. Heckel/E. Howe/T. Garvin/E. Edward/W. Graham (eds), Greece, Macedon, and Persia: Studies in Social, Political and Military History in Honour of Waldemar Heckel, Philadelphia, 107–113. Stadter, P.A. (1980), Arrian of Nicomedia, Chapel Hill. Stadter, P.A. (1996), ‘Anecdotes and the Thematic Structure of Plutarchean Biography’, in: J.A. Fernández Delgado and F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos Formales, Madrid, 291–303. Strasburger, H. (1934), Ptolemaios und Alexander, Leipzig. Tarn, W.W. (1939), ‘Alexander, Cynics and Stoics’, in: AJPh 60, 41–70. Tsagalis, C.C. (2009), ‘Names and Narrative Techniques in Xenophon’s Anabasis’, in: J. Grethlein/A. Rengakos (eds.), Narratology and Interpretation, Berlin/New York, 451–479. Wardman, A. (1955), ‘Plutarch and Alexander’, in: CQ 49, 96–107. Weizsäcker, A. (1931), Untersuchungen über Plutarchs biographische Technik, Berlin. Whitmarsh, T. (2002), ‘Alexander’s Hellenism and Plutarch’ Textualism’, in: CQ 52, 174–192. Willing, M. (1996), ‘Die «Philotasaffäre» als Kristallisationspunkt von antiker Überlieferung und moderner Geschichtsschreibung’, in: Das Altertum 42, 101–120. Wolf, R. (1964), Die Soldatenerzählungen des Kleitarch bei Quintus Curtius Rufus, Wien.

  Vasileios Liotsakis Wulfram, H./Mairhofer, D./Schreiner, S./Siemoneit, G. (eds.) (2016), Der römische Alexanderhistoriker Curtius Rufus: Erzähltechnik, Rhetorik, Figurenpsychologie und Rezeption, Wien.

Alessandro Vatri

Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism  Introduction Texts, written or oral, are defined by, and can define and inform, cultures and communities. From an anthropological point of view, any sequence of sentences qualifies as text if it can be detached “from the flow of conversation, so that [it] can be repeated, quoted and commented upon,” 1 and is recognized as an autonomous entity by a socio-cultural community. In this perspective, texts may not be inert within the communities that produce and/or use them in that texts themselves exist by virtue of their anthropological function and their very ‘textuality’ depends on how the linguistic material they consist of is construed within communities. In some cases, the anthropological function of texts amounts to the defining factor of communities. Written texts, in particular, can serve as the filter through which groups model their interpretation of and relationship with the “outside world” and can be used as guidance for thought and action as well as the source of organizational principles for groups themselves, which Stock calls “textual communities”.2 Such communities are typically exemplified by medieval religious orders and heretical/reform movements, but traces of similar dynamics can be identified in classical antiquity as well. In particular, Steiner describes the book of Heraclitus as a revelatory guide of sorts both for his circle of listeners and for followers distant in time and space. 3 Books can travel and spread doctrines well beyond the physical limits of their author’s existence; they can travel along with the community itself, but they can also perform their social function independently of any direct intermediation and talk directly to readers, including solitary ones. The ability of books to form the nucleus of communities is not restricted to, so to speak, “charismatic” texts primarily aimed to disseminate radical worldviews and beliefs. In general, texts can be the expression of existing communities (members of a religion, adherents to an ideology, scholars active in ac-

 1 Barber 2007, 3. 2 Stock 1983, 88 ff. 3 Steiner 1994, 202–203. Diogenes Laertius (9.6.10) describes a “textual community” of followers of Heraclitus’ book, the ‘Heracliteans’, with Cratylus as a famous representative. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-013

  Alessandro Vatri ademia). When it comes to written texts, their desituated character — the separation in time and space between their production and their reception 4 — enables them to create a sense of belonging and identification in their readers even in contexts far removed from those of their composition and intended reception, well beyond what their writers may ever be able to envisage or predict.5 As Korhonen observes, readers may feel connected with long-dead authors (or, conversely, experience negative feelings of dislike or aversion) as well as realize that they belong to communities of solitary readers — virtual communities of readers who share the same psychological reactions as they engage individually with a written text. 6 Korhonen focuses on literary texts and on the possibility that readers may gain awareness of the fact that their own individual, intimate immersive experience is in fact shared by other solitary readers — a process which engenders a “secret sense of complicity”. The ability to generate such feelings is not restricted to (immersive) literary fiction; arguably, any written text has this potential, and especially texts that are able to engage the reader both intellectually and emotionally. Such is the case with philosophical and religious texts, which can be produced by and for actual communities, but which can also serve as protreptics and propaganda for readers who are not members of such communities and lead to the establishment of new communities, as we have mentioned, in remote places and times from those of the ‘original’ community. But this is also true of “academic” writing, which is often the expression or the foundation of a school of thought (or an actual “school” — a specific and restricted subset of the wider scholarly community), and which is often rhetorically conceived so as to win new adherents and counter the competing views of contemporary rivals or the established ones of influential predecessors. This applies all the more to the ancient world, in which schools of thought would correspond to actual schools and it was often crucial for professional intellectuals to win over students or rich patrons through the very rhetoric of their intellectual output. This chapter aims to illustrate how ancient Greek critics could generate feelings of belonging or alienation among their readers in very different socio-historical contexts. I will start with Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric. These texts probably originated as unpublished (but perhaps revised) lecture notes for

 4 See e.g. Chafe 1994, 44–45. 5 Ancient intuitions of the desituatedness of written texts surface e.g. in Pl., Phdr. 275e1–3 and Isoc. 5.26. 6 Korhonen 2006.

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advanced students in the Lyceum 7 and, for our purposes, can be read as text produced for and within an existing intellectual community. I will then examine the rhetorical works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus and the treatise On the Sublime as examples of texts composed within and for intellectual circles of connoisseurs and specific addressees, 8 and will complete this diachronic comparative survey by examining Hermogenes’ On Types of Style — an expression of the rhetoricschool culture of the second century A.D. As we shall see, the authors of these texts present their stance on theoretical questions as well as their critical views and encourage their readers to develop a critical attitude. As they do so, these ancient critics interact with their readers either by showing that they are “one of them”, or by selecting among them those who belong to the same socio-cultural groups as the authors themselves, or by trying to win readers over through overt polemics and competition with rival critics. In other words, ancient literary critics promote identity dynamics either by underlining unity (“I am one of you”, “we constitute a specific group’) or by creating division (“we are different”). The “readerly us” that this type of critical discourse addresses in a more or a less direct manner can correspond to an existing group with its own identity independent from the text (e.g. members of an intellectual circle, the well-educated ruling class, etc.) or can be constructed by the text itself. The resulting identity may be the effect not only of the content, but also of formal features of the text.

 Techniques of Unity and Division in Rhetorical Literature In ancient Greek literary criticism, identity dynamics may be triggered by a number of rhetorical/linguistic techniques. These include (1) references to socio-cultural classes (education, occupation, background), (2) challenges to the reader, (3) polemical attitude towards rivals, (4) the overt derision of rivals, and (5) the use of the first-person plural. The connection between references to socio-cultural classes and identity dynamics is straightforward. Challenges to the reader consist in invitations to judge for him/herself, or in more or less direct challenges to agree or disagree with the  7 Cf. e.g. Tarán/Gutas 2012, 21–24, Wisse 1989, 11. 8 I subscribe to de Jonge’s (2012, 273) view that the treatise On the Sublime is closely connected to Augustan criticism and that an early date (late first century B.C./early first century A.D.) is more plausible than a later one. Cf. also Russell 1981, 55.

  Alessandro Vatri critic. Those who fail to understand or agree with the critic’s observations will feel alienated from him and the virtual community of those who do understand or agree. The polemical attitude of a scholar towards rivals and the overt derision of rivals may also be regarded as divisive features of ancient Greek critical discourse in that, as has been observed by Jaulin, calling ideas and arguments ‘ridiculous’ was a destructive way to dismiss them as ignorant or utterly inappropriate. 9 In this connection, and we should bear in mind that in Greek culture, the ridicule was a “social weapon”, as Halliwell felicitously put it.10 Mockery was intended and interpreted a harmful act in its own right. 11 The use of the first-person plural is a common feature of (broadly-defined) academic writing across languages and has been widely studied. A useful framework for the analysis of “academic we” is provided by Vladimirou in an article on modern Greek research publications. 12 First-person plural pronouns, verbs, and possessive adjectives/pronouns may refer to different entities that may be construed as “we”. The referent that the first-person plural evokes is a useful a criterion to classify its uses in connection with unity and division dynamics: – “We” can stand for “I” (pluralis modestiae). – “We” can refer to the writer plus other people related to the writer (friends, colleagues; e.g. [Longinus], Subl. 1.1: ἀνασκοπουμένοις ἡμῖνὡς οἶσθα κοινῇ, Ποστούμιε Τερεντιανὲ φίλτατε… “You know, my dear Postumius Terentianus, that when we were studying together…,” transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell). – “We” can refer to the writer plus the audience, especially as they all interact with the text. First-person references of this type typically occur with metatextual references (e.g. Dion. Hal., Comp. 3.13 Aujac-Lebel: φέρε δὴ μεταβῶμεν ἤδη καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν πεζὴν διάλεκτον καὶ σκοπῶμεν… “Let us now pass on to the language of prose, and consider…”, transl. S. Usher). – “We” can stand for the academic community (which includes the writer, e.g., Dion. Hal., Comp. 5.5 Aujac-Lebel: ἃ δὴ καλοῦμεν ἐπιρρήματα “which we call adverbs,” transl. S. Usher). – “We” can stand for a larger group with its own identity, of which the writer is part (e.g. [Longinus], Subl. 12.4: εἰ καὶ ἡμῖν ὡς Ἕλλησιν ἐφεῖταί τι γινώσκειν “if indeed we Greeks may be allowed an opinion,” transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell).  9 Jaulin 2000, 321. 10 Halliwell 2008, 34. 11 Cf. Halliwell 2008, 25. 12 Vladimirou 2014.

Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism  

–

“We” can stand for “the people,” “mankind,” “humans” (especially those with same background as the audience) or, in Chamberlain’s words, “some kind of scholarly or critical community … perhaps all Greeks, or all speakers of Greek; or simply all those who constitute [the] potential audience”13 (e.g. Dion. Hal., Comp. 14.5 Aujac-Lebel: οἳ δὲ καὶ τῶν εἰκοσιτεσσάρων οἷς χρώμεθα νῦν πλείω “Others have thought that there are more even than the twenty-four [letters] which we employ today,” transl. S. Usher).

Tab. 4: “Academic we” in ancient Greek literary criticism: raw frequencies. Arist., Rh.

Arist., Poet.

Dion. Hal. Comp.

[Longinus], Subl.

Hermog. Id.





















writer + others











writer + audience











academic community











Total word count writer

larger group generic Total































Tab. 5: “Academic we” in ancient Greek literary criticism: frequencies per thousand words. Arist., Rh. Arist., Poet. Dion. Hal., Comp. [Longinus], Subl. Hermog., Id. writer

.

.

.

.

.

writer + others

.

.

.

.

.

writer + audience

.

.

.

.

.

academic community

.

.

.

.

.

larger group

.

.

.

.

.

generic

.

.

.

.

.

Total

.

.

.

.

.

 13 Chamberlain 2001, 5.

  Alessandro Vatri Table 4 contains the raw counts of the occurrences of these types of “academic we” in Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics, Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ On Literary Composition, the treatise On the Sublime, and Hermogenes’ On Types of Style. Table 5 displays these values as relative frequencies normalized per thousand words. As one can see, writers tend to use “academic we” for “I” or with a generic reference. Longinus and Hermogenes use it more frequently than others. Dionysius uses it less than everybody else, but, significantly, mostly with a generic referent and not as much to refer to himself. Hermogenes’ use, too, is considerably skewed towards “we” for “I”. In the following sections, I will examine these results in more detail and in combination with the other rhetorical devices for each of the Greek literary critics surveyed in this study.

 Aristotle the Academic Aristotle’s literary treatises — the Poetics and the Rhetoric — are characterized by the author’s critical (and occasionally even polemical) relationship with his predecessors and competitors. Other scholars (οἱ ἄλλοι, Rh. 1.1 1355a19) are not merely quoted as sources or authorities. Aristotle discusses their work and ideas directly (e.g. throughout Rh. 1.1 and at Rh. 3.2 1405b8–16 or Poet. 13 1453a31–39) and does not shy away from saying that they are wrong (ἁμαρτάνουσι, Poet. 13 1453a24) or do not judge correctly (οὐκ ὀρθῶς, Poet. 22 1458b4–10, Rh. 3.19 1419b28–29). 14 He calls certain rhetorical terms coined by Licymnius15 “pointless and silly” (κενὸν καὶ ληρῶδες, Rh. 3.13 1414b16–18), and dismisses an opinion traceable to Isocrates (according to Quintilian, Inst. 4.2.31) as “ridiculous” (Rh. 3.16 1416b30). At the same time, Aristotle is ready to admit when his colleagues are right (e.g. ὀρθῶς τοῦτο νομίζοντες, Rh. 1.1 1354a23–24), and his disagreement does not seem to imply personal aversion. For instance, Aristotle quotes Licymnius favourably at Rh. 3.2 1405b6–7 and mentions Isocrates’ practice as exemplary at Rh. 3.17 1418a29–34. The first-person plural is most often used when Aristotle refers to himself or, secondarily, to a generic “us”, especially when making points based on the natural abilities or experience of human beings or large groups (“we Greeks”, “we

 14 Cf. Heath 2009, 63. 15 The author of an Art of Rhetoric (second half of the fifth century) about whom we know from Plato and Aristotle; see Nails 2002, 188.

Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism  

humans”). Generic “we” is especially common in the first two books of the Rhetoric, which, in the broad sense, revolve around social psychology. The reader is never directly challenged, but ‘divisive’ statements occasionally occur. At Rh. 3.1 1404a26–28, for instance, Aristotle observes that καὶ νῦν ἔτι οἱ πολλοὶ τῶν ἀπαιδεύτων τοὺς τοιούτους οἴονται διαλέγεσθαι κάλλιστα (“Even now, the majority of the uneducated think such speakers [sc. those who use a poetic style akin to that of Gorgias] speak most beautifully,” transl. G.A. Kennedy). We can interpret remarks of this kind as a description of human behaviour made by an external observer; at the same time, this statement is divisive in that it identifies a group as ἀπαίδευτοι and implicitly attaches such a label to readers who should appreciate the “poetic”, Gorgianic style of rhetoric. It is very likely that this style was regarded as vulgar by Aristotle’s disciples, but this opinion need not be shared by other readers — if only in another time and place. The reader is only rarely invited to judge for himself what Aristotle says on the grounds of the examples he provides. This is what he does, for instance, at Poet. 22 1458b16–19: καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γλώττης δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν μεταφορῶν καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἰδεῶν μετατιθεὶς ἄν τις τὰ κύρια ὀνόματα κατίδοι ὅτι ἀληθῆ λέγομεν (“One could observe the truth of my argument by substituting the standard terms,” transl. S. Halliwell). This is a self-confident assertion that looks more like a rhetorical expedient to introduce and discuss examples than like an actual “challenge” for a generic reader to disprove his point. Overall, the “we” that emerges from these treatises is that of a homogenous group, as one would expect of exoteric, “school” writings. Even though “we” often stands for “we humans” or “we Greeks,” Aristotle invites his readers to step away from the rest of the world and observe human behaviour as a natural phenomenon. Unsurprisingly, in some passages he talks about οἱ ἄνθρωποι from the point of view of an external observer (e.g. Poet. 1 1447b12, Rh. 2.24 1402a25) — an attitude that we can construe as resembling that of a lecturer.

 Dionysius the Self-conscious Litterateur The critical discourse in the rhetorical works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus is quite different from the Aristotelian one. In general, his treatises have a pedagogical nature and a didactic approach aiming to instruct the readers both on the

  Alessandro Vatri history of literature and, ultimately, on writing well. 16 While the treatise On Literary Composition is addressed to young students (Comp. 1.4 Aujac-Lebel), the other treatises are directed to competent readers.17 At any rate, consistent identity dynamics can be observed in Dionysius’ rhetorical works even allowing for such differences in intended readership. Dionysius’ attitude towards his predecessors and colleagues is generally respectful. Other scholarship is mostly quoted for its authority (e.g. Aristotle at Comp. 25.14 Aujac-Lebel), and he only explicitly disagrees with unfair critics — including “fanboys” of Thucydides (Thuc. 34, 50–1) — without naming them (Dem. 23, 48, Thuc. 2, 52). Rather than towards his rivals, his aggression seems to be directed towards his audience. This consists of people who freely chose to engage themselves in the critical appreciation of literary texts18 and are expected to agree with Dionysius’ own judgment and disagree with opposite views (Dionysius expresses such positions using universal or negative indefinites, as we shall observe in Longinus). 19 The alignment of the audience with Dionysius’ opinions is not supposed to be the result of logical persuasion alone, but readers are required to “feel” what Dionysius means through their own irrational aesthetic feeling (ἄλογος αἴσθησις, Dem. 24), which should make things self-evident20 and impossible to deny. 21 If readers disagree with Dionysius, they are ignorant, stupid, or malicious. 22  16 De Jonge 2008, 23–24, cf. Russell 1981, 54. 17 De Jonge 2008, 24–25. 18 ὁ προσέχων τὴν διάνοιαν/τὸν νοῦν (“he who applies his mind” Lys. 7; Isoc. 4), ὁ βουλόμενος σκοπεῖν/καταμαθεῖν/εἰδέναι (“he who wishes to examine/learn/know” Dem. 9, 19, 41, 55, Thuc. 39, Comp. 4.7 Aujac-Lebel; Lys. 16; Dem. 50), οἱ φιλόλογοι (“the lovers of literature” Dem. 23, Thuc. 25); οἱ ἀναγιγνώσκοντες (“the readers” Lys. 11). 19 E.g. τίς οὐκ ἂν ὁμολογήσειεν (“who would not agree” Isaeus 11, Dem. 21, 41, Comp. 9.2 AujacLebel); τίς ἂν ταύτην ἐμέμψατο (“who would have criticized it” Dem. 24) οὐθείς ἐστιν ὃς οὐκ ἂν ὁμολογήσειεν (“there is no one who would not agree” Isoc. 20, Dem. 32); οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅς τις ἂν ὁμολογήσειεν (“I don’t know who would agree” Thuc. 45); πάντες ἂν εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι μαρτυρήσειαν (“I am sure that everybody would testify”, Comp. 3.9 Aujac-Lebel), etc. 20 Further examples at Isoc. 5–8, Isaeus 16. See Russell 1981, 8–9 and de Jonge 2008, 195 with further references. 21 οὐκ ἔνεστ’ ἄλλως εἰπεῖν (“it is not possible to say otherwise,” Dem. 13). 22 Lys. 7: ὁ δὴ προσέχων τὴν διάνοιαν τοῖς Λυσίου λόγοις οὐχ οὕτως ἔσται σκαιὸς ἢ δυσάρεστος ἢ βραδὺς τὸν νοῦν… “Nobody who applies his mind to the speeches of Lysias will be so obtuse, insensitive, or slow-witted …”; Isaeus 18: εἰ δέ τις παραθεωροίη ταῦτα ὡς μικρὰ καὶ φαῦλα, οὐκ ἂν ἔτι γένοιτο ἱκανὸς αὐτῶν κριτής “But if anyone is inclined to discount these differences as small and trifling, he can give up all hope of becoming a competent critic of the two orators”; Dem. 32: οὐθείς ἐστιν, ὃς οὐχ ὁμολογήσειεν, εἰ μόνον ἔχοι μετρίαν αἴσθησιν περὶ λόγους καὶ μήτε βάσκανος εἴη μήτε δύσερίς τις… “Every reader, even one with only a moderate appreciation of

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In addition to being almost insulted, readers are explicitly challenged — for instance, to read Demosthenes without instinctively reciting (Dem. 22) or to defend Thucydides’ arrangement of his subject matter in a passage of the History (1.118.1–2, in Dion. Hal., Thuc. 11). References to social classes and educational backgrounds are also introduced: Dionysius distinguishes between “the many simpletons” and “the rare experts” 23 and writes for people who are supposed to know their literature (εἰδότες, Dion. Hal., Dem. 32 and 38), with presupposed

 oratory, unless he is malicious and of a contentious disposition, would admit…”; Thuc. 50: ἅπαντες ὁμολογήσουσιν οἱ μὴ διεφθαρμένοι τὴν διάνοιαν ἀλλ’ ἐν τῷ κατὰ φύσιν τὰς αἰσθήσεις ἔχοντες “[It] will be admitted by all men whose judgment is unimpaired and who have their natural powers of perception”; Thuc. 55: οὐκ ἂν ὀκνήσαιμι τοῖς ἀσκοῦσι τοὺς πολιτικοὺς λόγους ὑποτίθεσθαι τοῖς γε δὴ τὰς κρίσεις ἀδιαστρόφους ἔτι φυλάσσουσι… “I should not hesitate to suggest to students of political oratory — those, at least, who still try to keep their critical faculties unpredjudged…”; Comp. 22.12 Aujac-Lebel: ἅπαντες ἂν εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι μαρτυρήσειαν οἱ μετρίαν ἔχοντες αἴσθησιν περὶ λόγους “I am sure that all readers with moderately well-developed literary sense will attest…” (all transl. by S. Usher) . 23 Lys. 10: ῥᾷστον μὲν γάρ ἐστιν ὀφθῆναι καὶ παντὶ ὁμοίως ἰδιώτῃ τε καὶ τεχνίτῃ φανερόν, χαλεπώτατον δὲ λόγῳ δηλωθῆναι “It is very easy and plain for layman and expert alike to see, but to express it in words is very difficult”; Dem. 15: οὔτε δεινοὶ καὶ περιττοὶ πάντες εἰσὶ καὶ τὸν Θουκυδίδου νοῦν ἔχοντες οὔθ᾿ ἅπαντες ἰδιῶται καὶ κατασκευῆς λόγων γενναίων ἄπειροι... οἱ δὲ πολιτικοὶ τε καὶ ἀπ’ ἀγορᾶς καὶ διὰ τῆς ἐγκύκλου παιδείας ἐληλθυθότες, οἷς οὐκ ἔνι τὸν αὐτὸν ὅνπερ ἐκείνοις διαλέγεσθαι τρόπον… “[They] are neither all outstanding intellectual geniuses like Thucydides, nor all simpletons with no experience of how a good speech is composed … seasoned politicians, men experienced in public life and with a broad education, who cannot be talked to in the same way as ordinary people”; Thuc. 27: οὐδ’ ἂν ἔχοιεν οὔθ’ οἱ μὴ πάνυ λόγων ἔμπειροι πολιτικῶν εἰπεῖν, ἐφ’ ὅτῳ δυσχεραίνουσιν ὀνόματι ἢ σχήματι, οὔθ’ οἱ πάνυ περιττοὶ καὶ τῆς τῶν πολλῶν ὑπερορῶντες ἀμαθίας μέμψασθαι τὴν κατασκευὴν ταύτης τῆς λέξεως, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ τῶν πολλῶν καὶ τὸ τῶν ὀλίγων τὴν αὐτὴν ὑπόληψιν ἕξει· ὁ μέν γε πολὺς ἐκεῖνος ἰδιώτης οὐ δυσχερανεῖ τὸ φορτικὸν τῆς λέξεως καὶ σκολιὸν καὶ δυσπαρακολούθητον· ὁ δὲ σπάνιος καὶ οὐδ’ ἐκ τῆς ἐπιτυχούσης ἀγωγῆς γιγνόμενος τεχνίτης οὐ μέμψεται τὸ ἀγεννὲς καὶ χαμαιτυπὲς καὶ ἀκατάσκευον. ἀλλὰ συνῳδὸν ἔσται τό τε λογικὸν καὶ τὸ ἄλογον κριτήριον, ὑφ’ ὧν ἀμφοτέρων ἀξιοῦμεν ἅπαντα κρίνεσθαι κατὰ τὰς τέχνας “Nobody, even the most inexperienced student of political oratory, could find a single objectionable word or figure of speech, nor could the most expert critic with the utmost contempt for the ignorance of the masses find fault with the style of this passage: the taste of the untutored majority and that of the educated few will be in agreement, for surely those laymen, and there are many of them, will find nothing base, tortuous or obscure to offend them, while the rare expert with his specialised training will find nothing ill-bred, humble or uncultivated. But reason and instinct will combine in one voice; and these are the two faculties with which we properly judge all works of art”; Dem. 35: ἅπαντες γὰρ εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι ταύτην αὐτῷ τὴν ἀρετὴν ἂν μαρτυρήσειαν, ὅσοι μὴ παντάπασι πολιτικῶν εἰσιν ἄπειροι λόγων “I am sure that all those who have the slightest knowledge of political oratory would confirm that he possesses this quality” (all transl. by S. Usher).

  Alessandro Vatri readings that would certainly include the works of Plato, Homer, and Demosthenes. 24 Dionysius thus gets the reader personally involved far more than Aristotle. This also shows from the frequency of statements including universal or negative indefinites.25 Universal (everybody) or negative (nobody) indefinites force readers to evaluate the truth value of the propositions that contain them by evaluating their own stance towards the assertion made by the writer. In other words, in order for readers to agree with the writer that everybody or nobody do/do not do a certain thing or are/are not in a certain state, readers are forced to evaluate whether they themselves do/do not do that thing or are/are not in that state. If they themselves are not included in the “everybody” or “nobody” the writer has in mind, they will have to conclude that the statement is false. From this perspective, statements of this kind trigger strong unity or division dynamics. This is quite different from what happens with critical judgments that express the same type of strong views but do not get the reader involved at a personal level.26 The divisive effect of such sweeping expressions was already recognized by Aristotle, who comments that “the listener agrees out of embarrassment in order to share in the feelings of all others” (Rh. 1408a33–6, transl. G.A. Kennedy). 27 The use of

 24 Plato: Dion. Hal., Dem. 25: τοὐναντίον γὰρ ἅπαντες ἴσασιν, ὅτι πλείονι κέχρηται φιλοτιμίᾳ περὶ τὴν ἑρμηνείαν ὁ φιλόσοφος ἢ περὶ τὰ πράγματα, “everyone knows the reverse to have been the case, that the philosopher prided himself more on his powers of expression than upon his subject-matter”; Homer: Dion. Hal., Comp. 16.18 Aujac-Lebel: ἐν εἰδόσι λέγων οὐκ οἴομαι πλειόνων δεῖν παραδειγμάτων “As I am addressing men who know their Homer, I do not think that more examples are necessary”; Demosthenes: Dion. Hal., Dem. 32: τοῦτο γὰρ ὡς πρὸς εἰδότας ὁμοίως ἅπαντας οὐδὲ λόγου δεῖν οἶμαι, “I assume that all my readers are equally aware of this and do not need to be told”, and Thuc. 54: θήσω δ’ ἐξ ἀμφοτέρων παραδείγματα, πολλῶν ὄντων ὀλίγα καὶ τοῖς ἀνεγνωκόσι τὸν ἄνδρα ἀρκοῦντα, “I shall quote a few examples from the large number of both kinds available: these will be sufficient for those who have read his works” (all transl. by S. Usher). 25 As one can observe in many of the examples given in footnotes 19, 22, 23, and 24. 26 E.g. [Longinus], Subl. 10.6: πλὴν μικρὸν αὐτὸ καὶ γλαφυρὸν ἐποίησεν ἀντὶ φοβεροῦ “but he has demeaned the idea and made it pretty instead of awe-inspiring” (transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell). 27 The full passage reads πάσχουσι δέ τι οἱ ἀκροαταὶ καὶ ᾧ κατακόρως χρῶνται οἱ λογογράφοι, πάσχουσι δέ τι οἱ ἀκροαταὶ καὶ ᾧ κατακόρως χρῶνται οἱ λογογράφοι, “τίς δ’ οὐκ οἶδεν;”, “ἅπαντες ἴσασιν”· ὁμολογεῖ γὰρ ὁ ἀκούων αἰσχυνόμενος, ὅπως μετέχῃ οὗπερ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι πάντες. ὁμολογεῖ γὰρ ὁ ἀκούων αἰσχυνόμενος, ὅπως μετέχῃ οὗπερ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι πάντες. “Listeners react also to expressions speechwriters use to excess: ‘Who does not know?’ ‘Everybody knows….’ The listener agrees out of embarrassment in order to share in the feelings of all others” (transl. G.A. Kennedy).

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this rhetorical/linguistic device is revealing of the character of the rhetorical works of Dionysius: the author needs to persuade the reader. As mentioned above, Dionysius uses the first-person plural less than other critics, at least in his treatise On Literary Composition. “We” is most often used with a generic reference (see Table 5), which can be explained in the light of Dionysius’ constant reference to “nature” and everybody’s (alleged) instinctive aesthetic perception. Dionysius’ academic style is heavily rhetorical. He is stating a case; more precisely, he is defending a case, and summons as much evidence (μαρτύρια, e.g. at Dem. 37, or μαρτυρία at e.g. Comp. 11.4 Aujac-Lebel)28 as he can, both from external authorities and from the experience of the “judges” (the readers) themselves, explicitly using examples for this purpose.29 He is aware that some readers would disagree with his arguments, and he tries to anticipate their objections with a seemingly polemical tone, 30 which contributes to an image of self-consciousness.

 Longinus the Unapologetic Litterateur The treatise On the Sublime originated in a similar environment and has much in common with the rhetorical works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus.31 Compared to Dionysius, however, Longinus seems to present his ideas in a far less self-conscious manner. Whereas Dionysius engages constructively with the rhetorical tradition, Longinus’ treatise is characterized by a rather polemical tone.32 The treatise is in fact a critical response to a lost work of Caecilius of Caleacte, whose approach and ideas are directly addressed throughout the text (1.1, 8.2.4, 32–35). Longinus also criticises authors of rhetorical handbooks (12.1). His attitude is only occasionally defensive, 33 unlike that of Dionysius of Halicarnassus; accordingly, his polemic does not come across as harsh or excessively aggressive either.  28 See Todd 2020, 285–90 on the terminological distinction between μαρτυρία and μαρτύριον. 29 Dion. Hal., Isaeus 16: εἰ δέ τι δεῖ καὶ παραδείγμασι χρῆσθαι, μή τις ἀναπόδεικτα δόξῃ λέγειν ἡμᾶς, ποιήσω καὶ τοῦτο, “if it is necessary to supply examples to satisfy anyone who thinks that I cannot prove my assertion, I have one to hand” (transl. S. Usher). 30 E.g. Comp. 3.5 Aujac-Lebel: ἵνα δὲ μὴ δόξω φάσιν ἀναπόδεικτον λέγειν “but in order to avoid appearing to assert what I cannot prove” (transl. S. Usher). Cf. also Dem. 9, 19, 25, 34, and 52. 31 If an early dating is correct; see e.g. Goold 1961 and de Jonge 2012, 292 with further references. 32 Cf. Russell 1981, 55. 33 [Longinus], Subl. 2.3, εἰ ταῦθ’, ὡς ἔφην, ἐπιλογίσαιτο καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ὁ τοῖς χρηστομαθοῦσιν ἐπιτιμῶν, οὐκ ἂν ἔτι, μοι δοκῶ, περιττὴν καὶ ἄχρηστον τὴν ἐπὶ τῶν προκειμένων ἡγήσαιτο θεωρίαν, “if then, as I said, those who censure students of this subject would lay these considerations to

  Alessandro Vatri Similarly to Dionysius, Longinus selects his audience. The addressee of the treatise (Postumius Terentianus) is familiar with Plato’s Republic and, implicitly, so are other readers supposed to be. 34 In a different passage he appeals to the taste of a “sensible” man who knows his literature. This description need not correspond to his own profile or that of his readers, but it is nonetheless suggestive of such an identification (7.3): ὅταν οὖν ὑπ’ ἀνδρὸς ἔμφρονος καὶ ἐμπείρου λόγων πολλάκις ἀκουόμενόν τι πρὸς μεγαλοφροσύνην τὴν ψυχὴν μὴ συνδιατιθῇ μηδ’ ἐγκαταλείπῃ τῇ διανοίᾳ πλεῖον τοῦ λεγομένου τὸ ἀναθεωρούμενον, πίπτῃ δέ, ἂν αὐτὸ συνεχὲς ἐπισκοπῇς, εἰς ἀπαύξησιν, οὐκ ἂν ἔτ’ ἀληθὲς ὕψος εἴη μέχρι μόνης τῆς ἀκοῆς σῳζόμενον. If, then, a man of sense, well-versed in literature, after hearing a passage several times finds that it does not affect him with a sense of sublimity, and does not leave behind in his mind more food for thought than the words at first suggest, but rather that on consideration it sinks into the bathetic, then it cannot really be the true sublime, if its effect does not outlast the moment of utterance (transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell).

Analogously to what we have observed about the works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Longinus gets the readers involved through statements containing universal or negative indefinites. 35 Such statements are occasionally mitigated by the hedge οἶμαι. 36 Just as would be the case with Dionysius, the treatise On the Sublime would thus also be strongly ‘rhetorical’ and aim to persuade the reader. As Table 5 shows, Longinus’ use of “we” falls in line with what we see in Aristotle and is consistent with the author’s interest in aesthetics and, ultimately, psychology. As we have seen, he uses the first-person plural to refer to himself and Postumius Terentianus, or to the Greeks as opposed to the Romans; more generally, “we” points to litterateurs and writers. Longinus is assertive, not aggressive, but he is not delivering a lecture but rather an epideictic speech, if one wishes. His readers can identify themselves as members of a community of litterateurs, whether or not they agree with him.  heart, they would not, I fancy, be any longer inclined to consider the investigation of our present topic superfluous and useless” (transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell). 34 [Longinus], Subl. 13.1: ἀνεγνωκὼς τὰ ἐν τῇ Πολιτείᾳ τὸν τύπον οὐκ ἀγνοεῖς, “you have read the Republic and you know the sort of thing” (transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell). 35 E.g. [Longinus], Subl. 34.4: οὐδεὶς γοῦν Ὑπερείδην ἀναγινώσκων φοβεῖται, “no one feels frightened while reading Hypereides” (transl. W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell). 36 [Longinus], Subl. 10.5: παντὶ οἶμαι δῆλον, ὡς πλέον ἄνθος ἔχει τὰ λεγόμενα ἢ δέος, “anyone can see, I fancy, that this is more elegant than awe-inspiring…”; Subl. 28.1: καὶ μέντοι περίφρασις ὡς οὐχ ὑψηλοποιόν, οὐδεὶς ἂν οἶμαι διστάσειεν, “that periphrasis can contribute to the sublime, no one, I fancy, would question” (both transl. by W.H. Fyfe, rev. D.A. Russell).

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 Hermogenes the Teacher With Hermogenes we move on to a different period and intellectual context from that of Dionysius and, presumably, Longinus. His treatise On Types of Style is a large thematic commentary on the style of Demosthenes. The aim of this treatise is to help orators develop their critical skills with a view to instructing them on literary composition, as Hermogenes states at the beginning of this work (Id. 213.4–14 Rabe).37 This treatise was not immediately successful as a school text; as Heath mentions, because of its “sophistication and complexity […] it did not lend itself readily to teaching.” 38 At the same time, the identity dynamics that Hermogenes’ text engenders resemble those of a teacher–student relationship, with a rather different type of rhetoric from that of the intellectual debates underlying the works of Dionysius and Longinus and the largely apodictic “lecturing” style of Aristotle. Hermogenes positions himself within the tradition 39 but avoids overt polemics with his predecessors or other scholars.40 Only rarely does he invite readers to judge him; quite tellingly, in one case he does so by quoting Demosthenes,41 which can be interpreted as a witty way to explicitly signal the employment of a rhetorical device. As we have seen, Dionysius of Halicarnassus mentions the fact that he is writing for εἰδότες (e.g. πρὸς εἰδότας, Dion. Hal, Dem. 32; ἐν εἰδόσι, Dem. 38, Comp. 16.18 Aujac-Lebel); Hermogenes evokes such addressees only once (Id. 231.14–18) and with an entirely different attitude:

 37 Cf. Patillon 1988, 103–104. 38 Heath 2004, 274. 39 See e.g. Id. 216.17–18 Rabe: οὐδὲ γὰρ ἔστιν, ὅστις πρὸ ἡμῶν ὅσα ἐμὲ γιγνώσκειν εἰς τήνδε τὴν ἡμέραν ἀκριβές τι περὶ τούτων πραγματευσάμενος φάινεται, “Nor is there anyone, as far as I know, who has yet dealt with this topic with precision and clarity”; 216.22–23 Rabe: πρὸς γὰρ αὖ τοῖς ἄλλοις καὶ οἱ δόξαντές τι λέγειν περὶ τἀνδρός… “Moreover, even those who have seemed to make valid observations about the orator…” (transl. C. Wooten). 40 E.g. Id. 311.8–9 Rabe: ἵνα μὴ πάντῃ τῷ Διονυσίῳ, ὃς δοκεῖ περὶ λέξεώς τι πεπραγματεῦσθαι, ἀντιλέγωμεν, “I do not want to contradict Dionysius completely, who seems to have worked out something of a stylistic theory” (transl. C. Wooten). 41 Id. 217.17–20 Rabe: “ἡ μὲν οὖν ὑπόσχεσις” κατ’ αὐτὸν φάναι τὸν ῥήτορα “οὕτω μεγάλη, τὸ δὲ πρᾶγμα ἤδη τὸν ἔλεγχον κἀνταῦθα δώσει, κριτὴς δὲ ἡμῖν ὁ βουλόμενος ἔστω”, “As Demosthenes himself says, ‘This is a bold promise, and it will soon be put to the test, and whosoever wishes will be my judge’” (transl. C. Wooten), quoted from Dem. 4.15 with an adaptation (Demosthenes’ text reads ἡ μὲν οὖν ὑπόσχεσις οὕτω μεγάλη, τὸ δὲ πρᾶγμ’ ἤδη τὸν ἔλεγχον δώσει· κριταὶ δ’ ὑμεῖς ἔσεσθε).

  Alessandro Vatri θαυμάζειν δὲ οὐ χρὴ τὸν τρόπον τῆς διδασκαλίας τοῦτον, εἰ πρὶν διδάξαι τι περὶ τῆς περιβολῆς ὡς πρὸς εἰδότας περὶ αὐτῆς διαλέγομαι· οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἑτέρως διδάξαι τι περὶ τούτων, οὐδὲ εἰ ἑτέρωθέν ποθεν ἠρξάμεθα, ἀλλὰ μὴ καθάπερ νῦν ἀπὸ τῆς σαφηνείας. You should not be surprised if we have mentioned Abundance as if you knew what it was in spite of the fact that we have not really discussed it. In a stylistic discussion of this sort that is the only way to proceed, even if we had begun our discussion with another style other than clarity (transl. C. Wooten).

In this passage, Hermogenes apologizes for being forced to write as if the reader already knew about the topic: he only does so for didactic purposes, and not in order to challenge or select his audience. Statements containing universal and negative indefinites (everybody, nobody) are rare and hedged with a particle such as δήπουθεν42 or a verb such as νομίζω (“I think”); 43 in contrast, Dionysius uses such constructions frequently and occasionally strengthens them with expressions such as εὖ οἶδα (“I am sure”, e.g. at Dion. Hal., Comp. 3.9 and 22.12 Aujac-Lebel, Dem. 35). Hermogenes occasionally anticipates objections (conspicuously so throughout the chapter on deinotēs, Id. 2.9), but these are taken as opportunities to further the discussion and are not dismissed polemically. A comparison between an example from Hermogenes and one from Dionysius of Halicarnassus is, once again, revealing: Hermog., Id. 272.15 Rabe ἀπορήσειε δ’ ἄν τις ἐκ τούτων εἰκότως But from what has been said someone might reasonably be at loss (transl. C. Wooten).

Dion. Hal., Dem. 25 συκοφαντεῖς τὸ πρᾶγμα, τάχ’ ἂν εἴποι τις ... καὶ πῶς ἔνι ταῦτ’ εἰπεῖν; τοὐναντίον γὰρ πάντες ἴσασι… “You quibble about the matter”, someone would perhaps say … but how is it possible to say this? For everybody knows that the opposite is the case…

 42 Cf. Denniston 1954, 267–268. 43 With νομίζω at 234.22 Rabe: δῆλον γὰρ αὐτὸ νομίζω πᾶσιν εἶναι, “For I think it is clear to everybody”; with δήπουθεν at 380.20–2 Rabe: ἥτις δὲ ἀρίστη μῖξις αὐτῶν καὶ τίς ὁ κράτιστος τῶν λόγων τῶν πολιτικῶν, ὅτι μὲν ὁ Δημοσθενικός, οὐδεὶς ἀμφιβάλλει δήπουθεν, “No one, [I presume,] will dispute our contention that Demosthenes produces the best mixture of these styles and that his oratory is the best practical oratory” (both transl. by C. Wooten, adapted).

Divisive Scholarship: Affiliation Dynamics in Ancient Greek Literary Criticism  

Hermogenes anticipates that a possible objection would be reasonable (εἰκότως), while Dionysius anticipates that a possible objection would be hostile (he envisages being accused of συκοφαντεῖν) and reacts aggressively with a rhetorical question and a sweeping statement containing a universal indefinite. “Academic we” is very common throughout Hermogenes’ On Types of Style— more so than in all other treatises surveyed here — and most frequently stands for “I” (see Table 5). Such first-person references function as signposts in the text and are suitable to its didactic character. 44 Otherwise, “we” mostly refers to the writer and readers as potential writers, and resembles the “directive” use of ‘we’ in modern languages in contexts such as recipes (We take three eggs) or nursing (We do a little injection), in which “we” stands for “you”. Such is the case, for instance, with a sentence like καὶ μαθησόμεθά γε τοῦτο, οἷά τινα εἴδη τίσιν ἁρμόττει προσώποις, ἐν τῷ περὶ δεινότητος (“We shall learn what kinds of style are appropriate to what kinds of people in our discussion of Force”, Id. 321.9–10 Rabe, transl. C. Wooten).

 Conclusion If we were to ask the question what textual communities Greek works of literary criticism construct, answers would differ greatly according to the social and intellectual contexts of their production, which is unsurprising. Aristotle’s treatises include readers among his listeners; we are absorbed into his intellectual world, we are detached from οἱ ἄνθρωποι while being very interested in them. Aristotle writes for, and treats readers like, his disciples. If we understand and agree we are in — we are affiliated to his school. Dionysius and Longinus construct us readers as the judges at a trial: they are strongly opinionated, and they are trying to win us over. They are not verifying that we could be admitted into their circle, as Aristotle’s texts do: it is them who are trying to convince us that they are one of us. Longinus is assertive in a seemingly confident manner; conversely, by challenging us and our group-identity directly, Dionysius shows how self-conscious he must have been about his own. Lastly, Hermogenes takes us by the hand

 44 E.g. Hermog., Id. 242.19–20 Rabe: ἀλλὰ πρῶτόν γε περὶ σεμνότητος, ᾗ τάχα ἂν ἐναντίον εἴη ἀφέλεια, περὶ ἧς ἐν τῷ περὶ ἤθους λέξομεν, “First, then, we shall discuss Solemnity, the opposite of which, I suppose, is Simplicity, which we shall discuss in the section on Character” (transl. C. Wooten).

  Alessandro Vatri through his complex treatise as a teacher (rather than a lecturer) would; his assertiveness comes across as “gentle” and, whether or not we agree, we are induced to assume the identity of his students as we go through his text. Such interpretations of the rhetorical strategies adopted by each of these ancient critics offer insights, if not into the personalities of these authors, at least into the tone of intellectual debates and/or the expected or acceptable didactic/ argumentative strategies at different points in ancient Greek cultural history. While our observations about Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics match our expectations for texts produced and used within the Lyceum, the strategies emerging from the study of the rhetorical treatises of Dionysius and Hermogenes call for further investigation of the environments and modes of their early reception.

Bibliography Barber, K. (2007), The Anthropology of Texts, Persons and Publics. Oral and Written Culture in Africa and beyond, Cambridge. Chafe, W.L. (1994), Discourse, Consciousness, and Time: The Flow and Displacement of Conscious Experience in Speaking and Writing, Chicago. Chamberlain, D. (2001), ‘“We the Others”: Interpretive Community and Plural Voice in Herodotus’, in: Classical Antiquity 20, 5–34. de Jonge, C.C. (2008), Between Grammar and Rhetoric. Dionysius of Halicarnassus on Language, Linguistics and Literature, Leiden/Boston. de Jonge, C.C. (2012), ‘Dionysius and Longinus on the Sublime: Rhetoric and Religious Language’, in: The American Journal of Philology 133, 271–300. Denniston, J.D. (1954), The Greek Particles, Oxford. Goold, G.P. (1961), ‘A Greek Professorial Circle at Rome’, in: Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 92, 168–192. Halliwell, S./Fyfe, W.H./Innes, D.C. (1995), Aristotle: Poetics; Longinus: On the Sublime; Demetrius: On Style (Loeb Classical Library 199), Cambridge, MA/London. Halliwell, S. (2008), Greek Laughter: A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity, Cambridge/New York. Heath, M. (2004), Menander: a Rhetor in Context, Oxford/New York. Heath, M. (2009), ‘Codifications of Rhetoric’, in: E. Gunderson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric, Cambridge/New York, 58–73. Jaulin, A. (2000), ‘Le rire logique: usages de geloion chez Aristote’, in: M.-L. Desclos (ed.), Le rire des Grecs: anthropologie du rire en Grèce ancienne, Grenoble, 319–332. Kennedy, G.A. (2007), Aristotle, On Rhetoric: a Theory of Civic Discourse, New York. Korhonen, K. (2006), ‘Textual Communities: Nancy, Blanchot, Derrida’, in: Culture Machine 8 (https://web.archive.org/web/20180423030559/http://www.culturemachine.net/index.php/cm/article/view/35/43). Nails, D. (2002), The People of Plato: A Prosopography of Plato and Other Socratics, Indianapolis.

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Patillon, M. (1988), La théorie du discours chez Hermogène le Rhéteur: essai sur les structures linguistiques de la rhétorique ancienne, Paris. Russell, D.A. (1981), Criticism in Antiquity, Berkeley. Steiner, D.H. (1994), The Tyrant’s Writ, Princeton. Stock, B. (1983), The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, Princeton. Tarán, L./Goutas, D. (2012), Aristotle: Poetics. Editio Maior of the Greek Text with Historical Introductions and Philological Commentaries, Leiden/Boston. Todd, S.C. (2020), ‘The Language of Rhetorical Proof in Greek Historical Writers: Witness Terminology’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice, Leiden/ Boston, 281–298. Usher, S. (1974), Dionysius of Halicarnassus: Critical Essays, Vol. 1 (Loeb Classical Library 465), Cambridge, MA/London. Usher, S. (1985), Dionysius of Halicarnassus: Critical Essays, Vol. 2 (Loeb Classical Library 466), Cambridge, MA/London. Vladimirou. D. (2014), ‘Author Positioning and Audience Addressivity by Means of “We” in Greek Academic Discourse’, in: T. Pavlidou (ed.), Constructing Collectivity: ‘We’ across Languages and Contexts, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 265–286. Wisse, J. (1989), Ethos and Pathos from Aristotle to Cicero, Amsterdam. Wooten, C.W. (1987), Hermogenes’ On Types of Style, Chapel Hill.

Christos Kremmydas

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  Introduction Homonoia — stasis is a binary distinction with strong political overtones and a long history in Greek history, political theory and literature. 1 It goes back to at least the sixth century B.C. 2 Aesop’s fable about the farmer’s two sons places stasis in a family context, with the farmer father seeking to mediate between his two sons in order to restore homonoia. The morale of the fable is as follows: ὁ λόγος δηλοῖ, ὅτι τοσοῦτον ἰσχυροτέρα ἐστὶν ἡ ὁμόνοια, ὅσον εὐκαταγώνιστος ἡ στάσις (no. 53). 3 The myth denotes that, just as a concord is stronger, so strife is easier to be defeated.

Homonoia became the subject of debates and declamations by sophists and philosophers in the second half of the 5th c. B.C., a time during which the Greek world was riven by stasis. 4 At some point, probably in the last third of the century, Antiphon the sophist composed a speech entitled Περὶ Ὁμονοίας. Around the same time, another famous sophist, Gorgias of Leontini, is said to have delivered a speech On concord. Plutarch cites a speech “On Concord” (Coni. Prae. 43 144b–

 1 I would like to thank the editors for inviting me to contribute this chapter to this volume, for their patience and efficiency and for their helpful comments. I am also grateful to the participants of the “(Dis)Unity in Greek Literature” conference in Athens in December 2017 for their stimulating comments on my paper on which this chapter is based. Sabrina Ciardo, the librarian of the Fondation Hardt in Geneva, was able to scan and email me a key article at a time when the libraries were inaccessible due to the pandemic; I am grateful for her kind offer of help. Finally, I wish to express my gratitude to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation for awarding me a Research Fellowship, during which this chapter was written. 2 It is worth noting that homonoia does not feature in Hesiod’s Works and Days, unlike other key political but more contested terms, like eunomia, dikē and eirēnē. However, goddess Eris, the sister of the battle-god Ares, is depicted in the Iliad as being an invisible participant in battles (e.g. 4.439–45). 3 Hausrath and Hunger 3 = Perry 53 v. 1 4 Cartledge calls stasis a leitmotif of Greek History (1987, 363); on fifth-century stasis, Thuc. 3.69–89 is a key contemporary primary text; see also Price 2001, Funke 1980. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-014

  Christos Kremmydas c) 5, but this might be identical with the “Olympian oration” reported by Philostratus. The latter notes that “although Gorgias struggled for homonoia in his Olympian oration, he achieved nothing because the Athenians were desirous of archē over the Greeks” (VS 1.9 [fr. B6]). Homonoia became a powerful political slogan prone to manipulation in interstate and civic struggles. 6 In 411 the oligarchic regime of the Four Hundred called a meeting of the Assembly in the Theatre of Dionysus with a view to restoring homonoia in the city (περὶ ὁμονοίας: Thuc. 8.93). In the fourth century, appeals to homonoia increasingly appeared to transcend the boundaries of individual Greek poleis and extended to the realm of Hellenism. 7 While homonoia within the Greek states was still a concern, given the continued incidence of stasis in Greek poleis, especially in the first half of the fourth century, the term was also being deployed as a rallying cry of Hellenism in the face of the Persian threat from the East. The Athenian Isocrates in particular called for Greek homonoia under the leadership of Athens and later on under Philip of Macedon. 8 Even before Philip’s ascendancy to a hegemonic position in the Greek world, Isocrates had his client say the following in the paragraphē speech Against Callimachus:

 5 In the Moralia 144b, Plutarch also records an anecdote involving Gorgias’ Olympian Oration on homonoia; it is said that when Gorgias read his speech to the Greeks, a certain Melanthius retorted that Gorgias profers advice on concord but can hardly make himself, his wife and servant girl be at one. ‘The home of one who wants to put a polis and its agora and his friends in order ought itself to be in order’ is the maxim that is drawn and suggests a strong connection between family life and community life. A similar anecdote about stasis in Philip II’s home life is reported in Plut. Alex. 9.13 (…ἐπερωτῶντος τοῦ Φιλίππου, πῶς ἔχουσιν ὁμονοίας πρὸς ἀλλήλους οἱ Ἕλληνες, ‘πάνυ γοῦν’ ἔφη ‘σοι προσήκει Φίλιππε κήδεσθαι τῆς Ἑλλάδος, ὃς τὸν οἶκον τὸν σεαυτοῦ στάσεως τοσαύτης καὶ κακῶν ἐμπέπληκας’). 6 The earliest epigraphic attestation of homonoia vocabulary originates in Athens in the last decade of the fifth century; IG i3 237 is “a law about assessment for taxes or contributions” (Lambert AIO: https://www.atticinscriptions.com/inscription/IGI3/237); the use of the participial expression ὁμονοοῦντες ἅπαντες Ἀθηναῖοι (l. 45) in the fourth-century “decree of Themistocles” is an anachronistic retrojection to the early fifth century of a concept that developed much later (SEG 22.274 = ML 23). 7 Modern literature on the concept of Hellenism and the changes it underwent especially in the fourth century is vast. I can highlight here a few key items: Hall 1989, 160–200, Hall 2002, 172– 225, Vlassopoulos 2013, 34–77. 8 An interesting passage discussing the concept of homonoia under a kingship is found in Isocrates’ To Nicocles 3.41: χρὴ τοὺς ὀρθῶς βασιλεύοντας μὴ μόνον τὰς πόλεις ἐν ὁμονοίᾳ πειρᾶσθαι διάγειν ὧν ἂν ἄρχωσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὺς οἴκους τοὺς ἰδίους καὶ τοὺς τόπους ἐν οἷς κατοικῶσιν· ἅπαντα γὰρ ταῦτα σωφροσύνης ἔργα καὶ δικαιοσύνης ἐστίν. Cf. n. 5 above.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

Isocr. 18.44: Καὶ μὴν οὐ δεῖ γ’ ὑμᾶς παρ’ ἑτέρων μαθεῖν, ὅσον ἐστὶν ὁμόνοια ἀγαθὸν ἢ στάσις κακόν· οὕτω γὰρ ἀμφοτέρων σφόδρα πεπείρασθε, ὥστε καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ὑμεῖς ἄριστ’ ἂν διδάξαιτε περὶ αὐτῶν.9 Surely you do not have to learn from others the benefit of concord and the evil of civil strife. You have experienced both to such a degree that you would be the best to teach others about them (trans. D. Mirhady).

The speech was delivered in the aftermath of the restoration of the democracy to Athens (date: 402 BC) in a legal suit that was designed specifically to offer legal recourse to pro-oligarchs who felt that their protection under the Amnesty agreement was being compromised. 10 It could be argued that the speaker here takes advantage of the sensitivities of the audience who had personal and painful experience of the recent civil war in Athens. They can draw on this powerful experience (σφόδρα πεπείρασθε) of stasis and can teach others (presumably other Greeks) about the necessity of homonoia. In the Panegyricus (date: 380 BC), Isocrates looks back at the time of the Athenian Empire and paints their hegemony in flattering colours. He claims that homonoia among the allies was considered to be beneficial for everyone, thus picking up the argument of expediency that we will encounter in Dio’s rhetoric on homonoia later in this chapter: 4.104: Οὐ γὰρ ἐφθονοῦμεν ταῖς αὐξανομέναις αὐτῶν, οὐδὲ ταραχὰς ἐνεποιοῦμεν πολιτείας ἐναντίας παρακαθιστάντες ἵν’ ἀλλήλοις μὲν στασιάζοιεν, ἡμᾶς δ’ ἀμφότεροι θεραπεύοιεν, ἀλλὰ τὴν τῶν συμμάχων ὁμόνοιαν κοινὴν ὠφέλειαν νομίζοντες… We did not envy our allied cities when they grew, and we did not cause instability by promoting opposing forms of government so they might fight against one another and each to try to curry our favour. On the contrary, we thought that they unity of the allies was for the common good… (trans. T. Papillon).

In his Eudemian Ethics Aristotle discusses homonoia alongside eunoia as manifestations of philia and defines homonoia as a political form of friendship, thus

 9 The praise of homonoia is not restricted by Isocrates to the Athenian democracy: see Isocr. 3 (Nicocl.) 41 where he suggests that kings, too, should pursue homonoia for the cities over which they rule but also over their own households; this is a mark of “temperance and justice” (σωφροσύνης...καὶ δικαιοσύνης). 10 The amnesty agreement in Athens is quoted at Ath. Pol. 39. From the vast modern literature on the subject is vast, I highlight here Loening 1987, Carawan 2013, Rubinstein 2018; on paragraphē as a legal procedure see Isager and Hansen 1975.

  Christos Kremmydas moving from the level of close interpersonal relationships to the level of relationships between politai within and for the benefit of the polis. Like Isocrates, he is stressing its utilitarian dimension in the polis.11 Meanwhile in his Nicomachean Ethics, he notes that lawgivers are striving for friendship and concord in the cities while seeking to expel strife: Eth. Nic. 1155a l. 24: ἔοικε δὲ καὶ τὰς πόλεις συνέχειν ἡ φιλία, καὶ οἱ νομοθέται μᾶλλον περὶ αὐτὴν σπουδάζειν ἢ τὴν δικαιοσύνην. ἡ γὰρ ὁμόνοια ὅμοιόν τι τῇ φιλίᾳ ἔοικεν εἶναι, ταύτης δὲ μάλιστ᾽ ἐφίενται καὶ τὴν στάσιν ἔχθραν οὖσαν μάλιστα ἐξελαύνουσιν. Friendship seems also to hold cities together, and lawgivers take care more about it than about justice; for concord seems to be something like friendship, and this is what they aim most of all, while taking special pains to eliminate civil conflict as something hostile [trans. R. Crisp].

Aristotle’s analysis suggests that there is hardly any conceptual distance between the notions of homonoia, eunoia and philia at an interpersonal and the polis level. It is thus easier to appreciate that the benefits that philia and eunoia bring at interpersonal level can also be realized by and through homonoia at the polis level. It is quite surprising that there are no epigraphic attestations of the abstract term homonoia (rather than participal expressions for which see p. 293 with n. 4) during the Classical period.12 In the Hellenistic period it tends to occur alongside ἐλευθερία and φιλία 13 and appears to be a key concern in decrees for judges arbitrating in inter-polis disputes. 14 W.W. Tarn called homonoia “one of the great conceptions of the Hellenistic age” and added poignantly that “she remained a pious aspiration only”. 15 It is not until the Hellenistic period that Panhellenic cult for homonoia (“homonoia of the Hellenes”) is attested in Plataea. 16 During this period Greek city-states belonged to the Successor Kingdoms but still maintained a  11 1241a: ἔστι δ’ οὐ περὶ πάντα ἡ ὁμόνοια ἡ φιλική, ἀλλὰ περὶ τὰ πρακτὰ τοῖς ὁμονοοῦσι, καὶ ὅσα εἰς τὸ συζῆν συντείνει… ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἡ ὁμόνοια· …καὶ ἔστιν ἡ ὁμόνοια φιλία πολιτική. 12 The first attestation of homonoia in the epigraphic record is IG ii2 687, a decree proposed by Chremonides dated to 266 B.C. 13 E.g., τὴν πρὸς ἀλλήλους ὁμόνοιαν καὶ φιλίαν διετήρησαν/συνετήρησαν is deployed as a topos IG ii2 1006 (date: 122 B.C), 1009 (116 B.C), 1028 (100/99 B.C), 14 E.g. I.Iasos 78 l. 10 (they contributed to the restoration of homonoia); cf. 75 ll. 10–11, 82 ll. 36– 37, I.Kaunos 17 ll. 11–12; I.Magnesia 90 ll. 12–14, 54 ll. 25–7 (I follow the abbreviations of epigraphic publications listed on the ‘Searchable Greek Inscriptions’ website of the Packard Humanities Institute: https://epigraphy.packhum.org/biblio#b122). 15 Tarn 1952, 90–91. 16 Piérart and Étienne (1975). The decree of the “koinon of the Hellenes” is dated between 261 and 246 B.C.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

measure of autonomy and homonoia continued being used as a political slogan, alongside eleutheria, autonomia 17 and philia. 18 There is epigraphic evidence for cult of Homonoia on the island of Cos in the second century BC and other centres around the Greek world from the third century B.C. In the Argonautica Apollonius of Rhodes refers to this cult, 19 while Chariton makes the sanctuary of Homonoia at Aphrodisias the backdrop to the marriage of Callirhoe in his Chaereas and Callirhoe. 20 Cities also struck homonoia coins to formalize their relationships.21 But unlike in the Classical period the framework it now operated within was (almost exclusively) kingship (and, later, the Roman) although the monarchs did not seek aggressively to enforce it. Given the diachronic, political and ideological importance of homonoia, it is worth exploring its role in the orations of Dio of Prusa, a key figure of the so-called “Second Sophistic”. Homonoia and its opposite, stasis, appear to play an important role in many of his civic orations, if their titles are anything to go by (e.g. or. 38 To the Nicomedians on Concord with the Nicaeans, or. 39 On concord in Nicaea upon the Cessation of civil Strife, or. 40 In his Native City on Concord with Nicaea). In the rest of this chapter, I shall look at what Dio has to say about homonoia and the causes of strife, before considering the remedies he is putting forward.

 17 Ἐλευθερία and αὐτονομία operate on a different (possibly competing and certainly higher) level from homonoia. See e.g. I.Iasos 3.1–18 recording a letter and an oath from Aristoboulos to the Boulē and dēmos of Iasos: ἐλευθερία and αὐτονομία will be guaranteed as long as their contributions are being paid (ll. 14–15); cf. I.Iasos 3.19–28, I.Aphrodisias and Rome 8 (“Senatus consultum regarding the asylia of Plarasa/Aphrodisias and temple”: 39/38 B.C) 13 (“a subscript of Octavian to Samos expressing wish to grant eleutheria only to Aphrodisias”: 39/19 B.C) 15 (“letter by Hadrian to archontes, Boulē and dēmos of Aphrodisias” confirming the privileges already awarded to the city [119 B.C]: τὴν μὲν ἐλευθερίαν καὶ αὐτονομίαν καὶ τὰ ἄλλα τὰ ὑπάρξαντα ὑμεῖν παρὰ τε τῆς συνκλήτου καὶ τῶν πρὸ ἐμοῦ αὐτοκρατόρων ἐβεβαίωσα πρόσθεν), I.Knidos 51/55 ll. 5–6 (second half of first c. B.C). 18 Philia is attested as frequently in the Roman period (attestations in the Hellenistic period appear alongside eunoia, syngeneia, symmachia) — perhaps it creates an illusion of equality between the parties which is not necessitated by homonoia? 19 Argon. 2.717–18: καί τ’ εἰσέτι νῦν γε τέτυκται/κεῖν’ Ὁμονοίης ἱρὸν ἐύφρονος ὅ ῥ’ ἐκάμοντο… 20 3.2.16. 21 Franke 1987, 81–102. A search for the term homonoia in the province of Bithynia on The Greek Coinage of Asia Minor database (http://gcam.hhu.de/index.php?page_id=18) returned 37 coins bearing a female figure identified as homonoia for the period 30–200 AD. Price 1984, 126 notes that there are “over one hundred issues of homonoia (“concord”) coinages, recording concord between two or more cities… made by over seventy cities under the empire”.

  Christos Kremmydas

 Dio as a Source for Greek Communities in Asia Minor and the Greek East Unlike Isocrates, his fourth-century B.C. intellectual predecessor, Dio was an engaged public intellectual in the Greek East under Roman rule. 22 His activities covered most of Asia Minor and extended to Egypt and the Italian Peninsula. As a member of the elite in his home city of Prusa, Dio engaged with elites of neighbouring cities in order to contribute to the resolution of conflicts between them. Like his father and grandfather, Dio, too, had been honoured by his own community and received honours by neighbouring communities, Nicomedia, Nicaea and Apameia.23 Because of his social status, prolific literary output, and political engagement, Dio is an important source on the Greek cities of Asia Minor and, more generally the Greek East. His 18 civic orations 24 complement other historical sources, such as the letters of Pliny the Younger (esp. his correspondence with the emperor Trajan), Plutarch’s political treatises, 25 coinage from a wider chronological range,26 and the few contemporary inscriptions. 27 Against this historical backdrop, what Dio has to say about concord and discord in the Greek poleis should not be seen as the musings of an itinerant sophist on a well-worn Hellenic

 22 On this type of public intellectual who was committed to polis affairs see Salmeri 2000, 65– 66. 23 See 38.1, 39.1, 41.2 (he notes that he has been granted citizenship by many cities, as well as honorary membership of their Boulai and other honours). 24 Orr. 31 (Rhodian), 32 (To the Alexandrians), 33 (First Tarsic Oration), 34 (Second Tarsic Oration), 35 (In Celaenae in Phrygia), 36 (Borysthenic), 37 (Corinthian), 38 (To the Nicomedians on Concord with the Nicaeans), 39 (On Concord in Nicaea upon the Cessation of Civil Strife), 40 (Delivered in his Native City on Concord with the Apameians), 41 (To the Apameians on Concord), 42 (An address in his Native City), 43 (A Political Address in his Native City), 44 (An Address on Friendship for his Native Land), 45 (In Defence of his Relations with his Native City), 46 (Delivered in his Native City prior to his Philosophical Career) 47 (A Speech in the Public Assembly at Prusa) 48 (A Political Address in the Assembly). 25 Plut. Prae. ger. reip. 805e, 808c, 819d, 824c; cf. De Alex. fort. 330e (and scattered references in various Lives such as Lycurgus, Alexander, Cicero, e.a. 26 See n. 21 above. 27 On the dearth of inscriptions referring to homonoia see Sheppard 1984–1986, 243. See also n. 12 above; see I.Ias. 4 (ll. 56–9: ὁ δὲ δῆμος ἔχων ταύτην τὴν αἵρεσιν πολύ τι μᾶλλον μεθ᾽ ὁμονοίας πολιτευόμενος τὰ μέγιστα ἀγαθὰ παρειληφὼς παρὰ τοῦ βασιλέως ταῦτα διατηρεῖ), an honorific decree in honour of king Antiochos III and queen Laodike; date 195/190 B.C.).

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

theme but rather as valuable insights into Greek intra-regional politics under Roman rule and reflections on the way in which a well-known political concept was deployed for political ends.

 Dio and the Rhetoric of Homonoia Homonoia and stasis are leitmotifs of Dio’s civic discourses. They give him an opportunity to combine rhetorical epideixis with political advice mostly in the context of local Assemblies where he delivers his orations. Alongside terms like eirēnē 28 and philia, homonoia describes the relationship between communities and, in turn, the relationship between members of communities who are at one with each other. By contrast stasis, eris, diaphora, philoneikia and philotimia (ametros) describe the breakdown of relationships in the family, the city and beyond. According to Dio, homonoia and stasis occur in three different political contexts: a) between city-states (between Apameans, Aegeans, Smyrnaeans, Ephesians, Antiochians [34.48–49] and enmity between Nicomedia and Nicaea [38.6], rivalry between the people of Tarsus and the people of Aegae and those of Mallus nearby [34.10]); b) between political institutions and bodies of government within a single state;29 c) between individual members of the body politic. Dio suggests that all three contexts are interconnected; he even claims in the speech On Concord with the Apameans that fighting with neighbours is akin to in-fighting with members of the same city (40.27–28). Just as homonoia can grow within the body politic and expand outwards in concentric circles, so strife can infect family relationships, poison whole poleis and vitiate inter-city relationships. Although Dio’s rhetoric of homonoia and stasis might tempt one to see the communities in terms of kinship and hence in terms of homogeneity, 30 the reality  28 On eirēnē he states the following in or. 3.96: ἄνευ δὲ φιλίας οὐδ’ ἐν εἰρήνῃ ζῆν ἀσφαλές; cf. 6.31, 17.10: καὶ πάλιν ὡς νόμος ἀνθρώποις τιμᾶν τὸ ἴσον, καὶ τοῦτο μὲν κοινὴν φιλίαν καὶ πᾶσιν εἰρήνην πρὸς ἀλλήλους ποιεῖ, τὰς δὲ διαφορὰς καὶ τὰς ἐμφύλους ἔριδας καὶ τοὺς ἔξω πολέμους κατ’ οὐδὲν ἕτερον συμβαίνοντας ἢ διὰ τὴντοῦ πλείονος ἐπιθυμίαν, ἐξ ὧν ἕκαστος καὶ τῶν ἱκανῶν ἀποστερεῖται, and 26.8: …καὶ τούτων ἐνίοτε τῶν μεγίστων ὄντων, περὶ ὁμονοίας καὶ φιλίας οἰκιῶν καὶ πόλεων καὶ περὶ εἰρήνης καὶ πολέμου. Cf. also 31.104, 125, 165, 32.60, 36.47, 38.14, 16, 18, 19, 22, 39.2, 40.26, 49.6. 29 34.16: οὐ χθὲς καὶ πρῴην χωρὶς ἦν ὁ δῆμος καὶ ἡ βουλὴ καὶ νῦν ἔτι καθ᾽ αὑτοὺς οἱ γέροντες, ἰδίᾳ τὸ συμφέρον ἑκάστω δῆλον ὅτι σκοπούντων; “Is it not true that but a day or two ago the Assembly took one course and the Council another and that the Elders still maintain a position of independence, each body clearly consulting its own self-interest?” 30 This is certainly one of Dio’s rhetorical objectives.

  Christos Kremmydas on the ground was far more diverse (esp. ethnically and linguistically).31 Marek notes the following on the ethnic diversity in Bithynia and beyond: The large population groups include in the northwest the Bithynians, with their subgroups, such as the Mariandynoi and Kaukonians (in Herakleia’s hinterland as far as the Parthenios River). Along the north coast, toward the east, lived the Paphlagonians and Cappadocians, and in eastern Anatolia, the Armenians. On the western plateau Mysians, Lydians, Phrygians, and Pisidians had settled. In the south, Carians, Lycians, Pamphylians, Lycaonians, Isaurians and Cilicians. 32

There is no reason to believe that the cities addressed by Dio were ethnically homogeneous yet this is not a matter he touches upon, as ethnic homogeneity was not relevant to his quest for supra-local homonoia. However, he does repeatedly comment on the ruinous effect of stasis on Greek communities. In his Alexandrian oration he deploys a Homeric cento33 (a poetic patchwork made up of different passages from the Iliad and the Odyssey)34 to illustrate faction amongst the Alexandrians. 35 This cento helps extend a thread from Homer’s epics to Alexandria in Imperial times through classical Athens. Dio is suggesting that, unlike classical Athens where criticism of the people could take place even in the theatre, the Alexandrian theatre seems to privilege frivolous entertainment (1: καὶ παιδιᾶς μὲν καὶ ἡδονῆς καὶ γέλωτος, ὡς εἰπεῖν, οὐδέποτε ἀπορεῖτε; “fun-making and enjoyment and laughter”: cf. 4: εἰς τοῦτο δὲ καλὸν μὲν ἢ τίμιον οὐδὲν ὑμῖν ἢ σπανίως ποτὲ εἰσέρχεται) over serious instruction in reason; he notes very pithily that “the

 31 A similar point is made by Richter 2011, 111–114, who also notes that Greek authors such as Dionysius of Halicarnassus sought to prioritize the notion of “Greekness” (even of the Romans). 32 Marek 2016, 397; although most of the cities addressed by Dio’s civic orations are located in Bithynia, cities beyond Bithynia are also addressed (e.g. Celenae, Tarsus, Alexandria, Rhodes). 33 32.4–5: ψεῦσταί τ᾽ ὀρχησταί τε χοροιτυπίῃσιν ἄριστοι (Il. 24.261) /ἵππων τ᾽ ὠκυπόδων ἐπιβήτορας, οἵ κε τάχιστα/ ἔκριναν μέγα νεῖκος ὁμοιΐου πολέμοιο (Od. 18.263–264) ξυνὸν δὲ κακὸν πολέεσι τιθεῖσι (Il. 16.262): “Both mimes and dancers plying nimble feet”/“And men astride swift steeds, most apt to stir/Dire strife amid spectators crude — the fools!” — / “And bring a general ruin to multitudes.” Lamar Crosby’s translation of Od. 18.263–264 is inaccurate; “riders of swiftfooted horses who most quickly decide the great strife of an evenly matched war” is closer to the Greek. 34 On this playful literary genre see OCD s.v.; on Homeric centos, which were particularly popular in the Imperial period, see Usher 1997 and Gonis 2011. Virgilian centos also became popular after the third c. AD: see McGill 2005. 35 Although this oration (delivered between 72 and 79 AD during the reign of Vespasian, according to the new date proposed by Jones 1973; pace von Arnim 1898, 435–438, who dated it between 105 and 112) is not addressed to citizens of Greek communities in Asia Minor, it still highlights Dio’s rhetoric on eris.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

organ of hearing of a people is the theatre” (4: δήμου γάρ ἐστιν ἀκοὴ τὸ θέατρον) and, in his view, what is happening there is representative of the situation in the polis at large. “Dire strife” (μέγα νεῖκος) among the spectators extends beyond the theatre and damages the whole community. The reference to strife in the cento is then picked up in the following section where it is accompanied by unrestrained love of honour, expressions of grief that are devoid of meaning, senseless expressions of joy, abuse and extravagance: 32.5: …καὶ περὶ τοιαῦτά ἐστε, ἀφ᾿ ὧν νοῦν μὲν ἢ φρόνησιν ἢ δικαίαν διάθεσιν ἢ πρὸς θεοὺς εὐσέβειαν οὐκ ἔστι κτήσασθαι, ἔριν δὲ ἀμαθῆ καὶ φιλοτιμίαν ἄμετρον καὶ κενὴν λύπην καὶ χαρὰν ἀνόητον καὶ λοιδορίαν καὶ δαπάνην. …and you are devoted to interests from which it is impossible to gain intelligence or prudence or a proper disposition or reverence toward the gods, but only stupid contention, unbridled ambition, vain grief, senseless joy, and raillery and extravagance. 36

Dio’s denunciation of the prevailing ēthos in Alexandria is unlike the captatio benevolentiae one might expect at the start of a symbouleutic speech, but it is characteristic of the orator’s conscious attempt to project a parrhēsiastic ēthos in the tradition of Demosthenes. 37 The passage above also sums up quite well the interplay of secular and sacred aspects in Dio’s rhetoric of (dis)unity in his civic orations; 38 it echoes some of the reasons for and the negative effects of discord, the absence of homonoia, hints at the remedies that can usher homonoia into the community and helps sets the scene for his discussion of the benefits that unity-homonoia can confer on a community that will be presented in greater detail in the rest of his chapter. The survey of Dio’s civic orations that touch on homonoia highlights his conceptualization of the term that extends to three interrelated levels (cosmic, divine

 36 All translations henceforth are by H. Lamar Crosby in the Loeb Classical Library (vols. 358 and 376) Cambridge 1940–1946. 37 Dio makes much of this parrhēsiastic ēthos in this speech (5: τὴν ἐπὶ τῷ συμφέροντι δέξασθαι παρρησίαν, 11, 27). This echoes Demosthenes’ parrhēsia in his Assembly oratory demonstrated in his criticism of the people’s mistakes and wrong attitude (e.g. 3.3, 6.31, 8.24); on Demosthenes’ projection of his own ēthos see Kremmydas 2016, esp. 55–58. 38 Later in the speech Dio decries the fact that rhētores and sophists did not play the public role one might expect of them during recent troubles in the city (69–71). The intervention of the Roman army to quell the riot in Alexandria (70–71) is not attested in the Greek cities of Asia Minor in Dio’s time or Dio would have alluded to it and therefore represents an extreme consequence of disunity in a city, which, its ethnic diversity notwithstanding, is addressed by Dio as though it were made up by Hellenes.

  Christos Kremmydas and human) and practical-political considerations regarding the causes of existing discord and the suggested remedies that will bring about the hoped-for homonoia with all its practical benefits for the communities. It will also pay attention to the ways in which Dio presented his own role as an ambassador of homonoia and as a dynamic agent for political rapprochement between the Greek communities.

 Dio’s Conceptualization of Homonoia (orations 33, 34, 38–39 and 40–41) The precise circumstances that had brought about Dio’s intervention as an agent of homonoia are not always known but, where they are, they shed light on the turbulent and complex relationships between and within the Greek cities. Two of the speeches in which homonoia is the key theme are addressed to the Nicomedians on the question of Concord with the people of Nicaea (or. 38) and the speech On Concord in Nicaea upon Cessation of Civil Strife. The two Bithynian cities of Nicomedia and Nicaea had been at loggerheads with each other regarding their respective claims to regional priority: it was all about the πρωτεία, roughly translated as “primacy”, in the Roman province of Pontus and Bithynia, which at the time of Dio’s speech were being held by the city of Nicaea. Disputes about such honorific titles were nothing new in Asia Minor under Roman rule. 39 We know that Nicaea was successful in her bid to be recognized as the “First City” in the province of Asia (26). 40 Meanwhile, at different points, Ephesos had secured the (imperial) title of νεωκόρος (“temple warden”) of the Imperial temple.41 Although it is not known what occasioned Dio’s speech 38 in the Assembly of Nicomedia, it is likely that he had responded to a specific invitation to help the

 39 There were even disputes between cities regarding the mythical origins of poleis, which were also important in terms of their own identity and ideology; e.g. Nicaea and Smyrna both sought to appropriate Theseus as their ancestor/founder: Plut. Thes. 26.2–3 (Μενεκράτης δέ τις, ἱστορίαν περὶ Νικαίας τῆς ἐν Βιθυνίᾳ πόλεως ἐκδεδωκώς, Θησέα φησὶ τὴν Ἀντιόπην ἔχοντα διατρῖψαι περὶ τούτους τοὺς τόπους); the attempt to associate Theseus with Smyrna probably dates to the eighth century, according to Walker 1995, 13. 40 For further details regarding the competition between big cities (e.g. Ephesos, Smyrna and Pergamon in Asia, Side and Perge in Pamphylia, Nicaea and Nicomedia in Bithynia and Pontus) regarding the conferral of such honorific titles by the Romans, see Marek 2016, 477–478; see also Merkelbach 1978, 287–296 and Price 1984, 126–132. 41 But note Acts 19:35 according to which the city was also neōkoros of Artemis.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

Nicomedians (2). 42 It is also clear that he had a personal relationship with the city that had made him an honorary citizen (1, 2),43 and an obligation to serve them by telling them the truth.44 However, he also makes clear early on in the speech that the advice he is offering has nothing to do with the civic occasion on which he is delivering the speech (4); he sprung a surprise on the Nicomedians and took the opportunity to instruct them on a matter of vital importance. Dio adopts a medical metaphor that had been diachronically popular in deliberative oratory, namely that of the orator as a doctor, and suggests that he will offer the people a “pleasant” pharmakon45 (7). 46 38.7: οὐδὲ γὰρ ὁ νοσῶν πρὸς τὸν ἰατρὸν ὀργίζεται διατάττοντα τὴν θεραπείαν, ἀλλ᾽ ἀκούει μὲν ἀηδῶς αὐτοῦ λέγοντος, ὅτι αὐτὸν καὶ τμηθῆναι καὶ καυθῆναι, πείθεταί δὲ ὅμως· περὶ γὰρ σωτηρίας ὁ κίνδυνός ἐστι. καίτοι τί τοῦτο εἶπον; τὸ γὰρ ἐμὸν φάρμακον, ὃ προσφέρω ταῖς πόλεσιν, ἥδιστόν ἐστι φάρμακον καὶ χωρὶς οὗ ζῆν οὐδεὶς ἂν ἐθελήσειεν εὖ φρονῶν. For neither is the sick man angry with his physician when he prescribes his treatment, but, though he dislikes to hear him say he must submit to surgery or cautery, still he obeys; for his life is at stake. And yet why have I said this? For my remedy, the one I offer your cities, is a most pleasant remedy, and one without which no man would wish to live, if he has good sense.

This medical metaphor and the insinuation that he is a physician for the city is certainly a means of enhancing his own authority before his Nicomedian audience. It is also worth noting his use of the plural (ταῖς πόλεσιν: “your cities”) at this point; the pharmakon he recommends will be for both cities but, unlike real pharmaka, this will be “pleasant” (cf. “not distasteful” earlier in 6). The difficulty  42 He dispels any suggestions that the city of Nicomedeia might have been trying to induce him to perform civic duties, i.e. liturgies; he thus suggests that he is offering a service to the city (in fact to both cities) and they, therefore, owe him a debt of gratitude. 43 Nevertheless, he hastens to disclaim any personal motives, such as glory or financial benefits (9). 44 It is not unlikely that he was also an honorary citizen of Nicaea (39.1), hence it could be argued that he had a personal interest in reconciling two communities with which he had a close, personal relationship. 45 Cf. the reference to “the fruit of goodwill” (ὁ τῆς εὐνοίας sc. καρπός) as “palatable and profitable” (ἥδιστος καὶ λυσιτελέστατος) in the oration On Concord with the Apameians (40.34). 46 A health-related metaphor is also deployed in his speech To the Apameians on Concord (41.9) and in the Second Tarsic Oration (34.20). On medical metaphors in (political/deliberative) oratory, see Wooten 1979, 157–160 and Plastow 2019, 575–595; on the use of medicine as a model of politics in Greek historiography, see Jouanna 2005, 17–24; on the “body politic” (metaphors in particular) see Brock 2013, 69–82; on stasis in medical treatises and Greek political thought, see Serafim 2020, 673–695.

  Christos Kremmydas of Dio’s task also lies in the fact that deep-rooted enmity between Nicomedia and Nicaea makes the mere notion of concord between them impossible, hence his initial hesitation in even naming it (6).47 His presentation will proceed from the purely epideictic part where the virtues of concord are being extolled to the more practical where the benefits to the community(-ies) will be analyzed. This combination of theoretical and practical considerations, an enkōmion and practical political advice, makes the best of Dio’s qualities as a respected advisor to both cities: his exposition moves from the divine place and philosophy to political theory and practical politics, from diagnosis to prognosis and treatment. His enkōmion to homonoia (10–20) combines the cosmic and divine plane with the human level of kinship and community. The Stoic idea of unity in the universe is key to understanding his argument in the rest of this speech and appears in other civic orations, too. 48 In fact, his analogical reasoning proceeds from the proposition that the nature of concord is universal and that therefore, if homonoia is universally beneficial (8), then it will be shown that it is not only beneficial but also indispensable to Nicaea and Nicomedia, too. Homonoia, he says, brings together different beneficial elements for individuals, family members and citizens of the community. It is the make or break of the greatest things, and an (almost) divine state of being (11): 38.11: εἴτε γὰρ ὑπὲρ γενέσεως αὐτῆς πολυπραγμονεῖν ἐθέλοι τις, ἀνάγκη τὴν ἀρχὴν αὐτὴν ἐπανάγειν ἐπὶ τὰ μέγιστα τῶν θείων πραγμάτων. ἡ γὰρ αὐτὴ καὶ φιλία ἐστὶ καὶ καταλλαγὴ καὶ συγγένεια, καὶ ταῦτα πάντα περιείληφεν. καὶ τὰ στοιχεῖα δὲ τί ἄλλο ἢ ὁμόνοια ἑνοῖ; καὶ δι’ οὗ σῴζεται πάντα τὰ μέγιστα τοῦτό ἐστι, καὶ δι’ οὗ πάντα ἀπόλλυται τοὐναντίον… ᾧ δὲ μόνῳ τῆς εὐδαιμονίας ἀπολειπόμεθα τῆς θείας καὶ τῆς ἀφθάρτου διαμονῆς ἐκείνων, τοῦτό ἐστιν, ὅτι μὴ πάντες ὁμονοίας αἰσθανόμεθα… For example, if a man should wish to delve into its origin, he must trace its very beginning to the greatest of divine things. For the same manifestation is both friendship and reconciliation and kinship and it embraces all these. Furthermore, what but concord unites the elements? Again, that through which all the greatest things are preserved is concord, while that through which everything is destroyed is its opposite… However, the only respect in

 47 One should consider whether what Dio says in the introduction to his speech echoes what really happened on the day of the speech, or whether this might be part of Dio’s “staging” to make the speech come across as more dramatic and himself as an example of parrhēsia. The combined use of the topos of the speaker’s hesitance to broach a topic alongside the topical allusion to the possible thorybos that might rise from the audience as a reaction to the broaching of an unpalatable topic strong suggest that the latter option is very likely. 48 For the influence of Stoic ideas see Richter 2011, 55–86.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

which we fall short of the blessedness of the gods and of their indestructible permanence is this- that we are not all sensitive to concord…

The terms he uses reflect the range of relationships that result from homonoia in the Greek cities and the wider province of Asia at the time: φιλία, καταλλαγή and συγγένεια. And although it could be argued that these terms have slightly different contours that might reflect diverse circumstance in different cities, Dio seems to suggest that all these take place together as long as homonoia prevails: people become friends from enemies and realise their kinship. It is also clear that he tries to argue for the Stoic notion of the cosmic (τὰ στοιχεῖα τὶ ἄλλο ἢ ὁμόνοια ἑνοῖ…) and divine origins of homonoia, before proceeding to its salvific effects (δι’ οὗ σῴζεται πάντα τὰ μέγιστα).49 The links he draws to the divine plane look forward to the conclusion of the speech where he invokes the help of the gods and expresses the confidence in their help (38.51). The notion of the unity of the elements in this speech gives an important insight into how Stoic influences on Dio’s thought affected his political advice-giving in various cities that had varying experiences with strife and discord. It also looks forward to his speech On Concord with the Apameians (delivered in Prusa, his own native city) where he expands further on the harmonious relationship between the cosmic and divine elements, but also in the animal kingdom (35–41): 40.35–36: πρὸς δὲ αὖ τῶν λεγομένων στοιχείων, ἀέρος καὶ γῆς καὶ ὕδατος καὶ πυρός, τὴν ἀσφαλῆ καὶ δικαίαν δι᾽ αἰῶνος ἁρμονίαν, μεθ᾽ ὅσης εὐγνωμοσύνης καὶ μετριότητος διαμένειν πέφυκεν αὐτά τε σῳζόμενα καὶ σῴζοντα τὸν ἅπαντα κόσμον; [36] σκοπεῖτε γάρ, εἰ καί τισι δόξει μετέωρος ὁ λόγος καὶ οὐ πάνυ τι ὑμῖν συμπαθής, ὅτι ταῦτα πεφυκότα ἄφθαρτα καὶ θεῖα καὶ τοῦ πρώτου καὶ μεγίστου γνώμῃ καὶ δυνάμει κυβερνώμενα θεοῦ τὸν ἅπαντα χρόνον ἐκ τῆς πρὸς ἄλληλα φιλίας καὶ ὁμονοίας σῴζεσθαι φιλεῖ, τά τε ἰσχυρότερα καὶ μείζω καὶ τὰ ἐλάττω δὴ δοκοῦντα. Furthermore, do you not see also the stable, righteous, everlasting concord of the elements, as they are called — air and earth and water and fire — with what reasonableness and moderation it is their nature to continue, not only to be preserved themselves, but also to preserve the entire universe? [36] For even if the doctrine will seem to some an airy fancy and one possessing no affinity at all with yourselves, you should observe that these things, being by nature indestructible and divine and regulated by the purpose and power of the first

 49 The metaphor of “breathing together” represents strength and unity of purpose. The substantive σύμπνοια occurs in Chrysippus 2.172; on the importance of pneuma to Stoic philosophy, see Richter 2011, 69–73.

  Christos Kremmydas and greatest god, are wont to be preserved as a result of their mutual friendship and concord for ever, not only the more powerful and greater, but also those reputed to be the weaker. 50

At the end of this extended passage that is part of his analogical reasoning he moves from the cosmic, the divine level and the animal kingdom to the realm of humans in order to decry their inability to live together in harmony (42). Alas, we cannot follow the development of his argument any further as the speech breaks off. However, it is likely to have proceeded in a way similar to what we see in the speech to the Nicomedians, which we discussed a little earlier. It is obvious that Stoic ideas about the unity of the elements in the universe of which a polis and its citizens are an indispensable part to the advice that Dio has to offer the cities he addresses. However, Dio himself anticipates possible criticisms of his reference to Stoic ideas regarding concord between the elements (36). And while it is true that Stoic philosophy might appear out of place in the context of a political debate in an Assembly, one might think of three possible reasons why Dio adopts a Stoic perspective in his argumentation about homonoia in his civic orations: a) an injection of philosophical ideas current at the time might have strengthened his argument about the necessity of homonoia and the intrinsic connection between the divine and the human plane; b) it might relate to the projection of his self-image as an engaged philosopher-rhetor in the years after his return from self-imposed exile; c) it might be a response to local debates about or local appetite for Stoic ideas in the communities of Asia Minor that he addressed. 51 Whilst the theme of homonoia among the elements features in these two civic speeches, the link between homonoia on the divine and the human plane is also picked up in his oration On Homonoia in Nicaea upon the Cessation of Civil Strife (or. 39) . The speech is more explicitly epideictic and has little by way of political advice, presumably because this is an occasion to celebrate the achievement of homonoia. Once again, Dio sings the praises of homonoia, whilst also giving credit to the citizens of Nicaea for being united at last (3). He appeals to their strong civic identity and their (claimed) connections to heroes and gods as founders of their city (1–2). Their divine ancestors are said to wish the prosperity, happiness and good order of the city (2). Dio even suggests towards the end of the speech that the gods listen to (sc. the prayers of) those who live in concord, whereas  50 On the Stoic ideas about unity of the elements, see Richter 2011, 55–86. 51 One should note that there might have been varying degrees of enthusiasm for specific philosophical trends in the different poleis he is addressing. E.g. at 34.2–3 suggests that the Tarsians were familiar with Cynic ideas, although there was mistrust against philosophers on account of some recent conflict between the people of Tarsus and local Tarsian philosophers.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

those who experience strife cannot even listen to each other. This creates an interesting contrast between the quiet of prayer (that reflects a state of homonoia in the city) and the chaotic din of a divided city facing strife. The depressing, noisy division of a community was illustrated by the divisions in the stadium of Alexandria in the Alexandrian oration (or. 32) but is also portrayed in the Second Tarsic oration. At Tarsus, the discord that Dio seeks to quell was even affecting two key bodies of government, the Boulē and the Assembly that were being riven by divisions: 34.20: ἐπεί τοι μηδὲ τὴν βουλὴν αὐτὴν ἡγεῖσθ᾽ ὁμονοεῖν μηδ᾽ ὑμᾶς τὸν δῆμον. εἰ γοῦν τις ἐπεξίοι πάντας, δοκεῖ μοι μηδ᾽ ἂν δύο ἄνδρας εὑρεῖν ἐν τῇ πόλει τὸ αὐτὸ φρονοῦντας,... οὕτως ἡ τραχύτης αὕτη καὶ τὸ μικροῦ δεῖν ἅπαντας ἀλλήλων ἀπεστράφθαι διαπεφοίτηκε τῆς πόλεως. For you must not think that there is harmony in the Council itself, nor yet among yourselves, the Assembly. If one were to run through the entire list of citizens, I believe he would not discover even two men in Tarsus who think alike,… so this state of discord, this almost complete estrangement of one from the other has invaded your entire body politic.

The rift in the Boulē and the Assembly was a reflection of pervasive and longstanding divisions in the polis as a whole that had not left its bodies of governance unaffected. Dio’s disease metaphor is deployed once again to denote the severity of their condition and, consequently, the need for healing that only homonoia can bring about. Once Dio has stressed the direct link between homonoia on the divine plane and among humans, he moves to the notion of expediency, a key consideration of deliberative speeches that is likely to strike a chord in the hearts of his audience: humanity can reap the divine rewards of concord (note 7: “abundance of riches, size of population, honours, fame, and power…”).52 When a city experiences concord it benefits from the sum of all eyes, ears, minds, and tongues of its citizens (39.5). The brief reference to practical benefits is not developed further but assumes the audience’s familiarity with it. Dio’s conceptualization of homonoia depicts a cosmic, universal, all-encompassing and all-unifying force that unites the kosmos, the gods and humans. And whilst this might appear to be merely part of Dio’s epideictic philosophizing, it does seek to bring his Stoic perspective to bear on the very real problem of divisions between individual communities. He seeks to persuade individual citizens

 52 Note, however, that earlier in the speech (5) he had claimed that even some of the potential advantages of life in the city, such as multitude of men, can turn to disadvantage due to strife).

  Christos Kremmydas in the poleis he is addressing that they are part of larger unity of elements and, therefore, they too ought to display that unity in order to reap the benefits that emanate from it. His rhetoric of homonoia is flexible and adaptable to the local needs and circumstances of the communities he is addressing.

 Causes of strife As part of the case he makes for homonoia, Dio also portrays the destructive effects of stasis and eris, the polar opposites of homonoia, on the communities and seeks to shed light on their causes. He thus shifts from epideictic to a more symbouleutic mode that appears to be suited to the assemblies where he delivered his orations. Dio identifies a range of different causes of stasis between the cities that stem from deeply-rooted human vices and are due to failures of leadership. In the case of the rival cities of Nicomedia and Nicaea, as mentioned above, the cause of discord was the question of primacy, which, according do Dio, was not really worth fighting over (ὑπὲρ πρωτείων ἀγωνιζόμεθα: 24 ff.). He argues that it is all about an empty title: it does not confer any practical benefits on its recipients as it does not upset the status quo, whereby Nicaea was the recipient of tribute from the whole of Bithynia (26). Therefore, Dio suggests, this is no more than a school-yard quarrel: 38.21: εἰ δὲ μάλιστα μὲν οὐδέν ἐστι τὸ ἆθλον τούτου τοῦ κακοῦ, τὰ δὲ δοκοῦντα εἶναι καὶ μικρά ἐστι καὶ φαῦλα καὶ οὐδ᾿ ἰδιώτας ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν στασιάζειν ἄξιόν ἐστιν, οὐχ ὅπως πόλεις τηλικαύτας, μὴ πάσχωμεν ὅμοιόν τι τοῖς ἄφροσι τῶν παίδων, οἵτινες αἰδούμενοι μὴ δοκῶσι μάτην ὀργίζεσθαι τοῖς πατράσιν ἢ ταῖς μητράσιν οὐ βούλονται καταλλάττεσθαι ῥᾳδίως. …If at best the prize for which this evil is endured is a mere nothing and the supposed issues are both small and trifling and it is not fitting even for private persons to squabble over them, much less cities of such importance, then let us not behave at all like foolish children who, ashamed lest they may seem to their fathers or their mothers to be enraged without a cause, do not wish to make it up with one another lightly.

This is going after “empty glory” and, therefore, is foolish (τὸ κενοδοξεῖν ἀνόητον). At Tarsus, a symptom of strife was the fact that the bodies of government (Boulē and Assembly) in the city were in conflict with each other. There had also been a history of hostility between the people of Tasus and the local general (15). Although Dio does admit that relations in both cases had been restored, he suggests that this might only be a short-term solution, since the underlying problem

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

was not being addressed: pursuit of self-interest (ἰδίᾳ τὸ συμφέρον ἑκάστων... σκοπούντων: 16). 34.16: οὐ χθὲς καὶ πρῴην χωρὶς ἦν ὁ δῆμος καὶ χωρὶς ἡ βουλὴ καὶ νῦν ἔτι καθ᾿ αὑτοὺς οἱ γέροντες, ἰδίᾳ τὸ συμφέρον ἑκάστων δῆλον ὅτι σκοπούντων; Is it not true that but a day or two ago the Assembly took one course and the Council another and that the Elders still maintain a position of independence, each body clearly consulting its own self-interest?

He avers that (17) lasting homonoia will not have been achieved until the period of homonoia is as long-lasting as the period of strife that has plagued the city. In Dio’s view, this discord exemplifies deeper-seeted division in the community (20) that results from a range of deeply-rooted vices such as “envy, greed, contentiousness, the striving in each case to promote one’s own welfare at the expense of both one’s native land and the common weal.” Greed (pleonexia) is also identified as a cause of strife in his speech to the Apameans (or. 40). It is clear that greed does not only infiltrate interpersonal relationships but also relationships between cities: 40.37: ἡ δὲ τῶν ἄλλων πλεονεξία καὶ διαφορὰ παρανόμως γιγνομένη τὸν ἔσχατον ἔχει κίνδυνον ὀλέθρου... …the greed and strife of all else, manifesting itself in violation of law, contains the utmost risk of ruin. 53

According to Dio, greed does not simply play out in a vacuum. The pursuit of material gain takes place at the expense of others and in breach of the legal framework in place. Greed is accompanied by illegality and, therefore, entails the risk of ruin. Ultimately, he says, their strife-causing greed does not lead to any material benefits for them but, instead, enhances the power of their Roman masters (38.36).54 A third reason for the occurrence of stasis and eris can be identified in the poor quality of leadership in the city. Those who address the assembly but prefer to flatter rather than to upbraid their audiences (33.14, 23–24) are particularly to blame. As Dio points out in the Second Tarsic oration “incompetent men take over the government” (34.29), whilst ignorance of what is to the interest of the cities is

 53 Cf. 38.31. 54 Salmeri 2000, 54 notes that tax revenues from the cities of Asia Minor (the province of Asia in particular) made a significant contribution to the Imperial coffers.

  Christos Kremmydas ultimately a failure of leadership. However, once again, there are deeper, systemic problems in the way in which individual leaders are being promoted, whilst the very criteria determining who can address the assembly are erroneous (e.g. performance of liturgies: 34.31). And it is not just politicians who are not up to the task of educating and leading the people; philosophers are also to blame on occasion, as he alleges in his Alexandrian Oration: 32.8: ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον παρὰ τοὺς καλουμένους φιλοσόφους. οἱ μὲν γὰρ αὐτῶν ὅλως εἰς πλῆθος οὐκ ἴασιν οὐδὲ θέλουσι διακινδυνεύειν, ἀπεγνωκότες ἴσως τὸ βελτίους ἂν ποιῆσαι τοὺς πολλούς· οἱ δ᾿ ἐν τοῖς καλουμένοις ἀκροατηρίοις φωνασκοῦσιν… The fault may lie rather at the door of those who wear the name of philosopher. For some among that company do not appear in public at all and prefer not to make the venture, possibly because they despair of being able to improve the masses; others exercise their voices in what we call lecture-halls…

The philosophers are also to blame for the state of affairs between cities and within the cities. They don’t demonstrate the necessary parrhēsia in their relationship with the people, they don’t rebuke or instruct them. 55 And in some cases, as Dio alleges in his Second Tarsic oration, philosophers actively band together to harm the city’s interests (34.4). Dio, obviously and as is to be expected, fails to provide details on specific leaders he has in mind; his admonition could well be a-chronic/pan-chronic. Most of them shirk from their responsibilities towards the public and don’t demonstrate parrhēsia (frankness) required in their relationship with the people. They don’t rebuke or instruct them. And in some cases, as Dio alleges in his Second Tarsic oration, philosophers actively band together to harm the city’s interests (34.3). All these causes of strife relate to individual citizens and their leaders but affect whole communities. Dio as an experienced physician urges his audiences to implement the remedies he is putting forward in order to eliminate strife and foster homonoia within and between their communities.

 Dio’s suggested remedies Dio is aware that dealing with discord in the community or in a community’s relationships with other communities is a hard task especially when such discord  55 The reference to the politicians and orators’ lack of parrhēsia is a well-known rhetorical topos; cf. 32.11, 33.14; see also n. 37.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

has been long-standing (41.9). However, he still recommends various remedies that are consistent with his diagnosis of the causes of strife and bring together Stoic ideas with a practical concern for expediency. He thus combines philosophical with political themes. But although there are certain overlaps between his suggested remedies, it is clear that he adapts them to the needs of the different communities he addresses. His advice to the Tarsians reflects Dio’s Stoic perspective and his concern for the unity of the divine with the human realm. Since the gods disapprove of disunity and only confer blessings upon those whose relations are harmonious, he suggests that the Tarsians should pray (μεγάλης τινὸς τοῦτο δεῖται θεραπείας, μᾶλλον δὲ εὐχῆς) and each of them should dispose of their self-serving vices: 34.19: οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἄλλως ἢ τῶν κινούντων κακῶν καὶ ταρασσόντων ἀπολυθέντας, φθόνου, πλεονεξίας, φιλονεικίας, τοῦ ζητεῖν ἕκαστον αὔξειν ἑαυτόν, καὶ τὴν πατρίδα καὶ τὸ κοινῇ συμφέρον ἐάσαντα, συμπνεῦσαί ποτε ἰσχυρῶς καὶ ταὐτὰ προελέσθαι. For only by getting rid of vices that excite and disturb men the vices of envy, greed, contentiousness, the striving in each case to promote one’s own welfare at the expense of both one’s native land and the common weal — only so, I repeat, is it possible ever to breathe the breath of harmony in full strength and vigour and to unite upon a common policy.

The use of the infinitive συμπνεῦσαι here is not only a powerful metaphor that looks forward to the use of another metaphor about the contrary winds at sea in the very next sentence (“as happens at sea when contrary winds prevail”); it is also a striking echo of Stoic philosophy, that is adapted to Dio’s need to advise the Tarsians. The use of the preposition σὺν along with πνεῦμα denotes the bringing together of the elements that had until now been at war with each other (the addition of ἰσχυρῶς, “in full strength” makes his statement more emphatic). However the individual elements are now replaced by the notion of πνεῦμα, which, according to Stoic philosophy, pervades all matter animate as well as inanimate.56 The gods can clearly be part of the solution, but only if the citizens themselves entrust their case to them and communicate their desire through prayer. Since the vices causing strife are deeply rooted within individual members of the community, willingness to uproot them is their individual responsibility. Prayer is a part of the most effective solution to their problems as it has a unifying potential: it reaches out to the gods and seeks to unite the human and the divine

 56 Richter 2011, 72.

  Christos Kremmydas realms. One could even say that common prayer as part of religious community ritual is a reflection of the hoped-for unity of the community. That same remedy is also suggested by Dio in the conclusion to his speech On Concord in Nicaea upon Cessation of Civil Strife (or. 39), where an interesting parallel between discord in the family and discord in the community is provided. Dio himself is praying on behalf of the Nicaeans: 39.8: εὔχομαι δὴ τῷ τε Διονύσῳ τῷ προπάτορι τῆσδε τῆς πόλεως καὶ Ἡρακλεῖ τῷ κτίσαντι τήνδε τὴν πόλιν καὶ Διὶ Πολιεῖ καὶ Ἀθηνᾷ καὶ Ἀφροδίτῃ Φιλίᾳ καὶ Ὁμονοίᾳ καὶ Νεμέσει καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις θεοῖς ἀπὸ τῆσδε τῆς ἡμέρας τῇδε τῇ πόλει πόθον ἑαυτῆς ἐμβαλεῖν καὶ ἔρωτα καὶ μίαν γνώμην καὶ ταὐτὰ βούλεσθαι καὶ φρονεῖν, στάσιν δὲ καὶ ἔριδα καὶ φιλονικίαν ἐκβαλεῖν, ὡς ἂν ἐν ταῖς εὐδαιμονεστάταις καὶ ἀρίσταις ᾖ πόλεσι τὸ λοιπόν. Accordingly I pray to Dionysus the progenitor of this city, to Heracles its founder, to Zeus Guardian of Cities, to Athena, to Aphrodite Fosterer of Friendship, to Harmony, and Nemesis, and all the other gods, that from this day forth they may implant in this city a yearning for itself, a passionate love, a singleness of purpose, a unity of wish and thought; and, on the other hand, that they may cast out strife and contentiousness and jealousy, so that this city may be numbered among the most prosperous and the noblest for all time to come.

Dio’s prayer to gods that have a close relationship to the city echoes his statement early in the speech where he cited “founders, kinsmen and progenitors who are gods” (39.2), whose desire is for the city to possess virtues such as sophrosynē and aretē. 57 But here the link between the divine and the human is made even clearer as the gods named had been involved in the very beginnings of the city (as founders-ktistai or progenitors-propatores) or have a key role in protecting the city and preserving virtues that will guarantee the city’s long term well-being (Zeus Polieus, Aphrodite Philia, Homonoia and Nemesis). Another remedy that Dio offers the people of Tarsus is that they should suppress their anger, forgive, not take revenge on their Mallians neighbours, and even “go the extra mile” by conceding any of the latter’s requests that might be within reason: 34.43: … τὴν ὀργὴν καταβαλόντες καὶ τὴν τιμωρίαν, ἣν ἐνομίζετε ὀφείλεσθαι ὑμῖν, αὐτοῖς χαρισάμενοι, περὶ τοῦ πράγματος διακρίθητε τοῦ περὶ τῆς χώρας, τὸ φέρειν τὰ τοιαῦτα καὶ μὴ φιλονεικεῖν, τοῦθ᾿, ὥσπερ ἐστίν, ἡγησάμενοι μέγα καὶ τῷ παντὶ κρειττόνων ἀνδρῶν, ἄλλως τε πρὸς τοσούτῳ καταδεεστέρους.

 57 Nicaea’s mythical origins go back to Dionysus’ liaison with the nymph Nicaea, while Heracles features in the city’s mythical “pre-history”, as attested by first-century local coinage, and Theseus was also claimed by the city (against competing claims by Smyrna); see Marek 2016, 475.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

…lay aside your anger, graciously forgive them the revenge that you thought to be your due and come to terms regarding your boundary dispute, believing that to endure such treatment and not to court a quarrel is a great achievement and one befitting men who are altogether superior, especially in relation to men so vastly inferior.

But this attitude of “going the extra mile” should also be exemplified, according to Dio, in their adoption of a proactive attitude that would promote philia and homonoia (34.45). Instead of seeking to win over their competitors (he recalls the reference to τὰ πρωτεία in or. 38) they should now engage in a contest of friendship and concord. They should seek to surpass each other in terms of promoting positive values. Similarly, in the speech to the Nicomedians on Concord with the Nicaeans he advises that they should strive for primacy in terms of their solicitude for others (ἐκ τῆς ἐπιμελείας τῆς περὶ αὐτάς). In a similar vein, he advises the citizens of Nicomedia that they should excel in terms of doing good and demonstrating their virtues of fairness and moderation and refraining from violence (38.31). This would represent a remarkable reversal of their strife for primacy and the promotion of each individual city’s benefit that he described as a vice elsewhere in this and in other speeches. As part of the remedies he puts forward, Dio shows awareness of the political realities of Roman sovereignty and suggests that the Nicomedians should bear in mind the role of the Roman governor. They should not alienate him but model ethical leadership in practice by offering help to those in need and being aggrieved at the wrongs suffered by others (38.33). And if the Nicaeans adopt a similarly ethical conduct towards neighbouring cities, then the Romans will be less likely to commit any wrong-doing against them. This practical tone is replicated in 40.25 (In his Native City on Concord with Apameia) where he urges his fellow Prusans not only to end any existing enmities (τὰς πρότερον οὖσας... sc. ἔχθρας) but also to avoid engaging in new ones, unless they are absolutely necessary (μήτε ἀναιρεῖσθαι ῥᾳδίως ἔχθραν μὴ σφόδρα ἀναγκαίαν). Dio’s suggested remedies combine ethical principles inspired by Stoic philosophy with religious practices and practical political considerations, all of which help realise the homonoia among all the elements, cosmic, divine and human.

 Conclusion Homonoia, a diachronically powerful concept in the Greek world, was longed-for, praised, worshiped (in the cult of Homonoia) and manipulated for political ends. Among Greek communities of Asia Minor at the time of the Principate, as in the

  Christos Kremmydas Classical and Hellenistic periods, the rhetoric of homonoia continued to be used as a means of defusing tensions and of uniting them. But homonoia was not just an ideal for internal consumption appealing to cities often riven by faction; it was also relevant to supra-local networks of Greek communities. And just as the cult of Homonoia, the rhetoric of homonoia, too, could ultimately promote the interests of the Romans and their local governors, while maintaining a semblance of Hellenic, regional unity between communities with which Hellenic paideia and age-old political slogans still resonated. Homonoia was clearly a key concern for Dio of Prusa, an engaged citizen and prominent philosopher active in the Roman East and beyond. His exposition of the evils that beset interpersonal relationships and communities due to eris and stasis, but also of the benefits that homonoia can bestow, are not mere epideixeis that help promote his rhetorical and philosophical reputation. And whilst there are epideictic elements in his orations, these are most often accompanied by symbouleutic elements which reflect his familiarity with the political and even economic circumstances of the different communities he addressed and are adapted to suit them. Thus Dio’s rhetoric of homonoia echoes not only his genuine concern for the future well-being of numerous Greek communities he associated himself with but also reflects contemporary ideological and political tensions felt by Greek communities in the context of the Roman Empire towards the end of the first century AD. The personal and political networks he was part of drive his pursuit of homonoia with zeal, determination and parrhēsia. There is no doubt that he is familiar with the politics on the ground in Asia Minor and even has political objectives in mind which cannot be realized unless homonoia can be restored and established long-term within and among the Greek communities. But Dio is clearly also inspired by his philosophical commitment to the Stoic ideas of universal unity of all elements and, by consequence, of all humans. This concept of unity that Dio promotes through his civic orations was thus unlike the idea of Panhellenism, which had clear ethnic, cultural and political implications and had undergirded the rhetorical manipulation of homonoia as a political slogan since the Classical period. This is a more universal type of unity that brings together ethical, religious and political considerations and whose benefits will be felt by the communities and even by their Roman overlords. This is the homonoia for which Dio is a zealous preacher and a tireless ambassador.

The Rhetoric of Homonoia in Dio Chrysostom’s Civic Orations  

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Marco Romani Mistretta

Finding Unity through Knowledge: Narrative and Identity-Building in Greek Technical Prose The idea that ancient technical prose is by no means devoid of rhetorical ambition is by now a well-established fact: 1 indeed, it was already known to the ancients themselves. 2 However, the question of how the rhetoric of identification is employed by technical authors still remains open. In this chapter, I shall address the rhetoric of unity and identity in Greek technical writings, focusing on two different knowledge traditions as case-studies: respectively, medical writings and treatises on military engineering. In particular, I shall examine two major texts as case-studies of each knowledge tradition: respectively, the Hippocratic treatise On Ancient Medicine and Philo of Byzantium’s Belopoeica. I shall argue that, in both contexts, technical authors use cultural-historical narratives for identitybuilding purposes. In his Thoughts on Technology, 3 José Ortega y Gasset addresses the question whether human progress, specifically in the technological domain, may be conceptualized as a continuous series of inventions. Technology, for Ortega, can be defined as any procedure that allows humans, within certain limits, to obtain with certainty something they need but does not also exist in nature at a given time and place (such as fire). This procedure often coincides with the invention, or creation, of tools whose workings reach the desired goal of modifying nature (such as fire strikers), so as to give rise to a second, “heightened” nature (sobrenaturaleza). There is no man, in Ortega’s view, without technology. In what follows, I shall explore the ways in which ancient technical and scientific authors describe the cultural history of their disciplines as overlapping with the history of human progress and highlight the role played by unified communities of experts. The Hippocratic treatise On Ancient Medicine (De vetere medicina, henceforth VM), probably written towards the end of the fifth century BCE, is a methodologically and epistemologically rich component of the Hippocratic corpus. At the outset of the treatise, the unknown author polemically rejects the idea that the

 1 See, for instance, Roby 2016; Berryman 2009; Schneider 1989. 2 Cf. for instance Aristotle, Rhetoric 1.2.1–3.1355b25–34. 3 Ortega y Gasset 1972 (1939). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-015

  Marco Romani Mistretta medical science ought to be based on hypotheses (ὑποθέσεις). Rather, according to him, medicine does not need any theoretical foundation made anew, since the medical discipline already possesses the status of a craft (τέχνη), defined by a well-tested method. [Hippocrates], On Ancient Medicine 1.1–2 ὁκόσοι μὲν ἐπεχείρησαν περὶ ἰητρικῆς λέγειν ἢ γράφειν ὑπόθεσιν αὐτοὶ ἑωυτοῖσιν ὑποθέμενοι τῷ λόγῳ θερμὸν ἢ ψυχρὸν ἢ ὑγρὸν ἢ ξηρὸν ἢ ἄλλ’ ὅ τι ἂν ἐθέλωσιν, ἐς βραχὺ ἄγοντες τὴν ἀρχὴν τῆς αἰτίης τοῖσιν ἀνθρώποισι τῶν νούσων τε καὶ τοῦ θανάτου καὶ πᾶσι τὴν αὐτὴν ἓν ἢ δύο ὑποθέμενοι, ἐν πολλοῖσι μὲν καὶ οἷσι λέγουσι καταφανεῖς εἰσιν ἁμαρτάνοντες· μάλιστα δὲ ἄξιον μέμψασθαι, ὅτι ἀμφὶ τέχνης ἐούσης ᾗ χρέονταί τε πάντες ἐπὶ τοῖσι μεγίστοισι καὶ τιμῶσι μάλιστα τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς χειροτέχνας καὶ δημιουργούς. εἰσὶ δὲ δημιουργοὶ, οἱ μὲν φλαῦροι, οἱ δὲ πολλὸν διαφέροντες· ὅπερ, εἰ μὴ ἦν ἰητρικὴ ὅλως μηδ’ ἐν αὐτῇ ἔσκεπτο μηδ’ εὕροιτο μηδὲν, οὐκ ἂν ἦν… All those who have undertaken to speak or write about medicine, having laid down as a hypothesis for their account hot or cold or wet or dry or anything else they want, narrowing down the primary cause of diseases and death for human beings and laying down the same one or two things as the cause in all cases, clearly go wrong in much that they say. But they are especially worthy of blame because their errors concern an art that really exists, one which all people make use of in the most important circumstances and whose good craftsmen and practitioners all hold in special honour. Some practitioners are bad, while others are much better. This would not be the case if medicine did not exist at all and if nothing had been examined or discovered in it… (transl. Schiefsky 2005)

According to this author, newly devised hypotheses are to be rejected, whereas the genuine status of medicine as a fully fledged τέχνη is readily guaranteed by differences in competence among practitioners: a distinction between true, expert physicians and illegitimate “quacks” is thereby established. This is also hinted at, in the passage quoted above, by the use of the technical term χειροτέχνης — which in the Hippocratic corpus denotes a medical practitioner endowed with both theoretical knowledge and practical skills — in the context of a statement emphasizing the utility of medicine for “all people … in the most important circumstances” (πάντες ἐπὶ τοῖσι μεγίστοισι). The author is thus addressing both specialized physicians, whose sense of unity he reinforces in the face of external threats, and laypeople whom he introduces to the principles and methods of legitimate medicine. Let us examine the rhetorical strategy used by the author to reinforce a sense of unity within his intended audience. For him, the very possibility of medical inquiry and practice is granted by a deep awareness of medicine’s first beginnings and progressive development over

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

time. Hence the need, at the outset of the treatise, for a detailed narrative concerning the origin and rise of the medical art itself. 4 According to the writer, the history of medicine is an uninterrupted history of research and discoveries that cause the advancement of human knowledge concerning human nature and the origin of diseases. The author ascribes the birth of the medical discipline to necessity: need drives discovery. Human progress, especially in the domain of medicine, proceeds by trial-and-error, thanks to the driving forces of competition, greed and pleasure. According to the writer, an essentially diachronic character is inherent to humanity’s relationship with medical knowledge. Not only does medicine progress over time, but in the future it will make all the discoveries still left to be made. [Hippocrates], On Ancient Medicine 2.1 ἰητρικῇ δὲ πάλαι πάντα ὑπάρχει, καὶ ἀρχὴ καὶ ὁδὸς εὑρημένη, καθ’ ἣν καὶ τὰ εὑρημένα πολλά τε καὶ καλῶς ἔχοντα εὕρηται ἐν πολλῷ χρόνῳ, καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ εὑρεθήσεται, ἤν τις ἱκανός τε ἐὼν καὶ τὰ εὑρημένα εἰδὼς, ἐκ τουτέων ὁρμώμενος ζητέῃ. But medicine has long since had everything it needs, both a principle and a discovered method, by which many admirable discoveries have been made over a long period of time and those that remain will be discovered, if one who is adequate to the task and knows what has been discovered sets out from these things in his investigation. (transl. Schiefsky 2005)

The author’s aetiological history of medicine is primarily aimed at proving a scientific point, namely that the long-standing method used by ancient doctors guarantees the legitimacy of the medical art as a craft (τέχνη) in the present and will keep doing so in the future. Medicine will complete its series of discoveries, provided that “someone adequate to the task” (τις ἱκανός τε ἐών): the indefinite makes it clear that the virtuous path is effectively open to anyone, as long as they apply the correct medical method outlined in the treatise. The author thereby involves the reader in the discovery enterprise, implicitly appealing to the practitioners’ unity granted by the method itself — a unified group of which the audience is here summoned to become part. For the author of VM, medicine did not always exist, but was discovered at a certain point in time through the empirical consideration of the fact that solid food does not benefit healthy and sick people alike.

 4 For a more detailed discussion of the narrative features of VM, see Romani Mistretta 2016.

  Marco Romani Mistretta [Hippocrates], On Ancient Medicine 3.5–6 ἐκ μὲν οὖν τῶν πυρῶν βρέξαντές σφας καὶ πτίσαντες καὶ καταλέσαντές τε καὶ διασήσαντες καὶ φορύξαντες καὶ ὀπτήσαντες ἀπετέλεσαν μὲν ἄρτον, ἐκ δὲ τῶν κριθέων μᾶζαν· ἄλλα τε συχνὰ περὶ ταύτην πρηγματευσάμενοι, ἥψησάν τε καὶ ὤπτησαν καὶ ἔμιξαν καὶ ἐκέρασαν τὰ ἰσχυρά τε καὶ ἄκρητα τοῖσιν ἀσθενεστέροισι, πλάσσοντες πάντα πρὸς τὴν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου φύσιν τε καὶ δύναμιν, ἡγεύμενοι ὡς, ἃ μὲν ἂν ἰσχυρότερα ᾖ, οὐ δυνήσεται κρατεῖν ἡ φύσις ἢν ἐσφέρηται, ἀπὸ τούτων τε αὐτῶν πόνους τε καὶ νούσους καὶ θανάτους ἔσεσθαι, ὁπόσων δ’ ἂν δύνηται ἐπικρατεῖν, ἀπὸ τούτων τροφήν τε καὶ αὔξησιν καὶ ὑγίειαν. τῷ δ’ εὑρήματι τούτῳ καὶ ζητήματι τί ἄν τις ὄνομα δικαιότερον ἢ προσῆκον μᾶλλον θείη ἢ ἰητρικήν, ὅ τι γε εὕρηται ἐπὶ τῇ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ὑγιείῃ τε καὶ σωτηρίῃ καὶ τροφῇ, ἄλλαγμα κείνης τῆς διαίτης ἐξ ἧς οἱ πόνοι καὶ νοῦσοι καὶ θάνατοι ἐγίνοντο; From wheat, by moistening, winnowing, grinding, sifting, kneading, and baking it they made bread, and from barley they made barley cake. And performing many other operations to prepare this nourishment, they boiled and baked and mixed and blended the strong and unblended things with the weaker, molding everything to the constitution and power of the human being; for they considered that if foods that are too strong are ingested, the human constitution will be unable to overcome them, and from these foods themselves will come suffering, diseases, and death, while from all those foods that the human constitution can overcome will come nourishment, growth, and health. To this discovery and search what more just or fitting name could one give than medicine, since it was discovered for the sake of the health, preservation, and nourishment of the human being, in place of that regimen which led to suffering, diseases, and death? (transl. Schiefsky 2005)

The technical status of the medical art is confirmed by its having a name and a well-defined group of professionals. It is significant, in this regard, that the author never mentions the names of any great doctors of old (either historical or mythological), 5 but keeps referring to a group of anonymous physicians. Thus, alongside the diachronic continuity of the art granted by the use of an empirical method, the author emphasizes the synchronic unity of medicine, made possible by the very existence, at any given time in the discipline’s history, of a well-established group of practitioners who subscribe to the same method. All medical τεχνίται, in fact, share a commitment to engender new scientific findings, conceived of as the outcome of painstaking research and investigation. 6

 5 Contrast, for instance, the cultural history of medicine outlined at the outset of the pseudoGalenic treatise Introduction or The Doctor (Petit 2009). 6 This is confirmed by the fact that, within the Hippocratic corpus, VM displays a uniquely high occurrence rate of lexical items denoting research (ζητεῖν, ζήτημα etc.) and discovery (εὑρίσκειν, εὕρημα etc.): see Jouanna 1990, 38.

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

[Hippocrates], On Ancient Medicine 5.1–5 σκεψώμεθα δὲ καὶ τὴν ὁμολογουμένως ἰητρικὴν τὴν ἀμφὶ τοὺς κάμνοντας εὑρημένην ἣ καὶ ὄνομα καὶ τεχνίτας ἔχει· ἦρά τι καὶ αὐτὴ τῶν αὐτῶν ἐθέλει καὶ πόθεν ποτὲ ἦρκται; ἐμοὶ μὲν γάρ, ὅπερ ἐν ἀρχῇ εἶπον, οὐδ’ ἂν ζητῆσαι ἰητρικὴν δοκεῖ οὐδείς, εἰ ταὐτὰ διαιτήματα τοῖσί τε κάμνουσι καὶ τοῖσιν ὑγιαίνουσιν ἥρμοζεν. ἔτι γοῦν καὶ νῦν ὅσοι ἰητρικῇ μὴ χρέωνται, οἵ τε βάρβαροι καὶ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἔνιοι, τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον ὅνπερ οἱ ὑγιαίνοντες διαιτέονται πρὸς ἡδονὴν καὶ οὔτ’ ἂν ἀπόσχοιντο οὐδενὸς ὧν ἐπιθυμέουσιν, οὐδ’ ὑποστείλαιντο ἄν. οἱ δὲ ζητήσαντές τε καὶ εὑρόντες ἰητρικὴν τὴν αὐτὴν κείνοισι διάνοιαν ἔχοντες περὶ ὧν μοι ὁ πρότερος λόγος εἴρηται, πρῶτον μέν, οἶμαι, ὑφεῖλον τοῦ πλήθεος τῶν σιτίων αὐτῶν τούτων καὶ ἀντὶ πλεόνων ὀλίγιστα ἐποίησαν· ἐπεὶ δ’ αὐτοῖσι τοῦτο ἔστι μὲν ὅτε πρός τινας τῶν καμνόντων ἤρκεσε καὶ φανερὸν ἐγένετο ὠφελῆσαν, οὐ μέντοι πᾶσί γε ἀλλ’ ἦσάν τινες οὕτως ἔχοντες ὡς μὴ ὀλίγων σιτίων δύνασθαι ἐπικρατεῖν, ἀσθενεστέρου δὲ δή τινος οἱ τοιοίδε ἐδόκεον δεῖσθαι, εὗρον τὰ ῥυφήματα, μίξαντες ὀλίγα τῶν ἰσχυρῶν πολλῷ τῷ ὕδατι καὶ ἀφαιρεόμενοι τὸ ἰσχυρὸν τῇ κρήσει τε καὶ ἑψήσει. ὅσοι δὲ μηδὲ τῶν ῥυφημάτων ἐδύναντο ἐπικρατεῖν, ἀφεῖλον καὶ ταῦτα καὶ ἀφίκοντο ἐς πόματα, καὶ ταῦτα τῇσί τε κρήσεσι καὶ τῷ πλήθει διαφυλάσσοντες ὡς μετρίως ἔχοι μήτε πλείω τῶν δεόντων μήτε ἀκρητέστερα προσφερόμενοι μηδ’ ἐνδεέστερα. Let us examine also the acknowledged art of medicine, the one discovered for the sick, which has both a name and professionals: does it also aim at one of these ends, and what was its origin? In my opinion, as I said at the beginning, no one would even have sought for medicine if the same regimen were suitable for both the sick and the healthy. And indeed even today all those who make no use of medicine — barbarians and some Greeks — follow whatever regimen they please just as the healthy do, and would not abstain from any of the things they desire nor even take less of them. But those who sought for and discovered medicine, since they had the same intention as those people about whom I spoke earlier, first of all, I think, diminished the number of solid foods themselves, and instead of much food gave very little. But since they found that this was sometimes adequate and manifestly beneficial for some of the sick, but not indeed for all (for there were some in such a condition that they were unable to overcome even a small amount of food, and such people seemed to require something weaker), they discovered gruels by mixing small amounts of strong foods with much water and removing their strength by blending and boiling. But for all those who were not even able to overcome gruels, they did away with these as well and passed to drinks, taking care that these should be moderate in both blend and quantity, and making prescriptions that were neither excessive in quantity nor too unblended, nor indeed too deficient. (transl. Schiefsky 2005)

The author appears to divide humankind into two groups: those that make use of medicine, and those that do not. Note that this distinction does not perfectly overlap with the Greek-barbarian divide, since “some Greeks” — according to the writer — make no use of medicine. However, it follows from the author’s statement that, while the populations who do not use medicine are rather heterogene-

  Marco Romani Mistretta ous, the group that uses medicine is quite compact in its Hellenic identity. Furthermore, within the latter group, medicine possesses a well-defined set of professionals, who themselves form a necessary unity. In fact, past medical findings — which constitute the basis of new research — are inextricably tied to the substantial unity of the group of practitioners who constantly look for further ways to make discoveries, according to their well-established method. The foundation and progress of medicine are, therefore, structurally indistinguishable from the history of its practitioners and their common patrimony of knowledge. The author’s narrative, in other words, is instrumental to the intellectual and professional unity of all the doctors who subscribe to the same method. As a result, the culture-historical account offered by this Hippocratic writer does not just fulfil explanatory or argumentative purposes, but also possesses a rhetorically laden value. In particular, it displays the main characteristic features of what ancient rhetorical theory calls διήγησις. 7 Aristotle, for instance, outlines the function of διήγησις in epideictic speeches as follows: Aristotle, Rhetoric 3.16.1416b16–22 διήγησις δ’ ἐν μὲν τοῖς ἐπιδεικτικοῖς ἐστιν οὐκ ἐφεξῆς ἀλλὰ κατὰ μέρος· σύγκειται γὰρ ἔχων ὁ λόγος τὸ μὲν ἄτεχνον (οὐθὲν γὰρ αἴτιος ὁ λέγων τῶν πράξεων), τὸ δ’ ἐκ τῆς τέχνης· τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν ἢ ὅτι ἔστι δεῖξαι, ἐὰν ᾖ ἄπιστον, ἢ ὅτι ποιόν, ἢ ὅτι ποσόν, ἢ καὶ ἅπαντα. In epideictic speeches, the narrative should not be consecutive, but divided into parts. For a speech is made up of one part that is non-technical (the speaker being in no way the author of the actions he relates), and of another that does depend on technical skill. The latter consists in showing that the action did happen, if it is implausible, or that it is of a certain quality, or that it is of a certain importance, or all these things together. (transl. mine)

Not only does the writer of VM address his implicit audience in an authoritative, narrative voice. The narrator also goes “through the actions” performed by physicians of old showing that the art of medicine presumably did originate in the way he describes, even though its beginnings are so remote in time that it is impossible to know them with certainty. Indeed, the author’s narrative may be characterized as an epideictic exercise in historical reconstruction aimed at persuasion.

 7 On the notion of διήγησις, see further Halliwell 2013.

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

At the same time, the author of VM repeatedly refers to the ongoing epistemic debate among physicians because both rival doctors and laypeople (who are ultimately on the receiving end of medical therapies) must be convinced of the validity of the empirical method. The history of medical research and discoveries shows, for the author, that the current unity of a group of therapeutic practitioners is legitimated by the common usage of a sound methodology. In the last analysis, the goal of cultural-historical narrative in VM is persuasion, aimed at corroborating the reader’s trust in a unified group of physicians: thus, the rhetorical nature of the author’s narrative endeavour is made apparent as a form of “rhetoric of unity”. According to the author of VM, the fundamental procedures of medicine have not changed since the time of its inception. It is the very unity of the medical method that ensures the recursive character of medical discoveries and, thereby, the unity of the group of practitioners who abide by the method. In turn, the soundness of the method itself owes much to its continuous application, generation after generation, by skilled physicians. By contrast, authors of newfangled hypotheses will never have a share in such a patrimony, since their ideas are not tied to this continuous history of development of the medical art. Thus, the writer carefully distinguishes, on the one hand, between those who possess medicine and those who do not and, on the other hand, between those physicians who follow the empirical method and those who do not. In VM, the medical practitioners of old remain deliberately unnamed, since the emphasis is on the participatory nature of their scientific efforts rather than on the personality of any individual doctor. By creating a narrative concerning the origin of his craft or science, the author of VM stresses the collective and collaborative dimension of their discipline’s progress, in order to strengthen a sense of affiliation within a group of practitioners. In other words, the author’s cultural history of medicine is, to a large extent, a rhetorical tool used for identity-building goals: the true and legitimate physicians are united by a common method, while the defenders of fanciful “hypotheses” cannot have the same claims to membership in that group of doctors. The rhetoric of unity thereby offers clues as to what the intended audience of VM could have been: primarily one of physicians and medical experts whom the author wants to bring to the “right” (i.e., empirical) side of the epistemological debate, but likely also one of laypeople who, in the author’s view, need to be guarded against heeding the call of the “wrong” group of practitioners. Not unlike the author of On Ancient Medicine, later technical authors belonging to other knowledge traditions mention common — and anonymous — groups of people who count as inventors of their respective crafts. My second text, Philo

  Marco Romani Mistretta of Byzantium’s mechanical treatise on artillery construction (Belopoeica), dates from the latter half of the third century B.C. At the outset of his handbook, Philo embarks on a complex narrative concerning the history of the fundamental discovery of engineering, which he deems to be the idea that the main basis and unit of measure for the construction of engines is the diameter of the hole (τρῆμα) that is to receive the spring. Philo, Belopoeica 50.14–27 ἐπὶ γὰρ τῶν ἀρχαίων τινὲς ηὕρισκον στοιχεῖον ὑπάρχον καὶ ἀρχὴν καὶ μέτρον τῆς τῶν ὀργάνων κατασκευῆς τὴν τοῦ τρήματος διάμετρον· ταύτην δ’ ἔδει μὴ ἀπὸ τύχης μηδὲ εἰκῇ λαμβάνεσθαι, μεθόδῳ δέ τινι ἑστηκυίᾳ καὶ ἐπὶ πάντων τῶν μεγεθῶν δυναμένῃ τὸ ἀνάλογον ὁμοίως ποιεῖν. οὐκ ἄλλως δὲ ἦν ταύτην λαβεῖν, ἀλλὰ ἐκ πείρας αὔξοντάς τε καὶ συναιροῦντας τὸν τοῦ τρήματος κύκλον. τοὺς γοῦν ἀρχαίους μὴ ἐπὶ πέρας ἀγαγεῖν, ὡς λέγω, μηδὲ ἐνστήσασθαι τὸ μέγεθος, οὐκ ἐκ πολλῶν ἔργων τῆς πείρας γεγενημένης, ἀκμὴν δὲ ζητουμένου τοῦ πράγματος· τοὺς δὲ ὕστερον ἔκ τε τῶν πρότερον ἡμαρτημένων θεωροῦντας καὶ ἐκ τῶν μετὰ ταῦτα πειραζομένων ἐπιβλέποντας εἰς ἑστηκὸς στοιχεῖον ἀγαγεῖν τὴν ἀρχὴν καὶ ἐπίστασιν τῆς κατασκευῆς, λέγω δὲ τοῦ κύκλου τὴν διάμετρον τοῦ τὸν τόνον δεχομένου. τοῦτο δὲ συμβαίνει ποιῆσαι τοὺς ἐν ̓Aλεξανδρείᾳ τεχνίτας πρώτους μεγάλην ἐσχηκότας χορηγίαν διὰ τὸ φιλοδόξων καὶ φιλοτέχνων ἐπειλῆφθαι βασιλέων. Among the ancients, some engineers were on the way to discovering that the fundamental basis and unit of measure for the construction of engines was the diameter of the hole. This had to be obtained not by chance or at random, but by a standard method which could produce the correct proportions at all sizes. It was impossible to obtain it except by experimentally increasing and diminishing the perimeter of the hole. The old engineers, of course, did not reach a conclusion, as I say, nor did they determine the size, since their experience was not based on a sound practical foundation; but they did have an inkling of what to look for. Later engineers drew conclusions from former mistakes, looked exclusively for a standard factor with subsequent experiments as a guide, and introduced the basic principle of construction, namely the diameter of the circle that holds the spring. Alexandrian craftsmen achieved this first, being heavily subsidized because they had ambitious kings who fostered craftsmanship. (transl. Marsden 1971)

The language and notions used here by Philo closely recall those of the Hippocratic author of VM: the history of artillery as a discipline starts with a discovery (εὕρησις); the object of this discovery is the first principle (ἀρχή) of the craft, and the protagonists of the discovery narrative are nameless engineers of old (τινες). As in VM, the history of the craft and its early discoveries guarantees the continuity — and thereby the unity — of a well-defined group of expert practitioners. By discovering the basic principle of artillery construction, the early inventors changed the discipline of mechanics forever, and thereby made a major contribution to human civilization as a whole.

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

Philo rules out the idea that such a crucial discovery as the one described above might have been obtained by chance or at random, but asserts that a wellestablished method was needed to produce the right proportions at any scale. Even though the engineers of old, according to Philo, did not possess the trialand-error experience necessary to determine the correct size and perimeter of the hole, yet they decided what to look for (ἀκμὴν δὲ ζητουμένου τοῦ πράγματος), and thus established a working foundation for later engineers to build upon. In fact, it is to the latest inheritors of the early engineers’ legacy that Philo’s treatise seems to be addressed: its audience appears to be one of actual or aspiring practitioners, who can see the fundamental unity of their knowledge tradition confirmed by Philo’s narrative. Alexandrian craftsmen, in Philo’s view, eventually brought the technique to perfection, especially due to their having access to financial subsidies provided by the ambitious Ptolemaic kings, who fostered and protected craftsmanship. Thus, the unity of the practitioners’ community is no longer solely conceptual or methodological (as it was in the Hippocratic work examined above), and cannot be understood separately from its social and historical context — nor can it entirely neglect the practical applications of technology. In a similar way, but even more explicitly than Philo, Athenaeus Mechanicus — a technical author of the Augustan age, 8 mainly known for a treatise on siege-engines in the wake of Philo’s Poliorcetica — underscores the strong connection between the construction of war machines and their application in a specific historical context (in this case, as he puts it, the protection of cities and the safeguard of the laws of the Roman empire). Athenaeus, De machinis 39 μὴ ὑπολάβῃς δὲ ἡμᾶς οὕτως ὠμοὺς εἶναι, ὥστε συναγαγεῖν τοσαῦθ’ ὑπομνήματα περὶ ἀναιρέσεως πόλεων· τἀναντία δὲ δεῖν. ὁ δὲ προειρημένος λόγος ἀσφάλειαν πεποίηται πόλεως· οἱ γὰρ ταῦτα εἰδότες φυλάξασθαι αὖ ῥᾳδίως δυνήσονται τὰ λυπήσοντα. μάλιστα δὲ ἡμῖν πεπραγμάτευται κατὰ τῶν οὐχ ὑποταγησομένων τοῖς καλοῖς τῆς ἡγεμονίας νόμοις. Do not suppose us to be so cruel as to have collected all these memoranda in order to teach you about destroying cities, when the opposite must be the case. What has been said in this treatise makes a city safe; for those who know these things will easily be able to guard

 8 The epithet Mechanicus is commonly used to distinguish this writer from the better-known author of the Deipnosophistae. Athenaeus’ work On Machines (Περὶ μηχανημάτων) is dedicated to M. Claudius Marcellus (Athenaeus, On Machines 1), who died in 23 BCE. Athenaeus names Philo as a source at On Machines 15–16.

  Marco Romani Mistretta against what will harm them. Our main business has been directed against those who will not submit to the fine laws of the empire. (transl. Whitehead/Blyth 2004)

Here, the unity of all (Roman) practitioners of the mechanical art is guaranteed by their common allegiance to one and the same political and juridical structure. In Athenaeus’ view, the art of military engineering is ultimately justified by the beauty and nobility of Rome’s laws (τοῖς καλοῖς ... νόμοις). The very unity of the empire is, in turn, preserved by the consonance and harmony of the engineers’ efforts, directed against the threat of “those who will not submit to the fine laws of the empire”. The rhetorical opposition of ‘us’ (ἡμῖν πεπραγμάτευται) vs. “them” (κατὰ τῶν οὐχ ὑποταγησομένων) is rather prominent in this passage. The importance of favourable socio-political conditions for the progress of the art of siege-engine building is underscored by Athenaeus in his catalogue of mechanical inventions, which immediately precedes the author’s detailed description of the construction of battering rams. After giving an account of the Carthaginian siege of Gadeira, during which the ram was first invented, Athenaeus goes on to describe the subsequent progress of siege-ram technology, naming the Carthaginian Geras as the πρῶτος εὑρετής of the so-called wheeled tortoise. Athenaeus, De machinis 9–10 διόπερ οὐκ ἀπιστητέον τῷ τοιούτῳ ἀνδρί μοι κατεφαίνετο ἐν τοῖς ὑπὲρ τῆς τέχνης παραινουμένοις. κριὸν μὲν ἔφασκον εὑρεθῆναι πρώτιστον ὑπὸ Καρχηδονίων ἐν τῇ περὶ Γάδειρα πολιορκίᾳ. χωρίδιον γάρ τι προκαταλαμβανομένων αὐτῶν καὶ καθαιρούντων εἰς ἔδαφος τὰ τείχη, νεανίσκους τινὰς οὐθὲν ἔχοντας ἄρμενον εἰς τὴν καθαίρεσιν δοκὸν λαβόντας διὰ χειρῶν ἐνσείειν εἰς τὸ τεῖχος καὶ ῥᾳδίως ἐπὶ πολὺν τόπον καθελεῖν. ὅθεν συνιδὼν τὸ γινόμενον Τύριός τις ναυπηγός, [...] ἐν τῇ πολιορκίᾳ, ἣν ἐποιοῦντο μετὰ ταῦτα πρὸς τὴν τῶν Γαδειριτῶν πόλιν, ἱστὸν στήσας καὶ ἄλλον ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ πλάγιον ἀρτήσας παραπλησίως ταῖς τῶν ζυγῶν φάλαγξιν, ἔτυπτε τὸ τεῖχος ἕλκων ἐξ ἀντισπάστου τὸν πλάγιον. ἀπόρως δὲ τῶν ἔνδον διακειμένων διὰ τὸ ξεῖνον τοῦ μηχανήματος, συνέβαινεν αὐτὰ πίπτειν ταχέως. Γήρας δὲ μετ’ αὐτὸν ὁ Καρχηδόνιος ὑπότροχον ποιήσας σχεδίαν ἐπέθηκε πλάγιον τὸν κριὸν καὶ οὐκ ἐξ ἀντισπάστων εἷλκεν, ἀλλ’ ὑπὸ πλήθους ἀνδρῶν προωθούμενον ἐποίησε. Γήρας δὲ πρῶτος εὑρὼν ὃ διὰ τὴν βραδύτητα χελώνην προσηγόρευσεν. [μετὰ ταῦτα δὲ ἐποίησάν τινες ἐπὶ κυλίνδρων προωθούμενον τὸν κριὸν καὶ οὕτως ἐχρῶντο.] ἐπίδοσιν δὲ ἔλαβεν ἡ τοιαύτη μηχανοποιΐα ἅπασα κατὰ τὴν Διονύσου τοῦ Σικελιώτου τυραννίδα κατά τε τὴν Φιλίππου τοῦ Ἀμύντου βασιλείαν, ὅτε ἐπολιόρκει Βυζαντίους Φίλιππος. εὐημέρει δὲ τῇ τοιαύτῃ τέχνῃ Πολύειδος ὁ Θετταλός, οὗ οἱ μαθηταὶ συνεστρατεύοντο Ἀλεξάνδρῳ Διάδης καὶ Χαρίας. Διάδης μὲν οὖν αὐτός φησιν ἐν τῷ Μηχανικῷ αὐτοῦ Συγγράμματι εὑρηκέναι τούς τε φορητοὺς πύργους καὶ τὸ λεγόμενον τρύπανον καὶ τὸν κόρακα καὶ τὴν ἐπιβάθραν. Hence, it appears to me, such a man [as Agesistratus, quoted in De mach. 7–8] should not be disbelieved when he gives technical advice. A ram, he used to say, was first invented by Carthaginians during the siege of Gadeira. In the course of capturing a small fort and razing

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

its walls to the ground, some young men who had no demolition tools took a beam in their hands, shook it against the wall, and easily destroyed it for a large stretch. So having observed the whole episode, a certain shipwright from Tyre [...] set up, during the siege which they were later mounting against the city of Gadeira, a mast, and hung it from another, horizontal one, something like the arms of balances, and he struck the wall by dragging the horizontal one (forward) with a rope-and-pulley. Those inside did not know what to do, so alien was the device, and the result was a swift collapse. After him, Geras the Carthaginian made a wheeled platform and fixed the ram to it horizontally; and he did not drag it with ropes-and-pulleys but made it to be pushed forward by a large number of men. Geras was inventor of which, on account of its slowness, he called a tortoise. [After this certain people made the ram to be pushed forward on rollers and used it in this way.] All such mechanical inventions made progress during the tyranny of Dionysius the Sicilian and during the reign of King Philip, son of Amyntas, when Philip besieged the Byzantines. Successful in skill of this kind was Polyidus the Thessalian, whose pupils Diades and Charias went on campaign with Alexander. Diades, then, says in his Engineering Compendium that he himself invented portable towers and the so-called drill and the raven and the assault-bridge. (transl. Whitehead/Blyth 2004)

Athenaeus provides a narrative account of the momentous discovery of a new siege engine by an anonymous group of people: thus, the invention is not conceived of as the inexplicable product of an individual, quasi-supernatural genius, but rather as a collective, down-to-earth contrivance prompted by the need for fast practical thinking and problem-solving in the heat of battle. Here, the unnamed “young men” (νεανίσκους τινάς) make a virtue of necessity and transform their lack of means into an occasion to experiment with an unfamiliar assault technique, which a seasoned engineer who observes the scene takes as a model for creating an entirely new mechanical device. Even though Athenaeus — unlike the Hippocratic author of VM — does not hesitate to name specific inventors (such as Geras the Carthaginian), the emphasis is ultimately on the collaborative efforts of a unified group of practitioners rather than on single personalities. Thus, the craft of engineering is said to “make progress” (ἐπίδοσιν δὲ ἔλαβεν) almost in and of itself, rather than solely being advanced by specific inventions of individual craftsmen. Not unlike Athenaeus, Philo exhibits great interest in the diachronic development of the mechanical art. According to Philo, the history of catapult-making shows that the progress of the discipline can be divided in two phases: an older, aporetic one, and a more recent, successful one. In Philo’s narrative, the transition from the first to the second phase was not due to a sudden break-through, but to a steady, gradual build-up of knowledge. While the first phase proceeds by way of pre-methodic inklings, whereby inventors intuitively know what to look for, even before performing any “experiment”, Philo’s description of the second phase exemplifies how any invention

  Marco Romani Mistretta process, and ultimately the progress itself of any art, is not the result of one chance experiment, but the fruit of the long and continuous cooperation of several generations of craftsmen. As was the case in the Hippocratic text examined above, such a cross-generational development creates a sense of belonging to a well-defined group of skilled and knowledgeable practitioners, which makes the individual personalities of single technicians less important than the collaborative efforts of the whole community. For Philo, as mentioned, the diameter of the hole that carries the spring is the length from which all other dimensions governing the construction of a torsion artillery machine can be deduced: so it is effectively the “first principle” (ἀρχή) of any artillery device. In his treatise, Philo stresses the importance of a systematic method regulating the conversion of measurements and the use of exact proportions in the construction process. 9 The scale and volume of an artillery machine can be varied and modified virtually at will, as long as the correct proportions are thoroughly respected. Philo’s emphasis on the systematic mathematization of the fundamental dimensions is later echoed by Hero of Alexandria, whose first-century-A.D. treatise on artillery construction starts with an account of the discovery of the best measures through trial and error over several generations of technicians. Hero, Belopoeica 112.8–113.9 εἰδέναι δὲ δεῖ, ὅτι ἡ τῶν μέτρων ἀναγραφὴ ἐξ αὐτῆς τῆς πείρας ἐλήφθη. οἱ γὰρ παλαιότεροι, μόνον τὸ σχῆμα καὶ τὴν διάθεσιν ἐπινοήσαντες, οὐ πάνυ τι ηὐδοκίμουν εἰς τὴν ἐξαποστολὴν τοῦ βέλους, διὰ τὸ ἁρμοστοῖς συμμετρίαις μὴ χρῆσθαι. οἱ δὲ μετὰ ταῦτα, ἀφ᾽ ὧν μὲν ἀφαιροῦντες, οἷς δὲ προστιθέντες σύμφωνα κατέστησαν καὶ ἐνεργὰ τὰ εἰρημένα ὄργανα. συνίσταται δὲ τὰ προειρημένα ὄργανα, οἷον τὰ κατὰ μέρος ἐν αὐτοῖς πάντα, ἀπὸ τῆς τοῦ τρήματος διαμέτρου τοῦ τὸν τόνον δεχομένου. ἀρχὴ γὰρ καὶ ἡγούμενον ὁ τόνος. δεῖ οὖν τὸ τοῦ λιθοβόλου ὀργάνου τρῆμα συνίστασθαι οὕτω. ὅσων ἐὰν ᾖ μνῶν ὁ μέλλων ἐξαποστέλλεσθαι λίθος, ταῦτα ἑκατοντάκις ποιήσας, λάβε τῶν γενομένων κυβικὴν πλευράν, καὶ ὅσων ἐὰν εὕρῃς μονάδων τὴν πλευρὰν προσθεὶς ταῖς εὑρεθείσαις τὸ δέκατον μέρος, καὶ τοσούτων δακτύλων ποίει τὴν τοῦ τρήματος διάμετρον. One must understand that the record of measurements was obtained from actual experiment. Older technicians, who only considered shape and design, did not have very satisfac-

 9 Philo, Belopoeica 55.12–14: “There must also be a method [δεῖ δὲ μέθοδόν τινα ὑπάρχειν] whereby, if we wish to make a full-scale engine from a small model, we may convert all measurements accurately in proportion [τίνι λόγῳ μετοίσομεν τὰ ἀνάλογα πάντα ἀκριβῶς] and, similarly, if we wish to contract from larger to smaller, when satisfied with the dimensions” (transl. Marsden 1971).

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

tory results in the projection of the missile, because they did not use harmonious measurements. Their successors, subtracting here and adding there, made their engines concordant and efficient. The above-mentioned engines (i.e. all their particular parts) are constructed based on the diameter of the hole that receives the spring. The spring, in fact, is the guiding principle. One must calculate the hole of the stone-thrower thus. Multiply by one hundred the weight in minas of the stone to be discharged; find the cube root of the product; add to the result (whatever the cube root is) its tenth part, and make the diameter of the hole that number of dactyls. (transl. Marsden 1971)

Unity and cohesion in the engineers’ group is, once again, a crucial element in the development of the craft. So much so that Hero applies the language of harmony and concord to the very procedures employed by the technicians to attain their discoveries. Thus, they ought to “use harmonious measurements” (ἁρμοστοῖς συμμετρίαις ... χρῆσθαι) and make sure that their machines are “concordant and efficient” (σύμφωνα ... καὶ ἐνεργά). The synergy of these mechanical procedures ought to mirror the unity of all who take part in the discovery effort. Unlike Hero (and VM), however, Philo makes it clear that not everything can be achieved by means of the theoretical method alone. Indeed, in his view, inventive insight and rigorous methods seem to be complementary, and even mutually interdependent, elements of technological improvement within the discipline of artillery construction: hence his elaborate characterization of new discoveries, which seem to straddle the boundary between tradition and innovation. While making numerous references to the importance of systematic procedures and their application, Philo repeatedly praises the audacity of those technicians — including, of course, Philo himself — who occasionally dare to depart from the established route and pave the way for major technological breakthroughs, such as Philo’s own alternative designs for torsion machines. Besides being a military virtue, and thus inherently appropriate for the specialist of artillery construction, audacity is also part of a system of innovation and discovery, insofar as the success of intuition needs the strong will of someone ready to take a risk in order for a new invention to be implemented. In fact, the art of artillery construction is — almost by definition — meant to be employed in situations in which much depends on intuitive insight and speed of action. Hence the role of daring (τόλμα) as part of the qualities that define “belonging” to the community of practitioners. For Philo, in fact, the practitioners’ audacious inventiveness seems to be much less the result of a chance encounter than the ripened fruit of experience: in other words, a single discovery ultimately springs from the continuous, long-standing application of the craft’s methods and trial-and-error procedures. Thus, technological invention appears to be the simple, final condensation of a long, much more complex process of research and

  Marco Romani Mistretta experimentation that crucially involves cross-generational cooperation among practitioners. Correspondingly, in Philo’s artillery manual, the progress of the τέχνη is construed as a “heuristic” narrative of problem-identification and problem-solution, in which ever new difficulties in the design of machines are overcome by ever new discoveries on the practitioners’ part. The practitioners’ knowledge is, in turn, precious for the feedback it provides to the theoretical advance of the craft, allowing to identify new problems and tackle them accordingly. A case in point is Philo’s recommendation to use iron plates to reinforce the structure of the holecarriers of torsion machines. Philo, Belopoeica 57.17–27: διὸ πολλὰ τῶν περιτρήτων οὐδὲ τὸν τῆς κατασκευῆς ὑπομείναντα πόνον συνετρίβη. λάβε γὰρ περίτρητον πρὸ ὀφθαλμῶν, κεχωρισμένον τοῦ πλινθίου καὶ μήπω συνηλώμενον, μηδὲ κεκοσμημένον, ποίαν τινά σοι τὴν ὄψιν ἀποδώσει, κεκενωμένον τοῖς περιέχουσι τοὺς κύκλους τρήμασι· θεώρει δὲ προσεπιλελογισμένος, ἡλίκην αὐτὸ δεῖ βίαν ὑπομένειν· οὕτω γὰρ εὐκαταφρόνητον φανεῖταί σοι τὸ σχῆμα. ὅθεν ἀσθενοῦς ὄντος τοῦ σχήματος διὰ τὰ προειρημένα πειρῶνται ψαλλίδας σιδηρᾶς περὶ τοὺς κροτάφους περικάμπτοντες συνελοῦν, καὶ τοῖς ὑποθέμασι, καθὸ λέγω, χρῆσθαι, καὶ τὰς πλινθίδας τὰς ὑπὸ τὰς χοινικίδας στερεωτέρας ὑποτιθέναι, καὶ τοιούτοις τισὶν ἀνασώζειν παραβοηθήμασι, δαπάνην ἔχουσιν ἱκανὴν καὶ χρόνου πλῆθος ἐν τῇ κατασκευῇ συχνόν. Thus, many hole-carriers are damaged because they cannot even stand the strain of construction. Hold a hole-carrier before your eyes, separated from its frame and not yet nailed up or finished. What sort of appearance will it present to you, being bored out and perforated all over and thickly studded with the holes that surround the circles? Now reckon up and consider how much force it must withstand; then its appearance will seem to you utterly contemptible. Since its structure is weak for the reasons mentioned, then try to bend iron plates round the edges and nail them on, to use counter-plates, as I say, and to insert stronger blocks under the washers. They preserve them by such expedients involving adequate expense and a considerable amount of time in their construction. (transl. Marsden 1971)

The passage starts with the observation of a practical problem, and proceeds to examine an expedient devised to solve it. Through the use of the second person singular, the reader is directly involved in the identification of the problem at hand. The reader, here treated as an apprentice technician, is thereby welcomed into a community of skilled practitioners who abide by one and the same procedural method. As a result, any clear-cut demarcation between practitioner, theorist, and reader (or future practitioner) is blurred. As in the case of VM, the author’s use of the rhetoric of unity offers insights into the probable audience and

Finding Unity through Knowledge  

function of the treatise: in Philo’s case, the work seems to be aimed at a professional and semi-professional readership, to which the treatise provides both training and reference standards on the “correct” procedures to follow. To recapitulate, the narratives of innovation found in Philo and other mechanical writers are significantly comparable with that of the Hippocratic author of VM, insofar as both the Hippocratic writer and the mechanical authors consider an understanding of their respective discipline’s correct method as a basis for understanding the origin of the discipline itself, and vice versa. For both Philo and the author of VM, a unified method is the guarantor of the soundness of any innovation — even when the innovation itself departs from traditional practice — and the primary means by which a craft can be brought to perfection. In the last analysis, both writers appear to be convinced that the principle of innovation itself lies in the elusive interaction between inventive intuition and method. The simultaneous need for a methodical, systematic approach and for creative inventiveness is illustrated, for the considered authors, by the very origin of their respective crafts, in which a single, momentous discovery led to the establishment of a set of rational procedures enabling the discipline to keep progressing and a unified group of practitioners to make new discoveries. Thus, the history of science and technology, in each of the examined authors, can be conceptualized as a series of successful inventions — ultimately in the sense analyzed by Ortega y Gasset for the modern age. However, while inventions in the modern sense are often pictured as tools or implements, the examined authors consider the object of discovery first and foremost as a scientific or technical method (which, in turn, enables skilled craftsmen to make new discoveries). Correspondingly, the considered authors assign a prominent role to their respective craft within the rise and development of human civilization, which at times even comes to coincide with the history of the craft’s own progress. For both writers, the history of their respective disciplines starts with a discovery (εὕρεσις); the object of this discovery is the first principle of the craft, and the protagonists of the discovery narrative are nameless researchers of old: both authors attribute the discovery of their art to anonymous groups of researchers who, by trial and error, developed the mental model on which any further innovation in the craft is ultimately based. By insisting on the plurality of the discoverers and highlighting the continuity of their discipline’s methods and procedures across generations, these technical authors construe their craft’s development as a cultural-historical narrative of unity and collaboration. In turn, the soundness of the technical method emphasized by both authors reinforces the credibility of the narratives offered by the

  Marco Romani Mistretta writers themselves: authority and authorship are, in other words, mutually interdependent within both writers’ scientific communication. In conclusion, both Philo’s and the Hippocratic physician’s narratives are crucial to a rhetorical strategy of identity-building: both, in fact, aim at demonstrating that membership in the practitioners’ community is contingent upon mastery of a systematic method of discovery. By offering a narrative of the discovery and early development of their discipline, both authors reinforce a “diachronic” unity between those geniuses of old and today’s practitioners. In both cases, the role of cultural history in scientific communication is to persuade the expert and the non-professional audience alike of the epistemic value of the methodological principles established through the practitioners’ cooperation. While reinforcing the specialist’s sense of belonging to a community of skilled technicians, this rhetorical strategy co-opts the lay reader into the ongoing progress of the craft.

Bibliography Berryman, S. (2009), The Mechanical Hypothesis in Ancient Greek Natural Philosophy, Cambridge. Jouanna, J. (ed.) (1990), Hippocrate. De l’ancienne médecine, Paris. Marsden, E.W. (ed.) (1971), Greek and Roman Artillery. Technical Treatises, Oxford. Ortega y Gasset, J. (1972), ‘Thoughts on Technology’, in: C. Mitcham/R. Mackey (eds.), Philosophy and Technology. Readings in the Philosophical Problems of Technology, New York, 290–313. Translated by Helen Weyl from “Meditación de la técnica”, in: José Ortega y Gasset (1939), Ensimismamiento y Alteración, Barcelona. Petit, C. (ed.) (2009), Galien: Le médecin. Introduction, Paris. Roby, C.A. (2016), Technical Ekphrasis in Greek and Roman Science and Literature: the Written Machine between Alexandria and Rome, Cambridge. Romani Mistretta, M. (2016), ‘Narrative and Cultural History in the Hippocratic Treatise On Ancient Medicine’, in: Enthymema 16, 68–79. Schiefsky, M.J. (ed.) (2005), Hippocrates. On Ancient Medicine, Leiden. Schneider, H. (1989), Das griechische Technikverständnis. Von den Epen Homers bis zu den Anfängen der technologischen Fachliteratur, Darmstadt. Whitehead, D./Blyth, P.H. (eds.) (2004), Athenaeus Mechanicus, On Machines (Περὶ μηχανημάτων). Translated with Introduction and Commentary, Stuttgart.



Part V: Gender and the Construction of Identity

Stefano Ferrucci

Vanishing Mothers. The (De)construction of Personal Identity in Attic Forensic Speeches  Searching for Athenian Mothers Athenians had a complicated relationship with their mothers. It is true, as stated by the editors of a recent volume, that in the classical world “[m]otherhood (...) was to be intensely private, and its place on the public stage often met with contestations and frustrations”. 1 Nonetheless, the Athenian world provides specific and unexpected hints about this relationship, which suggest the theme of this paper. A recurrent topos identifies the Athenian polis with its citizens-soldiers, rather than with its material components (houses, walls). 2 The politai who define the city’s civic unity in this way are definitely men, evoked in a military context, within an argumentative logic (speech of Themistocles to Adeimantus in Herodotus 8.61) or in hortatory speeches (speech of Nicias in Thucydides 7.77, 5 and 7), with clear rhetorical connotations. The topos always refers to all male citizens, enhancing the unity of the polis they compose. Citizenship in Athens was established, starting from 451/0 B.C., on the basis of the identity of both parents, father and mother (Arist. Ath.Pol. 26.3: ἐξ ἀμφοῖν ἀστοῖν). This innovation seems to strengthen the framework of citizen unity, recognizing women’s crucial role in the construction of the citizen's identity. The new juridical role of the maternal side seems, however, to have caused few changes in the visibility of women in Athens, who remained seriously restricted from public life. The identity of Athenian offspring, both male and female, depended on mothers, but this does not seem to have extended to them a more defined identity as members of the civic community. In this paper, I discuss several examples of rhetorical constructions on maternal identity in Athens, focusing on some argumentative tools used in judicial speeches concerning citizens’ identification issues, in particular around the reconstruction of their female descent (genealogeisthai, the determining act in the attribution of civic identity, see e.g. Arist. Ath. Pol. 55.3; Theophr. Char. 28.2). What are the arguments used in law-courts to demonstrate the status of mothers

 1 Hackworth Petersen-Slazman Michell 2012, 3; see also Bettini 2018, 13–28. 2 Alc. fr. 426 I GL; Hdt. 8, 61; Thuc. 7, 77, 5; 7; Plut. Them. 11, 3–4; Aristid. 46, 207 cf. Hansen 1991, 58–59. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-016

  Stefano Ferrucci as legitimate, astai kai gametai? How do such demonstrations relate to the notion of a citizen woman, politis? And finally, how are these argumentative tools related to rhetoric of (dis)unity, which extends from the specific case to the whole community and its rules of participation? I also compare the judicial context with another rhetorical genre, namely, funeral speeches, where the female sphere is given very limited visibility even in comforting mothers and widows, and where an obvious disunity is implied between the male and rhe female components of the city. My aim is to show how rhetorical references to the unity of the polis, when discussing the identity of an individual citizen, provide a parallel rhetoric to the disunity of male and female, which was still in effect even after the introduction of Periclean law and the new institutional role attributed to mothers.

 Mothers and Citizenship in Classical Athens: Recent Perspectives Pericles’ law on citizenship of 451/450 gave mothers a new role in establishing the personal identity of Athenian citizens. From that moment on, to define their civic and political statuses — and the benefits that could result from these — Athenian citizens depended also on the identity of their mothers. 3 This development, however, does not seem to have led to any change in the condition of women (at least those regularly married) to assure their identity as Athenians, which continued to be difficult to prove. Although recent studies have shown that women had more opportunities to play an active role in Athenian social and economic life, 4 narratives about Athenian brides place them in the shadows and surrounded by silence. Exactly as recommended by Pericles himself, about twenty years after his law: 5

 3 This was not completely new: the identity of the mother had a great importance also before Pericles’ law. I would not go so far as sharing Nancy Demand’s statement that Periclean law “fed men’s obsession with the control of their womenfolks” (Demand 1994, 151, see the remarks of Patterson 1996). On Pericles’ law see recently Blok 2009, with a thorough discussion of previous literature. 4 See for instance Foxhall 1989; Ferrucci 2013; Bultrighini-Dimauro 2014. 5 Thuc. 2.45.2, transl. by R. Crawley. On this passage cf. Rusten 1989, ad loc.; Hornblower 1991 ad loc.; Fantasia 2003, 419–421.

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εἰ δέ με δεῖ καὶ γυναικείας τι ἀρετῆς, ὅσαι νῦν ἐν χηρείᾳ ἔσονται, μνησθῆναι, βραχείᾳ παραινέσει ἅπαν σημανῶ. τῆς τε γὰρ ὑπαρχούσης φύσεως μὴ χείροσι γενέσθαι ὑμῖν μεγάλη ἡ δόξα καὶ ἧς ἂν ἐπ᾽ ἐλάχιστον ἀρετῆς πέρι ἢ ψόγου ἐν τοῖς ἄρσεσι κλέος ᾖ. On the other hand if I must say anything on the subject of female excellence to those of you who will now be in widowhood, it will be all comprised in this brief exhortation. Great will be your glory in not falling short of your natural character; and greatest will be hers who is least talked of among the men whether for good or for bad.

The Periclean logos epitaphios exemplifies a rhetorical topos on gender (dis)unity in the polis: unity comes when women leave no public traces of themselves, when males (ἄρσενες) do not talk about them, whether to praise or to blame. The speaker himself describes his advice as a παραίνεσις, an exhortation. 6 The phrasing of the passage is significant, and shows what seems to be appropriate, from a rhetorical point of view, to the epideictic genre of Athenian public funeral speeches. The unity of the polis requires a separation between male and female ἀρετή. 7 We can safely consider the passage a starting point for our topic, at least from a rhetorical point of view. Pericles’ claim in the epitaphios implies that Athenian mothers granted their children a public identity which was — and should be — instead denied to them. The law survived through the classical era, but no legal measures, and few social opportunities, were envisaged to facilitate the identification of women and their visibility outside of the oikos. How to make women of the family group less evanescent and more recognizable? Robin Osborne, twenty years ago, suggested a possible solution in the growing presence, from the middle of the fifth century, of female representations on Attic funerary reliefs. 8 Death would loosen the bond of silence around mothers and offer an opportunity to retrieve memory, although posthumous, and make it public. Osborn’s acute observation implicitly acknowledges that little had changed in the habits of Athenian civic life following the introduction of the law. The polis did not care to reconsider women’s status and guarantees on the identity of promise brides were still a matter to be resolved between the oikoi involved in future weddings, under the personal responsibility of the woman’s kyrios; with the socialization of public acts related to the creation of  6 On the role of parainesis in epideictic rhetoric, see Pernot 2015, 94–100. 7 Rusten 1989, ad loc. highlights the paradoxical nature of female aretē in the passage, the greatest doxa being associated with the minimum kleos; see in general Loraux 1989, 254 ff. Pericles is addressing Athenian widows, probably of high social status (Lacey 1964, 47–49; Bosworth 2000, 2–5); but the statement seems to include women as a whole (Longo 2000, 98–100). 8 Osborne 1997; see also Osborne 2010, section 3, for a very intriguing explanation of the role of women as witnesses in Athenian’s court.

  Stefano Ferrucci a new oikos, or, perhaps, emphasizing the memory of the mothers after their death. An obvious consequence of the law, as Josine Blok writes, was that it “raised the value of mothers (women) as shareholders in citizen status”: descent was still patrilineal, but women from now on became transmitters of their own patriliny. 9 The Aristotelian Athenaiōn politeia (55, 3) reports that, when introducing the archons’ dokimasia, the very first set of questions was: τίς σοι πατὴρ καὶ πόθεν τῶν δήμων, καὶ τίς πατρὸς πατήρ, καὶ τίς μήτηρ, καὶ τίς μητρὸς πατὴρ καὶ πόθεν τῶν δήμων (“Who is your father and to what deme does he belong, and who is your father's father, and who your mother, and who her father and what his deme?”). 10 It may be too much to say that women were completely equated to men as citizens: only men had the demotic; the mother was identified through her father, in turn, and nothing like a metronymic was introduced alongside the patronymic, which continued to be the only family-reference in Athenian onomastic formulae. 11 The mother was, nonetheless, mentioned, and this shows that women shared a more defined membership inside the polis: they could be called politides. 12 Blok has challenged many previous statements about gender separation in Athens, and offered a fresh picture of the role played by women in defining citizenship after Pericles’ law. It is not my intention here to discuss the possible reasons for introducing a new way of defining citizenship. I would rather examine some of the consequences of the law, which made the already fragile definition of the civic identity of Athenians more vulnerable. To challenge the status of a citizen, a comfortable option was to question the identity of his mother or even his maternal grandmother, much more difficult to defend than that of the father's branch. Thus, the road was opened for a rhetorical approach to representing and challenging the mother-figure. 13 My impression is that legal discussions on the identity of Athenian mothers stimulated by the law are not just the result of a flaw in the legal system. On the one hand, male citizens may be identified in a less ambiguous way: “it would (…) be wrong to believe that such fundamental matters were totally left to communal  9 Blok 2009, 159. 10 Cf. also Arist. Ath. Pol. 42.1; 45.3. 11 Rhodes 1981, 361, Ogden 1996, 92–93. 12 The word politis appears in Athens from the 420s and is used as more than a mere synonym of astē in forensic speeches: see Foxhall 1994, 138; Cohen 2000, 30–40; Blok 2005, 30–31; 2017. On women’s identity as citizens, see also Foxhall 1996. 13 A comprehensive discussion on methods of personal identification of citizens in classical Athens in Faraguna 2014, esp. 174–179.

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knowledge and social control and that written records had no part in the process”. 14 On the other hand, the topos of silence around women’s names in a public or legal context has partially been challenged. 15 Legal reasoning about mothers’ identities seems instead to reflect a wider cultural reality concerning the figure and role of the mother. Mothers’ identities belong to a rhetoric of gender that, alongside an ideal and quite abstract unity between individual, oikos and polis, to which women too had to conform, elaborated forms of discourse centered on disarticulating the three elements, starting precisely with attacks on mothers. The rhetoric of internal harmony of the oikos, represented as a kosmos where everyone, even women, had their right position (Xenophon’s portrait of Ischomachus’ household is the clearest reference) 16 may result in a complete subversion of the ideal model to portray a dysfunctional family group, where the blame is put on the female side. This is to say that there was also a rhetoric of gender conflict based on the division between a clearly recognizable and dominant father and a more uncertain mother in the parental couple, that penetrated the heart of the organization of the polis through its domestic units and the role that women played or were supposed to play. 17 This conflict worked inside male Athenian society: it was not initiated by women, it was ‘about’ women. 18 Personal identity is built from belonging to a wider community that accepts and certifies the role of its members: the deme, the phratria, but, especially for women, the parental and domestic group, even slaves, who are rhetorically  14 Faraguna 2014, 178. 15 Schaps 1977 is still the main reference, but cp. Parker 2005, 93–95; Connelly 2007, 58–59: “the case for muting the names of citizen women has, perhaps, been overstated”. 16 Xen. Oec. 7–10; see Humphries 1932, 22–32; Murnaghan 1988; Pomeroy 1994, 30–58; it seems notewothy that Socrates, quite ironically, praises Ischomachus’ wife’s “manly intellect”, ὰνδρικὴν … διάνοιαν (Xen. Oec. 10, 1), see Strauss 1970, 153; Scaife 1995. 17 Foxhall 1996. 18 Athenian tragedy and comedy shows many examples of “female speeches” against male’s rule in the polis: Medea’s complaint in her first speech (Eur. Medea, 214–266) involves the unfortunate condition of being mother, see. Mastronarde 2002, 22ff., 205ff; a more close connection with our topic may be detected in Euripides’ Suppliants: the argive mothers, who started the action, are excluded by Adrastos, persuaded by Theseus, from the funeral procession and the epitaphios logos Adrastos pronunces; see Mirto 1984; Rehm 1988; Id. 1994; on the transformation of the mothers’ grief in ‘political action’ and on Aethra’s ‘patriotic rhetoric’ see. McClure 2017, 157– 158: “By reconfiguring the mother as a mouthpiece of civic values and heroic action, Euripides shifts the affective ties between mother and son from the domestic to the politica realm, suggesting that the city should be seen as the true mother and its citizen her son”. On the complexity of gender roles in Euripides, see also Mueller 2017. Following Vidal-Naquet’s advice to not use tragedy as a realistic representation of Athenian society (Vidal-Naquet 2002), I will not push these comparisons too far.

  Stefano Ferrucci evoked through the proklēsis tēs basanou more than actually used as witnesses. 19 The rhetoric of unity emerges in the defence of maternal identity when the woman is presented as fully belonging to a social group that certifies her role: a compact representation of the various degrees in which society was organized and a statement of belonging to a community by adhering to its unified image. But such solidarity also created concern for the possible presence of impostors, as a serious threat to the whole community. This was to have a strong effect on the audience, but it generated another, symmetrical and opposite, concern: the fear of becoming victim to a false accusation that could attack the ‘weak side’ of the stemma familiae, namely, the maternal one.

 Inside the oikos: Vanishing Mothers and not Eligible Heirs Athenian forensic speeches provide us with interesting material in this regard. Attacks on personal identity can be found in a number of inheritance cases, where the aspiring heirs had to demonstrate that their mothers were ἀσταὶ καὶ γαμηταί. I begin with Isaeus’ speeches, where we find evidence of both the deconstruction and the reconstruction of the maternal figure. In speech 8, On the Estate of Ciron, the speaker confronts a difficult demonstration of his bond with the de cuius, presented as his maternal grandfather. His opponents question that the speaker’s mother is Ciron's daughter 20. Isaeus’ client must therefore go back two generations of women to make his case: he needs a mother and a grandmother, both related to Ciron, respectively as his daughter and his wife. The offspring he proposes is the result of a first marriage of Ciron with a maternal cousin (his grandmother), from which his mother would have been born. The whole discussion is focused on the female side, the most difficult to prove but also, for the same reason, the one most suitable to be manipulated. The figure of the maternal grandmother seems highly elusive: 21 ὁ γὰρ πάππος ὁ ἐμός, ὦ ἄνδρες, Κίρων ἔγημε τὴν ἐμὴν τήθην οὖσαν ἀνεψιάν, ἐξ ἀδελφῆς τῆς αὑτοῦ μητρὸς αὐτὴν γεγενημένην. ἐκείνη μὲν οὖν συνοικήσασα οὐ πολὺν χρόνον, τεκοῦσα αὐτῷ τὴν ἐμὴν μητέρα, μετὰ ἐνιαυτοὺς τέτταρας τὸν βίον ἐτελεύτησεν.  19 On the legal procedure of basanos in Athenian law-courts, see Thür 1977; Gagarin 1996; Mirhady 1996; Thür 1996, 133–134; Ferrucci 2005, 161–163. 20 Ferrucci 2005, 19–49; Griffith-Williams 2013, 139 ff. 21 Isae. 8.7, transl. E.S. Forster 1927.

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My grandfather Ciron, judges, married my grandmother, his first cousin, herself the daughter of his own mother's sister. She did not live long with him; she bore my mother, and died after four years.

Ciron’s first marriage was endogamic, and Iseaus does not add further details of the woman’s identity. 22 Ciron, after the premature death of this first wife, married Diocles’ sister and had two male children, whose presence somewhat overshadowed the daughter of the first marriage. Ciron’s daughter also married twice, according to the speaker, and Isaeus’ client was born from the second marriage. In this case, Isaeus offers some additional information: the first husband, Nausimenes of Cholargos, died a few years after the marriage, and the lady was given to a new spouse, the father of Isaeus’ client. 23 How to prove all this? Isaeus himself poses the question: πῶς ἄν τις δείξειε γεγενημένα φανερῶς; ἐγὼ ζητῶν ἐξεῦρον (“How is one to prove clearly that all these events occurred in face of the imputations which our opponents are now uttering? I sought and discovered a way”). 24 He states that it is appropriate in these cases to use tekmēria more than martyriai. Tekmēria are related to two circumstances in which the behaviour of the adversaries offers a significant rhetorical foothold: the rejection of basanos Ciron’s slaves and his funeral: a major theme of the demonstration lies in the review of the opponents’ behaviour. Other evidence refers to the presence of the mother in the family’s social life, for domestic and religious sociability: legitimate weddings, following the procedures of enguēsis and ekdōsis and the celebrations of gamēlia; participation of the mother together with the grandfather as the speaker in cults both private (the sacrifices at Zeus Ctesios) and public (rural Dionysia and, later, as wife of an Athenian citizen, the Thesmophoria). But witnesses are scarce, as a long time has passed: tekmēria will work best. The representation of the speaker’s unitary and happy home group is described as threatened by the greed and intrigues of a single man (Diokles), who intends to break it up. There is an urgent need for unity in the building of female identity as belonging to an oikos (the speaker’s grandmother and mother), through a socially respectful image of practices inside the community of the polis. A unity that, in itself, says very little about the specific identities to be proven. The fragility of Isaeus’ demonstration seems obvious to modern eyes and in fact William Wyse has poked major holes in this speech. 25 Beyond the legal formalism,

 22 Cox 1996, 19–26 on endogamic marriages at Athens. 23 Isae. 8.8. 24 Isae. 8.9. 25 Wyse 1904, 585–588, 595, 603, 606–609, 613–614, 616–618.

  Stefano Ferrucci however, the rhetorical impact on the audience of this reconstruction of the family environment and of the injuries received may have been stronger than seem to modern scholars. Isaeus is using here the same scheme that we found in Pericles’ epitaphios: the major doxa for a woman lies in the absence of male (which means public) kleos. Of a respectable woman, little is to be known: the less the better. So rhetorically the demonstrative difficulties could have a favourable effect on the judges, who could identify with such difficulties regarding their own mothers. The more evanescent, the more respectable. This is coherent with the assumption of unity between individual, oikos and polis, expected by the audience. The portrait of family life and its observance of the social rules of the polis appears, in this speech, particularly impressive in its apparent simplicity. The rhetoric of unity points to an immediate identification by the judges and the tone of the narration adapts to this purpose. In Isaeus’ third speech (On the Estate of Pyrrhus) we have the opposite situation. Xenocles claims that his wife Phile is the daughter of Pyrrhus, who died twenty years earlier; she was replaced as a first heir by an adoptive child, Endius, nephew of the de cuius, who also died the year before the case. Isaeus’ client opposes denying legitimacy to this bond of kinship. The identity of the mother is decisive for the position of the girl, whose descent from Pyrrhus is recognized also by Isaeus, who however states that the woman was a hetaira, and that the daughter can therefore in no way be legitimate and recognizable as epiklēros. Isaeus’ strategy aims here at disjoining a potential oikos formed by Pyrrhus, his wife and a legitimate daughter (as the counterpart claims). Pyrrhus’ daughter’s status as epiklēros is obscured by her mother's status — a courtesan! — and underpinned by a series of legal remarks on Attic hereditary law. The proof of the qualification of women as hetairai is focused on (and limited to) the scandalous conduct that, as the speaker relates, Phile’s mother demonstrated when she was living with Pyrrhus: this includes confusion and rebellion in Phyrrus’ home and attendance of banquets — together with her own daughter. That is not what γαμεταὶ γυναῖκες are supposed to do. The mother, instead of passing the status of astè to her daughter, taught her the typical behaviour of a prostitute. How, then, could she be considered a legitimate wife (enguētē)? 26 In both cases, what is being claimed or denied is the legitimate identity of the mother and wife of an Athenian citizen, hence entitled to bear legitimate children to the polis (paidopoieisthai); in both cases, the identity of the mother is decisive in reconstructing that of her daughter and thus in supporting (or refuting) the claims presented by the men to the law-court (respectively, the woman’s son and  26 Isae. 3.11–14; on this speech see now Hatzilambrou 2019.

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husband). Finally, these mothers have both been dead for many years, making it extremely difficult to prove their identity. A third example is in the sixth oration of Isaeus (On the Estate of Philoctemon), in which the speaker attacks two allegedly legitimate sons of the old man Euctemon, who died at 93, on the grounds that their mother was not the elusive Callippe of Lesbos, but Alce, a young prostitute serving in a brothel owned by Euctemon himself. The story is highly engaging narratively (§§ 10–26) and achieves the strongest impact, with its flair for family drama. 27 As in Isaeus’ third speech, the fact that the boys are sons of Euktemon is not in dispute, the question is who their mother is. If the mother is Alce, a prostitute, they will have no right of inheritance, of course. “I think you all know her”, says Isaeus referring to Alce, while addressing the male judges, as if no further evidence was needed on the lady’s identity. 28 The speaker is building a tie with his audience, a male unity defined by pushing women outside of the boundaries of the civic community. Alce was also represented as responsible for demolishing the harmony of Euctemon’s oikos. Until she came on the scene, the man’s life was peaceful and honourable, and he could be considered happy and respectable, but the bad girl Alce drove him to madness: 29 τούτου δὲ τοῦ χρόνου τὸν μὲν πλεῖστον ἐδόκει εὐδαίμων εἶναι, καὶ γὰρ οὐσία ἦν οὐκ ὀλίγη αὐτῷ καὶ παῖδες καὶ γυνή, καὶ τἆλλ᾽ ἐπιεικῶς εὐτύχει. ἐπὶ γήρως δὲ αὐτῷ συμφορὰ ἐγένετο οὐ μικρά, ἣ ἐκείνου πᾶσαν τὴν οἰκίαν ἐλυμήνατο καὶ χρήματα πολλὰ διώλεσε καὶ αὐτὸν τοῖς οἰκειοτάτοις εἰς διαφορὰν κατέστησεν. For most of this period [Euctemon] had the reputation of being a fortunate man; he possessed considerable property and had children and a wife, and in all other respects enjoyed a reasonable degree of prosperity. In his old age, however, a serious misfortune befell him, which brought ruin to his house, caused him great financial loss, and set him at variance with his nearest relatives.

House (oikia), money (chrēmata), and relatives (oikeiotatoi), were all suddenly put at risk. Isaeus describes a path that leads the oikos from unity and decency to separation and conflict. The portrait of corruption in Euctemon’s family life is unequivocal: the humble and unknown wife is set against the unscrupulous courtesan; an old man is trapped by a young former prostitute. A fascinating narrative designed to mesmerize and shock the audience, showing how disruption of unity provoked misfortune (symphora) for the whole domestic group.  27 Ferrucci 2001; see also Gagarin 2003; Griffith Williams 2013. 28 Isae. 6.19. 29 Isae. 6.18.

  Stefano Ferrucci In Ciron’s case, in order to endorse the speaker’s claim of being Ciron’s ekgonos, Isaeus needs to demonstrate that the speaker’s mother belongs to the oikos as a legitimate daughter of its kyrios, and that she is not a stranger (or worse, as suggested by Wyse). 30 In the other speeches (3 and 6), the women are being indicted for their status, transforming alleged mothers into prostitutes. Regarding female roles inside the community, it always seems possible to insinuate the question of identity that defines them: legitimate brides, concubines, hetairai, prostitutes (pornai), foreigners; sometimes combining two or more elements (except, of course, in the case of a woman presented as astē kai gametē). These are significant differences, and decisive in terms of status. Yet, the spaces to prove their identity are small, the arguments all reversible.

 Inside the polis: Vanishing Mothers and Deceitful Citizens Outside hereditary cases, a famous example is offered by the violent exchange of accusations, between Aeschines and Demosthenes, on the identity and activities of their respective mothers. 31 Aeschines presents Demosthenes’ mother as a Scythian woman, the daughter of a fugitive metic, a traitor to Athens, sentenced to death in absentia. 32 Demosthenes attacks his rival’s mother by claiming that the pretentious name Glaucotea in fact conceals a prostitute, “as everyone knows” (ἅπαντες ἴσασι), called Empousa, a sinister name interpreted as evidence for disreputable sexual practices. 33 The woman’s metonomasia, already present in the case of Callippe/Alce, is another indication of the possibility of constructing new female identities with relative ease, associating a respectable public name with a sort of nom de guerre: in the Athenian law-courts it seems easy to give the name of Alce or Empousa to basically any woman; reference to a change of name has also the rhetorical advantage of appearing as the discovery of their true identity and nature. It is interesting that, in the same passages, both orators speak little of the other’s fathers: Aeschines admits that there is nothing to say

 30 Wyse 1904, 585, 590. 31 See recently Worman 2004. 32 Aeschin. 3.171–172. 33 Dem. 18.130.

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about Demosthenes’ father, adding, reluctantly, that “one should not lie”. 34 Demosthenes merely makes a pun on the name of Aeschines’ father, transforming it from Ἀτρόμητος to Τρόμης. 35 The allegations concern mothers, as strangers, or prostitutes, unfit to convey civic identity and status to their children. Needless to say, neither Aeschines nor Demosthenes brought charges of usurpation of citizenship against the other: image damage was sufficient, and easy to achieve through appeal to female identities. Mothers are fertile soil for discrediting sons (and daughters), contesting their rights or even threatening their status. Apollodoros’ Against Neaira offers a summary of arguments against fake mothers. Like Alce in Isae. 6, Apollodoros introduces Neaira’s alleged role as mother of Stephanus’ children as an unexpected disclosure, through a long narrative of the lady’s adventurous life. The orator uses almost all the same arguments outlined above against Neaira and her daughter Phano, presented as foreigners and prostitutes. Neaira is even a former slave. 36 In his prokatalēpsis, he rejects as misleading the possible signs of recognition of the civic status of the two women: Phano’s dowry was in fact coerced and her husband deceived; her participation in the city cults as wife of the archōn basileusis no evidence of her civic status, but, if anything, a sacrilege. Phano too changed her name, from Strybele; together with her mother she attended banquets and practised prostitution. Stephanos, Neaira’s alleged husband, refused the basanos proposed by Apollodoros for his slaves. A large and grotesque collection of topics in Isaeus’ speeches mentioned above are here gathered together. What is new is that Apollodoros refers to Phano throughout the speech as “daughter of Neaira and not of Stephanos”; as if to suggest that Neira assumed paternal functions, abandoning the role suitable for women astai kai gametai: transferring the identity without leaving a trace. 37 Neaira, in his narrative, left on Phano a more than obvious trace, and a sort of metronymic was forged for her: the girl was the daughter, “not of Stephanus but of Neaira”. 38 It is Apollodoros himself who formalized a ‘rhetoric of (dis)unity’ for the female world, in the notorious passage that distinguishes wives, concubines and hetairai in relation to paidopoieisthai, which is the prerogative of the first only. 39

 34 Aeschin. 3.171. 35 Dem. 18.130. 36 On the speech Against Neaira see Carey 1992; Kapparis 1999; on Apollodoros’ construction of Neaira’s identity see Patterson 1994; Kamen 2003, 3–43; Glazebook 2005; Ead. 2006. 37 See Blundell 1995, 118–119; 128–129. 38 [Dem.] 59.50–51, 65–67, 72, 119. 39 [Dem.] 59.122.

  Stefano Ferrucci But the other two categories can also have children and, if the rigidity of the distinction is disregarded, who will separate legitimate and unlawful children? The (dis)unity of the female world is presented by Apollodorus as necessary to the proper order of Athens. In his final appeal, he asks the judges to vote “who for the wife, who for the daughter, who for the mother, who for the city and her laws and her cults”; the good Athenian women would be offended by a vote in favor of Neaira; bad women will take advantage of it, thinking they can have the same rights as Athenian citizens. 40 The defence of the disunity of the female world is the guarantee of the unity of the Athenian community itself. Apollodoros was free from such concerns: being a citizen poiētos, his status does not depend on his mother’s identity — which, by the way, is well known to be that of Archippe, a mother with whom Apollodoros had a very interesting and troubling history. 41

 Athenian Vanishing Motherhood The rhetoric of Athenian society and its family groups as a unity is apparently built on the disarticulation of the female world, where there are only citizen women (politides), legitimate wives (astai kai gametai), who live inside the oikos following its rules; and outsiders, who are strangers to the domestic space, not entitled to give birth to legitimate offspring. The latter are represented as the complete opposite of the politides: foreigners, apeleutherai, slaves; herairai or pornai. Judicial practice, however, shows that defending the legitimate mother's status as a woman, as a daughter and wife of Athenian citizens, was subject to considerable grey areas. So, mothers are difficult to identify, and, paradoxically one could say that in Athens mater semper incerta. Rhetorical tools used to prove a women’s status as mother are based on tekmēria offered by social and family practices (gamēlia and other legitimate family celebrations as against banquets and male reunions inappropriate to honest women); religious practices women had (or had not) attended (Thesmophoria, rural Dionysia, domestic cults); personal behaviour witnessed by (male) citizens. Refusal of basanos is often claimed as rhetorical evidence, because slaves supposedly know who’s who inside the household. This also means that female status relies on slaves’ declarations, while both women’s statements (not allowed in court), and statements by citizens about women, cannot be trusted. Very often

 40 [Dem]. 59.111, 114. 41 Ferrucci 2013.

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the speaker addresses the audience aiming first, to establish complicity with the (male) judges: “I think you all know her” — “as everybody knows” (Isae. 6.19; Dem. 18.130); and second, to compare the lascivious behaviour of contested Athenian women with the judges’ own female relatives and to urge them to protect their women’s rights (Isae. 3.11–14; [Dem.] 59.112–114). On the other side, speakers imply that, for legitimate and honest Athenian women, it is difficult to say — and even more to prove — anything (Isae. 8, 6 “how is one to clearly prove all this?”) and the lack of witnesses and evidence is in itself an argument on behalf of the speaker’s case. A final consideration comes from the founding myth of Athenian democracy: all Athenians are autochthones. In the democratic rhetoric of the creation of Athenians lies the fuller formulation of the rhetoric of the unity of Athenian citizens, sons of their land. The Epitaphioi logoi can define the Attic soil as both mother and fatherland of the whole community (Lys. 2.17: ἀλλ᾽ αὐτόχθονες ὄντες τὴν αὐτὴν ἐκέκτηντο μητέρα καὶ πατρίδα, “they were born of the soil, and possessed in one and the same country their mother and their fatherland”, transl. Lamb). 42 The maternal figure is associated — and confused, and dissipated — within the paternal one, as Loraux brilliantly revealed in her interpretation of the myth. 43 The Athenian political community took the mother’s identity into consideration, provided that it was a projection of the male identity of the father or, at least, the kyrios. Regardless of the important role played by some women within their domestic realities (as recent studies correctly acknowledge for Athens), the rhetoric of building civic identity and status subsumed the idea of motherhood within the figure of the father. Each individual definition of maternal identity is threatening to the unity of the oikos and, consequently, to the whole community of the polis. To give identity to mothers was, after the law of Pericles, legally necessary, but remained culturally and socially scandalous, or perhaps, simply unthinkable.

 42 See also Isocr. 4.25; [Dem.] 60.4; Lyc. 1.48 for an even more extremistic exclusion of mothers in the couple: patēr/patris. 43 Loraux 1990, 50–72: “dans la cité d’Athéna, l’autochtonie s’accomode au moin d’une maternité metaphorique” (59–60); “Aussi n’a-t-on aucune difficulté à déchiffrer, derrière l’orthodoxie de l’autocthonie collective, l’image prégnant du couple parental, lors même que, fidèle à l’esprit du discours militaire, l’orateur refuse à la femme toute part dans la naissance légitime de citoyens athéniens” (66); on the “paternal” role of Athena, see Loraux 1990, 64–65.

  Stefano Ferrucci

Bibliography Bettini, M. (2018), Nascere. Storie di donne, donnole, madri ed eroi, Torino. Blok, J. (2005), ‘Becoming Citizens. Some Notes on the Semantic of “Citizen” in Archaic Greece and Classical Athens’, in: Klio 87, 7–40. Blok, J. (2009) ‘Pericles’ Citizenship Law: A New Perspective’, in: Historia 58, 141–170. Blok, J. (2017), Citizenship in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Bosworth, A.B. (2000), ‘The Historical Context of Thucydides’ Funeral Oration’, in: JHS 120, 1– 16. Bultrighini, U./Di Mauro, E. (2014) (eds.), Donne che contano nella storia greca, Lanciano. Cohen, E. (2000), The Athenian Nation, Princeton. Connelly, J.B. (2007), Portrait of a Priestess. Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece, Princeton. Cox, C.A. (1996), Household Interests. Property, Marriage Stategies, and Family Dynamics in Ancient Athens, Princeton. Demand, N. (1994), Birth, Death, and Motherhood in Classical Greece, Baltimore. Fantasia, U. (2003) (ed.), Tucidide, La guerra del Peloponneso, Libro II, Pisa. Faraguna, M. (2014), ‘Citizens, Non-Citizens, and Slaves: Identification Methods in Classical Greece’, in: M. Depauw/S. Coussement (eds.), Identifiers and Identification Methods in the Ancient World. Legal Documents in Ancient Societies III, Leuven, 165–183. Ferrucci, S. (2001), ‘Gli schiavi dell’oikos ad Atene: la testimonianza delle orazioni di Iseo, in: Routes et marchés dʹesclaves. 26e colloque du GIREA, Besançon 27–29 septembre 2001, sous la dir. de M.Garrido-Hory, Besançon-Paris, 29–51. Ferrucci, S. (2005), Iseo, La successione di Kiron, introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento, Pisa. Ferrucci, S. (2013), ‘Archippe, la moglie del banchiere’, in: RCCM 55, 11–28. Foxhall, L. (1989), ‘Household, Gender and Property in Classical Athens’, in: CQ 39, 22–44. Foxhall, L. (1994), ‘Pandora Unbound: A Feminist Critique of Foucault’s History of Sexuality’, in: A. Cornwall/N. Lindisturre (eds.), Dislocating Masculinity: Comparative Ethnographies, London, 133–146. Foxhall, L. (1996), ‘The Law and the Lady’, in: L. Foxhall/A.D.E. Lewis (eds.), Greek Law in its Political Settings, Oxford, 133–152. Gagarin, M. (2003), ‘Telling Stories in Athenian Law’, in: TAPhA 133, 197–207. Griffith Williams, B. (2013), A Commentary on Selected Speeches of Isaios, Leiden/Boston. Hackworth Petersen, L./Slazman Mitchell, P. (2012) (eds.), Mothering and Motherhood in Ancient Greece and Rome, Toronto. Hansen, M.H. (1991), The Athenian Democracy in the Age of Demosthenes, Oxford. Hornblower, S. (1991), A Commentary on Thucydides, I: Books I-III, Oxford. Lacey, W.K. (1964), ‘Thucydides II, 45, 2’, in: PCPhS, 10, 47–49. Longo, O. (2000), Tucidide, Epitafio di Pericle per i caduti del primo anno di guerra, Venezia. Loraux, N. (1981), L’invention d’Athènes. Histoire de l’oraison funèbre dans la ‘citè classique’, Paris/La Haye/New York. Loraux, N. (1989), Les expériences de Tirésias. Le féminin et l’homme grec, Paris. Ogden, D. (1996), Greek Bastardy in the Classical and Hellenistic Period, Oxford. Osborne, R. (1997), ‘Law, the Democratic Citizen and the Representation of Women in Classical Athens’, in: P&P 155, 3–33. Osborne, R. (2010), Athens and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge/New York.

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Parker, R. (2005), Polytheism and Society at Athens, Oxford. Patterson, C. (1996), ‘Review of Demand N., Birth, Death, and Motherhood in Classical Greece, Baltimore 1994’, in: AJPh 117, 2, 323–325. Pernot, L. (2015), Epideictic Rhetoric. Questioning the Stakes of Ancient Praise, Austin. Rhodes, P.J. (1981), A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia, Oxford. Rusten, J.S. (1989), Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, Book II, Cambridge. Schaps, D.M. (1977), ‘The Woman Least Mentioned: Etiquette and Women’s Names’, in: CQ 27, 323–330. Worman, N. (2004), ‘Insult and Oral Excess in the Disputes between Aeschines and Demosthenes’, in: AJPh 125, 1–25.

T. Davina McClain

Cato vs Valerius/Men vs Women: Rhetorical Strategies in The Oppian Law Debate in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita Livy begins Book 34 of the Ab Vrbe Condita with a debate about the repeal of the Oppian Law, a law Livy does not mention at the time of its passage, but the repeal of which provides him with the opportunity to craft two speeches which make an argument beyond the issue at hand: through this debate, Livy asserts the primacy of his own history over other accounts of Rome’s past as the guide for determining the right course of action for Romans. Livy makes his case by having Cato, a historian in his own right, 1 base his argument on a fabula and on examples contrary to known history. In contrast, Livy writes for Valerius, the plebeian tribune, a speech with evidence supported by Livy’s own historical narrative. Livy gives the winning speech a basis in his own history to prove that Rome’s documented past provides the better guide for Roman actions and, ultimately, for what it means to be Roman. 2 Livy explicitly states in his preface that his purpose for writing history is to define the Roman past as a lesson for the Roman present: he is going to record how Rome built its power and how the unity of the Roman state began to fall apart (Pr. 9). Hoc illud est praecipue in cognitione rerum salubre ac frugiferum, omnis te exempli documenta in illustri posita monument intueri; inde tibi tuaeque rei publicae quod imitere capias, inde foedum inceptu, foedum exitu, quod vites. This is that especially healthy and productive thing in the knowledge of actions (res): that you can examine records of every example established in a shining monument; from this

 1 Most scholars accept that Cato’s Origines were written as a historical text, Badian 1966. For a contrary view, see Sciarrino 2004. Sciarrino’s emphasis on the performative aspect of some fragments does not discount Cato’s work as history. Livy’s own history has been sometimes criticized for the performative or dramatic nature of some episodes. Livy’s purpose, in my view, was to write history as Cicero said it should be written so that people would enjoy and, therefore, read the text (De Legibus 1.3.8). 2 Woolf 2001, 315, notes that constructing Roman identity was a shared purpose of Vergil’s Aeneid and Livy’s history. For the issue of Rome’s “identity crisis”, see Fletcher 2014, esp. Introduction. See also Chiu 2016, 63–91. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-017

  T. Davina McClain may you take for yourself and your state what you should imitate, from this what you should avoid as corrupt from the start, corrupt in its outcome. (Pr. 10, transl. McClain)

Livy was not, however, the only writer of the Augustan period who was crafting a work to codify the Roman past for the Roman present. Vergil’s Aeneid equally sought to define the mythical founding of the Roman race, its link to Troy, and even particular historical persons and events. 3 That a rivalry existed between these two Augustan writers has been suggested by both Woodman and Sailor. Woodman’s analysis of Aeneid 8.630–662 argues that “Virgil has produced a sustained critique of Livy’s description of events in his first pentad and that he has drawn attention to his procedure by the means of an historiographical technique”, 4 specifically Vergil’s prefatory lines at 8.626–9 and his chronological description of the images on the shield. 5 Woodman then points to Livy’s Pr. 6–8, in which Livy privileges history over poetry: “such characteristic rationalism on the part of an historian towards poetry amounted to a challenge which Virgil could hardly refuse”. 6 I suggest that Livy used the Oppian Law to respond to Vergil’s foray into his realm. 7 But it was not just the poet who seems to have questioned Livy’s auctoritas to construct a true account of Rome’s past. Sailor sees “an implicit competition of authority between Livy’s historiographical project and Augustus’s own status as the one who represents Rome’s past” in the dispute between the historian and the princeps regarding the spolia opima. 8 Because, according to Sailor, Livy produced his work with “ambitions of being definitive”, 9 he undermined Augustus’ assertion that the inscription on the linen breastplate named L. Cornelius Cossus

 3 The underworld sequence in Book 6.756–886 and Aeneas’ shield in Book 8.626–728 move from the mythological to the historical realm. 4 Woodman 1989, 139. 5 Woodman 1989, 142, n. 17, details the arguments of those who have noted Virgil’s use of historiographical techniques in other areas, as well as issues about the relative dates of composition of these two works. See also Edgeworth 2001, which examines the different choices made by Livy and Vergil on the mother of Ascanius and especially the opposition between the Livian/Catonian versions versus the Vergilian. For a detailed analysis of the shield in reference to Livy’s narrative, see Harrison 1997. 6 Woodman 1989, 140. 7 Perl and El-Qalqili 2002 suggest that there was no Lex Oppia. Although it is impossible to prove, such an idea lends support the suggestion that this debate has a purpose beyond the recounting a historical event. 8 Sailor 2006, 330. For an additional suggestion about Augustus’ willingness to alter historical records, see Taylor 1951. 9 Sailor 2006, 335.

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as a consul by stating that “I have followed all authors before me” (4.20.5: omnes ante me auctores secutus) and by framing Augustus’ testimony as a matter of religious import (4.20.7: prope sacrilegium ratus sum … subtrahere testem), something Livy repeatedly questions. 10 Sailor’s detailed analysis of the spolia opima, along with Livy’s remarks about Mars in the preface and his rejection of fabulae, offer a compelling case for Livy’s determination that he, as a historian, “should be invested with the auctoritas to make truth”, 11 not the princeps and, as I argue, not the poet. 12

 The Oppian law debate The Oppian Law debate has garnered the attention of scholars primarily in an attempt to determine the true purpose of the law. 13 This dispute figures in the debate itself: Cato argues throughout that it is a sumptuary law aimed at women, while Valerius points circumstances in which the law was passed as evidence for its purpose: in the midst of the Second Punic war, after the battle of Cannae and other disasters, when the city was in dire need of resources (34.6.10–14). A look at Livy’s account of the events preceding and during Q. Fabius and Ti. Sempronius’ consulship (215 B.C.) reveals that, although there is no mention of this law, the senate’s first act of the year was to double the war tax and to collect half immediately in order to pay soldiers (23.31.1). The demonstrable importance of financing the war supports Valerius’ argument, even if Livy does not mention this specific law at the time. Nothing in the narrative, however, suggests that the Romans were concerned with women’s luxuries. Livy’s historical narrative, therefore, does not support Cato’s representation of the past. Yet, Livy’s own introduction to the debate problematizes the situation by providing an image of uproar as the context for the debate (34.1.1): “among the  10 Sailor 2006, 336–340. See also Harrison 1989, 410–411, with the additional discussion of Propertius 4.10. 11 Sailor 2006, 382. See also pp. 381–382. Cicero too warns against treating fabulae as historical accounts (De Legibus 1.1.3–4, 1.2.5). 12 Here, then, Livy is privileging history over poetry and himself/his work over fabula and fama. He has, therefore, asserted a hierarchy within Roman literature, as well as among Roman authors/authorities. As I will show, the Oppian Law debate reinforces this hierarchy of history over poetry and over even the authority of Augustus. 13 See Culham 1982, Chaplin 2000; Agati Madeira 2004, 87–92; Feichtinger 2015, 683–688. More recently Vassiliades (2020) has argued that the two speeches spotlight the failure to prevent the negative effects of luxuria.

  T. Davina McClain concerns about great wars (bellorum magnorum), either almost at the borders or threatening, intervened a matter small to talk about (res parva dictu), but which because of partisanship (studiis) grew into a great contest (magnum certamen)”. 14 Such a vague and ominous introduction captures his audience’s attention before he provides the details of the debate: two tribunes of the plebs have proposed a repeal of the Oppian Law, which dictated In the consulship of Q. Fabius and Ti. Sempronius in the middle of the heat (in medio ardore) of the Punic War that no woman should possess more than a half ounce of gold nor wear multicolored clothing nor be carried in a cart in a city or town or nearer than a mile, except for the sake of public religious events (34.1.3–3). 15

Livy’s use of in medio ardore in his description of the context emphasizes the distress of the time in which the law was passed. Next Livy adds details to the conflict: two other tribunes oppose repealing the law. At this point, it appears to be a battle between plebeian officials, but then the participants change: “for the purpose of persuading and opposing, many nobles were coming forth” (34.1.4). The nobles and tribunes are then joined by a crowd of people (turba hominum) arguing for and against the repeal. Finally, the women arrive (34.1.5–6): Married women (matronae) were able to be restrained indoors by neither the authority of nor respect for nor the command of their husbands. They besieged all the roadways of the city and entryways into the forum, begging the men as they descended into the forum, since the state was flourishing, since the private fortune of all was growing day by day, to allow the previous ornaments to be returned to matrons (matronis). This abundance of women (mulierum) was growing day by day because they were coming even from the towns and settlements. 16

By introducing the debate with an argument from the women that prosperity has returned and with it should be returned their ornamenta, Livy points toward Valerius’ characterization of the law as a fundraising measure in dire times, a situation in the past different from the one in which Romans now find themselves. 17

 14 Studiis here is akin to stasis in Greek historical and political works: the idea of imbalance. See Serafim 2020, 673–695. 15 By identifying women, and perhaps specifically wealthy women, as the social group who were required to give up something, the narrative reveals a dependence of the state on the resources that women possessed. 16 Santoiro L’Hoir 1997, 77–99, addresses Livy’s use of various terms for women, especially femina and mulier. 17 Vassiliades 2019, 136, argues that Livy does not express his own view about the purpose of the law but, he is not explicit because it is not his practice to be. He lets his presentation of the

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In this preface to the debate Livy has constructed the physical disunity of the Roman internal audience: 18 on one side are two tribunes, some men, and all the women; on the other side are two tribunes and some men. 19 He has set up the distinction between a res parva dictu and the bella magna which surround it, as well as the magnum certamen it inspires. Of the speeches which follow, one attempts to maintain the disunity but rearrange the sides. The other challenges the idea that there has been or should be a division in the Roman community. The first speaker, however, is not one Livy has introduced thus far, but rather one of the consuls, Marcus Porcius Cato. Since, according to Briscoe, there is no evidence for Cato’s speech, the speech Livy has him delivered, as with the speech the tribune Valerius offers in rebuttal, is Livy’s composition. 20 Cato begins (34.2.1–2): If each of us (quisque nostrum), Citizens, had determined to retain the right and majesty of a husband in regards to his own wife, we would have less trouble with women as a whole (uniuersis feminis). Now, after our freedom at home has been conquered by female lack of control, here also in the forum it is destroyed and trampled, and because we were not able to deal with individual women, we shudder at them as a whole (uniuersas).

Cato’s language immediately redraws the lines: “each of us” and “we men” stand in opposition to “women as a whole”. The first-person plural verbs allow Cato to

 events speak and his readers make up their minds. He does, however, steer readers to certain conclusions. In this instance, the context of the time, Livy’s introduction to the debate, and the words of the women prior to the debate all point to a law to raise funds for the war. For the problem of wealth in creating internal division or stasis, see Serafim 2020, 673–695. 18 For the importance of Livy’s awareness of the internal and the external audience, see Chaplin 2000. 19 In laying out the sides, Livy has drawn attention to a variety of layers of disunity: the plebian tribunes and men in general are social groups that fall on each side of the argument. Thus, while they share a social identity, they do not share the same political/personal view about the law. These “groups”, therefore, are fragmented. Women, on the other hand, are represented as a social group unified on one side of the argument, although Livy will have Cato suggest that, while all women want the repeal, there are different reasons for that view within the “group” of women. For more about social identity theory, see Tajfel 1982. 20 Briscoe 1981, 39ff. notes that there are no fragments of a Catonian speech on the Oppian Law extant and that Livy’s standard practice was not to create a speech when an original existed. C. Smith 2010, 266ff, in contrast, argues that Livy’s speeches, rather than being created solely by the historian, derived from some previous evidence in the historical tradition, but allows that Livy still had some flexibility (279).

  T. Davina McClain draw the men in his audience over to his side, 21 ignoring the division among men which Livy described, while setting up women as a group as the opponent. 22 With the introduction of Cato, Livy has established the first spokesman for the dominant group or ingroup, a male in the highest position of political power. His speech is an attempt to define the out-group, in order to set up clear divisions within his audience. Cato returns to the singular as he introduces his first piece of “evidence” from the past (34.2.3–4): Indeed, I used to think that it was a myth and a fictitious story (fabulam et fictam rem) 23 that a whole race of men (uirorum omne genus) on some island was destroyed root and branch by a female conspiracy. From no race (nullo genere) is there not the greatest danger (summum periculum) if should you allow gatherings and meetings and secret discussions.

Cato’s invoking of the tale of the Lemnian women, a mythological story, may be surprising, but the choice of such an extreme example suits the tone that Livy creates for Cato. 24 More importantly, by suggesting that what he previously believed was fabula now provides a trustworthy warning for his audience, Cato embraces fabula over historia. 25 Livy then has Cato addressed the men directly — si … sinas “if you should allow” — and individually to draw them back into the situation at hand, with the suggestion that men have a chance to prevent such danger. 26 Yet, the women are

 21 For the inclusive and exclusive nature of “we”, see Kursell 2010, 226. For the questionable weight of the authority conveyed by “we”, see Schmid 2014. “We” also has the potential to include the reader. See Chamberlain 2001. 22 Such divisions within the republic make conflict inevitable. For an analysis of such conflict within the body politic, see Serafim 2020, 673–695. See also Livy’s account of Menenius Agrippa’s tale of the body and limbs at 2.32.8–12. 23 Livy occasionally pairs fabula with another word or phrase that enhances its connotation as a false or questionable account. See 7.6.6 and 26.19.7 with fama and 37.48.6 with rumor. 24 The story occurred in Euripides’ Hypsipyle (now fragmentary) and in the Argonautica 1.609– 909. The women killed all the men on the island (only Hypsipyle saved her father) because the men had rejected the women (who had been cursed by Aphrodite) and brought back slave women as lovers. This particular example, however, seems to warn more about the danger of treating women, especially wives, badly, and therefore, to some extent, undermines Cato’s argument. 25 Bettini 2008, 364, has noted that “Livy classifies tales that are historically suspect as fabulae.” For the full discussion, see 363–368. See also Marincola 2007, 123–124, who discusses Livy’s use of fabula to refer to myths or to a stage play. Of the 22 instances of fabula in Livy’s narrative, all have the connotation of an unsubstantiated report. 26 For the power of arousing fear as a rhetorical technique, see Kapust 2008.

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not threatening men, and they are not in secret meetings but out in public. Because there is nothing secret about their actions in Livy’s account, Cato has not represented the situation as it is before his and his audience’s very eyes. With this example and the associated warnings, Livy has begun to establish a sense of disunity between Cato’s words and what both his internal and external audiences observe. Cato next ponders the implications of the situation, as he sees it. He separates out what will happen about the law (34.2.5): “your (uestra) determination whether or not this is best for the state pertains to you (uos) who will vote”. With regard to the magistrates (34.2.6–7), the women’s mutiny (consternatio muliebris) is shameful (deformis) for all: “I do not know whether it is more shameful for you tribunes or for the consuls”. The tribunes, if they are the driving force behind the women’s actions; “for us (consuls), if as once because of the secession of the plebs now because of a secession of women laws have to be received”. By likening this situation to the one which created the tribuneship, Cato invokes the split between patrician and plebeian and disparages the office of tribune. 27 Yet the tribuneship represents a compromise at a time when Rome was deeply divided because neither side recognized the interdependence of their survival within the state. Therefore, although on the surface Cato’s reference aims at creating disunity, it equally invokes an instance in which narrative created community. At the same time, Cato poses the threat of a secession of women, something with no basis in the description of the current event. Cato now shifts to his personal experience of entering the forum (34.2.8–10): It was not without some embarrassment a little bit before that I entered the forum through a column of women. If respect for the dignity and the modesty of individuals (singularum) more than for the whole group (uniuersarum) had not restrained me, so that they did not seem to be reproached by a consul, I would have said ‘what is this habit of running out in public and besieging the roads and calling strange men by name? Were not each of you able to ask this very thing of your own men at home? Or are you more enticing in public than in private and to strange men rather than to your own (Aut blandiores in publico quam in priuato et alienis quam uestris estis)? Although not even at home, if modesty were restraining matrons (matronas) in the limits of its own rule, was it fitting for you to care what laws were being proposed or repealed here.

 27 Livy recounts the secession of the plebs at 2.32.1–33.3. The division between plebeians and patricians is mediated by Menenius Agrippa’s story of the body and the limbs (2.32.8–12). Interestingly, Livy does not use the term fabula to describe Agrippa’s analogy. Perhaps Livy wanted to convey the truth of the need for concordia ordinum.

  T. Davina McClain Cato continues to foster division: individual versus group, strangers versus family, public versus private, home versus forum, husband versus wife. But again, these are words Cato did not say. Cato’s reported but undelivered speech to the women injects questions about women’s morality, with the implication that men cannot trust the women in their homes. Indeed, praeteritio is a valuable rhetorical device to say what one says he is not saying, but these indictments of women have no basis. Indeed, although Cato says there are women in the crowd that he respects and that he did not want them to seem to be reproached by a consul, now he has done exactly what he said he would not do. After offering the words he did not say to the women, Cato again addresses the men with an inclusive first person plural and focuses on the issue of control with the message that “we men” need to control “them women” (34.2.11–3.2). “Our ancestors” (34.2.11: maiores nostri) established checks on the actions of women in private matters, but “we” (nos) are letting them almost mingle in meetings. Cato then speaks to the men directly, warning them about the danger that the women will present if they get their way with this law. He lays the responsibility on the men (34.3.2–4): If you let (patiemini) them seize individual powers and twist out of them and finally make themselves equal to men, do you believe (creditis) that they will be tolerable to you (uobis)? … You ordered (iussistis) the law with your votes (suffragiis uestris) … you have approved (comprobastis) of it for so many years … when you repeal (abrogetis) this law you will weaken (infirmetis) the rest of the laws.

The repeated second person plurals put the men under attack from Cato’s words, just as he wants them to feel under attack by the women. 28 In the process, Cato shifts the focus of the men: the contest between men and women for power in the home becomes one which endangers the power of the state. But he also suggests that this law has existed for a long time, something which is untrue, as Livy’s introduction has already made clear. Cato acknowledges that it is impossible for every law to accommodate everyone, but as long as a law is good for the majority, that is best situation (34.3.5). He then returns to attacking the women: “I want to hear why this matronal tumult (matronae consternatae) has run out into public and scarcely restrained themselves from the forum and the assembly? So that captives might be ransomed from Hannibal — their parents, husbands, children, brothers?” (34.3.6). He next recalls when the women came together to receive the Idaean mother, an action  28 For the creation of fear in the internal audience as a rhetorical technique, see Kapust 2008, 358ff.

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proscribed to change the Romans fortunes in the war against Hannibal. 29 Cato here mentions two historical events in which women did come out as a group only to deny that those actions have anything in common with the current situation (34.3.8): “What honourable to describe reason applies to this female sedition (seditioni … muliebri)?” In dismissing the value of the previous actions of women as a group in Rome’s historical past, regardless of the purpose, Cato continues with language meant to enhance the sense of danger he wants his audience to feel. After asking the women their reason for coming out en masse, something for which he knows the answer, Cato now voices a fictitious response from a fictitious woman (34.3.9): “So that we may shine with gold and purple”, she says, “so we may be carried in carriages through the city on feast days and regular days, as if in triumph over a law that has been conquered and repealed and over captured and kidnapped votes of yours (suffragiis uestris): so that there is no limit to our spending, no limit to luxury”.

Again, he reports words that were never spoken, although this time he poses them as the speech of some unnamed woman. Through these pretend dialogues and through his rejection of women’s actual actions in the past as defining the character of Roman women, Livy has Cato create his own fabula about women and about the current situation. Just when Cato has women leading men’s votes in triumph, an image that emphasizes the opposition between men and women, Livy has the speech take a turn that places Cato in opposition to everyone. The consul states “you have heard” (audistis) his complaints about the growing obsession of women and men with luxuria and growing preference for foreign ornamenta over Roman simplicity (34.4.1–5). The rather strange change in message places both men and women in the position of being lectured by Cato. The shift undermines Cato’s attempt to separate men from women, as does the historical event he recalls next (34.4.6– 11): In the memory of our fathers, our enemy Pyrrhus through his envoy Cineas tempted the minds not only of men but even women with gifts (non uirorum modo sed etiam mulierum animos donis temptauit)…. If now Cineas were walking around the city with those gifts, he would find women standing in the street to accept them.

 29 See Livy 22.60.1–2 and 29.14.12–14.

  T. Davina McClain He notes that neither the Oppian Law nor any other law existed then to restrain women, making it clear he believes that now things would be different. Again, when Cato mentions actual events, they undermine his arguments about the novelty of women coming out in public and about their innate lack of restraint. Moreover, in the example of Cineas, he begins with talking about men and women, but then shifts just to women in the contrary-to-fact condition. What an accurate knowledge of the past shows is that, when tempted, women did not accept the bribes; when religious duty called, women did come out to help the state at a difficult time during the Second Punic War; and women did beg for the lives of the men in their families. None of these actions constituted a danger to the state, and all of these actions are documented as true events in Rome’s past. Building on his concern about luxury, he states the law makes things equal for everyone and for a second time speaks as a fictitious anonymous woman (34.4.14): “It is this very equality that I cannot bear’ that rich woman says. ‘Why do I not stand out distinguished by gold and purple? Why does the poverty of other women lie hidden under the cover of this law, so that it seems that she would have, if it were permitted, what she cannot have”.

Cato argues that wealth itself creates disunity within the state. 30 At the same time, he imputes a division within women for which there is no evidence. If the suggestion is that his internal audience includes women, this imagined conversation might make a difference, but his immediate shift to addressing the men makes it clear that he is trying to implant worries in the minds of is internal male audience. After constructing this battle between women, he addresses the men again (34.4.15): “Do you wish to begin this contest for your wives, Citizens…?” He continues pitting men against women by implying that, if a husband does not give a wife what she wants, she will get it from some other man, just as “now as a crowd they are asking strange men and, what is greater, they are asking about a law and votes and they are getting what they want from certain men” (34.4.18). And worse, he warns, if they repeal the law, women will not behave as they once did: “It is safer for a guilty man not to be accused than to be released, and luxury not aroused would be more endurable than it will be now, like a wild beast, enraged by its bonds and then released”. Thus, he concludes, it is better not to repeal the law.  30 For additional discussion of the stasis or disunity caused by wealth and the effect of imbalance within the body politic, see Vegetti 1983; Fuks 1984; Orwin 1988; Kosak 2000; Serafim 2020, 673–695.

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In the process of arguing against the repeal of the law, Cato has drawn and redrawn lines between various groups in creating the conflict surrounding the law and attempting to inspire fear in the men who, as the dominant group, should have no reason to fear any other group within the state. 31 Yet, Cato has cited no time in Rome’s past that women have posed a danger to men; in fact, all of Cato’s historical references have represented women as acting appropriately and for the best interest of the men in their lives and of the state, contrary to his attempt to describe them and immoral and dangerous. 32 The only evidence of a threat he has presented comes from a Greek myth. Although the tone of speech fits the character of Cato the Censor, 33 the content of Cato’s speech has more to do with setting up Valerius’ response than making a serious case against repealing the Oppian Law. Livy has specifically written a speech for Cato that fails at using history properly. Therefore, the following examination of Valerius’ speech will look both at how he responds to Cato, but also at what Livy sought to achieve in setting up this particular debate. Livy provides a transition between the two speeches by noting that the tribunes who opposed the repeal also spoke. By this mention, the historian has emphasized that he made a choice about whose speeches he wanted to include. At this point, Livy has the tribune Valerius step up to speak (34.5.1–2): If private citizens only had come forth to support and oppose this measure which is being proposed by us, I also, since I thought that enough has been said on each side, would have silently awaited your votes (suffragia uestra): now that a most illustrious man, the consul Marcus Porcius, using not only his authority (auctoritate) which, when silent has enough influence but also a long and carefully prepared (accurata) speech, has attacked our proposal, it is necessary to respond with a few words.

Valerius’ opening hits all the key notes to draw his audiences (internal and external) to his side: he respects the view of citizens, but he has been compelled to speak because other officials have spoken, and specifically a uir clarissimus (34.5.1) has spoken. He is going to keep his remarks brief, compared to Cato’s

 31 For the nature of groups to foster discrimination, see Ng 1982, 179. For the role of the dominant group in defining the dominated groups and in defining who exercises power, see Deschamps 1982, 89. 32 Vassiliades 2019, 104–123 has argued that this debate is an example of failed persuasion. While I certainly agree that Cato’s speech is a failure because of its misuse of historical exempla, I disagree that both speeches constitute a failure: in the context of my reading of the debate, only Cato fails. Vassiliades asks different questions and poses a different answer to the function of this debate within Livy’s work. 33 See Valerius’ description of Cato at 34.5.6.

  T. Davina McClain lengthy speech. 34 The implication that his speech is spontaneous — the natural and immediate response to what he has heard — makes his words seem more credible. Further, Valerius makes it clear that his speech will explicitly respond to Cato’s. Valerius points out Cato’s “red herring” strategy (34.5.3): “he used more words in reproaching matrons than in speaking against our proposal, and indeed he put in doubt whether the women were acting of their own accord or at our instigation. I will defend the action, not us, against which the consul spoke more than he did about the case.” He then turns to Cato’s language (34.5.5–6): He called it a meeting and sedition and even a female secession because the matrons ask you in public to repeal a law that was passed against them in the difficult times (temporibus duris) during the war, since now the state is at peace and is flourishing and fortunate. I know (scio) that these and other big words are the sort sought out for the sake of bolstering a case (rei augendae causa), and we all know (scimus omnes) that Marcus Cato is not only a serious (grauem) speaker but even sometimes savage (trucem), although he is gentle (mitis) in character.

By scimus omnes Valerius brings the audience to his side, just as Cato did at the beginning of his speech. He cites the context in which the law was passed to establish early the reason for the law’s existence and the fact that the situation has changed, an assessment that is consistent with Livy’s preface to the debate (34.1.5–6). In addition, he mentions the rhetorical practice used to strengthen a weak case. Calling attention to Cato’s rhetorical strategies implies that his own speech does not need such artifice. Livy also has Valerius remark on the contrast between Cato’s words and his character: thus Cato himself represents a disunity, whereas the implication is that Valerius’ character and words will be consistent. In response to Cato’s argument that the women coming out into public is a new and shocking thing, Valerius’ turns to Cato’s own writings for evidence to the contrary (34.5.7): “I will unroll your own Origines against you” (Tuas aduersus te Origines reuoluam). 35 The “I” here is as much Livy as it is Valerius. Yet, Livy knows that the Origines did not exist at the time of this debate, so why does he seem to make this mistake? He does not, rather he has Valerius recount events from his own historical narrative which here replaces Cato’s account of Rome’s  34 Valerius’ speech is, in fact, slightly longer than Cato’s. 35 As many have noted, Cato did not begin his Origines until after his political and military career, and thus Valerius’ reference to Cato’s writings is anachronistic. Livy’s readers, however, would have been aware of Cato’s work. Valerius’ mention of the Origines emphasizes that he will invoke historical precedent, unlike Cato, as support for his argument. Moreover, he will use the evidence that Cato himself knew and recorded.

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past, just as the Ab Vrbe Condita is intended to supplant the Origines as the record of Roman history. The Cato of this debate does not accurately represent Rome’s past. Valerius, then, is the speaker who invokes historical exempla to make his case by listing times in Roman history that women have come out in public “and always for the public good” (34.5.8–10): a rush of matrons (cursu matronarum) ran between the Sabine and Roman battle lines to stop a war. When Coriolanus was about to attack the city, the matrons (matronae) came out as a group and turned him away. When Rome was captured by the Gauls, the matrons of their own accord (matronae consensu omnium) brought the gold needed to redeem the city. In the most recent war the widows put their own money into the treasury and the matrons as a whole came (matronae uniuersae) out to receive the Idaean Mother. 36 Valerius’ last example — the reception of the Idaean Mother — accomplishes two things: he invokes one of the actions Cato mentioned and turns it to support his own argument, and he uses the phrase matronae uniuersae, echoing Cato’s feminis uniuersis and uniuersae (34.2.1), redefining “women as a whole” as a group which, according to the evidence of the past, has helped Rome. By correcting Cato, Valerius’ speech functions as Livy’s response to those who distort past events to suit their own purposes. 37 Valerius then addresses the men, urging them not to emulate Cato’s savageness (34.5.13): “we have arrogant ears, by the gods, if, when masters do not reject the prayers of slaves, we should disdain to be appealed to by honourable women (honestis feminis)”. Valerius here nods toward Cato’s reputation for being harsh and then reminds his audience that “we” are not like him. The adjective honestis provides a counterpunch to Cato’s description of women as beasts and dangerous. These are women worthy of respect. 38 Valerius now turns to the law: “in regard to the law, the consul’s speech had two parts: indeed he was indignant that any law at all would be repealed and this law in particular which was passed for the sake of restraining female luxury”. Valerius summarizes Cato’s view about laws and the purpose of this law and explains that “unless I demonstrate what is untrue (uani) in both cases, there is a  36 The relevant passage in Livy’s narrative are Sabines 1.13.1–8; Coriolanus 2.40–1–12; Gauls 5.50.7; Widows 24.18.13–5; Idaean Mother 29.14.12–14. 37 As Sailor 2006 has pointed out, this twisting of the past is exactly what Augustus did in “rewriting” the inscription on the linen breastplate to change Cossus’ status to consul rather than military tribune. 38 With Valerius, Livy challenges the claim of one voice to define the relationship of the dominant group with dominated group, and he rejects Cato’s definition of the dominated group. And because Valerius can back up his definition with historical evidence, his definition is more valid. Thus Valerius, and by analogy Livy, becomes the historian that Cato is not.

  T. Davina McClain danger (periculum) that some error (error) will overwhelm you” (34.6.3). In Cato’s view, women were the greatest source of danger (34.2.4). To Valerius, a mistaken understanding of the issues — the nature and purpose of the law — constitutes the danger. Valerius begins by addressing the nature of laws: some laws should never be repealed because they have a permanent usefulness. Laws which are passed for a specific purpose and which are required by specific times, like war or peace, are “mortal, as I would say” (34.6.5: mortales, ut ita dicam). So what kind of law is this? Is it old? A royal law born at the same time as the city itself, or what follows, a law written on the Twelve Tables by the decimvirs who were elected to establish the laws, a law without which our ancestors did not think that matronal honour could be preserved, something that must also be respected by us so that we do not repeal the modesty and sanctity of women along with it? Who is there who does not know that this law is new, passed twenty years before in the consulship of Quintus Fabius and Tiberius Sempronius? And since matrons lived for so many years without it with the best characters, what danger (periculum) is there that they will rush to luxury? (34.6.7–9).

An old law which had proven necessary he would not ask to repeal. But this one is not, nor did it address a long-standing problem (34.6.10): “why it was passed, however, the time itself will indicate”. Valerius details the dire straits that the state was in with Hannibal’s successes in Italy, allies deserting, and a lack of military men and supplies. Because there was no money in the treasury, masters were promised to be paid for their slaves after the war. Senators were bringing all their gold and silver to the treasury; widows and wards were bringing their money to the treasury (34.6.15–18): At such a time were the women so occupied in luxury and jewelry that the Oppian Law was needed to restrain it, a time when the sacrifice for Ceres was not held because all of the women were grieving, and thus the senate had to order a thirty-day limit to the period of mourning? To whom is it not obvious that, because the monies of all private people had had to be diverted to public use, the need and misery of the state wrote this law which is going to remain longer than the reason for writing the law had remained? For if it is fitting for things either the senate decreed or the people ordered because of the circumstances at the time to be preserved forever, why are we returning funds to private people? Why do we place contracts for immediate payment? Why are slaves not still being bought for the army? Why are private citizens not paying for rowers just as we did then?

Valerius begins with a history of the development of Roman law, again demonstrating that he knows the past. By focusing on when the law was passed, differentiating it from long-standing laws, and making clear how much has changed since the time in which the law was passed, Valerius demonstrates the “mortality” of the law to his audience by. The repeated questions about what the Romans

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no longer have to do then give way to a description of the prosperity the Romans are now enjoying (34.7.1): “all other classes, all people feel that the state has changed into a better status: will the rewards of peace and tranquility not extend only to our wives?” He then lists all those who now wear purple and decorated togas: magistrates, priests, children, magistrates in colonies and municipalities, magistrates in villages — they wear them not only when they are living, but they are also cremated in them. “And yet we forbid to women the use of purple? When it is permitted to you as a husband to use purple in the clothing that covers you, will you not allow your materfamiliae to have a purple cloak and will your horse be decorated more attractively than your wife?” (34.7.3). Horse? The absurdity of Valerius’ last question breaks the tension of the speech and brings a moment of humour to the debate, while making the point that only women are excluded from having gold and fine cloth. While Valerius does allow that some restriction on cloth might be reasonable, if miserly, a restriction on gold, however, makes no sense because there “is a greater protection in it [gold] for both private uses and public, as you have just experienced” (34.7.4). Gold, and specifically the gold possessed by women, has provided Rome with a resource in some of its most dire circumstances, as history has shown. In response to Cato’s argument that if no women can have these things, there will be no rivalry, Valerius says: By Hercules, there is pain and indignation for all the women (uniuersis), when they see these jewels allowed to wives of allies of Latin status which are kept from them, when they see these women marked with gold and purple, when those women ride through the city, but they themselves follow on foot, as if power resides in the states of those women and not in their own. This would wound the hearts of men; what will you expect of little ladies (muliercularum), whom even small things affect? 39 (34.7.5–7)

By invoking the issue of Rome’s prestige and the egos of men Valerius makes the appearance of women a mark of Rome’s preeminence. 40 Valerius then challenges the idea that women want lack of restraint by men (34.7.12): Daughters, wives, sisters even will in some cases be less in control, yet never is female slavery shaken off as long as their own men are safe, and they themselves hate the freedom

 39 Livy has Valerius shift the definitions of the dominant-dominated groups here to Rome and its allies, attributing the possibility that this law cedes dominance, in terms of visible prestige, to the Latins. 40 Augustus was particularly concerned about the appearance of the women in his family as a sign of his reputation. See Boyer 2012–13, 3 for Augustus’ control of public images.

  T. Davina McClain which being a widow and orphan (uiditas et orbitas) provides. They prefer that their decorations be in your jurisdiction and not in that of a law. And you ought to have them in manus and in guardianship, not in slavery, and you ought to prefer to be called fathers and husbands rather than masters.

Valerius’ reproach to men in these words asks them to look inward and to think about the relationship that they should have with the women in their families. 41 More than that, uiditas et orbitas recall the first women of Rome, the Sabines, who declared they would rather die themselves than “live as widows or orphans (uiduae aut orbae) without one of you” (1.13.3). Valerius therefore also invokes Romulus’ promise to the kidnapped women: “that they will be married, that they will be sharers of all possessions and citizenship” (1.9.14). Rather than bombard the men with abuse, Valerius reminds them of their appropriate legal and personal relationships with the women of Rome. Valerius closes by one more challenge to Cato’s portrayal of women as dangerous (34.7.14–15): The consul used hateful terms (inuidiosis nominibus) by calling it a female sedition and secession, for there is this danger that they will seize the Sacred Mount, as angry plebs once did, or the Aventine. This weakness must endure (patiendum huic infirmitati est) whatever you decide. The more powerful you are, the more moderately you should use that power.

These final words again challenge Cato’s attempt to frighten the men into voting against the repeal. In impersonal terms, Valerius asserts that weakness (= women) is subordinate to men’s power to end his speech in the softest and most conciliatory terms. Or is this last statement directed to someone else? “Quo plus potestis, eo moderatius imperio uti debetis” (34.7.15). There is no question who holds imperium in Rome while Livy is writing this debate. Yet, Livy, as historian, has an imperium of his own. He determines the past by the choices he makes in his narrative, in how he handles multiple versions, in how he responds to interference from the princeps, and in the speeches he composes. He creates truth, just as Feldherr has argued, in analyzing the events around Camillus’ saving of Rome, that “Livy, by recording the version of events established by his victory, becomes the means by which this end is accomplished, by which the dictator’s claims will reach all future readers of his history. His text is as essential to Camillus’ imperium as that  41 Vasaly 1999, 530 has argued that in Book 3 through the speeches of the Quinctii Livy creates “a form of popular communication that rejects both bullying and pandering, that serves the interests of the state as a whole”. Valerius’ speech appears to represent a similar sort of communication.

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imperium is to his text”. 42 In a similar way, Livy creates a verbal battle of the Oppian Law to confirm the already-known outcome of the law’s repeal by declaring historical narrative the victor. Whatever actually happened at the repeal of this law, these speeches serve an important purpose for the historian who asks his audience to read actively, as Livy does in the preface (Pr. 9–11). In reference to speeches in historical narrative, Marincola has argued that, because the outcome is known, “this allowed the historian to exploit such knowledge by allowing his readers to watch the debate unfold and analyze the deployment by the speakers of various exempla and reflect on which were accurate, which significant, which appropriate”. 43 As Marincola further states, By its utilization of historical exempla, the speech became a contestation over how to explain the past vis-à-vis the present and vice versa; at the bottom it was a debate over the meaning of history. Seen in this light, the “rhetoric” of ancient historiographical speeches… very often reveals the historian’s deepest thoughts on the nature and purpose of his craft. 44

 Conclusions Through the Oppian Law debate Livy addresses issues of disunity. Ostensibly the debate pits men against women, yet Cato redraws the divisions — men versus women, Cato versus everyone, rich women versus poor women — to unnerve and persuade his male internal audience. Although internal strife is part and parcel of the Roman character, beginning with Romulus and Remus, the one instance that Cato cites as a comparison with dangerous actions of the women, the secession of the plebs, in fact highlights the interdependence of the elements of Roman society. The story of the body and the limbs that Menenius Agrippa tells illustrates that the different parts of Roman society need each other: without the hands and mouth, the stomach gets no food; without the stomach sending nourishment to the limbs, they weaken and will die. The result of the secession was the creation of the tribunes of the plebs, so that the plebeian part of the Roman state had protection against the power that was otherwise concentrated in offices held only by patricians. That Cato invokes the secession without considering the

 42 Feldherr 1998, 81. See Sailor 2006, 343, for his use of Feldherr in seeing imperium in Livy’s writing and Feldherr 1998, 51–81, for the link between Livy and imperatores. 43 Marincola 2010, 268–269. 44 Marincola 2010, 287.

  T. Davina McClain rest of the story is consistent with Livy constructing his speech to setup Valerius’ response. Whereas Cato attempts to create disunity, Valerius cites example after example that prove that women have always acted in the best interest of the state, that women’s contributions have been necessary for the success of Rome. By arguing that women have shared in the work of preserving and protecting the state, so they deserve to share in the prosperity as well, Valerius uses historia, ostensibly Cato’s own words, to prove his case. Valerius’ speech is also Livy’s critique of the misuse of history (as evidenced in Cato’s speech) and the superiority of the historical past over fabula. Livy denies Cato two historical examples that would have supported his argument about the danger that women pose. Tullia’s hunger for power, berating of her husband, and willingness to commit murder to be able to salute her husband as king offers one example that all would know (1.46.5–48.7). As a clear example of the danger of secret meetings, there were the senatorial women who conspired together to poison their husbands, something that the Romans thought was a plague until a slave woman revealed the plot (8.18.1–13). Why does Livy deny these historical exempla to Cato? Livy knows that Cato’s speech failed to convince his listeners, so he shapes a speech that fails to use the historical evidence in making its case. He also knows that those who proposed the repeal win the day, so he specifically gives Valerius a speech which uses a wealth of historical evidence to successfully convince his audience. 45 Thus historia defeats fabula, and unity, through a shared experience of prosperity, defeats division. Livy was writing at a time of soul-searching for the Roman state and the Roman people. He was not alone, however, in his quest to understand how Rome had reached its current situation. At the same time, the poet Vergil, in writing the Aeneid to provide Rome with a new and artistic version of its founding myth, was also looking to define Roman and Rome for those who had survived the civil wars and were now facing the uncertainty of a state dominated by one man. Based on internal evidence, if estimates of Livy’s rate of composition are accurate, Livy would likely have reached Book 34 in either 18 or 17 B.C., shortly after the death of Vergil in 19 B.C. 46 Creating the debate, therefore, gave Livy an opportunity to

 45 As Vassiliades 2019, 154 argues “[t]he informed reader of Livy is primed to check the means of persuasion used by the two speakers by comparing their speeches to the narrative of Livy, in order to judge the extent to which the arguments of each speaker are convincing or not according to the historian”. 46 For debate among scholars about when Livy may have started his work, pre- or post-Actium, see (post Actium) Walsh 1961, 5; Ogilvie 1965, 60; Taylor 1918, 159; (pre-Actium) Luce 1965, 210;

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craft a subtle response to Vergil’s challenge and to Augustus’ attempt to rewrite the past, as well. The historian, not the poet and not even the Princeps, creates and records the truth of the past as a guide for the present. Augustus may restore temples and change Rome from a city of brick to a city of marble, but it is the unifying voice of the historian, through his “uncorrupted records” of the past, that gives Rome’s present and future monuments their meaning.

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 Woodman 1989, 135. Regardless of his starting date, the mention in Book 28 of Augustus’ victories in Spain at 28.12.13 place the composition of that book firmly after 19 B.C. and the composition of Book 34 sometime after that year. Walsh 1961, 8, suggests an average composition rate of three books a year.

  T. Davina McClain Kapust, D. (2008), ‘On the Ancient Uses of Political Fear and Its Modern Implications’, in: Journal of the History of Ideas 69.3, 353–373. Kosak, J.C. (2000), ‘Polis nosousa: Greek ideas about the city and disease in the fifth century B.C.’, in: V.M. Hope/E. Marshall (eds.), Death and Disease in the Ancient City, London/ New York, 35–54. Kursell, J. (2010), ‘First person plural: Roman Jakobson's grammatical fictions’, in: Studies in East European Thought 62.2, 217–236. Luce, T.J. (1965), ‘The Dating of Livy’s First Decade’, in: TAPA 96, 209–240. Marincola, J. (1997), Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. Marincola, J. (2007), ‘Speeches in Classical Historiography’, in: J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, vol. I, Malden, MA, 118–32. Marincola, J. (2010), ‘The “Rhetoric” of History: Intertextuality, and Exemplarity in Historiographical Speeches’, in: D. Pausch (ed.) Stimmen der Geschichte: Funktionen von Reden in der antiken Historiographie, Berlin, 259–289. Ng, S.H. (1982), ‘Power and intergroups discrimination’, in: Tajfel, H. (ed.), Social Identity and Intergroup Relations, Cambridge, 179–206. Ogilvie, R.M. (1961), A Commentary on Livy. Books 1–5, Oxford. Orwin, C. (1988), ‘Stasis and Plague: Thucydides on the dissolution of society’, in: Journal of Politics 50, 831–847. Perl, G./El-Qalqili, I. (2002), ‘Zur Problematik der Lex Oppia (215/195 v. Chr.)’, in: Klio 84, 414– 439. Sailor, D. (2006), ‘Dirty Linen, Fabrication, and the Authorities of Livy and Augustus’, in: TAPA 136, 329–388. Santoro L’Hoir, F. (1992), The Rhetoric of Gender Terms: ‘Man’, ‘Woman’, and the Portrayal of Character in Latin Prose, Mnemosyne Supplements, Volume 120, Leiden. Schmid, H.B. (2014), ‘Expressing Group Attitudes: On First Person Plural Authority’, in: Erkenntnis 79, 1685–1701. Serafim, A. (2020), ‘Sicking bodies: stasis as disease in the human body and the body politic’, in: H. Gasti (ed.), A Volume in Honour of Professor Katerina Synodinou, Ioannina, 673– 695. Smith, C. (2010), ‘Rhetorical history: the struggle of the orders in Livy’, in: D.H. Berry/A. Erskine (eds.), Form and Function in Roman Oratory, Cambridge, 264–280. Schubert, C. (2002), ‘Texte aus dem Geschlechterdiskurs: Catos Rede gegen die Aufhebung des Oppischen Luxusgesetzes (Liv. 34, 1, 2–4, 21)’, in: Sudhoffs Archiv 86, 93–105. Sciarrino, E. (2004), ‘Putting Cato the Censor’s Origines in Its Place’, in: Classical Antiquity 23.2, 323–357. Tajfel, H. (1982), Social Identity and Intergroup Relations, Cambridge. Taylor, L.R. (1918), ‘Livy and the Name Augustus’, in: CR 32, 158–161. Taylor, L.R. (1951), ‘New Indications of Augustan Editing in the Capitoline Fasti’, in: Classical Philology 46.2, 73–80. Turner, J.C. (1982), ‘Towards a cognitive redefinition of the social group’, in: H. Tajfel (ed.), Social Identity and Intergroup Relations, Cambridge, 15–40. Vasaly, A. (1999), ‘The Quinctii in Livy’s First Pentad: The Rhetoric of Anti-Rhetoric’, in: CW 92.6, 513–530. Vassiliades, G. (2019), ‘The Lex Oppia in Livy 34.1–7: Failed Persuasion and Decline’, in: S. Papaionnou/A. Serafim/K. Demetriou (eds.), The Ancient Art of Persuasion across Genres and Topics, Berlin/Boston, 104–123.

Cato vs Valerius/Men vs Women  

Vegetti, M. (1983), ‘Metafora politica e imagine del corpo negli scritti ippocratici’, in: F. Lasserre/P. Mudry (eds.), Formes de pensée dans la collection Hippocratique, Genéve, 459– 469. Walsh, P.G. (1965), Livy: His Historical Aims and Methods, Oxford. Woodman, A.J. (1989), ‘Virgil the historian: Aeneid 8.626–62 and Livy’, in: J. Diggle/J.B. Hall/ H.D. Jocelyn (eds.), Studies in Latin Literature and its Tradition in Honour of C.O. Brink, Cambridge Philological Society Sup. vol. 15, 132–145. Woolf, G. (2001), ‘Inventing Empire in Ancient Rome’, in: S.E. Alcock/T.N.D Altroy/K.D. Morrison/C.M. Sinopoli (eds.), Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History, Cambridge, 311–322.

Simone Mollea

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator? In his famous contribution “Humanitas: Romans and Non-Romans”, Paul Veyne argues that humanitas is a key value in indicating inclusion as well as exclusion in Roman society. 1 Although in Apuleius’ oeuvre the term does not carry the notion of Romanity, humanitas is employed as an oratorical weapon which can suggest identification and disidentification between the accused and other categories of people. Interestingly, this happens not only in Apuleius’ true judicial speech, the Apologia, but also in the oration which Lucius delivers in his own defence in the mock trial of Metamorphoses 3. As I will show in this chapter in fact, while in the Apologia humanitas is simply a weapon of inclusion and exclusion, in the mock trial which takes place in Hypata during the Risus Festival of Metamorphoses 3 it becomes a double-edged sword, that is, a rhetorical tool whose consequences seem to be positive in the beginning, but turn out to be negative in the end. Let me start from the Apologia. Apuleius delivered this speech in his own defence about 158–159 AD. The story, as is narrated by Apuleius, is quite simple: at his friend Pontianus’ insistence, Apuleius marries Pontianus’ mother Pudentilla, a wealthy widow who is significantly older than him. When Pontianus dies, Pudentilla’s family, evidently resorting to a pretext, accuses Apuleius of having seduced her by magical means — hence the alternative title De magia — in order to inherit her property after her death. During the trial, which takes place in Sabratha, Apuleius probably demonstrates the inconsistency of the charge against him and is presumably acquitted. It is true that the Apologia as we read it is almost certainly a re-elaborated version of the original speech he delivered, 2 but it nonetheless shows the absurdity of the accusation, mainly revealing that, according to Pudentilla’s will, it was not Apuleius but her sons who stood to inherit her wealth. As is usually the case with judicial orations, Apuleius’ strategy needed to be twofold in order for his defence speech to work: on the one hand, he had to prove that the prosecution had no evidence against him; on the other hand, he sought

 1 Veyne 1993. 2 But cf. Gianotti 20042, 162: “Per quanto ritoccata con intenti letterari che potenziano i colores retorici e indulgono alle digressioni a effetto, la stesura a noi giunta dell’Apologia non ha perso il carattere di orazione giudiziaria cui è affidato il destino d’un imputato”. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-018

  Simone Mollea to create an exclusive bond between the judge, i.e. the proconsul in this case, and himself. What is interesting for the purposes of this chapter is the latter aspect of his strategy. Aware of his superior education, Apuleius mainly relied on it, believing this would be the common denominator between the proconsul Maximus and himself. The fact that Apuleius bombards Maximus and the audience with citations from and allusions to ancient writers is ultimately due to his desire to display his extensive learning. Although times had changed and the golden age of Ciceronian oratory was just a memory, Apuleius’ emphasis on the importance of education and culture throughout the Apologia is reminiscent of Cicero’s Pro Archia, where this idea was mainly expressed through the use of the word humanitas. 3 The reader in search of this same educational idea of humanitas in Apuleius’ De magia would probably be disappointed. But in spite of the different nuances that the term takes on, in both orations humanitas is one of the qualities praised in the judges. Apuleius makes this clear at Apol. 35, when he rejects the accusation of using two marine animals for the sake of his erotic pleasure. 4 Finding this accusation ridiculous, he addresses Maximus as follows: ne tu, Claudi Maxime, nimis patiens vir es et oppido proxima humanitate, qui hasce eorum argumentationes diu hercle perpessus sis; equidem, cum haec ab illis quasi gravia et vincibilia dicerentur, illorum stultitiam ridebam, tuam patientiam mirabar. Really, Claudius Maximus, you are a very patient man, and sympathethic to the townspeople, to put up so very long with their arguments. Speaking for myself, I smiled at their stupidity and marveled at your patience when they mentioned such items as if they were grave and overwhelming. 5

Whoever aims at creating an exclusive bond also needs a category of those who are excluded from this bond. In the Apologia, not only the accusers, but also the inhabitants of Sabratha as a whole constitute this category. True, Apuleius scorns them because of their stupidity and lack of education (illorum stultitiam ridebam); nevertheless, he admires (and flatters) Maximus, whose patientia and humanitas enable him to tolerate their ignorance (tuam patientiam mirabar). 6 Since Apuleius needs to widen the gap between Maximus and the throng, it would be counter 3 On humanitas and education in the Pro Archia, cf. e.g. Panoussi 2009; Nesholm 2010; Høgel 2015, 60. 4 On these two fishes in the Apologia, cf. Binternagel 2008, 61–63; Pellecchi 2012, 156–157 (with further bibliography). The terms virginal and veretilla were probably coined by Apuleius himself: cf. Caracausi 1986–87, 169; Nicolini 2011, 132 n. 405. 5 English translations, sometimes slightly adapted, are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. 6 Cf. Hunink 1997, 113 on this passage: “One of the numerous examples of flattery of the judge”.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

productive — and even outrageous — to claim that Maximus’ humanitas is proxima oppido (very close to the townspeople), if humanitas took on educational nuances as in Cicero’s Pro Archia. Needless to say, neither a proconsul nor his education can be put on the same level as the throng. Conversely, proxima oppido strengthens the philanthropic idea that humanitas takes on here. But because of the uniqueness of the expression to which it gives birth, proxima was sometimes suspected of being a wrong lectio, in spite of both the manuscripts F and φ attesting this reading. By contrast, in the attempt to defend it, Butler and Owen maintained that this and two other instances of proximus in Apuleius’ Apologia are not to be seen as superlative, but as positive forms whose meaning would be “easy, obvious, convenient”. 7 In support of their thesis they pointed out that a comparative proximius can be found in Ulpian and Minucius Felix. Nowadays it is far easier for scholars to verify that the instances are actually many more, among which we can include Seneca, Epist. 108.16 (abstinentiae proximiorem) and, when the adjective is substantivised, Prisc. Gramm. II.97.15: proximus quando pro cognato accipitur, positivi significationem habet ideoque a legis latoribus etiam comparative profertur. 8 Yet it is my contention that proxima is really a superlative at Apol. 35. Despite the fact that the overall understanding of the passage does not probably depend on this issue, it must be noted that the context seems to suggest the presence of a superlative: nimis patiens makes in fact clear that Apuleius is talking about a behaviour and an attitude which are extraordinary and excessively tolerant and benevolent because they are undeserved. If in the following phrase proxima were taken as a simple, positive adjective, the tone of the sentence would be weakened, and Apuleius’ wonder at Maximus’ patience less comprehensible. But in the Apologia there are other ways in which Apuleius exploits the humanitas argument to spotlight the boundary which separates Maximus and himself from his rivals and the inhabitants of Sabratha. At Apol. 86, while rebuking Pudentilla’s son, who is guilty of divulging some of his mother’s most private letters, he praises the different behaviour of the Athenians in an analogous situation: Athenienses quidem propter commune ius humanitatis ex captivis epistulis Philippi Macedonis hostis sui unam epistulam, cum singulae publice legerentur, recitari prohibuerunt, quae erat ad uxorem Olympiadem conscripta.

 7 Butler/Owen 1914, 24. 8 Cf. TLL 10.2.2040.74–2041.23 for a more detailed list.

  Simone Mollea Now the Athenians observed the common laws of humanity when they had intercepted their enemy Philip’s letters. They had each of them read out in public, but prohibited the reading of one that he had written to his wife Olympias.

The same anecdote is recorded by Plutarch in two places, Precepts of Statecraft 799 E and Life of Demetrius 22. 9 Compare in particular the passage taken from the Life of Demetrius: καὶ τὴν Ἀθηναίων οὐκ ἐμιμήσαντο [scil. οἱ Ῥόδιοι] φιλανθρωπίαν, οἳ Φιλίππου πολεμοῦντος αὐτοῖς γραμματοφόρους ἑλόντες, τὰς μὲν ἄλλας ἀνέγνωσαν ἐπιστολάς, μόνην δὲ τὴν Ὀλυμπιάδι 10 οὐκ ἔλυσαν, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἦν κατασεσημασμένη πρὸς ἐκεῖνον ἀπέστειλαν. In this they [i.e. the Rhodians] did not imitate the considerate kindness of the Athenians, who, having captured Philip’s letter-carriers when he was making war upon them, read all the other letters, indeed, but one of them, which was for Olympias, they would not open; instead, they sent it back to the king with its seal unbroken.

The two passages of Plutarch suggest that this story was probably well known by Apuleius’ day. Although Apuleius is clearly not translating Plutarch, it is striking that when the Greek author attributes this Athenian behaviour to their φιλανθρωπία the Latin attributes it to their ius humanitatis, a rare expression which had been previously used by Cicero. 11 Moreover, the presence of communis, in specifying that each and every Athenian possesses the idea(s) expressed by ius humanitatis, implies a widening of the gap between the civilized inhabitants of Athens and the “barbarians” of Sabratha, none of whom allegedly know humanitas. In contrast, there is no hint of comparison in the Ciceronian occurrences, but again the adjective undoubtedly strengthens the bond within the civic community. This bond is neither innate in every man nor culturally established, but safeguarded by law (ius). In commenting on the passage under investigation, and on the phrase commune ius humanitatis in particular, Hunink has observed: “an expression referring to what is commonly called ius gentium, a judicial and philosophical concept which had become widespread in Apuleius’ days”. 12 Yet this statement raises some doubts. It is true that such an expression mirrors the people’s mentality, which regarded (milder  9 On anecdotes in Apuleius’ De magia, cf. Binternagel 2008, 136–167 (148 on this very anecdote). 10 Manuscripts as well as modern editions read Ὀλυμπιάδος. However, in the wake of Plutarch’s Precepts of Statecraft 799 E and in the light of this Apuleian passage, I suspect that in the Life of Demetrius 22 too we should assume that the Athenians did not open a letter sent to, and not from, Olympias: I will discuss this issue in depth in a separate article. 11 Cf. Cic. Flac. 57, Deiot. 30. 12 Hunink 1997, 211.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

and more humane) laws as a cornerstone of Roman society, especially in the Antonine age. 13 Nor is it due to chance that the phrase only appears in judicial contexts. 14 Technically speaking, however, Roman law did not include any formal ius humanitatis, and Hunink’s reference to Gaius’ Institutiones 1.1 only proves the existence of a “formal” ius gentium and not the equivalence between ius gentium and ius humanitatis. 15 On the contrary, Gaius says that such a universal right is only called ius gentium, without allowing any other definition. Moreover, given the undeniable relationship between Greek φιλανθρωπία and Latin humanitas, the comparison of Apol. 86 with Plutarch, Demetr. 22 rather confirms the philanthropic component which lies behind the expression ius humanitatis than this law being shared by all the peoples of the world. In addition to the Athenians and Maximus — and, implicitly, Apuleius himself — the category of the “chosen few” includes a fourth protagonist, Lollianus Avitus, Maximus’ predecessor as proconsul. After he is merely named at Apol. 24, his presence in the Apologia becomes more significant from paragraph 94 onwards. Here, Apuleius provides examples that show against the claimants that he has always been in favour of and not against his stepsons. An example he gives is a letter of recommendation he wrote for Pontianus to Lollianus Avitus, “seen as a climactic point in the case”. 16 Judging from Apuleius’ account, the proconsul must have been pleased to receive his letter: Is epistulis meis lectis pro sua eximia humanitate gratulatus Pontiano, quod cito errorem suum correxisset, rescripsit mihi per eum quas litteras, di boni, qua doctrina, quo lepore, qua verborum amoenitate simul et iucunditate, prorsus ut “vir bonus dicendi peritus”. scio te, Maxime, libenter eius litteras auditurum. On reading my letter, as the extraordinarily kind person he is, he congratulated Pontianus on having promptly corrected his mistake, and through him he sent back such a letter to me — heavens above — so cultivated, so elegant, in language both so charming and so pleasant, absolutely like “the good man skilled in speech” he is. I know, Maximus, that you will be glad to hear his letter.

 13 Cf. e.g. D’Elia 1995, 41–43; De Pascali 2008; Costabile 2016, 193. 14 Alongside with the rarity of this phrase, this is the reason why statements such as “the notion of humanitatis iura is commonplace” (Gotoff 1993, 251) do not stand up to scrutiny. Analogously, I would not push the argument as far as to claim with Norden 1912, 59: “Da Apulejus den Ausdruck commune ius humanitatis nahezu wie ein Schlagwort gebraucht, dürfen wir annehmen, dass zu seiner Zeit die Idee des Weltbürgerrechtes eine feststehende geworden war”. On the second Apuleian occurrence of commune ius humanitatis in Met. 3.8 cf. below, pp. 382–383. 15 Cf. Gaius Inst. 1.1. 16 Harrison 2000, 83.

  Simone Mollea The error to which Apuleius refers concerns his stepsons’ misunderstanding: previously convinced that he would take advantage of his position and try to seize Pudentilla’s property, they — or at least Pontianus — had by that time realised that this had not been the case. At any rate, what matters here is something else. As Harrison puts it: “It is of course a parallel for Avitus’ successor Maximus’ support for Apuleius in the case in progress; the panegyric pronounced on Avitus matches the praise of Maximus already frequently expressed in Apuleius’ speech”. 17 As we have seen, right from the beginning Apuleius displays his knowledge and erudition. On the one hand, this enhances his credibility as interpreter of the texts (letters, for instance) which will be read during the trial. 18 On the other — and it is worth stressing this again — “Apuleius seeks to develop a complicity between himself and Maximus”, whose eulogy is mainly based on his philosophical knowledge and literary education, and sets the two of them apart from the throng. 19 In the passage under investigation Apuleius is thus simply including Maximus’ predecessor in this exclusive relationship. Avitus’ learning (doctrina) and charm of language (lepos, verborum amoenitas et iucunditas) even make a vir bonus dicendi peritus of him. Moreover, it should not pass unnoticed that Apuleius is again showing off his own literary knowledge by quoting Cato the Elder’s definition of the good orator, which clearly links the superior culture that a good orator ought to possess (dicendi peritus) to the moral sphere (vir bonus). 20 In a way, we might say that the idea of humanitas, in potentially implying both παιδεία and φιλανθρωπία, corresponds to this definition. 21 Or, in other words, the idea of humanitas perfectly fits the orator. Accordingly, in general terms both doctrina and lepos could be closely related to humanitas. 22 But to what extent is this the case in the Apologia? While Avitus shows his humanitas in the act of congratulating Pontianus, who has understood that Apuleius is not to be seen as an enemy, he displays his doctrina and lepos in his own reply to Apuleius. For all their connections, these two episodes are distinct. As in the previous instances in the Apologia, here again humanitas is  17 Harrison 2000, 83. Also Hunink 1997, 232. 18 Noreña 2014, 40–41. 19 Harrison 2000, 46. Also Sandy 1997, 132–133. For a Platonic reading of this opposition between learned and vulgar people, see Costantini 2019. 20 On this definition and other passages in which eloquence is closely linked to morality, cf. Picone 1978, 150–151. 21 On humanitas as the sum of the two Greek concepts of παιδεία and φιλανθρωπία, Pohlenz 1947, 451; Stroh 2008; Mollea 2018. 22 The pair of humanitas with lepos is typically Ciceronian: cf. Prov. 29, De orat. 2.270, 2.272, 3.29, Fam. 11.27.6.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

rather to be seen as having connotations of philanthropy. What is at stake in its use is Avitus’ benevolence, not his education. Nevertheless, one may reasonably argue that his education lies behind his φιλανθρωπία. Although there is no evidence for this and such an interpretation would come into conflict with Apuleius’ use of humanitas at Apol. 35 (where humanitas can hardly take on educational nuances), the polysemy of humanitas does allow for this reading. Regardless of this issue, it is evident that humanitas does play an important role in Apuleius’ defence — perhaps not as a means of expressing education and knowledge, but along with (or as a consequence of) education and knowledge, humanitas is what brings together the civilized Athenians, the two proconsuls Maximus and Avitus, as well as, we might add, Apuleius himself, and what sets them apart from the common inhabitants of Sabratha and Apuleius’ accusers. In other words, the Apologia is among the cases in which only an elite group of people can possess humanitas, though everybody can benefit from it. If Apuleius was actually acquitted, it was also thanks to his strategy and his careful use of humanitas. While in the Apologia humanitas is a weapon of exclusion, in the mock trial which takes place in Hypata during the Risus Festival (Metamorphoses 3), it becomes a double-edged sword. The protagonist Lucius, who is charged with murder, immediately realizes that, in the hope of being acquitted, he needs to win over the audience. Thus, he seeks to show that he too is part of the same community as the Hypatans: certainly not as a fellow citizen, but at least as a fellow human being. As Apuleius in the Apologia, though with the opposite aim in mind, Lucius also resorts to the humanitas argument in his defence speech, which van der Paardt refers to as an Apologia parva. 23 But Lucius’ weapon backfires, for the witnesses for the prosecution seem to be able to use humanitas in a more sophisticated way, thereby reiterating Lucius’ exclusion from the community. On the one hand, this mock trial corroborates the potential of the humanitas argument in the legal sphere, at least in Apuleius’ view; on the other hand, the versatility of humanitas shows that this concept can be applied to opposite purposes, that is, to create both exclusion and inclusion. While returning one night to his host Milo’s house, Lucius, yet to be turned into a donkey, sees three robbers at the door. Being drunk, he does not hesitate to pull out his sword and kill the three of them. He then goes to bed. The following morning, when he gets up, the local magistrates are waiting to arrest and try him.

 23 Van der Paardt 1971, 63. Apart from the resemblance of these two speeches, on which cf. also May 2006, 182 (and n. 1 for further bibliography), Apuleius is believed to allude on several occasions to the Apologia in the Metamorphoses: cf. Mason 1983, 142–143; Harrison 2000, 9–10 and 2013, 84 (n. 12 for further bibliography).

  Simone Mollea Both during his journey to the courtroom and theatre, where the trial is eventually to take place, and during the trial itself, while Lucius is in despair, the crowd is laughing. The reason for this is eventually revealed: Lucius has not killed three men, but three wineskins that had been turned into men through a magic trick. In other words, having been the victim-protagonist of the Risus Festival which takes place every year at Hypata (Thessaly), Lucius has “served as patron of the Hypatans’ community”. 24 Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is generally thought to be based on the lost Metamorphoses by the Greek Lucius of Patrae. 25 The relationship between the two — and the Onos, which is included in the Lucianic corpus — is disputed, but most scholars believe the Risus Festival, or the trial at the very least, to be originally Apuleian. 26 A survey of the use of humanitas within the trial of Hypata (and of the trial’s interaction with the Apologia) will also back up this view. Lucius’ defence begins at 3.4 and the judges’ and people’s publica humanitas is immediately invoked as the common value that should grant Lucius the right to defend himself even if the accusation seems to be incontestable: Nec ipse ignoro quam sit arduum trinis civium corporibus expositis eum qui caedis arguatur, quamvis vera dicat et de facto confiteatur ultro, tamen tantae multitudini quod sit innocens persuadere. Sed si paulisper audientiam publica mihi tribuerit humanitas, facile vos edocebo me discrimen capitis non meo merito sed rationabilis indignationis eventu fortuito tantam criminis invidiam frustra sustinere. I am not unaware how difficult it is, in the full display of the corpses of three citizens, for him who is accused of their murder, even though he speak the truth and voluntarily admit to the facts themselves, to persuade so large an audience that he is innocent. But if your humanitas will briefly grant me a public hearing, I shall easily convince you that I am not on trial for my life through any fault of my own, but rather, I am groundlessly suffering the great odium of the accusation as an accidental outcome of reasonable indignation.

 24 Habinek 1990, 54. 25 This has been the main strand of thought since Bürger 1887. An exception is represented by Bianco 1971, who believes that Apuleius’ Metamorphoses derives directly from the Onos. 26 Cf. Perry 1923, 221 and 1925, 253–254; Summers 1970, 511; Walsh 1970, 148; Bianco 1971, 49– 63; May 2006, 188 (n. 19 for further bibliography), and a status quaestionis with further bibliography in De Trane 2009, 199. More generally on the relationship between Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Lucius of Patrae’s Metamorphoses and the Onos cf. Walsh 1970, 145–149; Bianco 1971; Mason 1978, 1–6; Scobie 1978, 43–46; Ciaffi 1983; James 1987, 7–16; Schlam 1992, 18–25; De Trane 2009, 15–22; Harrison 2013, 197–213 — on topographical differences — and 233; Tilg 2014, 1–18 and further bibliography in Harrison 1999, xxx.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

Compared to Apuleius’ Apologia, the different use of humanitas is immediately striking: while in the trial of Sabratha humanitas is seen as a prerogative of some people or social categories but not of its citizens, here humanitas is a quality which characterizes the inhabitants of Hypata as a whole. This is much highlighted by the adjective publica. Set at the exordium of the oration, this phrase immediately shows that Lucius “has created his speech to the throng”. 27 As for the meaning of humanitas, publica strengthens the idea of a bond that unites all human beings as such, a bond whose features Lucius clarifies later on. The “Apologia parva”, delivered by Lucius-protagonist and recounted by Lucius-narrator, is just over when Lucius-narrator reflects upon the results he hoped to have achieved: Haec profatus, rursum lacrimis obortis porrectisque in preces manibus per publicam misericordiam, per pignorum caritatem maestus tunc hos tunc illos deprecabar. Cumque iam humanitate commotos, misericordia fletuum affectos omnes satis crederem, […] conspicio prorsus totum populum — risu cachinnabili diffluebant — nec secus illum bonum hospitem parentemque meum Milonem risu maximo dissolutum. (Met. 3.7) When I had finished this speech my tears welled up again and I stretched out my hands in supplication, sorrowfully begging now one group in the name of public mercy and now another for the love of their own dear children. When I felt sure that they had all been sufficiently stirred with human sympathy (humanitas) and moved by the pathos of my weeping, […] I caught sight of the audience: absolutely the entire populace was dissolved in raucous laughter, and even my kind host and uncle, Milo, was broken up by a huge fit of laughing.

In the light of the previous passage at the outset of his defence speech, it becomes clear that in saying cumque iam humanitate commotos, misericordia fletuum affectos omnes satis crederem, Lucius is not only alluding to his bursting into tears and begging the judges and audience after the speech — after all, this would be quite an ingenuous pretension. More significantly, he is alluding to the tone and content of the speech itself, which right from the beginning was connoted by a plea for mercy. In this way, Lucius also reveals the key role he purposely assigned to humanitas in his oration. There can be no doubt that this was a stratagem: Frangoulidis shows that the Hypatans are portrayed as a savage, cruel people throughout the Metamorphoses. 28 Given the evidence against him, as Apuleius in the Apologia, so Lucius in the Apologia parva thought flattery was the best weapon he had at hand.

 27 Finkelpearl 1998, 89. 28 Frangoulidis 2008, 184–185.

  Simone Mollea On a linguistic level, this passage also helps us define Lucius’ understanding of humanitas. Its affinity to misericordia is manifest: after characterizing it through the adjective publica (per publicam misericordiam), which instead connoted humanitas at 3.4, Lucius even goes so far as to consider humanitas a synonym of misericordia. This is made clear by its use in the “asyndeton bimembre with rhetorical effect” humanitate commotos, misericordia fletuum affectos, where humanitas is used apparently to avoid the repetition of misericordia. 29 While the pairing of the verb commoveo with misericordia is in fact extremely common, especially in Ciceronian orations, it is never so tightly linked to humanitas before this Apuleian occurrence. 30 However, this does not imply that Apuleius (or his narrator Lucius) was the first to perceive a close relation between humanitas and misericordia. On the contrary, these two terms quite often appear together, mainly in Cicero, Seneca and Quintilian. 31 On occasion, clementia is also related to them. 32 If on the one hand Lucius invokes humanitas as a defence instrument, on the other the widows of two of the three alleged corpses resort to the same argument to obtain vengeance. At 3.8, their theatrical reaction is as follows: “Per publicam misericordiam, per commune ius humanitatis,” aiunt “miseremini indigne caesorum iuvenum, nostraeque viduitati ac solitudini de vindicta solacium date. Certe parvuli huius in primis annis destituti fortunis succurrite, et de latronis huius sanguine legibus vestris et disciplinae publicae litate.” “In the name of public mercy,” they cried, “in the name of the common rights of humanity (per commune ius humanitatis), have pity on these unjustly slaughtered youths and grant us the solace of vengeance in our widowhood and bereavement. At least succour the fortunes of this poor little child, orphaned in his earliest years, and make atonement to your laws and public order with that cut-throat’s blood”.

The opening of this speech echoes both Lucius’ first words (si paulisper audientiam publica mihi tribuerit humanitas) and his reference in indirect speech to what he did and said right after delivering his oration (per publicam misericordiam). We might pinpoint just one significant difference: the widows prefer ius

 29 Van der Paardt 1971, 66. 30 To quote just a few Ciceronian instances of commoveo with misericordia: Ver. 4.87, Rab. perd. 24, Clu. 24, Mur. 65, Deiot. 40. One occurrence is also to be found in Quintilian 11.3.170. 31 Cic. Cat. 4.11, Mur. 6, Flac. 24 (where we have seen one of the rare occurrences of ius humanitatis appears); Quint. 6.1.22; Sen. Ben. 3.7.5, 5.20.5. 32 Cic. Lig. 29; Rhet. Her. 2.50; Sen. Ben. 6.29.1.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

humanitatis over the more banal humanitas. As well as suggesting lack of improvisation on the widows’ part, the technicality and rarity of this expression, which we have also noticed at Apol. 86, reveal, more than the simple humanitas, the superior knowledge and the Latin education of the person speaking. 33 If we then wanted to push the reasoning a step further, we might say that this use of ius humanitatis seems to unveil the author who lies behind the characters, Apuleius. Thanks to this expression, the widows not only resort to the same weapons that Lucius used, but they also try to make those weapons more effective. They achieve this through the tear-jerking presence of a child who has been made fatherless, allegedly, by Lucius’ crime, and also by means of a more sympathetic vocabulary. In this respect, the pomposity of per commune ius humanitatis flatters the jury with their importance, and the adjective commune in particular contributes to Habinek’s interpretation of the Hypatan festival “as a procedure whereby the community re-establishes its internal harmony and differentiates between its own civic identity and the world beyond its boundaries”. 34 While at Apol. 86 commune helps oppose the civilized Athenians to the less civilized inhabitants of Sabratha, here it sets Lucius apart from the inhabitants of Hypata. But given the theatricality of the Risus Festival as a whole, readers are likely to suppose that the scene of the widows and their speech were not improvised. Fortunately for Lucius, the unveiling of the three wineskins brings about the end of the mock trial. The reader will never know whether Lucius would have been acquitted, but might imagine that in addition to the evidence against him, the widows’ use of the humanitas argument would also have been more successful than his. 35 We might add that in the framework of the Risus Festival the technicality of ius humanitatis, alongside Lucius’ use of humanitas, also contributes to what Walsh calls “parody […] of the procedure and characteristic speech of the law-court”. 36 Certainly, this is facilitated by Lucius’ skill as an orator, but even more by Apuleius’. 37 His oratorical experience as well as the same technical, typically Latin use of humanitas that can also be noticed in the Apologia may support the thesis according to which the Risus Festival, or the mock trial of Hypata at the very least,  33 Cf. above pp. 375–377. 34 Habinek 1990, 54. On ritual and/or apotropaic interpretations of the mock trial cf. also De Trane 2009, 232–234. 35 After all, as De Trane 2009, 214 rightly remarks, neither his speech nor his pathetic gesticulation after the speech seem to allow Lucius the audience’ sympathy: all people continuously laugh at him, but no one feels sorry for him. 36 Walsh 1970, 58. Also Walsh 1970, 155; Finkelpearl 1998, 86–88; De Trane 2009, 211. 37 The importance of Lucius’ oratorical skill within the mock trial is well highlighted by James 1987, 88. Also De Trane 2009, 212–213.

  Simone Mollea is originally Apuleian, that is to say that this episode was not present in Lucius of Patrae’s Metamorphoses. In conclusion, Apuleius’ use of humanitas reflects the general tendency of the Second Sophistic, regardless of the appropriateness of defining Apuleius a sophist. The talent to manipulate the concept to his own advantage, making it evoke now exclusion (Apologia, the widows in the Metamorphoses) now inclusion (Lucius in the Metamorphoses), clearly reveals all his oratorical skills, and even reminds us of the sophists of the first generation, who were able to speak, with equal ability to persuade, both in favour of and against a given topic. In the Apologia, in particular, in addition to the ideas of education and knowledge, humanitas, understood as φιλανθρωπία, is what excludes the uncultivated inhabitants of Sabratha from the elitist group constituted by the Athenians, the two proconsuls Maximus and Avitus, and Apuleius himself. By the same token, in the mock trial of the Risus Festival in Metamorphoses 3, Lucius uses the humanitas argument to try to persuade the Hypatans to include himself into their community. Yet two Hypatan widows resort to the same concept of value to frustrate Lucius’ attempt: this way, not only do they make of humanitas a double-edged sword, but also reveal, once and for all, the superior power of rhetoric. 38

Bibliography Bianco, G. (1971), La fonte greca delle Metamorfosi di Apuleio, Brescia. Binternagel, A. (2008), Lobreden, Anekdoten, Zitate — Argumentationstaktiken in der Verteidigungsrede des Apuleius, Hamburg. Bürger, K. (1887), De Lucio Patrensi sive De ratione inter asinum q. f. lucianeum Apuleique Metamorphoses intercedente, diss., Berlin. Butler, H.E./Owen, A.S. (1914), Apulei Apologia sive Pro se de magia liber, Oxford. Caracausi, E. (1986), ‘Gli hapax nell’Apologia di Apuleio’, in: Atti della Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Arti di Palermo. 2 Lettere 7, 153–184. Ciaffi, V. (1983), Il romanzo di Apuleio e i modelli greci, Bologna. Costabile, F. (2016), Temi e problemi dell’evoluzione storica del diritto pubblico romano, Torino. Costantini, L. (2019), Magic in Apuleius’ Apologia. Understanding the Charges and the Forensic Strategies in Apuleius’ Speech, Berlin/Boston. D’Elia, S. (1995), Una monarchia illuminata. La cultura nell’età degli Antonini, Napoli.  38 It is my pleasure to thank the organisers and all participants to the conference for the stimulating climate in which it took place, and which certainly contributed to improving this chapter. Although I alone am responsible for what I have written, I am also grateful to Andrea Balbo, Matthew Leigh, Victoria Rimell, Roger Rees and Maude Vanhaelen for their advice.

Humanitas: A Double-edged Sword in Apuleius the Orator?  

De Pascali, N. (2008), ‘Ratione humanitatis. Significati e implicazioni di un concetto nella legislazione di Marco Aurelio’, in: Ostraka 17, 35–68. De Trane, G. (2009), Scrittura e intertestualità nelle Metamorfosi di Apuleio, Lecce. Finkelpearl, E.D. (1998), Metamorphoses of Language in Apuleius. A Study of Allusion in the Novel, Ann Arbor. Frangoulidis, S. (2008), Witches, Isis and Narrative. Approaches to Magic in Apuleius’ “Metamorphoses”, Berlin/New York. Gianotti, G.F. (20042), ‘Per una rilettura delle opere di Apuleio’, in: G. Magnaldi/G.F. Gianotti (eds.), Apuleio. Storia del testo e interpretazioni, Alessandria, 141–182. Gotoff, H.C. (1993), Cicero’s Caesarian Speeches. A Stylistic Commentary, Chapel Hill/London. Habinek, T.N. (1990), ‘Lucius’ Rite of Passage’, in: Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 25, 49–69. Harrison, S.J. (1999), ‘Introduction: Twentieth-Century Scholarship on the Roman Novel’, in: S.J. Harrison (ed.), Oxford Readings in The Roman Novel, New York, xi–xl. Harrison, S.J. (2000), Apuleius: a Latin Sophist, Oxford. Harrison, S.J. (2013), Framing the Ass. Literary Texture in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford. Høgel, C. (2015), The Human and the Humane. Humanity as Argument from Cicero to Erasmus, Göttingen/Taipei. Hunink, V. (1997), Apuleius of Madauros. Pro Se de Magia (Apologia), Vol. II. Commentary, Amsterdam. James, P. (1987), Unity in Diversity. A Study of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses with Particular Reference to the Narrator’s Art of Transformation and the Metamorphosis Motif in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche, Hildesheim/Zürich/New York. Mason, H.J. (1978), ‘Fabula Graecanica: Apuleius and his Greek Sources’, in: B.L. Jr. Hijmans/ R.T. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen, 1–16. Mason, H.J. (1983), ‘Greek and Latin Versions of the Ass-Story’, in: Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.34.2, 1665–1707. May, R. (2006), Apuleius and Drama. The Ass on Stage, Oxford. Mollea, S. (2018), ‘Aulus Gellius’ definition of humanitas, Aelius Aristides and Willem Canter’, in: A.F. Araújo/C. Martins/H.M. Carvalho/J.P. Serra/J. Magalhães (eds.), Paideia and Humanitas. Formar e educar ontem e hoje, Ribeirão, 147–156. Nesholm, E.J. (2010), ‘Language and Artistry in Cicero’s Pro Archia, in: Classical World 103, 477–490. Nicolini, L. (2011), Ad (l)usum lectoris. Etimologia e giochi di parole in Apuleio, Bologna. Norden, F. (1912), Apulejus von Madaura und das römische Privatrecht, Leipzig/Berlin. Noreña, C.F. (2014), ‘Authority and Subjectivity in the Apology’, in: B.T. Lee/E. Finkelpearl/ L. Graverini (eds.), Apuleius and Africa, New York/London, 35–51. Paardt, R.T. van der (1971), L. Apuleius Madaurensis. The Metamorphoses. A commentary on Book III with Text and Introduction, Amsterdam. Panoussi, V. (2009), ‘Roman Cultural Identity in Cicero’s Pro Archia’, in: E. Karamalengou/ E. Makrygianni (eds.), Ἀντιφίλησις. Studies on Classical, Byzantine and Modern Greek Literature and Culture. In Honour of John-Theophanes A. Papademetriou, Stuttgart, 516–523. Pellecchi, L. (2012), Innocentia eloquentia est. Analisi giuridica dell’Apologia di Apuleio, Como. Perry, B.E. (1923), ‘Some Aspects of the Literary Art of Apuleius in the Metamorphoses’, in: Transactions of the American Philological Association 54, 196–227. Perry, B.E. (1925), ‘On Apuleius’ Metamorphoses II, 31 – III, 20’, in: American Journal of Philology 46, 253–262.

  Simone Mollea Picone, G. (1978), L’eloquenza di Plinio, Palermo. Pohlenz, M. (1947), Der hellenische Mensch, Göttingen. Sandy, G. (1997), The Greek World of Apuleius. Apuleius and the Second Sophistic, Leiden/New York/Köln. Schlam, C.C. (1992), The Metamorphoses of Apuleius. On Making an Ass of Oneself, London. Scobie, A. (1978), ‘The Structure of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: B.L. Jr. Hijmans/R.T. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen, 43–62. Stroh, W. (2008), ‘De origine uocum humanitatis et humanismi’, in: Gymnasium 115, 535–571. Summers, R.G. (1970), ‘Roman Justice and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Transactions of the American Philological Association 101, 511–531. Tilg, S. (2014), Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. A Study in Roman Fiction, Oxford. Veyne, P. (1993), ‘Humanitas: Romans and non-Romans’, in: A. Giardina (ed.), The Romans, Chicago, 342–370. Walsh, P.G. (1970), The Roman Novel. The ‘Satyricon’ of Petronius and the ‘Metamorphoses’ of Apuleius, Cambridge.



Part VI: Religious Discourse

Flaminia Beneventano della Corte

Rhetoric of the Mortals, Rhetoric of the Gods. Deigmata, Phasmata and the Construction of Evidence  Introduction The aim of this chapter is to look into two different means of creating evidence and signification through signs, one based on a unitary form of communication and the other based on division. The first occurs between mortals and is based on a language and communicative code which the participants share. For this reason it can be interpreted as unitary. The second model, on the other hand, involves the divine sphere, and therefore language which is not immediately and directly accessible to humans. For an effective communication to occur between the participants, mediation of an expert is required. Such a model, as textual evidence indicates, is substantially divisive. The two communicative models also imply considerably different ways of creating evidence: the first, the unitary one is based on deigmata, material elements of proof, while the second, the divisive model is based on phasmata, prodigious events generated by the gods. This chapter seeks to look into the main features of deigmata and phasmata, and the ways in which they are related to, and are the basis of, the two different communicative systems. The topics of unity and division will, therefore, be addressed and explored through the analysis of communicative patterns and strategies of creating evidence. Moreover, both models addressed in this chapter are aimed at creating communication and persuasion. When the divine sphere is involved, the gods aim — by communicating through signs — at persuading the mortal recipients to behave in a certain way or to accomplish given actions. When the communication occurs between mortals, as the second part of the chapter will illustrate, the aim is the construction of persuasive evidence in order to strengthen arguments and to make them as convincing and incontrovertible as possible. The term rhetoric will be applied to such communicative models since they are both aimed at establishing effective and persuasive communication, despite being based on different cognitive processes. 1  1 Intention of this chapter is also to remain as close as possible to the ancient Greek cultural models and way of thinking, mainly through the analysis of textual evidence (on emic approach: https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-019

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte

 Phasmata as Signs Phasmata, despite being often associated with eidōla, psychai, deadly phantoms or ghosts, 2 have another crucial function in ancient culture — substantially underestimated by scholars — that is, the possibility of acting as signs, 3 and of activating, in their recipients, an inferential cognitive process. 4 The association between phasmata and sēmeia is often explicit, as the two words frequently occur together, as in the following excerpt from Plato’s Statesman (268e–269a): ΞΕ. ἦν τοίνυν καὶ ἔτι ἔσται τῶν πάλαι λεχθέντων πολλά τε ἄλλα καὶ δὴ καὶ τὸ περὶ τὴν Ἀτρέως τε καὶ Θυέστου λεχθεῖσαν ἔριν φάσμα. ἀκήκοας γάρ που καὶ ἀπομνημονεύεις ὅ φασι γενέσθαι τότε. ΝΕ. ΣΩ. τὸ περὶ τῆς χρυσῆς ἀρνὸς ἴσως σημεῖον φράζεις. [269a] ΞΕ. οὐδαμῶς, ἀλλὰ τὸ περὶ τῆς μεταβολῆς δύσεώς τε καὶ ἀνατολῆς ἡλίου καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἄστρων, ὡς ἄρα ὅθεν μὲν ἀνατέλλει νῦν εἰς τοῦτον τότε τὸν τόπον ἐδύετο, ἀνέτελλε δ ̓ ἐκ τοῦ ἐναντίου, τότε δὲ δὴ μαρτυρήσας ἄρα ὁ θεὸς Ἀτρεῖ μετέβαλεν αὐτὸ ἐπὶ τὸ νῦν σχῆμα. Stranger: Of the portents recorded in ancient tales many did happen and will happen again. Such one is the portent connected with the tale of the quarrel between Atreus and Thyestes. You have certainly heard of it and remember what is said to have taken place. Younger Socrates: You refer, I suppose, to the sign of the golden lamb. Stranger: Oh no. I mean the change in the rising and setting of the sun and the other heavenly bodies, how in those times they used to set in the quarter where they now rise, and used to rise where they now set, but the god at the time of the quarrel, you recall, changed all that to the present system as a testimony in favour of Atreus. 5

The two terms which define the portent happening in this passage are phasma and sēmeion. The inversion in the cycle of the rising of the sun is therefore a sign, an apparition which Zeus sends to signify (martyrēsas) his favour for Atreus. Thyestes had in fact declared that he would give up Pelops’ throne should an ex-

 Pike 1969, 8–15). Together, use will be made of contemporary hermeneutic tools in order to better understand the meaning of said texts and sources (on this approach: Bettini 2009, 35–43). 2 Namely Stramaglia 1999; Felton 1999; Ogden 2002. 3 This aspect is not highlighted nor discussed in modern literature. For a more thorough analysis see Beneventano della Corte 2017 and 2021. On signs and their communicative function in antiquity see Manetti 1987. 4 Textual evidence of the association between phasmata and sēmeia is abundant; hence, a selection is necessary in this case. For extensive evidence, see Beneventano della Corte 2017. 5 English translations of the passages — though often adapted — are taken from the Loeb Classical Library editions.

Rhetoric of the Mortals, Rhetoric of the Gods  

tremely unlikely event — such as the inversion of the path of the sun — have occurred. Zeus, hence, intervenes, making his will evident through the deployment of a phasma, a divine sign. Further cues are offered by a passage from Dionysius of Halicarnassus (5, 46 1–3) about the battle fought at Eretum in 503 B.C. between Romans and Sabines. ἐθάρρησαν δὲ καὶ οὐ μικρὰς ἐλπίδας ὑπὲρ τῆς νίκης ἔλαβον ἄλλων τε σημείων γενομένων σφίσι θεοπέμπτων καὶ δὴ καὶ τελευταίου φάσματος, ὅτε παρατάττεσθαι ἔμελλον, τοιοῦδε. [2] ἐκ τῶν καταπεπηγμένων παρὰ ταῖς σκηναῖς ὑσσῶν [...] ἐκ τούτων δὴ τῶν ὑσσῶν περὶ τοῖς ἄκροις τῶν ὀβελίσκων φλόγες ἀνήπτοντο, καὶ δι ̓ ὅλου τοῦ στρατοπέδου τὸ σέλας ἦν, ὥσπερ ἀπὸ [3] λαμπάδων, καὶ κατέσχε τῆς νυκτὸς ἐπὶ πολύ. ἐκ τούτου κατέλαβον τοῦ φάσματος, ὥσπερ οἱ τερατοσκόποι ἀπέφαινον καὶ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις συμβαλεῖν οὐ χαλεπὸν ἦν, ὅτι νίκην αὐτοῖς ταχεῖαν καὶ λαμπρὰν σημαίνει τὸ δαιμόνιον, ἐπειδήπερ ἅπαν εἴκει τῷ πυρὶ καὶ οὐδὲν ὅ τι οὐχ ὑπὸ τοῦ πυρὸς διαφθείρεται. They worked up the courage and stood good chances of winning, since they received several signs sent by the gods and namely this last phasma, occurred when they were about to deploy the army. From the tips of the javelins stuck in the ground by the camp, rose flames whose brightness spread through the whole camp, like a torch, and lasted for most of the night. From this phasma they understood — according to what the soothsayers said and to what most people could have easily figured out — that the portent signified an imminent and brilliant victory, since all things yield to fire and nothing consumes it.

The phasma, in this passage from the Roman Antiquities, coincides with the flames flaring on the Roman javelins and burning through the whole night. The appearance of the phasma is accompanied by a series of signs (sēmeia) occurring before the warriors and foreboding the future victory of the Roman army. 6 The text also suggests that the sēmeia involved are sent by the gods (theopempta) and that they are deciphered and explained by the soothsayers (teratoskopoi). The communicative pattern described in this passage, therefore, involves both the human and the super human spheres, the latter being normally inaccessible to mortals. The obscure language of the gods is in fact — since the oldest testimonies 7 — enigmatic, obscure and seldom comprehensible to humans. For this reason, the intervention of the soothsayer is required.

 6 The Sabine army was actually a lot more numerous compared to the Roman army, according to Dionysius’ account: the Romans engaged in the battle their hope being raised by the prodigies (sēmeia) sent by the gods. 7 Manetti 1987, 31 makes reference to the long tradition to which belongs the famous fragment from Heraclitus (93 D.K.), and to its common interpretation. Manetti quotes, in particular, Romeo 1976: ὁ ἄναξ, οὕ τὸ μαντεῖόν ἐστι τὸ ἐν | Δελφοῖς, οὔτε λέγει οὔτε κρύπτει ἀλλἀ σημαίνει (“the lord, who has the oracle in Delphi, | neither discloses nor hides his thought, | but indicates it

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte

 The Interpretation of Phasmata The inability of mortals to understand directly and interpret comprehensively the language of the gods is often attested by textual evidence. In particular, a passage from Plutarch’s Life of Caesar (63, 1–3) gives evidence of this aspect and, at the same time, stresses further the relationship between sēmeia and phasmata: ἀλλ ̓ ἔοικεν οὐχ οὕτως ἀπροσδόκητον ὡς ἀφύλακτον εἶναι τὸ πεπρωμένον, ἐπεὶ καὶ σημεῖα θαυμαστὰ καὶ φάσματα φανῆναι λέγουσι. [2] σέλα μὲν οὖν οὐράνια καὶ κτύπους νύκτωρ πολλαχοῦ διαφερομένους καὶ καταίροντας εἰς ἀγορὰν ημέρους ὄρνιθας οὐκ ἄξιον ἴσως ἐπὶ πάθει τηλικούτῳ μνημονεῦσαι· [3] Στράβων δὲ ὁ φιλόσοφος ἱστορεῖ πολλοὺς μὲν ἀνθρώπους διαπύρους ἐπιφερομένους φανῆναι, στρατιώτου δὲ ἀνδρὸς οἰκέτην ἐκ τῆς χειρὸς ἐκβαλεῖν πολλὴν φλόγα καὶ δοκεῖν καίεσθαι τοῖς ὁρῶσιν, ὡς δὲ ἐπαύσατο, μηδὲν ἔχειν κακὸν τὸν ἄνθρωπον. But destiny, it would seem, is not so much unexpected as it is unavoidable, since they say that amazing signs and apparitions were seen. Now, as for lights in the heavens, crashing sounds borne all about by night, and birds of omen coming down into the forum, it is perhaps not worthwhile to mention these precursors of so great an event; but Strabo the philosopher says that multitudes of men all on fire were seen rushing up, and a soldier’s slave threw from his hand a copious flame and seemed to the spectators to be burning, but when the flame ceased the man was uninjured.

Plutarch, along with phasmata, employs the term sēmeia thaumasta. Night-time sounds, birds flying into the forum, men wrapped in tongues of fire, a flame flaring on a slave’s hand. In addition, in the following lines of the text, Plutarch mentions the sacrifice, performed by Caesar himself, of an animal without the heart. 8 According to Greek and Roman cultural models, an animal without the heart was considered a particularly nefarious omen and the author, while describing the prodigy that occurred, states that no animal lacking the heart can be found in nature: Καίσαρι θύοντι τὴν καρδίαν ἀφανῆ γενέσθαι τοῦ ἱερείου καὶ δεινὸν εἶναι τὸ τέρας· οὐ γὰρ ἂν φύσει γε συστῆναι ζῷον ἀκάρδιον. 9

 through signs”, Manetti 1987 n. 4 p. 244). When phasmata are involved communication is not explicitly given from the god to the recipient but it is based on the decoding of signs which recipients themselves deem relevant. 8 For further considerations on these signs, on their occurrence in other sources and for the discussion of this passage, see Pelling 2011. 9 Plu. Caes. 63.4.

Rhetoric of the Mortals, Rhetoric of the Gods  

He says, moreover, that when Caesar himself was sacrificing, the heart of the victim was not to be found, and the prodigy caused fear, since in the course of nature, certainly, an animal without a heart could not exist.

Plutarch highlights the diversion of the aforementioned event from the normal, natural order (physei). It is such a distance from the ordinary that makes the event so unusual, prodigious and hence loaded with fatal significance (deinon). The animal without a heart, together with the phasmata and with the other sēmeia, contribute — in their premonitory function — to make the events that Caesar will face on the Ides of March less unexpected (aprosdokēton). 10 Such a function, however, expressed through the obscure language of the gods, is not immediately accessible to Caesar. Once again, the presence of a soothsayer (mantis) is necessary, as reported in the continuation of the text. It is in fact a haruspex who warns Julius Caesar about the events of the Ides of March. 11 [5] ἔστι δὲ καὶ ταῦτα πολλῶν ἀκοῦσαι διεξιόντων, ὥς τις αὐτῷ μάντις ἡμέρᾳ Μαρτίου μηνὸς, ἣν Εἰδοὺς Ῥωμαῖοι καλοῦσι, προείποι μέγαν φυλάττεσθαι κίνδυνον, [6] ἐλθούσης δὲ τῆς ἡμέρας προϊὼν ὁ Καῖσαρ εἰς τὴν σύγκλητον ἀσπασάμενος προσπαίξειε τῷ μάντει φάμενος “αἱ μὲν δὴ Μάρτιαι Εἰδοὶ πάρεισιν” ὁ δὲ ἡσυχῇ πρὸς αὐτόν εἴποι “ναί πάρεισιν, ἀλλ ̓ οὐ παρεληλύθασι”. 12 The following story, too, is told by many. A certain seer warned Caesar to be on his guard against a great peril on the day of the month of March which the Romans call the Ides; and when the day had come and Caesar was on his way to the senate-house, he greeted the seer with a jest and said: “Well, the Ides of March are come”, and the seer said to him softly: “They are come, but they are not gone”.

What these pieces of textual evidence have shown is that the human potential is not sufficient to decode significant phasmata sent by the gods to the mortals. Only a soothsayer can decode and interpret such selective and divisive language made of clues and signs. It is not surprising, given the obscure and enigmatic nature of divine language, that human knowledge and abilities are not adequate to decipher and fully understand it. However, a case in which humans can alone decipher the

 10 Plu. Caes. 63.1–4. 11 The soothsayer is probably to be identified as the haruspex Spurinna (see, among others, Pelling 2011). The whole passage is analyzed by Ramsey 2000 who compares all the sources dealing with Caesar’s murder (notably Val. Max. 8.11.2 and Suet. Iul. 81.2) and with its predictability. In particular, Ramsey argues that the main events Spurinna’s prophecy moves from is the sacrifice of the animal without heart, performed by Caesar himself. 12 Plu. Caes. 63.5–6.

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte language and the signs sent by the gods is when the recipients of such messages are themselves experts in divination. Evidence can be found in a passage from Plutarch’s Life of Aemilius Paulus (17.7–12): [7] ἐπεὶ δὲ νὺξ γεγόνει καὶ μετὰ δεῖπνον ἐτράποντο πρὸς ὕπνον καὶ ἀνάπαυσιν, αἰφνίδιον ἡ σελήνη πλήρης οὖσα καὶ μετέωρος ἐμελαίνετο καὶ τοῦ φωτὸς ἀπολιπόντος αὐτὴν χρόας ἀμείψασα παντοδαπὰς ἠφανίσθη. [8] τῶν δὲ Ῥωμαίων, ὥσπερ ἐστὶ νενομισμένον, χαλκοῦ τε πατάγοις ἀνακαλουμένων τὸ φῶς αὐτῆς καὶ πυρὰ πολλὰ δαλοῖς καὶ δᾳσὶν ἀνεχόντων πρὸς τὸν οὐρανόν, οὐδὲν ὅμοιον ἔπραττον οἱ Μακεδόνες, ἀλλὰ φρίκη καὶ θάμβος τὸ στρατόπεδον κατεῖχε καὶ λόγος ἡσυχῇ διὰ πολλῶν ἐχώρει, βασιλέως τὸ φάσμα σημαίνειν ἔκλειψιν. [9] ὁ δ ̓ Αἰμίλιος οὐκ ἦν μὲν ἀνήκοος οὐδ ̓ ἄπειρος παντάπασι τῶν ἐκλειπτικῶν ἀνωμαλιῶν, αἳ τὴν σελήνην περιφερομένην εἰς τὸ σκίασμα τῆς γῆς ἐμβάλλουσι τεταγμέναις περιόδοις καὶ ἀποκρύπτουσιν, ἄχρι οὗ παρελθοῦσα τὴν ἐπισκοτουμένην χώραν πάλιν ἀναλάμψῃ πρὸς τὸν ἥλιον· [10] οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ τῷ θείῳ πολὺ νέμων καὶ φιλοθύτης ὢν καὶ μαντικός, ὡς εἶδε πρῶτον τὴν σελήνην ἀποκαθαιρομένην, ἕνδεκα μόσχους αὐτῇ κατέθυσεν. [11] ἅμα δ ̓ ἡμέρᾳ τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ βουθυτῶν οὐκ ἐκαλλιέρει μέχρις εἴκοσι· τῷ δὲ πρώτῳ καὶ εἰκοστῷ παρῆν τὰ σημεῖα καὶ νίκην ἀμυνομένοις ἔφραζεν. [12] εὐξάμενος οὖν κατὰ βοῶν ἑκατὸν καὶ ἀγῶνος ἱεροῦ τῷ θεῷ, προσέταξε διακοσμεῖν τοῖς ἡγεμόσι τὸν στρατὸν εἰς μάχην. Now, when night had come, and the soldiers, after supper, were taking themselves to rest and sleep, on a sudden the moon, which was full and high in the heavens, grew dark, lost its light, took on all sorts of colours in succession, and finally disappeared. The Romans, according to their custom, tried to call her light back by the clashing of bronze utensils and by holding up many blazing fire-brands and torches towards the heavens; the Macedonians, however, did nothing of this sort, but amazement and terror possessed their camp, and a rumour quietly spread among many of them that the portent signified an eclipse of a king. Now, Aemilius was not altogether without knowledge and experience of the irregularities of eclipses, which, at fixed periods, carry the moon in her course into the shadow of the earth and conceal her from sight, until she passes beyond the region of shadow and reflects again the light of the sun; however, since he was very devout and given to sacrifices and divination, as soon as he saw the moon beginning to emerge from the shadow, he sacrificed eleven heifers to her. And as soon as it was day, he sacrificed as many as twenty oxen to Hercules without getting favourable omens; but with the twenty-first victim the propitious signs appeared and indicated victory if they stood on the defensive. Accordingly, having vowed to the god a hecatomb and solemn games, he ordered his officers to put the army in array for battle.

According to Plutarch’s account, an eclipse — defined as phasma — acts as a message from the gods. The sign (sēmeion) in this case immediately follows the phasma and appears to Aemilius Paulus while he is carrying out the sacrificial rituals that — conforming to the correct religious behaviour — follow the eclipse. The sign forebodes Aemilius’ future military victory more clearly than the eclipse itself does. The text gives crucial evidence of the fact that Aemilius is very keen on noticing and on caring about celestial signs, contrary to his enemies, the Macedonians. As reported by Plutarch, he can be considered a soothsayer himself and

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therefore knows how to correctly behave before divine and supernatural phenomena. The opposition between experts and non-experts in divination, skilled and unskilled is here made explicit. The skilled can receive, read and decipher correctly the messages of the gods given through signs, phasmata and other prodigies. The unskilled, vice versa, cannot carry out the correct procedure, and the divine way of communicating is inaccessible to them. This text underlines the divisive nature of the language of the gods: only a few, either experts or soothsayers can recognize the signs, understand them and behave correctly before them following the right procedure.

 The Divinatory Paradigm: An Example of Divisive Rhetoric As textual evidence has shown so far, messages issued by the gods are a representative example of divisive rhetoric, 13 since they intend to reach — in their full effectiveness — only a few. Another argument which supports the divisive nature of such a model is that divinatory signs represent a cognitive challenge of the gods towards the mortals. 14 When a sign is addressed by the recipient(s), the ambiguous reality it refers to is accessible through the confrontation of divergent or even opposing interpretations. On the one hand, the communicative context recalls that of the law courts, where each interpretation is shown as more pluasible than the others. On the other, division is also revealed by the disparity between those who can access the correct reading of the signs, and those who cannot. 15 For these reasons, figures such as soothsayers or experts of divination play a central role in the communicative pattern based on signs, and act as mediators between the gods and the ultimate recipients of the sēmeia (which can be phas-

 13 As mentioned in the introductory section (supra) the term rhetoric is here adopted to designate the communication occurring between mortals and gods, which is characterized — both verbally and non-verbally — by the same code, that is obscurity and ambiguity, and the same aim — that is of persuading the recipients to act in a given way. Rhetoric is hence used in its broader sense of “effective communicative strategy”. Also, on obscurity as a volutary or involutary rhetorical device in ancient theory see, among others and for further bibliography, Sluiter 2016. 14 Manetti 1987, 32. 15 Manetti 1987, 32–35.

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte mata). Carlo Ginzburg has defined this epistemic model as symptomatic or divinatory paradigm. 16 Its main feature is to be based on the correct — and skilful — interpretation of signs, which can convey general notions or knowledge. The second essential character of this epistemic model is the lack of absolute certainty. On the contrary, the knowledge reached through this model is closer to a guess or to a hypothesis, which moves from the perception and interpretation of a divinatory sign (which can be a phasma). 17 The knowledge derived from this epistemic pattern mostly concerns the future and its nature is mantic-divinatory. 18 Moreover, another trait defining this communicative model is that only an expert is capable of deciphering and interpreting the “rhetoric of the gods” in the correct way. 19 Non experts are not able to deal with phasmata and other signs which, addressed with incompetence, and are likely to lead to negative or even fatal consequences. The cognitive process that Ginzburg defines as divinatory paradigm implies the method which the philosopher and semiologist Charles Sanders Peirce denominates of abductive reasoning. 20 Since this method does not guarantee success nor certainty, knowledge and experience are key features within the disciplines that employ it, among which is divination. 21 In the case of

 16 Ginzburg 1979. 17 Signs play a central role in divination in general: they can be phasmata, terata, oniōnoi (signs obtained from bird flight) and other signs related to specific aspects of divination. On the topic, see Manetti 1987, 27. 18 Ginzburg 1979, 68–69. Such paradigm is also valid for the knowledge of the past and the present: when it deals with present circumstances, it coincides with medical semeiotics; when it deals with the past it coincides with jurisprudence, which aims at reconstructing occurred events. On the analogies between divination and these disciplines, namely medical semeiotics, see Ginzburg 1979, 70–71; Manetti 1987, 58 ff.; Fausti 2008 who look into the topic by paying particular attention to the semiotic aspect. 19 In ancient Greece the knowledge belonging to soothsayers was a technical kind of knowledge, related to an art or technē. The soothsayer was also considered a generally wise figure, concerning several aspects and general knowledge; cf. Manetti 1987, 28 ff. 20 Ch.S. Peirce, Collected Papers, 2.640; 2.642; 5.189. Such heuristic process moves from an event, generally considered uncommon or exceptional, and aims at explaining it by formulating a hypothesis. A specific event therefore traces back to an assumed general rule and, from such rule, clues about the present or the future. Another feature typical of abductive reasoning is its purpose, which is not to find universal indications or solutions. On the contrary, its aim is a particular and detailed type of knowledge, related to a specific event, which stands good chances of being effective on the basis of an assumed general rule, derived from a combination of evidence and past experience. 21 Other disciplines which use this method are detection, Freudian psychoanalysis and connoisseurship, the technique of attributing works of art; cf. Ginzburg, 1979. Concerning the connection between medicine and divination in the ancient world — both based on signs — see Plato

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phasmata acting as signs, the recipient — and possibly an expert — first need to identify an event as significant and then to offer its most plausible interpretation. 22

 Phasma versus Deigma: The “Weak” Sign and the Display of Evidence The circumstances hitherto presented are associated by the occurrence of signs that can be defined as weak or probable. 23 Such signs make the whole epistemic process uncertain. 24 The uncertainty of the model is due to the fact that the signs implied do not have the status of irrefutable proof and, thus, the whole cognitive process is based on conjectures and hypotheses. This type of process typically takes place when the sphere of phainein (and phasma) is involved. The semantic field of demonstration includes several procedures, more or less formal or rigorous. 25 Phainein, together with its compounds and derivatives, entails a process which does not imply a clear, unambiguous and ostensive display of evidence. As abduction is opposed to the rigorous logic of deduction and induction, 26 likewise phasma — along with the entire semantic field of phainein — differs from other more univocal and epistemically certain methods of creating evidence. On the contrary, a more univocal, unitary, comprehensive demonstration is entailed by the semantic sphere of deiknymi. It involves a demonstrative process which is punctual, incontrovertible and universally comprehensible to all recipients. 27

 Smp. 197 a where both these arts are attributed to the god Apollo, who discovered them together with archery (τοξικήν γε μὴν καὶ ἰατρικὴν καὶ μαντικὴν Ἀπόλλων ἀνηῦρεν). On the type of persuasion entailed, in medicine, by sēmeia see, among others, Thomas 1997, 144 n. 45 where the function played by evidence is particularly stressed. 22 Eco-Sebeok 1983, especially the chapter by Bonfantini and Proni, where the disciplines based on this method are compared. For a further analysis on the role of the expert who identifies a sign as such see Pisano 2015, 67–68. 23 Manetti 1994, 23 ff. 24 For the opposition between weak signs and necessary signs, see Arist. Rh. 1357b and Manetti, 1994, 23ff. 25 On demonstrative strategies in ancient Greece: Lloyd 1990, 73–75. 26 Manetti 1994, 33. 27 See Vega Reñón 1996, 286–288.

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte A representative example of such a process of demonstration can be found in an excerpt from the second book of Herodotus’ Histories (2.143): πρότερον δὲ Ἑκαταίῳ τῷ λογοποιῷ ἐν Θήβῃσι γενεηλογήσαντι ἑωυτὸν καὶ ἀναδήσαντι τὴν πατριὴν ἐς ἑκκαιδέκατον θεὸν ἐποίησαν οἱ ἱρέες τοῦ Διὸς οἷόν τι καὶ ἐμοὶ οὐ γενεηλογήσαντι ἐμεωυτόν. Ἐσαγαγόντες ἐς τὸ μέγαρον ἔσω ἐὸν μέγα ἐξηρίθμεον δεικνύντες κολοσσοὺς ξυλίνους τοσούτους ὅσους περ εἶπον· ἀρχιερεὺς γὰρ ἕκαστος αὐτόθι ἱστᾷ ἐπὶ τῆς ἑωυτοῦ ζόης εἰκόνα ἑωυτοῦ· ἀριθμέοντες ὦν καὶ δεικνύντες οἱ ἱρέες ἐμοὶ ἀπεδείκνυσαν παῖδα πατρὸς ἑωυτῶν ἕκαστον ἐόντα, ἐκ τοῦ ἄγχιστα ἀποθανόντος τῆς εἰκόνος διεξιόντες διὰ πασέων, ἐς ὃ ἀπέδεξαν ἁπάσας αὐτάς. Ἑκαταίῳ δὲ γενεηλογήσαντι ἑωυτὸν καὶ ἀναδήσαντι ἐς ἑκκαιδέκατον θεὸν ἀντεγενεηλόγησαν ἐπὶ τῇ ἀριθμήσι [...]. Hecataeus the historian was once at Thebes, where he made a genealogy for himself that had him descended from a god in the sixteenth generation. But the priests of Zeus did with him as they also did with me (who had not traced my own lineage). They brought me into the great inner court of the temple and showed me wooden figures there which they counted to the total they had already given, for every high priest sets up a statue of himself there during his lifetime; pointing to these and counting, the priests showed me that each succeeded his father; they went through the whole line of figures, back to the earliest from that of the man who had most recently died. Thus, when Hecataeus had traced his descent and claimed that his sixteenth forefather was a god, the priests too traced a line of descent according to the method of their counting […].

The passage describes how the Theban priests count their generations: they add up the statues built for them, one for each priest, from father to son. The priests point at the statues and any recipient, by counting them, is able to determine the number of generations. The verb which recurs in the text, relevant to the act of demonstration, is deiknymi, together with its compound apodeiknymi. Herodotus himself highlights the connection between this kind of evidence and an incontrovertible type of cognitive process, akin to arithmetic calculus. Throughout the passage, such analogy is emphasized by the repetition of the terms related to calculation (notably: exērithmeon, arithmeontes and epi tēi arithmēsi). The act of deiknymi implies ostension and calculus. The meaning of the statues is suggested by a precise and irrefutable calculation: one statue is the equivalent of one generation, n statues are the equivalent of n generations. Herodotus, Hecateus and whoever attends such demonstration is capable of seeing the statues, of counting them and of reaching their conclusions independently, without needing any further clarification, mediation or explanation. The act of displaying

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(apodeiknynai) the statues is per se sufficient to explain, through an inclusive procedure, how old the generations of Theban priests are. 28

 Deigma as Incontrovertible Evidence After discussing how the divination paradigm that involves the sphere of phainein differs from the arithmetic calculus implied by deiknymi, the specific function of deigma — related to deiknymi like phasma is to phainein — ought to be looked into. 29 The examination of its occurrences allows to define deigma as an element of proof which increases certainty and — at the same time — reduces doubt and ambiguity. Moreover, deigmata are easily accessible and comprehensible to most, since no specific abilities are required to decode them. Demonstrative processes founded on deigmata are hence unitary and universal. The notion of deigma is, from a pragmatic point of view, distant from that of phasma, mainly on the grounds of the epistemic and demonstrative strategies involved. Deigma leads to certainty, phasma to hypothesis. 30 A valid illustration of the rhetorical function of deigma comes from a passage of Demosthenes’ Against Meidias 183, where the judicial context further enhances the crucial role played by proof and demonstrative strategies. Demosthenes argues (against wealthy Meidias) that the Athenians should equally punish wealthy and needy citizens acting against the law. μὴ τοίνυν αὐτοὶ καθ᾽ ὑμῶν αὐτῶν δεῖγμα τοιοῦτον ἐξενέγκητ᾽, ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ὡς ἄρ᾽ ὑμεῖς, ἂν μὲν τῶν μετρίων τινὰ καὶ δημοτικῶν λάβηθ᾽ ὁτιοῦν ἀδικοῦντα, οὔτ᾽ ἐλεήσετ᾽ οὔτ᾽ ἀφήσετε, ἀλλ᾽ ἀποκτενεῖτ᾽ ἢ ἀτιμώσετε, ἂν δὲ πλούσιος ὤν τις ὑβρίζῃ, συγγνώμην ἕξετε. μὴ δῆτα: οὐ γὰρ δίκαιον: ἀλλ᾽ ἐπὶ πάντων ὁμοίως ὀργιζόμενοι φαίνεσθε. Beware, Athenians, of bearing this testimony against yourselves, that if you detect a man of the middle class or a friend of the people committing an offence, you will neither pity nor reprieve him, but will punish him with death or disfranchisement, while you are ready to

 28 On the use of apodeiknymi in Herodotus and its connection to proof and display, see Thomas 2000, 261–269. 29 See DELG s.v. deiknymi. 30 A passage from Aristotle’s Poetics 1450a gives important evidence for this difference between the area of phainein and the area of deiknymi. While apodeiknymi refers to the dianoia, to elaborate thought and demonstration, apophainō refers to a gnomē that does not need any demonstration but just requires to be accepted by the recipient.

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte pardon the insolence of a rich man. Spare us that injustice, and show your indignation impartially against all offenders.

Deigma is, in this passage, the image the Athenians would give of themselves by favouring wealthy citizens before the law. One single event would act as a means of proof (deigma) of their general, negative conduct. A more detailed framework of the uses of deigma is offered by an excerpt from another speech of Demosthenes, Against Aristocrates 65. In such passage Demosthenes lists the most prestigious Athenian institutions, among which is the Areopagus: πολλὰ μὲν δὴ παρ’ ἡμῖν ἐστι τοιαῦτα οἷα οὐχ ἑτέρωθι, ἓν δ’ οὖν ἰδιώτατον πάντων καὶ σεμνότατον, τὸ ἐν Ἀρείῳ πάγῳ δικαστήριον, ὑπὲρ οὗ τοσαῦτ’ ἔστιν εἰπεῖν καλὰ παραδεδομένα καὶ μυθώδη καὶ ὧν αὐτοὶ μάρτυρές ἐσμεν, ὅσα περὶ οὐδενὸς ἄλλου δικαστηρίου· ὧν ὡσπερεὶ δείγματος ἕνεκ’ ἄξιόν ἐστιν ἓν ἢ δύο ἀκοῦσαι. There are many institutions of ours the like of which are not to be found elsewhere, but among them one especially peculiar to ourselves and venerable,—I mean the Court of Areopagus. Concerning that Court I could relate a greater number of noble stories, in part traditional and legendary, in part certified by our own personal testimony, than could be told of any other tribunal. It is worth your while to listen to one or two of them by way of illustration.

Demosthenes mentions several examples worth listening to as testimonies (deigmata) of the fame of the Court of Areopagus. In the following lines of the speech the most famous trials which took place on the Areopagus (i.e. the murder of Alirrotius by Ares and the murder of Clitemnestra by Orestes) are examined. These are followed by a number of other judgements of the Areopagus under oligarchy, tyranny and democracy which, according to Demosthenes 23.66, have never been questioned once pronounced. Demosthenes certifies the authority of the Areopagus by using testimonies (deigmata) which are immediately comprehensible to everyone. The testimonies presented by Demosthenes are hardly refutable and are, as a consequence, suitable to create universal evidence. The first two cases in particular — the trials agains Ares and Orestes – belong to myth, to a shared cultural background that nobody could possibly refuse nor contradict. In contrast with phainein (and phasma), which induce hypothesis and guess, the semantic sphere of deiknynai (and deigma) contributes to strengthening the truthfulness of an utterance. In the speech Against Meidias a deigma is proof of an unjust and biased behaviour carried out by the Athenians. In the excerpt from Against Aristocrates, similarly, deigma is an element which proves the prestige of the Athenian law-courts.

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The final passage examined in this section is an excerpt from Euripides’ Suppliants (354–357): λαβὼν δ’ Ἄδραστον δεῖγμα τῶν ἐμῶν λόγων ἐς πλῆθος ἀστῶν εἶμι· καὶ πείσας τάδε, λεκτοὺς ἀθροίσας δεῦρ’ Ἀθηναίων κόρους ἥξω· [...] So I will take Adrastus as proof of what I have to say and go to their assembly, and when I have won them to these views, I will return here, after collecting a picked band of young Athenians […].

Theseus is determined to help the women of Argo retrieving the bodies of their sons from the Thebans, act which requires the support of the Athenian assembly. Theseus hence conducts before the assembly a witness, Adrastus, whom he refers to with the term deigma and who makes Theseus’ utterance truthful and trustworthy before the audience. Adrastus is a human being who acts as a direct and immediate constructor of evidence. His human nature further highlights the belonging of deigmata to the world of the mortals, where the interactions take place, and which is opposed to the divine sphere of phainein and phasma which are, vice versa, disconnected and separate from humankind.

 Conclusion This chapter, by examining the notions of phasma and deigma, has tackled two different communicative and rhetoric models which differ under many aspects. Phasmata are capable of acting as signs and of triggering an indirect, mediated and selective epistemic process in their recipients. The analysis has moved from texts where the association between phasma and sēmeion (sign) is explicit. Textual evidence shows that the cognitive process implied is inferential and based on hypothesis and guess. Phasmata which act as signs always belong to a superhuman sphere, which is not directly comprehensible for humankind. The epistemic process which is typically involved by phasmata is the process that can be defined as divinatory paradigm, which involves the divine sphere and the presence of a knowledgeable expert (namely a mantis or soothsayer) who, through abductive reasoning, tries to decode the message received. In parallel, the epistemic model founded on deigmata has been analyzed. Such model is, unlike the former, founded on universal and incontrovertible evidence. It is a unitary model, while the model based on phasma is inherently divisive. Deigmata are elements of proof accessible to anyone; phasmata only to a

  Flaminia Beneventano della Corte few, selected experts. Deigmata belong to the world of the mortals and to an inclusive rhetoric based on clarity and immediacy. On the other hand, evidence created by phasmata is sent by the gods and is, for its own nature, unattainable by most humans, ambiguous and subject to misunderstanding and misconception.

Bibliography Beneventano della Corte, F. (2017), Phasma. Una categoria del sovrannaturale nella cultura della Grecia antica, Ph.D. thesis, Università degli studi di Siena. Beneventano della Corte, F. (2021), ‘Phasma, teras, sēmeion. Segni straordinari nellaGrecia antica’, in: I. Baglioni/G. Grandi (eds.), Monstra II. Simbologie e funzionalità degli esseri mostruosi, vol. I: L’ antichità classica, Roma. Bettini, M. (2009), ‘Comparare i Romani. Per una antropologia del mondo antico’, in: Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica, suppl. al fasc. 1, La stella sta compiendo il suo giro, Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Siracusa 21–23 maggio 2007, 1–47. Bonfantini, M./Proni, G. (1983), ‘To guess or not to guess?’ in: U. Eco/T. Sebeok (eds.), The Sign of Three. Holmes, Dupin, Peirce, Bloomington, 137–155. Bonfantini, M./Grazia, R./Proni, G. (eds.) (1984), Charles Sanders Peirce. Le leggi dell’ipotesi. Antologia dai Collected Papers, Milano. Detienne, M./Vernant, J.-P. (1974), Les ruses de l’intelligence. La mètis des Grecs, Paris. Eco, U./Sebeok, T.A. (eds.) (1983), The Sign of Three. Holmes, Dupin, Peirce, Bloomington. Fausti, D. (2008), ‘Il segno e la prognosi nel Corpus Hippocraticum (Prognostico e Prorretico I e II)’, in: I Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro Online 1, 258–278. Felton, D. (1999), Haunted Greece and Rome. Ghost stories from classical antiquity, Austin. Ginzburg, C. (1979), ‘Spie. Radici di un paradigma indiziario’, in: A. Gargani (ed.), Crisi della ragione. Nuovi modelli nel rapporto tra sapere e attività umane, Torino, 57–106. Lloyd, G.E.R. (1990), Demystifying mentalities. Themes in the social sciences, Cambridge. Manetti, G. (1987), Le teorie del segno nell’antichità classica, Milano. Manetti, G. (1994), ‘Indizi e prove nella cultura greca. Forza epistemica e criteri di validità dell’inferenza semiotica’, in: Quaderni Storici 85, n. 1, 19–42. Ogden, D. (2002), Magic, Witchcraft and Ghosts in the Greek and Roman Worlds. A Sourcebook, Oxford. Peirce, C.S. (1931–1958), Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, Harvard. Pelling, C. (2001), Plutarch. Caesar, Oxford. Pike, K.L. (1969), Language in relation to a unified theory of the structure of human behaviour, The Hague/Paris. Pisano, C. (2015), ‘Il mántis all’ascolto degli dèi’, in: I. Baglioni (ed.), Ascoltare gli dèi / divos audire. Costruzione e percezione della dimensione sonora nelle religioni del Mediterraneo antico, vol. II: L’antichità classica e cristiana, Roma, 63–69. Ramsey, J. (2000), ‘Beware the Ides of March: an astrological prediction?’, in: Classical Quarterly 50, 440–454. Romeo, L. (1976), ‘Heraclitus and the foundations of semiotics’, in: Versus 15, 73–90.

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Sluiter, I. (2016), ‘Obscurity’, in: A. Grafton/G.W. Most (eds.), Canonical texts and scholarly practices: a global comparative approach, Cambridge/New York, 34–51. Stramaglia, A. (1999), Res inauditae, incredulae. Storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco-latino, Bari. Thomas, R. (1997), ‘Ethnography, Proof and Argument in Herodotus’ Histories’, in: Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 43, 128–148. Thomas, R. (2000): Herodotus in Context. Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Vega Reñón, L. (1996): ‘La dimostrazione’, in: S. Settis (ed.), I Greci. Storia cultura arte società, Vol. I: Noi e i Greci, Torino, 285–318.

Michael Paschalis

Ciceronian vs Socratic Dialogue in the De divinatione The two books of Cicero’s De divinatione, a work that was completed and published around the time of Caesar’s assassination (March 15, 44 B.C.), 1 are a unique work of philosophical rhetoric. In book 1 Quintus Cicero formulates along Stoic lines the arguments in favour of divination, while in book 2 his older brother Marcus fiercely attacks these arguments and undermines the principles of divinatory science along the lines of Academic skepticism. At the end of the second book the reader is called upon by Marcus to make up his own mind regarding the two opposite arguments on divination (150.16–23): “[…] cum autem proprium sit Academiae iudicium suum nullum interponere, ea probare, quae simillima veri videantur, conferre causas et, quid in quamque sententiam dici possit, expromere, nulla adhibita sua auctoritate iudicium audientium relinquere integrum ac liberum, tenebimus hanc consuetudinem a Socrate traditam eaque inter nos, si tibi, Quinte frater, placebit, quam saepissime utemur”. 2 “[…] Moreover, it is characteristic of the Academy to put forward no conclusions of its own, but to approve those which seem to approach nearest to the truth; to compare arguments; to draw forth all that may be said in behalf of any opinion; and, without asserting any authority of its own, to leave the judgement of the inquirer wholly free. That same method, which by the way we inherited from Socrates, I shall, if agreeable to you, my dear Quintus, follow as often as possible in our future discussions”. 3

In the surviving conclusions of his philosophical works Cicero regularly summarizes briefly how the arguments have fared. 4 Why does he avoid doing so in the present case as opposed to the conclusion of the thematically related De natura deorum 3.95? Haec cum essent dicta, ita discessimus ut Velleio Cottae disputatio verior, mihi Balbi ad veritatis similitudinem videretur esse propensior.

 1 See in detail Wardle 2006, 37–43. 2 The Latin text is from Giomini 1975. 3 The translation is by Falconer 1923. 4 Wardle 2006, 14. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-020

  Michael Paschalis Here the conversation ended, and we parted, Velleius thinking Cotta’s discourse to be truer, while I felt that that of Balbus approximated more nearly to the semblance of truth. 5

Marcus adduces in favour of his choice to leave the judgement of the audience free the precedent of Socratic dialogue. In what follows I question the invocation by Marcus of the Socratic Method. I argue that the Socratic and the Ciceronian model represent two radically opposed methods of philosophical investigation, a dialectical promoting unity and a non-dialectical one most often promoting disunity. The latter takes the form either of single monologues or an exchange of monologues or of a lengthy uninterrupted refutation, which is the case of Marcus’ speech in the De divinatione. In this context I suggest that Marcus’ aggressive attitude towards divination may reflect in form and substance ruthless forensic cross-examination as well as virulent political oratory. The De divinatione does not consist in a question-and-answer dialogue in the Socratic manner, 6 but in two continuous expositions of contrasting views on the same topic. Furthermore the present work differs for instance from the De oratore, where the speeches of Crassus and Antonius are in a sense complementary, or the De natura deorum, a descriptive rather than polemic work, where Velleius and Balbus expose respectively the principles of Epicurean and Stoic theology while Cotta argues from the viewpoint of Academic skepticism. By contrast in the De divinatione Marcus’ speech is constructed as a systematic rhetorical refutation of the foundations, principles and methods of divination. It is a fierce and vicious attack on the theory and practice of divination mixed with pervasive scorn and ridicule of related notions and their prominent Stoic defenders. In targeting figures such as Antipater, Chrysippus and Posidonius, Marcus takes his contempt and derision to the extreme point: “Upon my word, no old woman is credulous enough now to believe such stuff” (2.36.20: haec iam, mihi crede, ne aniculae quidem existimant). Regarding the issue of the absence of a summarizing conclusion in the De divinatione, Marcus claims that “it is characteristic of the Academy not to introduce any judgement of its own, but to approve what seems most like the truth”; and yet he avoids doing so in the present case. Though it has been argued that literary interlocutors should be kept distinct from historical persons,7 the clash of literature with reality might not be unrelated to the absence of a concluding expression of approval or disapproval of the two contrasting views on divination  5 Text and translation are derived from Rackham 1933. 6 There are exceptions, of course, that is dialogues containing one or more long speeches, like the Symposium, the Menexenus and the Timaeus. 7 Beard 1986 argues this point very strongly; see also: Schofield 1986.

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previously expressed. What I mean is that Marcus Cicero had been an augur in 53 B.C., a Roman official whose main role was interpreting the will of the gods by studying the flight of birds. The ritual was central to any major undertaking in Roman society. Therefore according to Quintus it was Marcus’ duty to defend auspices 8 instead of making the case against them. Quintus repeatedly blames Marcus for being inconsistent towards divination (1.38, 59, 68). 9 Marcus Cicero had written or was writing a book De auguriis; in the speeches he accepts evidence coming from divination and in the works of political philosophy (De legibus, De re publica) he argues for the retention of traditional divinatory practices.10 The tension between the two brothers could of course be seen as a mere authorial construction, a case in which Cicero himself argues against his former or other self, but this would not alter the awkwardness of a situation that might explain the absence of a summarizing conclusion. Besides the tension reflects an actual division among Cicero’s contemporaries, who held widely different views on the value of Roman divinatory practice,11 the clash of rationalism with Roman state religion and of late Republican thought with traditional Roman practice. I will now turn to Marcus’ invocation of the Socratic precedent (hanc consuetudinem a Socrate traditam) for leaving the present philosophical work without a conclusion. Cicero might have had in mind Plato’s aporetic dialogues, where we are left without a clear answer, but the crucial question is if Ciceronian dialogues adhere at all to the Socratic Method of exploring a question at hand by question and answer. In order to clear the ground, it is first necessary to distinguish in Cicero’s philosophical works between passages that “are truly dialectical and those that are merely dialogic”, as Gorman points out.12 He correctly classifies as merely dialogic those passages in which “an exchange of questions helps to set the scene, vivify the personalities of the participants, introduce the issues of the work, or provide variety after a lengthy exposition”. To the same category he adds passages in which “the interlocutor controls the course of the discussion through his questions”, as it happens in the Partitiones oratoriae, where Cicero answers a series of questions about rhetoric asked by his son (a pattern of interrogation and response which recurs in other Ciceronian works as well). In the overwhelming

 8 1.105.10 quid de auguribus loquar? Tuae partes sunt, tuum, inquam, auspiciorum patrocinium debet esse. 9 Santangelo 2012, 37–41. 10 Wardle 2006, 5–8. 11 Wardle 2006, 27. 12 Gorman 2005, 35–84.

  Michael Paschalis majority of cases we are dealing with dialogic and not with dialectical passages.13 By contrast, the ideal goal of Socratic elenchus is to establish an objective truth by question and answer and, though this truth may sometimes not be reached in the end, contrary views are anyway subjected to close scrutiny and the ground is cleared as much as possible. True knowledge, says Plato in the Republic, is impossible for anyone who cannot “give and receive an account” (531e), that is who cannot ask and answer questions. We are then faced with two radically opposed methods of philosophical investigation, a dialectical and a non-dialectical, the latter taking the form either of single monologues or an exchange of monologues or of a lengthy uninterrupted refutation. In the De oratore Cicero ascribes to Aristotle the argumentation by continuous exposition (3.80):14 Sin aliquis exstiterit aliquando qui Aristotelio more de omnibus rebus in utramque partem possit dicere et in omni causa duas contrarias orationes praeceptis illius cognitis explicare aut hoc Arcesilae modo et Carneadi contra omne quod propositum sit disserat, quique ad eam rationem adiungat hunc rhetoricum usum moremque [exercitationemque] dicendi, is sit unus, is perfectus, is solus orator. But if ever a person shall arise who shall have abilities to deliver opinions on both sides of a question on all subjects, after the manner of Aristotle, and, from a knowledge of the precepts of that philosopher, to deliver two contradictory orations on every conceivable topic, or shall be able, after the manner of Arcesilaus or Carneades, to dispute against every proposition that can be laid down, and shall unite with those powers rhetorical skill, and practice and exercise in speaking, he will be the true, the perfect, the only orator. 15

We do not know if Aristotle wrote dialogues of continuous exposition, placed in the mouth of one or more principal characters; furthermore, Long correctly points out that the originality Cicero attributes to Aristotle over in utramque partem dicere is unhistorical, since it omits the sophistic dissoi logoi. In his view Cicero

 13 Though Gorman identifies and discusses three instances in which he claims that Cicero follows the Socratic Method (De Republica 1.58–63, De Finibus 2.317, and sections of the Tusculan Disputations), I would be inclined to side with those scholars who have seen even these as sources of dramatic ‘colour’, as forming brief introductions to or transitions between the ‘main’ arguments of the works, and serving to establish an urbane tone for the discussions. Whatever the case, these latter instances clearly represent the exception to the rule in Cicero’s philosophical works, which is the two-sided disputation consisting in continuous speeches with occasional dialogic passages. 14 The text is derived from Kumaniecki 1969. 15 Translated by Selby 1986.

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probably had in mind “a handbook account of our Aristotelian Topics and Rhetoric, mediated via the rhetorical schools and further influenced by the teachings of Philo”. 16 The De oratore is a rhetorical dialogue-treatise and superior skill in continuous discourses quite naturally renders the ideal of the perfectus orator. But the examples used above are drawn from Aristotle, Arcesilaus and Carneades and suggest also Cicero’s approval of philosophical argumentation in the form of continuous discourse. This is anyway confirmed by his statements at the appropriate places. In the Introduction to Book 2 of De finibus bonorum and malorum Cicero draws up a rough history of the methods of philosophical argumentation from the time of Socrates and the Sophists to his own days. He starts by approving of the Socratic Method and rejecting the practice of the Sophists, who would invite their audience to suggest a topic for exposition; he adds that the Socratic Method was later abandoned but was revived by Arcesilaus, the founder of the Middle Academy, who would ask his audience to say what they thought and then proceed to refute it; and concludes by referring to himself as the true successor of Socrates — in his own words the “father of philosophy” — whose method he intends to follow in refuting from a Stoic viewpoint Torquatus’ exposition of the Ethics of Epicurus. Two issues deserve our attention here. First wherever the employment of continuous exposition is involved Cicero disagrees only as regards the way it is conducted: for instance, he is in favour of Arcesilaus’ method of refuting a view expounded by someone in the audience and against the practice of the Sophists to speak on a subject proposed by the audience. In other words, the whole point is about the proper use of continuous exposition. Secondly Cicero’s presentation of the Socratic Method is distorted to fit the practice of refuting an argument by continuous discourse. This becomes abundantly clear through Cicero’s definition of the Socratic Method in De finibus 2.2 and in Tusculanae disputationes 1.8: is enim percontando atque interrogando elicere solebat eorum opiniones quibuscum disserebat, ut ad ea quae ii respondissent si quid videretur diceret. 17 Socrates’ own technique was to investigate his interlocutors by questioning them. Once he had elicited their opinions in this way, he would then respond to them if he had any view of his own. 18

 16 Long 2006, 301. 17 The text is derived from Reynolds’ OCT edition 1998. 18 Annas and Woolf 2001.

  Michael Paschalis fiebat autem ita ut, cum is qui audire vellet dixisset, quid sibi videretur, tum ego contra dicerem. Haec est enim, ut scis, vetus et Socratica ratio contra alterius opinionem disserendi. Nam ita facillime quid veri simillimum esset inveniri posse Socrates arbitrabatur. The procedure was that, after the would-be listener had expressed his view, I opposed it. This, as you know, is the old Socratic method of arguing against your adversary’s position; for Socrates thought that in this way the probable truth was most readily discovered. 19

As a matter of fact the way Cicero proceeds in Book 2 of the De finibus bonorum et malorum in refuting the theory of hedonism exposed by Toquatus in Book 1 has nothing to do with Socrates’ dialectical method, because it is expository as well as dialogic, the latter in the sense of “the interlocutor controlling the course of the discussion through his questions”. The basic issue is once again the proper use of a continuous exposition and not the application of the Socratic Method. I quote the relative passage (2.3): nos commodius agimus; non enim solum Torquatus dixit quid sentiret, sed etiam cur. Ego autem arbitror, quamquam admodum delectatus sum eius oratione perpetua, tamen commodius, cum in rebus singulis insistas et intellegas quid quisque concedat, quid abnuat, ex rebus concessis concludi quod velis et ad exitum perveniri. Cum enim fertur quasi torrens oratio, quamvis multa cuiusque modi rapiat, nihil tamen teneas, nihil apprehendas, nusquam orationem rapidam coerceas. Our procedure, though, is a better one. Torquatus stated not only what he thought, but why he thought it. I believe, however, much as I enjoyed hearing him speak uninterrupted, that it is none the less more manageable if one stops after each individual point and ascertains what each of the listeners is happy to concede, and what they would reject. One can then draw the inferences one wishes from the points conceded and reach one’s conclusion. When, on the other hand, the speech races on like a torrent, carrying with it all manner of material, then there is nothing the listener can grasp at or get hold of. There is no way to check the raging flood.

Marcus’ speech in the De divinatione has been compared “with passages in which Cicero destroys an opponent whom he imagines in the witness box, by ruthless ‘virtual’ cross-examination”. 20 It may also not be irrelevant that the Late Republic is a society torn apart by irreconcilable political conflicts which are channeled into bloody civil wars — in terms of the magnitude of the events, the enormity of  19 Text and translation are derived from King 1945. 20 Schofield 1986, 54: “earlier I introduced in connection with Book II the notion of the rhetoric of cross-examination, for much of Book II is reminiscent of nothing so much as passages in Cicero’s forensic speeches where he is imagining that he has his opponent in (as we would say) the witness box and can tear his words to pieces”.

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the political stakes and the consequences for the Roman system of government and world dominion not comparable to any other era in the Greco-Roman world. Also, after the assassination of Caesar Cicero’s own execution is drawing near; it will be triggered by his scathing and virulent rhetorical attacks against Mark Antony. Seen from this point of view, Marcus’ aggressive attitude towards divination may also reflect in form and substance not only forensic but also political oratory. Public divination in Rome was a state institution and in the Late Republic the art was frequently abused for political or personal ends. Actually, there is a notorious case in which Cicero practiced refutation by continuous discourse against the abuse of the art. I mean the speech De haruspicum responsis delivered in May of 56 B.C. In this speech Cicero rebuts a most ridiculous accusation arising from an interpretation given by the haruspices to a portentous noise, as of clashing arms, observed in a district near Rome. Clodius had seized on a reference in their response to “profanation of sacred and hallowed places” as indicating the rebuilding of Cicero’s house on the area consecrated to Liberty. Therefore, the philosophical disputation on divination is in certain respects not so far removed from the rhetoric of the political arena. And the appeal to the Socratic Method at the end of the De divinatione turns out to be a mere foil for the adoption of refutation by continuous discourse. Regardless of what Cicero may have understood by the Socratic Method, the appeal to it blurs the obvious by conveniently providing the work with the aura of dialectical pursuit. We have here an extreme instance of the subjugation of philosophy to rhetoric in Cicero’s days. Schofield has highlighted the oratorical merits of the Ciceronian dialogue– treatise which permits presentation that is more complete and carefully expressed vis-à-vis the Socratic method of question and answer and argued that “the creation of the philosophical dialogue-treatise is self-consciously designed to demonstrate that philosophy by oratory is better philosophy — and more not less dialogic”.21 I have argued the opposite view, that Ciceronian dialogue serves primarily the aims of rhetoric while the Socratic dialogue those of philosophy; and while the Socratic dialectic strives after unity by building on question and answer and ideally aims at reaching a commonly agreed objective truth, refutation by continuous discourse in the De divinatione confirms and enhances disunity in the sense that it records and promotes existing dissension and division by casting it into a rhetorical frame. 22  21 Schofield 2009, 70. 22 A different view is argued by Krostenko 2000 who detects “Cicero’s own frank but restrained attempts to point to the theory and practice of a limited, formal, and symbolic divination as the

  Michael Paschalis

Bibliography Annas, J./Woolf, R. (eds.) (2001), Cicero: On Moral Ends, Cambridge. Beard, M. (1986), ‘Cicero and Divination: The Formation of a Latin Discourse’, in: JRS 76, 33–46. Falconer, W.A. (1923), Cicero: De senectute, De amicitia, De divinatione, Cambridge, MA/London. Giomini, R. (ed.) (1975), M. Tulli Ciceronis scripta quae manserunt omnia. Fasc. 46, De divinatione, De fato, Timaeus, Leipzig. Gorman, R. (2005), The Socratic Method in the Dialogues of Cicero, Stuttgart. King, J.E. (1945), Cicero: Tusculan Disputations, Cambridge, MA/London. Krostenko, B. (2000), ‘Beyond (Dis)belief: Rhetorical Form and Religious Symbol in Cicero’s De divinatione’, in: TAPA 130, 353–391. Kumaniecki, K. (1969), M. Tulli Ciceronis scripta quae manserunt omnia, fasc. 3, De oratore, Leipzig. Long, A.A. (2006), ‘Cicero’s Plato and Aristotle’, in: A.A. Long (ed.), From Epicurus to Epictetus: Studies in Hellenistic and Roman Philosophy, Oxford, 285–306. Rackham, H. (1933), Cicero: De natura deorum; Academica, Cambridge, MA/London. Reynolds, L.D. (1998), M. Tulli Ciceronis De Finibus bonorum et malorum libri quinque, Oxford. Santangelo, F. (2012), ‘Law and Divination in the Late Roman Republic’, in: O. Tellegen – Cuperus (ed.), Law and Religion in the Roman Republic, Leiden/Boston, 31–54. Schofield, M. (1986), ‘Cicero for and against Divination’, in: JRS 76, 47–65. Schofield, M. (2009), ‘Ciceronian Dialogue’, in: S. Goldhill (ed.), The End of Dialogue in Antiquity, Cambridge, 63–84. Wardle, D. (2006), Cicero: On Divination Book 1, Oxford. Watson, J.S. (1986), Cicero on Orarory and Orators, Carbondale/Edwardsville.

 dialectical solution to the polarities that the dialogue pointedly develops between the two speakers”.

Philip Hardie

Unity and Disunity in Paulinus of Nola Poem 24 Late antique Latin poetry displays an almost obsessive concern with concord and discord, with community and dissension, in poetry both on Roman imperial history, politics, and ideology, and on Christian history and Christian doctrine. I am not of course the first person to notice this: in 1981 Peter Brown, in his influential book The Cult of the Saints, referred to the ‘late-Roman preoccupation with concord’. 1 In the political sphere the hope for concord, and fear of discord, speak to the perceived danger of division between the western and eastern empires, and, in the religious sphere, to the danger of schism and heresy. The political and theological may coincide, for example in the division between a western orthodox, and an eastern Arian, Christianity. The unity of the Roman Empire enables the harmonious coexistence of the various peoples of the world united in their Christian faith under the Christian emperor. As an interpretation of history, this “Reichstheologie” reflects a more general emphasis in early Christianity on the importance of the spiritual community and unity of Christians in the act of worship. Unity in variety has more specific meanings in the mysteries of the Christian faith: the Trinity combines three separate persons in one substance, and the Incarnation yokes the opposites of man and god, mortal and immortal. Acts 4:31– 32 tells of the effect of the Holy Spirit in producing unanimity in a multitude of believers who had one heart and one soul, (32) multitudinis autem credentium erat cor et anima una. nec quisquam eorum quae possidebant aliquid suum esse dicebat; sed erant illis omnia communia “And the multitude of believers had but one heart and one soul. Neither did anyone say that aught of the things which he possessed was his own: but all things were common unto them”. 2 The history of late antique Latin poetry is also an important part of the reception of Virgil, not surprisingly, given the centrality of the poems of Virgil to Latin education and culture. If the changed conditions of politics and belief in the fourth and fifth centuries introduce new elements and new emphases into the longer history of the rhetoric of unity and disunity, these distinctly “late-antique” features are often articulated through a reworking of Virgilian models. Concord and discord are important themes in the Aeneid, culminating in the resolution of  1 Brown 1981, 96. 2 For a fuller discussion of concordia and discordia in late antique Latin poetry, see Hardie 2019b, ch. 4. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-021

  Philip Hardie the Discordia of Roman civil war through the Concordia of the Pax Augusta. 3 That telos of Virgil’s epic is given pictorial expression on the Shield of Aeneas at the end of Aeneid 8: there, following the Battle of Actium, where Discordia strides exultant with her rent garment (8.702 et scissa gaudens uadit Discordia palla), the discors concordia of a world-empire subject to the rule of one man is seen in the great variety of the peoples of the world processing obediently in the triumph of Augustus, who surveys them from his seat at the threshold of the Palatine Temple of Apollo, like the single eye of the sun surveying the variety of the world: Aen. 8.722–723 incedunt uictae longo ordine gentes, | quam uariae linguis, habitu tam uestis et armis “the defeated nations walked in long procession, with all their different languages, and in all their different costumes and armour”. Line 723 is imitated by later epic poets, commenting on one man’s control of a vast variety of peoples. Lucan comments on the variety and diversity of peoples in the catalogue of Pompey’s troops, Bellum Ciuile 3.284–290 non … unum | tot reges habuere ducem, coiere nec umquam | tam uariae cultu gentes, tam dissona uulgi | ora, “never did so many kings obey a single leader, never did nations meet so different in dress, never was there such a confusion of tongues”. These peoples come together (coiere) in a common cause, but as material for the greatest catastrophe in the discord of the civil war between Pompey and Caesar. Claudian turns Lucan’s civil-war strife back into worldwide imperial harmony in his description of Stilicho’s inheritance of the eastern and western empires united by Theodosius, Consulship of Stilicho 1.152–4 certe nec tantis dissona linguis | turba nec armorum cultu diuersior umquam | confluxit populus “Yet surely never had such diversities of language and arms met together to form one united people”. Prudentius, apologist for the Christianization of the Roman Empire, looks back to the Virgilian Shield through the formulations of both Lucan and Claudian in his rewriting of Roman imperialism in Against Symmachus. For Prudentius it is the one Christian God, working through the instruments of Roman imperial expansion, who has brought the discordant variety of the peoples of the world under a single rule, Symm. 2.586–590 discordes linguis populos et dissona cultu | regna uolens sociare Deus subiungier uni | imperio, quicquid tractabile moribus esset, | concordique iugo retinacula mollia ferre | constituit “God, wishing to bring into partnership peoples discordant in speech and kingdoms of dissonant customs, determined that all the civilized world should be harnessed to one ruling power and bear gentle bonds in harmony under the yoke”. Paulinus of Nola transfers the Virgilian imperial theme of unity in diversity to the smaller scale of the crowds of pilgrims who come to celebrate the festival  3 On concord and discord in the Aeneid, see Cairns 1989, ch. 4; Fitzgerald 2016, 73–83.

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of St Felix at Cimitile, Poem 13.24–25 ecce uias uario plebs discolor agmine pingit, urbes innumeras una miramur in urbe “See, the crowds of many hues bring colour to the roads in their mottled throng, and we eye with astonishment countless cities in a single city”. This is an example of the importance of the cult of the saints, and of the saints’ relics, in fostering a sense of community, both on a local level and at the level of the wider Christian congregation, as memorably described by Peter Brown. 4 Elsewhere, Paulinus of Nola reveals a concern to advertise a Christian concord that unites high and low on a number of levels: social high-class and lowerclass, the sublimity of the eternal Christian truths and the quotidian comedy of life on earth, stylistic sublimity and the sermo humilis. One poem that lends itself to a reading of this kind is Poem 18, which joins heaven and earth through Paulinus’ first narrative of a miracle worked by St Felix after the saint’s sublime and triumphal ascent to the heavens, a miracle that takes the form of the divinely enabled return of some stolen oxen to a humble and comic rustic. This chapter is a pendant to my discussion elsewhere of that poem. 5 Like Poem 18, Poem 24 is constructed through a contrast between sublimity and comedy which, to a closer reading, reveals a community of purpose. In alternating iambic trimeters and dimeters, it is a verse epistle to a friend of Paulinus, one Cytherius, an Aquitanian of noble family. The first part (1–456) tells the adventures of Martinianus, entrusted by Cytherius to carry a letter to Paulinus, from Gaul to Cimitile in Campania, a letter which was lost when Martinianus was shipwrecked. The second part (457–942) is advice to Cytherius on the formation for the priesthood of his son, who has been sent to the monastic community at Primuliacum led by Sulpicius Severus, another friend of Paulinus, and best known as the friend and biographer of St Martin of Tours. The poem concludes with anticipation of the youth’s eagle-like flight to a crown of glory, and of the whole family’s elevation on clouds to the presence of God at the Last Judgement. 6 The letter-carrier Martinianus’ indolence (29 piger, 401 pigram … sententiam) twice gets him in trouble. The first time (23 ff.) is when he decides to avoid the labour of land travel by boarding a ship, an old and decaying vessel which starts to take on water and sinks. The second time (399 ff.) is when, on the last leg of his journey from Capua to Nola, he decides to hire a pack-mule to ride on, rather than walk the rest of the way. He is unseated when the mule bolts, but, in one of a series of mini-miracles (19–20 miracula expertus in periculis), he is saved by St  4 Brown 1981, 95–103. 5 Hardie 2019a. 6 On Poem 24, see Walsh 1976; Guttilla 1995.

  Philip Hardie Felix from cuts and scratches when he falls face forwards on to the brambles and stones. There are other touches of humour. In another minor miracle, when Martinianus jumps into the freezing and waterlogged ship’s boat, his limbs are divinely warmed and he sleeps soundly until the boat reaches shore. Martinianus is then given shelter at Massilia by a monastic community, and sent on his way with shining new sandals but still in his ragged first set of clothes: to avoid the shame of being seen ill-clad and being taken for a beggar were he to travel by land he embarks again, but this time the hand of God guides him safely through a storm. 7 Martinianus is of a higher social class than the cowherd in Poem 18, but as a letter-carrier 8 distinctly lower than Paulinus and his noble correspondent. In his all too human weaknesses, his laziness, his liking for his sleep, his embarrassment at his appearance and his anxiety that he might be mistaken for a vagrant mendicant, he is far removed from the model of ascetic and self-mortifying behaviour that Paulinus constructs at great length for the son of Cytherius, as preparation for his final sublime flight to God. Paulinus prays that (617–618), sit fortis anima mortificans asinum suum, | pigri iumentum corporis “may our boy’s soul be courageous in mortifying that ass of his, that beast of a lazy body”: this “ass” will not be refractory in the manner of the mule that threw Martinianus into the brambles. There is also a marked difference between the relaxed narrative manner that characterizes much of the first half of the poem, and the densely figured discourse of the second half, strewn with short biblical quotations in a manner which at times approaches the form of the cento; bursts of quotations from the Psalms might also remind us of Augustine’s compositional technique at points in the Confessions. Yet, despite these sharp contrasts between the two halves of the poem, right from the start of the letter Martinianus, whose name is the first word of the poem, is included in the Christian family of faith: 1–2 Martinianum spiritu fratrem mihi | unaque germanum fide “Martinianus, my brother in spirit and my true kinsman in the one faith”. From the start the keynote is struck of the unity of, and union in, faith. Cytherius’ “eloquent letter” (3 disertis … litteris) may have been lost en route, but the person of the presumably less eloquent Martinianus is a truer letter  7 For another letter-carrier, Cardamas (mentioned in Letters 14, 15, 19, 21), who is something of a “running joke”, see Conybeare 2000, 37. 8 On the unusually important part played by letter-carriers in Paulinus’ letters and poems, see Perrin 1992; Conybeare 2000, 141–144 letter-carriers as “completely enveloped in the community of Christ as ‘membra Christi’”; Perrin 1992, 1038–1042 on the unanimitas that joins letter-writer, addressee, and letter-carrier. In general on the carriage of letters in the late antique Christian world see Gorce 1925.

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than the written epistle, sealed from Cytherius’ own heart, a spiritalis littera (11) more effective than the written kind in making present the absent friend. 9 This is another kind of unification, a concord that is expressed through the images of dextrarum iunctio and the kiss of peace, 13–14 nunc ambo nexi ad inuicem dextras damus | in osculo pacis sacrae “now we are both mutually joined together, and give each other our right hands in the kiss of sacred peace”. Paulinus returns to the topics of epistolary togetherness at the end of the Martinianus narrative, 431–434: sed cum ipse causa litterarum uenerit, | et litteras uidi tuas, | non atramento calami sed mentis stilo | in fratre praescriptas bono “but since he came to deliver your letter, I saw your letter written in our goodly brother not with pen and ink, but with the stilus of the mind”. The messenger Martinianus, once Paulinus is acquainted with him, himself, becomes carissimus “most dear”, united in Christian caritas; 443–4 dulci benignae caritatis flumine | in nostra fluxit uiscera “with a sweet flow of kindly love he flooded into my heart”, a strongly visceral expression of union in love. In the concluding twelve lines of this section (445–456) Paulinus drives home the concord and unity that joins Martinianus and Cytherius in friendship, and which consequently increases the love felt by Paulinus for Martinianus, the “spiritual epistle” who makes the absent Cytherius present for Paulinus. In contrast to the bond between Martinianus and Cytherius, there is no concordia between the darkness of night and light, between the wolf and the lamb; as the prophet says (Eccli. 27.10), just as birds of a feather flock together (pares in unum conuolant), so justice joins with (concurrit) a good character; a brotherly spirit has joined Martinianus to you as very much your equal (longe parem … contexuit); the love of men like him is a mirror of your mind and an image of your faith (speculumque mentis et fidei instar tuae), bringing us back to the opening description of Martinianus as (1–2) Martinianum spiritu fratre mihi | unique germanum fide. Here, at the join between the humilis Martinianus narrative and the lofty second part of the poem, there follows a homiletic section on the subject of high and low, great and small, stated first in general terms before its application to the person of Cytherius (457–494). The starting point is a gloss on Cor. 1:27 sed quae stulta sunt mundi elegit Deus ut confundat sapientes, et infirma mundi elegit Deus ut confundat fortia “But the foolish things of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the wise: and the weak things of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the strong”, supplemented with John 12:32 et ego si exaltatus fuero a terra omnia traham ad me ipsum “And I, if I be lifted up from the earth,  9 The standard epistolary topos of absent presence is processed through Pauline language: 2Cor. 3:1–3.

  Philip Hardie will draw all things to myself”. Omnia includes alta as well as stulta et infirma mundi. Paulinus alludes to these biblical texts at 457–462: benedictus auctor fonsque sanctorum deus non stulta iam tantum neque infirma mundi defluentis eligit, ut alta mundi destruat; sed, ut ipse dixit, cuncta iam sursum trahens et alta mundi uindicat. God the blessed Creator and Source of saintly men does not now choose only the foolish and feeble elements of the decaying world to destroy the lofty. As He Himself said, He now draws all things upward, and claims the lofty things of the world also.

“Lofty”, alta, includes people like Cytherius, described as (481–482) decorum gloriosis saeculi, | honore litteris domo “splendid in the vaunted possessions of worldly position, rank, literature, and family.” Martinianus, at least in his comic moments, surely is to be counted among the foolish and weak things of the world. The message of this section is about joining, community, concord, union, in one world which is all subject to the one God: 463–464 ipse fecit et pusillum et maximum, | utrosque iungit gratia, “he made both the weak and the strongest, and unites them both in grace”; 467–468 communis omnes clausit infidelitas, | medeatur ut cunctis fides “a shared lack of belief circumscribed all men so that faith could heal all” (Rom. 11:32); summed up at 479–480 commune regnum, sanguis unus omnibus, | summis et imis, Christus est “Christ is the common Kingdom, the one Blood for all, both highest and lowest”. The previous couplet sums up the poetics that governs the composition of the letter, 477–478 coeunt in unum purpurae et panni gregem | pastore concordes deo, “royal robes and rags harmoniously form a single flock under God the Shepherd”. 10 This is a text that brings together the rags and nudity of the shipwrecked Martinianus (cf. esp. 327–328 si ueste Teucer pannea peruaderet | castella uicos oppida “if he were to pass like a Teucer in ragged garb through cantons, villages, and towns”), the wealth of Cytherius (and the former wealth of Paulinus), and

 10 For the juxtaposition of purple and rags see the description of the arrival of Melania the Elder at Nola, Ep. 29.12, dressed in dark rags and riding a pony, and surrounded by richly clad senators on caparisoned horses: uidimus dignam deo huius mundi confusionem, purpuream sericam auratamque supellectilem pannis ueteribus et nigris seruientem: see Conybeare 2000, 107. Paulinus perhaps has in mind the passage where Horace brings purpura and pannus together in an adjective-noun combination, Ars poetica 15–16 purpureus … pannus. Cf. Novius Atellan. fr. 84 Frassinetti qui habet uxorem sine dote, pannum positum in purpura est.

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the brightness of the celestial king (935–936 sponsique regis obuiam uectos deus | fulgore perfundat suo “and when you are borne to the face of the royal Bridegroom, may God steep you in his brightness”). The union of high and low is then exemplified in Cytherius himself, 480–484, [Christus] qui te decorum gloriosis saeculi, | honore litteris domo, | ditauit humili corde, ut aeternam tibi | conferret altitudinem “Christ enriched you, so splendid in the vaunted possessions of worldly position, literature, and family, with humility of heart so that he could bestow on you eternal eminence (altitudinem)”. If one takes this section as a prompt as to how to read this long poem in two contrasting halves as a coincidentia oppositorum, the concordances rapidly accummulate. P.G. Walsh points the way, responding to Pierre Fabre’s criticism of the poem’s lack of unity: Martinianus’ deliverance from shipwreck is a parable of the separation of believers from unbelievers at the Judgment. Just as Martinianus escaped physical death because he wore the mark of the Christian, so the son of Cytherius will guarantee himself a similar escape from the shipwreck of the world by embracing monastic life. And the final words, the exhortation to Cytherius and his wife to divest themselves of the goods of this world, are a continuation of the theme; in this way they will ensure that they, too, will be survivors from the wreck to win the safe harbour of heaven. 11

The poem operates with a recurrent opposition between division and cohesion, or adhesion, whose proper goal is adhesion to Christ, haerere Christo. 12 The Christian faithful, miraculously saved from the wreck, after the joints of the sides of the ship are loosened (39 laterumque laxis soluitur compagibus; cf. 110 dilapsae ratis), are divided from the schismatics and the Jews, who drown, in a small-scale foreshadowing of the separation of the blessed and the damned at the Last Judgment. With 121–122 et ecce uariis diuiduntur casibus, | ad mortem et ad uitam dati “Note how they were divided by different fortunes, allotted either to life or to death”, compare 139–140 quod fine mundi diuidendis gentibus | discrimen in cunctis erit “that at the end of the world there will be a divisions among the tribes and a separation among all mankind”. The poem ends with a grand vision of the Last Judgement.

 11 Walsh 1975, 26, responding to Fabre 1949, 196; the argument for unity is made at greater length in Walsh 1976, 43 “in the final section Paulinus indicates that the whole poem is to be read as a protreptikon, a poem of exhortation to Cytherius and his wife to detach themselves from the possessions of this world”. 12 See Nicastri 1992, 868 on haerere Christo. Cf. e.g. Cyprian Epist. 63.13; Augustine Enarrationes in Psalmos 33, sermo 2.19.

  Philip Hardie This division is condign punishment for the schismatics, including the ship’s captain (81–82 Nouatianus ille, discissam fidem | in corde portans naufrago “Novatianus … with a cargo of faith torn apart in his shipwrecked heart”; 128 schismatis). 13 The captain, guilty of tearing apart the one faith, cannot tear himself away from his ship and its cargo, and so drowns (151–162), just as those chained to the things of this world will not be able to divest themselves of their baggage and fly upwards at the Last Judgment (911–912 sarcinatos et graues rebus suis | mundi caduci diuites “the rich of this transient world, so heavily laden and burdened with their possessions”). Those who would be saved in that moment must free their feet of their bonds, relieved of their cramping baggage (925 expediti sarcinis angentibus). In order that they should be clothed in abundance of light, they are enjoined to be “naked in this world” (928 estote nudi saeculo), embracing nakedness where Martinianus had been ashamed of his scanty clothing (324 nudi pudore; 346–348 (Martinianus takes ship) uelut expeditus nauita | de nuditatis nauticae consortio | nudi pudorem euaderet “as if this unencumbered sailor might escape the shame of nakedness by sharing it with the sailors”). At the Last Judgement the damned will be stuck in their own muddy foulness, 915 haesitantes in luto faecis suae. By contrast Martinianus’ copy of Paul’s Epistles miraculously extricates itself from the baggage which Martinianus leaves behind in the wreck (281 implicatam sarcinis membranulam), and clings to his person (276 non sentienti adhaeserat). Epistolary presence, comparable to that which makes Paulinus present to Cytherius in the spiritalis littera that is the person of Martinianus (9–12), also operates through the presence of St Paul in the material body of the copy of his letters which Martinianus had packed in his bags, 285– 288 sed in suarum litterarum corpore | Paulus magister adfuit | amansque puro corde lectorem sui | de mortis abduxit manu “But the master Paul was present in the corpus of his letters; he loved the man who read him with a pure heart and rescued him from the hand of death.” The power to save from shipwreck which

 13 For a comparable play on theological schism and physical division and separation cf. the martyrdom of Hippolytus in Prudentius Peristephanon 11, in which the pagan persecutor inflicts on the martyr the punishment that fits his name, that of being torn apart by wild horses. The punishment is also fitting for the schismatic that Hippolytus was in the past, although now he is a pillar of orthodoxy. After his dismemberment, the fragments of this Hippolytus’ body are lovingly gathered up by his flock; the martyr’s remains are housed in a richly ornamented subterranean shrine, an enduring source of power to heal diseased minds and bodies, and to unite in one accord the thronging crowds worshippers Latin and foreign, plebeian and high-born, peoples from the various parts of Italy. On the question of the literary relationship between Paulinus and Prudentius see Costanza 1982, inclining to the conclusion that Paulinus influences Prudentius, rather than the other way round.

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the living Paul possessed (Acts 27:13 ff.), is now embodied in the letters of Paul (291–293 quae quondam in ipso nauigante apostolo | fuit potestas gratiae, | haec nunc per eius suffragata litteras), a “book alive with the holy spirit” (275 codex spiritu uiuens sacro). Martinianus himself, who risked being mingled with those who were drowning (164 mergentibus mixtum uiris) is only rescued by the hand of Christ from being stuck in the grip of death, 187–188 paene morti derelictus haeserat | cum classe mergendus mari “He was almost left behind, stuck to death, doomed to drown in the sea with the ship”. Some of those who were not yet Christians were saved because they clung to the Christians in their conjoined flight (133–134 quos de profundo iuncta seruauit fuga, | quia Christianis haeserant; 145–146 uixere iuncti Christianis impii | uincente noctem lumine; 295 qui Christianis tunc cohaeserunt fuga). Paulinus goes on to exploit word-play on discrimen, literally ‘division, separation’, and by extension “critical moment, danger”, at 296–298 discrimen a discrimine | tutum parauit, ut fideles impiis | discriminarat naufragos “(the Letters of Paul) brought about a safe separation from the danger, once they had separated the faithful among the shipwrecked from the godless.” Those who escape are saved because the schismatic captain had not succeeded, when he set out to sea, in casting off the ship’s lifeboat, by cutting the rope quo cohaerebat rati “by which it was attached to the ship” (89). 14 Cohesion and adhesion, of the right kind, are the rule of the good Christian life and the path to salvation; a right reading of the poem will also follow the track of thematic and imagistic cohesion. The humble Martinianus and the high-flying son of Cytherius are also linked in that they are both the subjects of typological equation with characters from the Old Testament. Martinianus is briefly compared to Joseph fleeing naked from the wife of Potiphar (191–194), 15 and at greater length to Jonah (169–170, 195–244). The son of Cytherius is compared to a number of Old Testament characters, and at greatest length and most elaborately to Joseph, again (701–850). The second half of the poem is marked by a proliferation of the paradoxes of the Christian faith and the spiritual life to which Paulinus is so given. 16 Paradox  14 Cf. the figurative lifeboat at Hor. Carm. 3.29.62–64 tunc me biremis praesidio scaphae | tutum per Aegaeos tumultus | aura ferat geminusque Pollux. What if anything should one make of Acts 27:30–32 where Paul prevents the sailors from fleeing in a storm in a scapha, tunc absciderunt milites funes scaphae et passi sunt eam excidere? 15 Paulinus perhaps taps a reading of Horace Odes 1.14 (more often read as a ship of state) as an allegory of a woman: see Woodman 1980. 16 See Conybeare 2000, index s.v. “paradox”; see esp. 106–108; Kohlwes 1979, 216–245 “Wunder und Paradoxon,” including discussion of the shipwreck of Martinianus and the paradoxes of Jonah in Poem 24.

  Philip Hardie is also present in the world of the first half of the poem, pronouncedly in the paradoxical wreck of a ship that succumbs to internal weakness rather than to the external violence of nature (97 ff. inusitata naufragi facies erat …), and then in the digression on Jonah (205–238), in which Paulinus first develops some of the paradoxes of the Christian life and salvation treated at length in the second half. Taken as a whole Carmen 24 unifies low and high, the comic and the sublime, within something of an epic trajectory, beginning with a sea-journey and a storm, and ending with a journey to the skies. 17 If we think in Virgilian terms, this is the plot sketched out in the first major narrative block in Aeneid 1, the storm on earth and its sequel on Olympus, where Jupiter, the god who calms storms, reassures his daughter Venus with the revelation that her son is now at the low-point in a centuries-long historical process, in the course of which she will elevate to the heavens both Aeneas and, at the end of history, his distant descendant Julius. The paradoxical shipwreck from which Martinianus narrowly escapes is but one of the many storms or storm-like events on sea or lake in Christian poetic narratives on biblical subjects, miracles, and saints’ lives, that replay the storm at the beginning of the Aeneid. In this text there is heavy allusion at 39–40 laterumque laxis soluitur compagibus | undasque rimis accipit (“the fastenings of the ship’s sides was loosened, it fell apart and let in water through the chinks”): compare Aen. 1.122–123 laxis laterum compagibus omnes | accipiunt inimicum imbrem rimisque fatiscunt (“the fastenings of the ships’ sides was loosened, they all let in the deadly water and chinks cracked open”). But, like Poem 18, this is an “epic” that can accommodate as one of its heroes a character of a kind alien or at best marginal to classical epic. Finally, the analogy with the Aeneid might be pressed further. Like Virgil’s epic, Poem 24 is in two halves, of which the second is very much the maius opus. There is a strong drive for coherence in the epic world of the Aeneid, where past is linked to present and future through foreshadowings and parallelisms, of a kind which have often been described as “typological” in the biblical sense of the world, and where small-scale events mirror events on the largest scale, where the local has global consequences. The storm in Aeneid 1 is programmatic in this respect, a small-scale simulacrum of primal Chaos and of the cosmic struggles of Titanomachy and Gigantomachy; the calming of the storm foreshadows the ‘end of history’ that will be the pax Augusta. The coherence of the Christian world of

 17 The last two lines of Poem 24 also coincide with the last two lines of Poem 11, programmatic for Paulinus’ Christian poetry: with 24.941–942 aeuum perenne perpetes ut angeli | cum rege uiuatis deo cf. 11.67–68 et ut mori sic obliuisci non capit, | perenne uiuax et memor; see Hardie 2019b, 30–31.

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Paulinus Poem 24 is still more confidently asserted, a joined-up world where persons in the present day replay the careers of characters in the Old Testament. Symbolism is not limited to events in the Bible: Martinianus’ shipwreck is a figure for the dangers besetting the soul and the church in this world, and a prefiguration of what will happen at the Last Judgment. Martinianus’ parodically “epic” journey will be replayed as the greater journey of the son of Cytherius, and finally of all good Christians, in the maius opus of the second half — and these are journeys in the same direction: Cytherius’ son will travel to the celestial home, naked of the things of this world (928 estote nudi saeculo), escaping from the “shipwreck” of this world, while Martinianus, although, as one at a lower level of spiritual development, he is ashamed of his nakedness (323 ff.), also safely reaches his goal, the holy site of Cimitile at Nola. Paulinus of Nola’s Poem 24 is constructed around a poetics of unity and disunity that mirrors — is united in solidarity with — a Christian theology of unity, asserted in the face of the historical threat of disunity and schism within the Christian community. The theme of unity and disunity operates, firstly, at the physical level, in the disintegrating ship from which the faithful Christians are saved because they cling to one another, and in so doing separate themselves from the unfaithful; secondly, at the social level, in the union of the higher and lower social classes of this world within the greater society that is united by caritas Christi; and, thirdly, at the textual level, through the discordia concors by which the several sections of the poem gradually reveal their intratextual cohesion. Paulinus’ dealings with unity and disunity in Poem 24 are characteristic of a late antique and specifically late antique Christian, mindset, but the poem displays a continuity with the themes and poetics of Augustan poetry, above all Virgil’s Aeneid, and thus realises an intertextual, as well as an intratextual, unity.

Bibliography Brown, P. (1981), The Cult of the Saints. Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, Chicago. Cairns, F. (1989), Virgil’s Augustan Epic, Cambridge. Conybeare, C. (2000), Paulinus Noster. Self and Symbols in the Letters of Paulinus of Nola, Oxford. Costanza, S. (1982), ‘Rapporti letterari tra Paolino e Prudenzio’, in: Atti Convegno XXXI Cinquantenario della morte de S. Paolino di Nola (451–1981), Nola 20–21 marzo 1982, Rome, 25–65. Fabre, P. (1949), Saint Paulin de Nole et l’amitié chrétienne, Paris. Fitzgerald, W. (2016), Variety. The Life of a Roman Concept, Chicago. Gorce, D. (1925), Les voyages, l’hospitalité, et le port des lettres dans le monde chrétien des IVe et Ve siècles, Paris.

  Philip Hardie Guttilla, G. (1995), ‘Il Carme 24 di Paolino di Nola e la sua novitas’, in: Koinonia 19.1, 5–31. Hardie, P. (2019a), ‘Cowherds and saints. Paulinus of Nola Carmen 18’, in: S. Matzner/S. Harrison (eds.), Complex Inferiorities. The Poetics of the Weaker Voice in Latin Literature, Oxford, 245–262. Hardie, P. (2019b), Classicism and Christianity in Late Antique Latin Poetry, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London. Kohlwes, K. (1979), Christliche Dichtung und stilistische Form bei Paulinus von Nola, Bonn. Nicastri, L. (1992), Properzio coturnato: l’itinerario di Pomponio Gaurico elegiaco, in: IGaurico e il rinascimento meridionale, Salerno, 173–246. Perrin, M.-Y. (1992), ‘“Ad implendum caritatis ministerium”. La place des courriers dans la correspondance de Paulin de Nole’, in: MEFRA 10, 1025–1068. Rougé, J. (1986), ‘Un drame maritime à la fin du IVe siècle: le voyage de Martinien de Narbonne à Nole (Paulin de Nole, Poème 24)’, in Mélanges Labrousse = Pallas 32, 93–103. Walsh, P.G. (1975), The Poems of St. Paulinus of Nola, translated and annotated, New York and Ramsey, N.J. Walsh, P.G. (1976), ‘Paulinus Nolanus, Carmen 24’, in: J.J. O’Meara/B. Naumann (eds.), Latin Script and Letters AD 400–900, Leiden, 37–43. Woodman, A.J. (1980), ‘The craft of Horace in Odes 1.14’, in: Classical Philology 75, 60–7 (repr. in: Woodman, A.J. (2012), From Poetry to History: Selected Papers, Oxford, ch. 7).

Note on Editors and Contributors Flaminia Beneventano della Corte is Adjunct Lecturer at CAMNES (Centre for Ancient Mediterranean and Near Eastern Studies). Bé Breij is Professor of Latin and Ancient Rhetoric at Radboud University in Nijmegen. Michael J. Edwards is Emeritus Professor of Classics at the University of Roehampton. Stefano Ferrucci is Associate Professor of Ancient History at the University of Siena. Nick Fisher is Emeritus Professor of Ancient History at Cardiff University. Philip Hardie is Senior Research Fellow at Trinity College, University of Cambridge. Ioannis Konstantakos is Professor of Ancient Greek at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens Christos Kremmydas is Reader in Ancient Greek History at Royal Holloway, University of London. Vasileios Liotsakis is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Peloponnese. T. Davina McClain is Professor of Classics in the Scholars’ College at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana, USA. Andreas N. Michalopoulos is Professor of Latin at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Simone Mollea is Doctor of Philosophy at the University of Warwick and teaches Latin Grammar at the Università della Svizzera Italiana. George Paraskeviotis is Adjunct Lecturer in Latin at the University of Thrace. Michael Paschalis is Emeritus Professor of Latin at the University of Crete. Marco Romani Mistretta is Doctor of Philosophy at Harvard University and a senior executive at The Paideia Institute. Ed Sanders is Associate Lecturer at Birkbeck and Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway, University of London.

  Note on Editors and Contributors Andreas Serafim is a Research Fellow at the Research Centre for Greek and Latin Literature of the Academy of Athens. Dimos Spatharas is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Crete. Alessandro Vatri is Departmental Lecturer in Classical and Comparative Philology at the University of Oxford. Eleni Volonaki is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Peloponnese.

General Index Abuse, language of 56–60, 86 Achilles (and Patroclus) 50, 52–53 Accusation 22, 28, 29, 37, 40, 50, 56, 77, 80, 81, 82–84, 87, 99–103, 110–113, 115, 119, 120–121, 137, 153, 160, 180, 192, 199, 219, 220, 253, 289, 340, 344, 360, 374, 380, 411 –Incest 139, 143 –mala tractatio 129, 139, 143 –murder 22, 139, 143, 380 Acropolis 35 Actio rei uxoriae 130 Address to armies 169, 173, 176, 178, 218, 263–264 Adoption 129, 342 Adultery 63, 94 Aeschines 45–66, 77, 82–85, 88, 90–91, 117, 162, 199, 344–345 Aesop 57, 293 Age groups 7, 50, 57, 62, 65, 129, 205– 206, 216, 218 Agincourt 32 Agora 115, 157, 162, 197 Agoratus 81 Aidōs 155, 160 Alazōn 35, 202 Alce 38–39, 343, 344–345 Alcibiades 26, 62 Alexander 51, 203, 245–271 Amnesty agreement 103, 120, 121, 295 Amphion 214, 215, 223, 237, 238 Anagrapheus 103 Ancestors, praise of 116, 121, 172, 176 Andocides 25–30, 36–40, 90 Anger (and pity) 80, 93, 151 Anger (orgē) 86–89, 99–103, 106–114, 117, 120–122, 171–172, 176–178, 179– 183, 184, 197, 215, 221, 234, 267, 269, 312–313 Animal imagery 61, 152, 157–161, 240, 306, 417 Antikles 50 Antiphon 22–23, 27–28, 40, 76, 78–79, 293 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-023

Antithesis 22, 109, 112, 199, 221, 240, 247, 249, 254 Apagōgē 159 Apaideusia 50–51, 62–63 Aphobetos 65 Apocheirotonia 110 Apollodorus 37, 345–346 Apollonius of Rhodes 297 Aponoia 158 Apostolos Santas 35 Apostrophe 29, 108–109, 120 Appeals to moral values 47, 65, 91, 95, 102–103, 116, 122, 127–128, 141, 143– 144, 163, 380 Apuleius 373–384 Archē 294, 324, 328 Archōn 39, 345 Areopagus 28, 116, 400 Aretē 66, 312, 337 Argumentation 39, 100, 101, 103, 117– 118, 121, 134, 149, 169, 171, 178, 184, 198, 213, 225, 290, 306, 408–409 Aristarchos 61–62 Aristogeiton (and Harmodius) 30, 51–52 Aristomenes 24, 38–39 Aristophanes 36, 152, 191–207 Aristotle 5, 25, 35, 49, 51, 52, 55, 57, 80, 82, 87, 99, 100, 102, 106, 108, 131, 132, 133, 134, 143, 149, 150, 155, 169, 172, 179, 229, 230–231, 250, 280–281, 284, 287, 289–290, 295–296, 322, 338, 399, 408–409 Arrian 245–246, 253, 254–271 Artillery 324, 328–330 Asylia 297 Athenaeus Mechanicus 325–327 Athenian dēmos 107, 111–112, 115, 117, 160, 162, 192, 193 Athenian laws against tyranny 81 Athenogenes 34, 93 Athens 4, 21–23, 26, 31, 33, 35, 39–40, 62, 65, 72, 74, 77, 81, 85, 91, 99, 104, 106, 110, 116, 121, 153, 154, 159, 160,

  General Index 178, 192, 194–197, 201–203, 206–207, 294–295, 300, 335–347, 376 Atimia 155 Attic forensic oratory, corpus of 22, 75, 171, 202 Audience 1–3, 36, 52, 56, 57, 59, 71–95, 100, 101, 103–105, 108, 115, 119, 128, 131, 150, 152, 156–158, 162–163, 168, 173–175, 191, 194, 201, 203, 205, 206, 215–220, 223, 225, 231, 237, 264, 278– 279, 282, 286, 288, 295, 304, 307, 309, 318, 322, 323, 325, 330, 332, 340, 342, 343, 347, 354–364, 367–368, 374, 379–381, 401, 406, 409 Augustine 416 Augustus 352–353, 363, 365, 369, 414 Authority 77, 82, 103–105, 109, 111, 117, 120–121, 127, 142, 181, 225, 282, 303, 332, 352–354, 361, 400 Autonomia 297 Bacchus 213–214, 217–220, 221 Basanos 340, 341, 345, 346 Bastardy 38, 40, 336, 342–344, 346, 347 Bdeluria 47, 64, 161 Bithynia 193, 300, 302, 308 Boeotians 106 Boulē 60, 72, 106, 297, 307–308 Braggart soldier, see Alazōn Bribery 87, 100, 102, 105, 107–8, 110, 112, 115, 120–121, 192, 255, 360 Caesar 392–393, 405, 411, 414 Call-backs 236–237 Callias 36 Callimachus (Isoc. 18) 31, 82 Callimachus of Cyrenae 235 Callippe 38–39, 343–344 Callisthenes 246, 253–255, 261–262, 267 Cannibalism 129, 139, 162 Captatio benevolentiae 117, 301 Catholica 133–134, 143 Cato the Elder 351–369, 378 Cenotaph in London 22, 31 Ceryces 39 Chaerestratus 24

Chaeronea 32–34, 115, 119, 121, 265 Character assassination 29, 31, 111, 120, 150 Character construction 101, 345 Charis 159 Charondas 138 Chelsea FC 22 Christianity 4, 413–423 Chrysippus 305, 406 Cicero 36, 230, 231, 351, 353, 374–376, 378, 382, 405–411 Citizen, status of 38, 85, 104, 106–107, 298, 303, 335–342, 346–347, 366 Civic addresses 71, 74, 75–79, 81, 83, 86, 88, 90–92, 94, 95, 109 Cleitarete 38 Cleophon 106 Cnidus 90 Comedy 35–36, 57, 75, 83, 107, 152, 160, 161, 193, 199–207, 231, 233–234, 339 Comic hero 193–194, 197, 200, 204 Communication 3, 6, 95, 106, 151, 332, 366, 389–391, 395–396, 401 Community 27, 39, 47, 64, 66, 71, 79–80, 85, 87–92, 95, 102, 127–128, 130, 153– 156, 161–162, 218, 275–279, 286, 289, 298–314, 317, 325, 328, 329, 330, 332, 335–336, 339–340, 341, 343–344, 346, 347, 355, 357, 376, 379–380, 383, 413, 415, 416, 418, 423 Concord 256, 259–260, 264, 270, 293– 314, 413, 417–418 Concordia 357, 414, 417 Conflict 31–32, 105, 109, 111, 114, 121, 128–130, 191, 192, 194–197, 200, 201– 202, 205, 298, 308, 339, 343, 356, 369, 410 Conon 90 Contempt 49, 83, 106, 109, 111, 151, 157, 160, 175, 250, 252, 406 Controversia figurata 139, 143 Controversiae 127–128, 134, 135, 144 Corinth 23, 249 Covert emotional calls 101, 103, 104, 105, 107, 111, 112, 114, 117, 120, 121 Critias 62 Ctesiphon 66

General Index  

Curtius Rufus 245–246, 253, 254, 260, 261–271 Cyclos (rhetorical figure) 117 Cyzicus 28 Damages 100, 106, 120, 129, 301 Decelean War 23, 31 Deception 10, 83, 100, 113, 115, 170, 175, 178, 180–181, 184 Declamation 9, 127–128, 130, 132, 134– 135, 138–39, 143, 293 Declamatory enemies 129, 135 Declamatory law on maltreatment 129 Definition (horismos) 51 Dehumanization 157–158, 161, 163 Deigmata 389, 399–402 Delivery 17, 54, 102, 108, 119, 121, 160, 231 Demagogic rhetoric 10, 198 Demagogues 192–194, 199, 205–206 Demetrius 106, 376 Democracy 8, 31, 35, 39, 41, 52, 61–62, 73, 77, 103, 106, 113, 115, 120, 128, 207, 295, 347, 400 Demonstration 38, 133, 205, 336, 340– 341, 397–399 Dēmos 107, 111–112, 117, 297 Demosthenes 7–8, 23–25, 27–28, 30–31, 34, 36, 38, 42, 45–50, 53–55, 57–63, 66, 72–74, 76–89, 91, 99, 153–163, 174, 192–193, 283–284, 287–288, 301, 344–345, 399–400 Diagnosis 304, 311 Diaphora 299 Dicaeogenes 30, 33 Dicaeopolis 10–11, 193–194, 196, 198– 199, 200–201, 204–205, 208 Dikē 155, 293 Dinarchus 61, 73, 75, 78, 82–84, 87–88, 91 Dio Chrysostom 293, 295, 297, 299, 301, 303, 305, 307, 309, 311, 313, 315 Diodorus 245, 256, 261, 270 Diogeiton 37, 73 Diogenes Laertius 275 Dion 38 Dione 220

Dionysius of Halicarnassus 82, 170, 277, 279–290, 300, 391 Dionysus 84, 88, 197, 214–216, 218, 220–223, 225, 294, 312 Diopeithes of Sounion 45 Discord 4–5, 11–12, 16, 163, 207, 217, 245–247, 249–251, 254, 258, 262, 265, 270, 301–302, 305, 307, 309–312, 413– 414 Disgust 10, 31, 101, 151, 157–158, 161– 162 Dispute 57, 59, 111, 127, 198, 245, 250– 251, 265, 288, 298, 302, 313, 343, 352– 353, 408 Dissuasion 177–178 Disunity 7, 10, 11–13, 16, 21–22, 29, 41, 100–101, 103, 105, 107, 109–115, 117, 119, 121–122, 128, 134, 139, 183–184, 191, 229, 231, 233, 235–237, 239–241, 245–249, 251, 253, 255, 257, 259–261, 263, 265, 267, 269, 271, 273, 336, 346, 355, 360, 362, 367–368, 413, 415, 417, 419, 421, 423 Divination 16, 394–396, 399, 405–407, 409, 411 Division 1–9, 11, 13, 15–17, 71, 79–80, 130, 133, 183, 193, 206–207, 229, 240, 265, 277, 284, 307, 309, 339, 355–356, 358, 367, 389, 395, 407, 411, 413, 419–421 Divorce 129 Dokimasia rhētorōn 45 Education 46–50, 52, 63, 65–66, 127, 213, 277, 283, 374–375, 378–379, 383–384 Egypt 298 Eidōla 390 Eirēnē 293, 299 Eisangelia (impeachment) 8–9, 99–103, 105, 107, 109–111, 113, 115, 117, 119–122 Elateia 27, 58 Eleutheria 297 Elocutio 132 Embezzlement of public property 120 Emotions 1, 3, 6, 8–9, 22, 53, 80, 89, 93, 99–103, 105–109, 111, 113, 115, 117, 119–121, 149–155, 157–159, 161–163, 168–173, 177, 182, 184, 231, 265, 267

  General Index –anger 10, 66, 80, 84, 86–87, 89, 99– 103, 106, 108, 111–114, 117, 122, 149, 151, 163, 171–172, 175–184, 197, 215, 234, 267, 312 –aroused by portraying third parties 101 –aroused through explicit exhortations 102 –aroused by appealing to the judges’ values and beliefs 102 –aroused through theatrical means (delivery) 102 –envy 80, 93, 101, 149, 151, 154, 163, 171–172, 247, 264, 295, 309, 311 –gratitude 101, 107, 113, 158, 169, 172, 177, 182, 233, 303 –ingratitude 156, 159, 160, 255 –hatred 87, 89, 100–103, 109, 111, 114, 117, 119–122, 142, 155, 163, 171–172, 176, 192, 230, 242 –pity 80, 92–93, 99–101, 117, 149–151, 156, 169, 171–172, 263, 382 Empire 16, 195, 198, 203, 265, 297, 314, 325–326, 413–414 Encomium 119, 182, 233 Enmity 5, 57, 87, 101–102, 113–114, 121, 135, 170, 299, 304 Ephesos 302 Epicheirema 137–138, 141 Epicrates 34, 73 Epics 16, 300 Epideictic speeches 31, 73, 322 Epideixis 299 Epieikeia 101 Epilogos 110 Ergocles 73, 110–111, 113–114, 120 Eris 293, 299–300, 308–309, 313 eros 47, 52 Ethopoiia Ethos 5, 9, 25, 100–101, 105, 111–113, 133, 152, 155, 179, 301 Eubulides 22, 108 Eucrates, law of 81 Euctemon 23, 73 Eugeneia 49, 51 Eukosmia 60 Eulogy 378 Eumolpids 39

Eunoia 295–296 Eunomia 155, 293 Euphiletus 73, 94 Eupolemos 49 Euthuna 45, 60 Euxitheus 7, 22–24, 27–28 Exordium 91, 381 Fabulae 353, 356 Fear 10, 14, 30, 37, 79, 81, 84, 86–87, 93, 110, 112–114, 117, 120, 169–174, 179, 181–184, 203, 218, 220–221, 255, 263, 268–270, 340, 358, 361 Forensic speeches 7, 71–72, 74–76, 78, 100, 102, 120, 134, 153, 335, 338, 340, 410 Forms of address, 71–72, 74, 78, 97 –civic, 74–79, 81, 83, 86, 88, 90–92, 94, 108 –judicial 75–77, 79, 82, 91, 94 –descriptive 75, 79 Frankness 179–180, 184, 310 Funeral 31, 40–41, 116, 119, 172, 336– 337, 341 Furor 217, 222 Gesture 2, 54, 108, 109, 151 Ghosts 130, 390 Gnōmai 132 Gods 15, 37, 39–40, 84–86, 89, 91–92, 116, 118-119, 175, 214, 217, 222, 301, 305–307, 311–312, 389, 391–397, 399, 401–402, 407 Goodwill 92, 169, 171–173, 303 Gorgias 35–36, 56, 100, 281, 294 Gossip 46, 57, 194, 206 Gratitude 101, 107, 158, 169, 171–172, 182, 233, 303 –Ingratitude 156, 159–160 Group 104–106, 109, 111, 149, 151–155, 157, 159, 161, 163, 171, 183, 192–194, 216, 222, 229, 247, 252, 254, 275, 277, 279–281, 289, 300, 319–321, 323, 327– 329, 331, 339–340, 343, 346, 355, 358– 359, 361, 363, 365, 379, 381, 384 Gymnasia 7, 46, 48–49, 53, 55, 62, 64

General Index  

Hadrian 270, 297 Harmodius (and Aristogeiton) 30, 50 Harmonia 108, 217 Harmony 223, 306–307, 311–312, 326, 339, 343, 383, 414 –Disharmony 191 Hatred (misos) 87, 89, 100, 101–103, 112, 114, 117–119, 122, 155, 163, 171–172, 176, 192, 230, 248 Hegesandros 45, 47, 50, 59, 66 Hegesippos 45, 47, 63 Hellenism 294 Heracles 48, 312 Heraclitus 275, 391 Hermogenes 13, 277, 280, 287–290 Hermolaus 256–257, 265 Hero 329 Herodes 22, 27, 72 Herodotus 39, 83, 168–170, 196, 398– 399 Hetaira 38, 342, 344 Hetaireiai 25 Hetairesis 46 Heterosexual love 53 Heuresis 132 Hippocrates 5, 318–321 Historiography 1, 6, 167–168, 172, 268, 303 Homer 8, 17, 18, 50–53, 55, 67, 98, 119, 132, 164, 185, 284, 290, 300, 315 Homonoia 2, 293, 294, 297, 299, 302, 304, 306, 312–316 Hubris 77 Humanitas 3, 15, 373, 385, 386 Humour 35, 96, 229, 242 Hypereides 30, 32, 34, 36, 43, 58, 69, 73, 76, 78, 92, 120, 286 Identity 2, 13, 18, 96–98, 144, 164, 211, 317, 333, 335, 369, 370, 385 Impeachment 123 Incest 128, 138, 143, 144 Incongruity 229, 230, 232 India 250, 253, 256 Invective 95, 97, 98 Iphicrates 54, 131 Irony 56, 184

Isaeus 7, 24, 25, 26, 29, 30, 33, 38–42, 67, 72, 73, 76, 78, 79, 82, 83, 282, 285, 340–345 Isocrates 30, 31, 34, 43, 72, 73, 75, 78, 79, 82, 84, 88, 280, 294–296, 298 Judicial addresses 76 Justice 43, 67, 68, 69, 74, 92, 96, 97, 123, 124, 155, 164, 209, 291, 386 Kelvin Mackenzie 65 King 32, 110, 167, 168, 174, 175, 181, 183, 191, 202, 271, 327, 410, 412 Kosmos 67 Late Antiquity 96 Latin poetry 413 Laughter 17, 43, 67, 68, 290 Law 14, 69, 96–98, 122–125, 144, 145, 155, 164–166, 186, 315, 348, 412 Lawcourt 67, 123 Leadership 167, 272 Leocrates 8, 21, 32–34, 41, 43, 73, 92, 103, 115–118, 119, 121, 122, 124 Literature on Alexander 12 Liturgies 123, 164 Livy 2, 14, 222, 351, 352–359, 361–363, 365–371 Logos 25, 82, 125, 133, 179, 337, 339 Longinus 58, 106, 278, 279, 280, 282, 284, 285–287, 289, 290 Lucan 414 Lucius 15, 373, 379–385 Lycurgus 8, 21, 30, 32–34, 36, 41, 43, 53, 73, 78, 84, 91, 92, 103, 115–124, 153, 298 Lysias 8, 17, 25, 28–30, 35–37, 40, 42, 43, 72–75, 77, 78, 81, 87, 93–96, 98, 99, 102, 103, 105, 106, 109–111, 114, 120, 124, 282 Macedonia 263 Manolis Glezos 35 Mantitheus 25, 72, 73 Marathon 21, 32, 34, 124 Medicine 13, 317–321, 323, 332 Meidias 61, 68, 72, 89, 160, 399, 400

  General Index Melas 33 Memory 31, 241 Menexenus 30, 33, 406 Misgolas 50, 85 Motherhood 346, 348, 349 Murder 22, 27, 72, 73, 94 Mysteries 26, 27, 36, 39, 40, 72, 122 Myth 144, 207, 209, 211 Narrative 2, 13, 123, 158, 226, 271–273, 317, 332, 385 Nazi swastika flag 35 Nicodemos 61, 62 Nicomachus 29, 73, 103–109, 120, 124 Niobe 2, 11, 213–217, 220, 222–226 Octavian 232, 297 Old Comedy 35, 96, 199, 210 Oppian Law 2, 14, 351–355, 360, 361, 364, 367 Out-group hostility 81 Paideia 209, 385 Parabasis 207, 208 Parody 210 Pathos 104, 291 Paulinus of Nola 3, 16, 17, 413–415, 423, 424 Pax Augusta 414 Peace of Antalcidas 110 Pederasty 68 Peisander 28 Pella 45, 60 Peloponnesian War 10, 39, 178, 185, 194, 196, 197, 349 Pentheus 2, 11, 213–226 Performance 18, 43, 66–68, 74, 96, 97, 123, 124, 164, 210, 211 Pericles 14, 171, 192, 195–197, 205, 336– 338, 342, 347, 348 Persuasion 18, 42, 124, 164, 165, 185–187, 370, 403 Phasma 3, 15, 16, 389, 390–397, 399–402 Phēmē 46, 48, 53, 58 Philia 297, 312 Philip 3, 34, 42, 45, 46, 51, 60, 67, 77, 174, 175, 247–250, 253, 254, 265, 266, 269, 271, 273, 294, 327, 376, 413, 424

Philocrates, peace of 45 Philoctemon 7, 24 Philoneikia 299 Philosophy 16, 48, 64, 131, 249, 304, 305, 306, 311, 407, 409, 411 Philotimia 299 Phocians 61 Phoenix 53 Phratria 339 Phthonos 102, 112, 114, 180 Physis 155, 155, 156 Piety 40, 91, 116, 118, 122, 217 Piraeus 31 Piratae cum catenis in litore stantes 129 Pisteis 100 Pittalakos affair 45 Pity 80, 92, 93, 99, 100, 101, 117, 149, 150, 151, 156, 169, 171, 172, 263, 382 Plataea, battle of 32 Plataeans 32 Plato 24, 229, 230, 280, 284, 408 Pliny the Elder 246 Pliny the Younger 298 Plutarch 12, 245–254, 256, 258, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 293, 294, 298, 376, 392, 393, 394 Pneuma 305 Polis 4–5, 8, 10, 14, 74, 77, 80, 82, 85, 91, 95, 116, 154, 158, 171, 179, 180, 181, 294, 296, 298, 301, 306, 307, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 341, 342, 344, 347 Pollution 87, 161 Polyaratos 33 Polyphemus 232 Pompey 414 Ponēria 153, 200, 206 Pornai 344, 346 Praecepta 134 Praeteritio 61, 358 Propaganda 157, 256, 258, 276 Property 26, 29, 30, 31, 48, 54, 73, 101, 110, 111, 112, 113–114, 118, 120, 129, 132, 172, 235, 343, 374, 378 Proskynēsis 256 Prosopopoeia 108 Prudentius 414, 420

General Index  

Psychology 9, 12, 200, 229, 230, 267, 268, 270, 281, 286 Ptolemaic 325 Quintilian 9, 106, 132–134, 135, 138, 139, 141, 143, 229, 230, 231, 280, 382 Racism 33 Rape 129, 196 Rapprochement 302 Reception 276, 290, 363 Release/Relief Theory 229, 230 Religion 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 15, 22, 38, 39, 40, 41, 84, 91, 95, 116, 117–118, 223, 275, 407 Remembrance Day 31 Resentment 93, 99, 102, 103, 112, 114, 114, 117, 119, 120, 121, 192, 197, 246, 257, 264, 266 Revenge 62, 113, 114, 120, 138, 196, 201, 312, 313 Rhetoric 1–17, 22, 26, 47, 48, 52, 57, 62, 66, 81, 100, 101, 110, 114, 116, 118, 120, 121, 122, 127, 143, 149, 150, 154, 156, 158, 160, 194, 198, 225, 229, 253, 263, 276, 281, 287, 295, 299, 300, 301, 308, 314, 317, 323, 330, 336, 337, 339, 340, 342, 345, 346, 347, 367, 384, 389, 395, 396, 401, 402, 405, 407, 410, 411, 413 Rhetorical questions 8, 106, 116, 140, 277, 289 Rhodes 66, 297, 300 Ridicule 16, 56, 57, 83, 104, 109, 278, 406 Ritual 4, 312, 383, 407 Roman past 351, 352 Sacred War 45 Samos 28, 297 Science 13, 229, 318, 323, 331 Scythians 83 n. 20 Sēmeia 390, 391, 392, 393, 395, 397 Sententiae 127, 130–134, 135, 137–141, 142–144 Seriousness 35, 48, 56 Seruitium amoris 235 Sexism 222, 225

Shame 10, 63, 117, 155, 158, 160–161, 170, 171–172, 176, 178, 182, 223, 266, 416, 420 Sicily 24, 26, 118 Skill 83, 322, 327, 383, 408, 409 Skirophorion 45 Slaves 101, 136, 137, 138, 157, 339, 341, 345, 346, 363, 364 Smyrna 302, 312 Socrates 39, 62, 231, 339, 390, 405, 409–410 Soldier 10, 11, 12, 30, 54, 121, 129, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 199, 203, 204, 219, 222, 251, 256–257, 263, 263, 264, 266, 267, 268, 269–270, 335, 353, 394 Solon 54, 104, 105 Sophist 58, 59, 60, 62, 82, 155, 293, 298, 301, 384, 409 Sophistopolis 127, 128, 135 Sōphrosynē 47, 65, 251, 312 Sorcery 84, 129 Spartans 21, 25, 31, 90, 106, 178, 179, 181, 195, 197, 202, 204 Stasis 3, 4–5, 13, 293–295, 297, 299, 300, 303, 308, 309, 314, 354, 355, 360 Stereotypes 151, 155, 163, 194, 198, 206 Stheneboia 53 Stoics/Stoic philosophy 16, 304, 305, 306, 307, 311, 313, 314, 405, 406, 409 Suasoria 218, 220, 224, 225 Suicide 128, 129, 159 Superiority Theory 229 Superstition 268 Suppression of Bacchanalia 222 Sycophant/Sycophancy 29, 80, 87, 102, 105, 111, 153, 155, 156, 160, 163, 260 Symposia 7, 60, 62 Synēgoria 104, 110 Synēgoroi 105, 121 Taboos 139 Tarsus 170, 299, 300, 306, 307, 308, 312 Tears 117, 169, 223, 381 Technology 317, 325, 326, 331 Tekmēria 341, 346 Terentianus 278, 286

  General Index Textual communities 275, 289 Textuality 275 Theatre 11, 54, 192, 201, 204, 294, 300, 301, 380 Themistocles 335 Thermopylae 34 Theseus 302, 312, 339, 401 Thorybos 304 Thrasybulus 110, 112, 120 Thucydides 39, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 192, 193, 195, 196, 197, 205, 282, 283 Timarchus 7, 45–51, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66 Tiresias 213, 214, 215 Topos of inexperience 22, 80, 93 Topos of miseratio (or commiseratio or conquestio) 92 Topos of political loidoria 112 Topos of servile origin 104 Topos of speaking briefly 28 Topos of the bravery of the ancestors 116 Topos of the observance of the ancestral religious customs 116 Torture 129, 135, 136, 137, 139, 144, 174 Treachery 47, 62, 128, 255 Treason 4, 8, 9, 34, 41, 100, 102, 113, 115, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121 Troezen 32 Tyranny 81, 128, 327, 400 Unity 1–17, 21, 22, 26, 29, 31, 34, 38, 39, 41, 47, 57, 60, 66, 71, 79, 80, 82, 93, 95, 127, 128, 134, 137, 138, 144, 154,

167, 179, 193, 207, 219, 229, 235, 240, 241, 277, 278, 284, 295, 301, 304, 305, 306, 308, 311, 312, 314, 317, 318, 319, 320, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 329, 330, 331, 332, 335, 336, 337, 339, 340, 341, 342, 343, 346, 347, 351, 357, 368, 389, 406, 411, 413, 414, 416, 417, 419, 423 Usurpation 345 Valerius 14, 351, 353, 354, 355, 361, 362– 366, 368 Vergil 238, 352, 368 Virtue 66, 127, 247, 249, 275, 327, 329 Vitae necisque potestas 142, 144 Voice 38, 54, 83, 103, 108, 112, 160–161, 162, 200, 232, 322, 363, 369 Vulgarity (bōmolochia) 58 War 5, 7, 10–11, 14, 22, 23, 24, 30, 31, 39, 45, 54, 77, 90, 110, 116, 128, 129, 168, 173, 180, 191–199, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 217, 221, 250, 251, 295, 311, 325, 353, 354, 359, 360, 362, 363, 364, 376, 414 Warmongering 11, 198, 201 Warfare 31, 180, 252 Winston Churchill 32 Women 14–15, 36, 38, 63, 94, 196, 214, 216–217, 220, 221, 223, 224–225, 251, 257, 258, 335–347, 353–369, 401 Xenocles 342 Xenophon 10, 167–184, 339

Index Locorum Acts of the Apostles 19:35

302

Adespota Comica fr. 934

203

Aelius Aristides 46.207 (= Alc. fr. 426)

335

Aeschines Against Ctesiphon (3) 1 90 12 51 52 60 91 55 156 88 162 61 167 61 171 345 171–172 344 174 61 179–180 55, 61 189 55 216 54 241 51 244 82 246 55 260 66 Against Timarchus (1) 1–2 45, 102 8 60 11 50 22–27 60 26 47, 55 26–27 56 33 55 37–116 48 39–40 47 43 60 45 50 50 85 52–55 47 67 60 70 46 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110611168-024

71 71–73 74 78 79–85 80 85 87 93 94 102 108 116 117–131 119 125 128–131 131 132 132–142 132–154 134 135 135–136 137 140 141 141–142 142 154 155–159 163 164 166 166–176 167 169 170–172 173 175 181 183 185 185–196

47 46 46 46 56 46 46 47 46 47 49 47 46, 47 58 58 58 46, 53 48, 58, 59 48, 49, 50 50 45 49 55 46 50–51 51 50, 52 50 52 47 49, 59 59 59 51, 60 46, 50 60 60 61 61 82 61 60 63 47, 50

  Index Locorum 187 189 192 On the Embassy (2) 20–22 23 23–24 78 88 97–98 99 113 147 148 149 151 153 162–163 167–170 167–172 180 180–181 181–182 183

63 63 63 60 60 48 83 61 60 61 51 54 61, 81, 199 54 61 51 60 81 199 46, 83 65 54 55, 60

Aesop Fables 53

293

Alcaeus fr. 426

335

[Anaximenes] Rhetoric to Alexander 1426a9–12 63 1440a28–40 102 1441a33–37 63 1441b23–6 56 1444b35–45a12 169 1445a12–29 171 Andocides On his Return (2) 11–12 15–16 21 On the Mysteries (1) 48–51

28 28 28 26–27

61–64 26 92–102 29 128–129 36 137 40 139 40 On the Peace with Sparta (3) 13 90 Antiphanes fr. 200

203

Antiphon Against the Stepmother for Poisoning (1) 58 87 On the Choreutes (6) 2–4 23 9 23 On the Murder of Herodes (5) 1 22 14 23 17–18 27 81–84 40 87–89 23 Apollonius of Rhodes Argonautica 1.609–909 356 2.717–18 297 Apuleius Apologia 35 86 94 Metamorphoses 3.4 3.7 3.8

374, 379 375, 377, 383 377 380 381 377, 382

Aristobulus (FGrH 139) fr. 15 246 frr. 24–25 246 Aristophanes Acharnians 56–152 71f.

192 193

Index Locorum  

225–233 496–556 509–512 515–523 517–519 524–540 530–540 560f. 562f. 564f. 566–571 594–597 595–619 597–619 601–606 626f. 630–632 633–645 645 646 646–651 652–656 676–718 703–718 713–718 725–726 729ff. 1190–1226 Birds 1281–1282 1470–1481 1556–1564 Clouds 353f. Frogs 288–293 1014–1017 Knights 580–582 792–794 802–809 1369–1372 1388–1395 Peace 435–436 444–446 628–635

192 194 192 195 87 196 195 198 198 198 198 199 192 198 198 200 203 203 203 203 202 204 205 205 206 87 193 203 25 199 199 199 157 107 25 193 192 199 192 39 199 192, 193

632–648 673–678 Wasps 19–23 566–568 568–572 590–593 592 672–695 822f. 977–978 1030–1035 1114–1121

192 199 199 57 93 205 199 192 199 93 152 107

Aristotle Constitution of the Athenians 26.3 335 42.1 338 45.3 338 55.3 338 Eudemian Ethics 1241a 295–296 Nicomachean Ethics 1108a24–25 58 1128a34–1128b1 58 1143a21ff. 94 1155a 1.24 296 Poetics 1447b12 281 1449a 230 1450a 399 1451b23–6 55 1453a24 280 1453a31–39 280 1458b16–19 281 1458b4–10 280 Rhetoric 1354a16–30 58 1354a23–24 280 1355a19 280 1355b25–34 317 1356a14–15 100 1356a14–16 80 1357b 397 1358a13–18 100 1358a36–b20 172 1366a9–1368a41 218

  Index Locorum 1368a18 1374a27 1374b1ff. 1375b28–a3 1378a 1378a19–20 1378b 1380a2–5 1382a 1382a2–3 1382a3–7 1385b14–15 1387a3–5 1390b14–21 1394a21–25 1395a8–10 1395b9–17 1398a15–27 1398a16–21 1401b7–10 1402a23 1402a25 1403b 1404a 1404a26–28 1405b6–7 1405b8–16 1408a33–36 1414a25–33 1414b16–18 1415a36–37 1416a4–1416b15 1416b16–22 1416b30 1418a29–34 1419a 1419b3–b6 1419b28–29 1419b2–9 1445a15–20

52 94 94 53 149 80 150 102 155 87 176 169 173 49 130–131 133 131 51 52 52 82 281 108 108 281 280 280 284 58 280 56 58 322 280 280 106 35 280 56 102

Arrian Anabasis of Alexander 1.3 254 1.10.5 254 1.11.3 250 1.13.2–14.1 254

1.17.9 1.18.6–9 1.25.1–2 1.25.3–4 1.26.1–4 2.4.5 2.4.9 2.12.3–8 2.14.5 2.18.1 2.25.1–2 3.3.1–4.5 3.3.2 3.4.5 3.5.1–2 3.6.4–7 3.7.6 3.9.3–4 3.10 3.18.4 3.18.11 3.22.6 3.26.1 3.26.1–2 3.29.5 4.1.3–4 4.7–14 4.8.1 4.8.4 4.8.5–9.6 4.9.7–12.7 4.13.1–14.4 4.13.5 4.14.1–3 4.14.2 4.14.4 4.17.3 4.20.1–3 4.22.4–5 4.22.7–8 5.2.4 5.3.6 5.8.2 5.21.2 5.25.1–2 5.25.3–26.8 5.25–29

255 254 255 255 264 258 254 251 254 268 254 256 258 258 257 255 269 254 254 257 254 251 255 246 257 257 255–256, 260–261 256 256 255 256 256 246 246 256 256 258 251 257 257 258 258 267 258 256 256 254

Index Locorum  

5.27.1–2 5.27.2–9 5.27.5–6 6.13.4–5 6.30.3 7.4.4–8 7.6.1–7 7.8.2–3 7.9.6–7 9.2–5

256, 257 256 257 264 258 257 257 258 254 254

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 245f–246a 424d

60 60

Athenaeus Mechanicus On Machines 325 9–10 326 39 325 Augustine Confessions

416

Chariton Chaereas and Callirhoe 3.2.16 297 Cicero De auguriis De divination

407 16, 405–407, 409– 412 De finibus bonorum et malorum 412 2.2, 2.3 410 De inventione 2.59 218 2.121–143 135 2.177–178 218 De legibus 407 1.3.8 352 1.1.3-4 353 1.2.5 353 De natura deorum 406 3.95 405 De oratore 408–409, 412 1.17 229 2.235 230

2.236–237 230 2.235–290 230 2.254 230 2.255 231 2.258–259 230 2.289 229 3.80 408 De re publica 407 Orator 2.340–349 218 26.87–89 230 Tusculanae disputationes 1.8 410 [Cicero] Ad Herennium 1.6.10

132, 144 57

Columella De Re Rustica 7.8.6

234–235

Cratinus Dionysalexandros

196–197, 209

Curtius Rufus Histories of Alexander the Great 10.1.1–6 265 3.12.18–21 267 4.10.16–17 269 4.10.1–7 269 4.12.14–17 269 4.15.12–14 270 4.2.16–18 268 6.10.13–14 263 6.11.15 263 6.11.1–7 264 6.11.8 264 6.2.1–5 267 6.7.30 262 6.7.35 262 6.8.15 262 6.8.17–22 262 6.8.2–14 262 6.8.23–9.12 262 6.8.25 262 6.9.2–24 263

  Index Locorum 6.9.25 6.9.28 6.9.28–29 6.9.3 6.9.6 7.1.1–5 8.1.20 8.1.23 8.1.27 8.1.30–31 8.1.36–37 8.1.41 9.6.24 9.6.24–27

263 263 264 263 263 265 266 265 265 265 266 266 264 264

Damoxenus Fr. 1

203

Against Aristocrates 65 Against Aristogeiton 1 (25)

Declamationes maiores 9, 134, 145 7 135, 138, 141, 143 7.4.1–5 135 10 129 12 139 18.2.1 143 18.10.2 144 18.12.4 144 19 135, 142 19.5.3 142 19.5.4 142 19.5.5 140, 142 19.5.6 142 19.6.1 140 19.7.2 140 19.11.2 140 Declamationes minores 297 137 Demetrius On style 279

106

Demosthenes Against Androtion Against Apaturius Against Aphobus 1, 2 and 3 Against Aristocrates

72 72 72 72

400 9, 72, 149, 153, 165 91 154 162 154–155 160 161 159 156 156 155 158 160 72 73 73 73

11 24–25 27 28 35 53–54 57 76–77 81 87–90 95 96 Against Aristogeiton 2 Against Boeotus 1 and 2 Against Callicles Against Callippus Against Conon (54) 9 57 13–14 57 Against Dionysodorus 73 Against Eubulides (57) 18 7 Against Lacritus 72 Against Leochares 73 Against Leptines 72 Against Macartatus 73 Against Meidias (21) 73 88–89 99 93 104–105 61 Against Nausimachus and Xenopeithes 73 Against Nicostratus 73 Against Olympiodorus 73 Against Onetor 1 and 2 72 Against Pantaenetus 73 Against Phaenippus 73 Against Phormio 72 Against Polycles (50) 26 75 Against Spudias 73 Against Stephanus 1 and 2 73 Against Theocrines 73

Index Locorum  

Against Timocrates (24) 14 137 Against Timotheus 73 Against Zenothemis (32) 23 88 For Phormio 73 On the Crown (18) 101–102 54 122–124 54 126–128 66 126–131 54 127–131 54 130 344 131 53 162 61 169 27 171–173 42 196 79 200 34 242 61 257–266 54 259–260 54 280 54 285–287 54 308–309 83 313 54 311–313 53 318–319 55 324 88 On the False Embassy (19) 2 45 46 60 126 54 145 53 167 53 199 54 199–200 54 206 83 208 83 216 54 228 54 233 8 238 54 239–240 84 243–244 49 246–250 58 249–250 54

257 49 259 85 262 88 280–289 8 283–285 65 283–288 46 284–286 46 314 54 336–340 60 On the Trierarchic Crown Philippic I (4) 35 55 45 91 Philippic II (6) 30 60

73

[Demosthenes] Against Euergus and Mnesibulus 55–59 101 Against Neaira 50–51 345 65–67 345 72 345 110–111 38 112–114 347 119 345 122 345 Dinarchus Against Aristogeiton Against Demosthenes (1) 71 95 Against Philocles (3) 7 19 Dio Chrysostom Alexandrian Oration 32.4–5 300 On Concord in Nicaea upon Cessation of Civil Strife 39.1 303 39.2 312 39.5 307 39.8 312

73 82 83 73 88 91

  Index Locorum On Concord with the Apameians 40.25 313 40.34 303 40.35–36 305 40.35–41 305 40.37 309 40.27–28 299 40.34 303 On Concord with the people of Nicaea 10–20 304 38.11 304 38.21 308 38.31 309 32.4–5 300 38.36 309 38.51 305 First Tarsic Oration 33.14 309, 310 33.23-24 309 Second Tarsic Oration 34.16 299 34.19 311 34.20 303 34.43 312 34.45 313 To the Apameians 41.9 303, 311 Diodorus Siculus Historical Library 12.17.4 17.16.1–2 17.17.3–4 17.2.1–5.2 17.35.4–38.7 17.54.7 17.67.1 17.8.1–15.5 17.80.3–4 17.84.1 17.9.3

138 250 250 249 251 251 251 249 264 251 250

Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 9.6.10 275

298

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Demosthenes 9 282 13 282 19 282 21 282 23 282 24 282 25 288 32 282, 283, 287 35 283 37 285 38 287 41 282 48 282 50 282 55 282 Isaeus 11 282 16 282, 285 18 282 Isocrates 20 282 Lysias 10 283 11 282 16 282 On literary composition 1.4 282 11.4 285 16.18 284, 287 22.12 283 25.14 282 3.13 278 3.5 285 3.9 282 4.7 282 5.5 278 9.2 282 Roman Antiquities 5.46 391 Thucydides 2.52 282 11 283 25 282 27 283 34.50–51 282

Index Locorum  

39 45 50 54 55

282 282 283 284 283

Ephippus fr. 2

203

Eupolis The Draft–Dodgers (Astrateutoi) Euripides Bacchae 115–119 330–469 352-357 Erechtheus Medea 214–266 Orestes 523 Phoenix Stheneboia

163 53 53

Gorgias Praise of Helen 8 14

100 100

Hermogenes On Types of Style 216.17–18 216.22–23 217.17–20 231.14–18 242.19–20 272.15 311.8–9 321.9–10

287 287 287 287 289 288 287 289

221 221 221 119 339

Hero of Alexandria Belopoeica 50.14-27 324 57.17-27 330 112.8–113.9 328

107

Herodas 4.35–36

59

Herodotus Histories 1.1–5 2.143 4.5–82 4.60–61 5.97.3 8.61

196 398 83 83 39 335

[Hippocrates] On Ancient Medicine 1.1–2 318 2.1 319 3.5–6 320 5.1–5 321 Homer Iliad 5.63 11.604

39 39

Horace Odes 1.14 1.17.14–16

421 236

Hypereides Against Athenogenes 30 35 36 Against Demosthenes 40 fr. b 40 fr. c Against Philippides 7 In Defence of Euxenippus 4.7–8 In Defence of Lycophron Isaeus Against Hagnotheus fr. 22 Aristarchus Astyphilus

32 92 92 60 60 56 100 73

26 73 73

  Index Locorum Euphiletus 73 Hagnias 73 Menecles 73 Nicostratus 73 On the Estate of Apollodorus (7) 30 41 On the Estate of Ciron 73 8.7 340 8.8 341 8.9 341 On the Estate of Cleonymus 73 On the Estate of Dicaeogenes (5) 7 33 7–8 33 40 33 45–47 30 On the Estate of Philoctemon (6) 1 24 21 39 60 7 On the Estate of Pyrrhus (3) 11-14 342 13–14 38 70 72 Isocrates Aegineticus 1 13 14 Against Callimachus 18.44 21 42 47 48–49 49 Against Euthynus Against Lochites On the Team of Horses Panegyric To Demonicus (1) 16 To Nicocles 3.41 Trapeziticus

72 72 295 82 31 31 31 31 73 73 73 295 84 294 73

Justin Epitome of Trogus’ History 11.6 250 11.9 251 11.12 251 Livy Ab Vrbe Condita

351

[Longinus] On the Sublime 1.1 10.5 10.6 12.1 12.4 13.1 2.3 32–35 34.4 7.3 8.2.4

278, 285 286 284 285 278 286 285 285 286 286 285

Lucian Dialogues of courtesans 13 203 Lycurgus Against Leocrates 1 1.9 1.3-6 1.7 1–2 3–6 7 8 9 10 14 15 16 27 44–51 47 51 54

91, 115 115 115 115 118 115 115 118 116 116 116 116 116 116 119 119 119 116

Index Locorum  

67 116 74 117 76 118 79 91 95–96 118 98–109 119 104 32 109 (= Simonides, Epigrams XXIIb, XXI) 21 110 34 127 116 134 117 144 34 146 84 147 41 150 117 Lysias Accusation of Calumny 73 Against Agoratus (13) 43 81 Against Alcibiades 1 and 2 73 Against Andocides (6) 17 87 Against Diogeiton (32) 17 37 Against Epicrates 73 Against Eratosthenes (12) 3 93 Against Ergocles (28) 3 112 4 112 5 110 6 111 7 111 9 112 10 112 15 112 16 113 17 113 Against Evandrus 73 Against Nicomachus (30) 4 105 7 103, 105 8 105 9–14 106 16 106 17 104

18–19 105 20–22 105 21–23 106 24 107 25 103 26–27 107 28ff. 107 30 107 31–35 108 Against Pancleon 73 Against Philocrates (29) 3 113 4 113 7 113 8–10 114 14 114 Against Philon (31) 4 93 Against Simon 72, 73 Against the Corn dealers 73 Against the Subversion of the Ancestral Constitution of Athens 73 Against Theomnestus 1–2 73 Defence against a Charge of Subverting the Democracy (25) 73, 77 Defence on a Charge of Taking Bribes 73 For Callias 73 For Mantitheus 18 25 For Polystratus (20) 34 93 For the Invalid (For the disabled man) (24) 25–26 35 For the Soldier 73 Funeral Oration 73 Olympic Oration 73 On a Wound by Premeditation 72, 73 On the Confiscation of the Property of the Brother of Nicias 73 On the Murder of Eratosthenes 73 6 94 On the Property of Aristophanes 73 On the Property of Eraton 73 On the Sacred Olive (On the Olive–Stump) 73 20–21 28–29 To his Companions 74

  Index Locorum [Lysias] Against Andocides 73 Menander Kolax fr. 7 Arnott Misoumenos fr. 4 Arnott fr. 607 Kassel / Austin Mnesimachus fr. 7 Ovid Amores 3.4.1–8 Metamorphoses 3.531–563 6.152–155 6.170–202

203 203 203

203

234 11, 213, 214 223 11

Paul Epistles

420–421

Paulinus of Nola Poem 18 Poem 24

415, 416, 422 413–423

Petronius Satyrica 1.2 1.3

130 129

Phoenicides fr. 4.4–10 fr. 4.6–8

203 203

Philo of Byzantium Belopoeica 50.14–27 324–325 55.12–14 328 57.17–27 330–332 Plato Gorgias 458e–459c

82

Laws 933a–e Lysis 223a Phaedrus 267a 272d–273c Philebus 32a–b 49e–50e Protagoras 341c Republic 388e 565e3–566a4 Symposium Theaetetus 171c Plautus Curculio 533f. 555f. 572–576 Epidicus 442–455 Miles 11–54 72–77 947–951

84 24 82 82 230 230 24 230 162 62, 406 82

203 203 203 203 203 203 203

Plutarch Demosthenes 4 60 8 60 On the fortune or the virtue of Alexander the Great 327d 249 327d–e 250 330e 250, 298 332a 249 333b 252 342a–c 247 Life of Alexander 3.9 248 6.5 248 7.1 248

Index Locorum  

9.4 10.1 10.7 11.1–4 11.4 14.1–4 14.5 15.1–2 15.3–6 17.2–3 21–23 22.1–3 22.5 22.5–23.6 23.7 24.3–4 24.4–25.8 24.5–9 30 31.8 39–43 39.7 39.7–8 39–44 40.4–5 41.1 42.3–4 43.4 48.1 48.1–5 49.2 49.8–12 50.9–10 54.4–6 55.9 57.1–3 59.5 68.4–6 Life of Theseus 26.2–3 [Plutarch] Moralia 840a 840c–e 844d–f

248 251 248 252 249 249 249 250 250 250 251 251 251 251 251 251 252 268 251 269 252 252 248 253 252 252 252 251 264 253 264 253 266 246 246 253 254, 267 248 302

54 66 60

Vitae X Orarotum 848c

60

Propertius 1.8a.3–4 1.15.1–2 3.7.72

234 234 235

Quintilian Institutes of Oratory 2.4.20–21 218 3.7.1–28 218 4.2.31 280 6.2.8 132 6.3.1 229 6.3.9 229 6.3.68 231 6.3.85 231 7.6.1–12 135 8.5.3 130, 132 8.5.7 133 8.5.30–31 133 8.5.31 130 8.5.32 132 8.6.54 231 9.2.6–16 106 9.2.75 141 9.2.79–80 139 12.2.15 132 Rhetoric for Alexander 1140a28–40 102 1426a9–12 64 1441a33–37 64 1441b23–6 56 1445a12–29 102 Rhetoric for Herennius 2.13–14 135 4.24–25 131 4.25 133 Shakespeare Henry V, Scene iii 18–67

32

  Index Locorum Scholia on Aeschines 1.3 53 1.169 45 Simonides of Amorgos Types of Women 50–54 94 Sophocles Ajax 520–522 Oedipus Tyrannus

159 87

Tacitus Dialogue on oratory 26.2 130 32.4 130 Germania 23.1 236 Terence Eunuchus 397–413 482f.

203 203

Theocritus Idylls 1.12–14 1.15–22 5.31–32 5.50–52 5.55–57 6.6–20 6.21–41 6.18–19 11.42–49

236 236 236 236 236 232 232 232 236

Theophrastus Characters 6 23.3 23.4 28.2

158 203 203 335

Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War 1.118.1–2 283

1.139 1.139.1 1.139.4 1.140.4ff. 2.12.3 2.13–17 2.21ff. 2.45.2 2.52 2.59 2.65 8.93

195 195 195 195 39 193 192 336 193 193 193 294

Tibullus 1.1.5 1.1.57–58 1.6.5–6

235 235 234

Varro De Re Rustica 2.11.3

234

Vergil Aeneid 5.670 Eclogae 1.1–5 1.6–7 1.11–18 1.1.26 1.27–35 1.33–34 1.37–40 1.46–58 1.64–78 1.79–83 2.1 2.1–2 2.6–7 2.17–18 2.19–27 2.56–57 2.58–59 2.66–73 3.3–5 3.81

217 235 233 235 235 11, 229, 233 235 235 235 235 236 237 238 237 237 11, 229, 237 11, 229, 238, 239, 240 239 240 234 234

Index Locorum  

[Vergil] Copa 17/19

236

Xenophon Anabasis 1.3 1.4.7–9 1.4.12 1.4.13 1.5.11–17 1.6 1.7.2–8 1.7.7–8 2.2.17–21 2.2.18 2.2.19 2.4.2–7 3.1.2 3.1.4 3.1.10 3.1.11 3.1.15–30 3.1.15–47 3.1.16 3.1.20 3.1.21 3.1.24 3.1.33–34 3.1.35–44 3.1.36 3.1.39–41 3.1.40 3.2.1 3.2.3 3.2.4 3.2.5 3.2.8 3.2.10 3.2.14 3.2.16 3.2.18 3.2.20 3.2.33 3.4.47–49 4.5 5.1.14–15

168–170 172 183 183 179 181 173 183 181 181 181 179 174 174 169 174 174 171 174 174 175 175 175 174 175 176 174 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 181 183 180

5.3.12 172 5.6–7 180 5.6.15ff. 179 5.6.15 180 5.8 177 5.8.1 177 5.8.8 177 6.2.4–6.4.11 183 6.3.9 183 6.3.24 183 6.4.11 183 7.1.18 178 7.1.24 178 7.1.25 178 7.1.29 178 7.1.30 178 Constitution of the Athenians 2.8 24 Cyropaedia 3.3.6 182 3.3.10 173 6.2.13 173 6.2.14 173 6.2.14–20 179 6.2.15 173 6.2.19 173 Economics 7–10 339 Hellenica 1.1.24 169 2.4.13–17 169 2.4.18 169 4.8.25–34 110 5.1.14–17 169 5.3.12 172 6.2.34 169 7.1.30 169 Hipparchicus 5.9 180 6.2 182 Memorabilia 1.2 62 2.1.22 48 Symposium 62