Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry 0367638045, 9780367638047

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Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

TRAVEL, GEOGRAPHY, AND EMPIRE IN LATIN POETRY Edited by Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer

Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry

This volume considers representations of space and movement in sources ranging from Roman comedy to late antique verse, exploring how poetry in the Roman world is fundamentally shaped by its relationship to travel within the geography of Rome’s far-reaching empire. The volume surveys Roman poetics of travel and geography in sources ranging from Plautus to Augustan poetry, from the Flavians to Ausonius. The chapters offer a range of approaches to: the complex relationship between Latin poetry, Roman identity, imperialism, and travel and geospatial narratives; and the diachronic and generic evolutions of poetic descriptions of space and mobility. In addition, two chapters, including the concluding one, contextualize and respond to the volume’s discussion of poetry by looking at ways in which Romans not only write and read poems about travel and geography, but also make writing and reading part of the experience of traveling, as demonstrated in their epigraphic practices. The collection as a whole offers important insights into Roman poetics and into ancient notions of movement and geographical space. Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry will be of interest to specialists in Latin poetry, ancient travel, and Latin epigraphy as well as to those studying travel writing, geography, imperialism, and mobility in other periods. The chapters are written to be accessible to researchers, graduate students, and advanced undergraduates. Micah Young Myers is Associate Professor of Classics at Kenyon College, USA. He is the co-editor of Walking through Elysium: Vergil’s Underworld and the Poetics of Tradition. He is preparing a monograph on travel in Latin love elegy. Erika Zimmermann Damer is Associate Professor of Classics and Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Richmond, USA. She is the author of In the Flesh: Embodied Identities in Roman Elegy. Her pub­ lications also include essays on Tibullus, Propertius, Horace, and graffiti from Herculaneum and Pompeii.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Recent titles include: Roman Masculinity and Politics from Republic to Empire Charles Goldberg Exploring the Mid-Republican Origins of Roman Military Administration With Stylus and Spear Elizabeth H. Pearson Xenophon’s Socratic Works David M. Johnson Dionysus and Politics Constructing Authority in the Graeco-Roman World Edited by Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz Monsters in Greek Literature Aberrant Bodies in Ancient Greek Cosmogony, Ethnography, and Biology Fiona Mitchell Antonio Gramsci and the Ancient World Edited by Emilio Zucchetti and Anna Maria Cimino Holders of Extraordinary imperium under Augustus and Tiberius A Study into the Beginnings of the Principate Paweł Sawiński Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity Crystal Addey Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry Edited by Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/RoutledgeMonographs-in-Classical-Studies/book-series/RMCS

Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry

Edited by Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 selection and editorial matter, Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Myers, Micah Young, 1979- editor. | Zimmermann Damer, Erika, editor. Title: Travel, geography, and empire in Latin poetry / edited by Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer. Other titles: Routledge monographs in classical studies. Description: New York : Routledge Taylor & Francis Ltd, 2022. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2021008135 (print) | LCCN 2021008136 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367638047 (hardback) | ISBN 9780367638061 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003120773 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Travel in literature. | Geography in literature. | Latin poetry‐‐History and criticism. Classification: LCC PA6029.T7 T73 2022 (print) | LCC PA6029.T7 (ebook) | DDC 871/.010932‐‐dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008135 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008136 ISBN: 978-0-367-63804-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-63806-1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-12077-3 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by MPS Limited, Dehradun

For Sara and Sage -MYM For my dearest Paul, Eva and Juliana -EZD

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgments 1 Introduction: traversing empire

ix x xii 1

M ICA H Y O UN G M Y E RS A N D ER I K A ZI M M ERM ANN DA M E R

2 The stage at the fair: trade and human trafficking in the palliata

25

A MY RI CHL IN

3 Expanding geographies and unbounded subjects in Catullus

46

SA RA H. LIND H EI M

4 Arcadia and the Roman imagination

62

ELE AN O R W. L E AC H

5 Women’s travels in Latin elegy

81

A LISON KEITH

6 On the road with Tibullus: aporia or castration as the way of love

98

PA UL ALL E N M I L LER

7 Competing itineraries, travel, and urban subjectivity in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria ER IKA ZIM M ER MA N N D A M E R

114

viii

Contents

8 Statius’ propemptikon and the geopoetics of Silvae 3.2

134

CA R OL E E . N E WL A N D S

9 Martial, Spain, and the dancers from Gades: travel and identity in Flavian epigram

157

SA RA H H. B L A KE

10 Memory spaces of Ausonius and Rutilius Namatianus

175

GR ANT PA R K E R

11 Travelers and texts: reading, writing, and commu­ nication on the roads of the Roman West

194

A LEX A NDE R M EY ER

Index

217

Figures

0.1 The Roman world c. 60 BCE. Reproduced with permission of the Ancient World Mapping Center © 2021 (awmc.unc.edu) 7.1 Ars Amatoria 1.67-90: Route for men to walk. Base map from David Gilman Romano, Digital Augustan Rome, http:// digitalaugustanrome.org, reproduced with permission of the author 7.2 Ars Amatoria 3.385-97: Route for women to walk. Base map from David Gilman Romano, Digital Augustan Rome, http://digitalaugustanrome.org, reproduced with permission of the author

xiii

126

127

Contributors

Sarah H. Blake is Associate Professor of Classics at York University, Canada, and author of articles on Martial, Pliny, and Flavian art, literature, and culture. Alison Keith is Professor of Classics at the University of Toronto, Canada, and director of the Jackman Humanities Institute. She is the author of books on Ovid, Propertius, Latin epic, and Vergil, and more than 80 articles. Eleanor W. Leach was Ruth N. Halls Professor of Classical Studies at Indiana University, USA, and author of books on Vergil, Roman Painting, Landscape, and Epistolary Dialogues in Cicero and the Younger Pliny’s Letters, as well as more than 50 articles. Sara H. Lindheim is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Santa Barbara, USA, author of Latin Elegy and the Space of Empire, books on Homer and Ovid, and a dozen articles. Alexander Meyer is Associate Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Western Ontario, Canada, Director of the Canadian Epigraphy Project, author of The Creation, Composition, Service, and Settlement of Roman Auxiliary Units Raised on the Iberian Peninsula, and articles on epigraphy, travel, and Vindolanda. Paul Allen Miller is Carolina Distinguished Professor of Classics and Comparative Literature at the University of South Carolina, USA, and is the author of ten books on Latin lyric and satiric poetry, Plato, French philosophy, and over 80 articles. Carole E. Newlands is Distinguished Professor of Classics at the University of Colorado, Boulder, USA, author of nine books and handbooks on Ovid and Statius, and nearly 60 articles.

Contributors

xi

Grant Parker is Associate Professor of Classics at Stanford University, USA, author of books and collections on Roman India, ancient India, South Africa, and Mediterranean travels, and dozens of articles. Amy Richlin is Distinguished Professor of Classics at the University of California, Los Angeles, USA, author of eight books on Roman sexualities, gender, feminism, Plautus, and Fronto, and more than 50 articles.

Acknowledgments

This volume reaches publication after a lengthy journey and with the help of many generous individuals. The idea for the volume emerged from the panel, “Travel and Geography in Latin Elegy,” at an Annual Meeting of the American Philological Association, and began to take shape in 2016. We are grateful to all of the contributors to the volume not only for their chapters but also for their advice and enthusiasm throughout this project. We also wish to thank the warm reception and superb libraries of the American Academy in Rome and the Fondation Hardt in Geneva. In addition, we would like to thank Amy DavisPoynter, Lizzi Risch, and rest of the staff at Routledge for bringing this volume to press; the anonymous referees for their excellent and generous feedback; Ben Moon-Black for his help editing the manuscript; Emily Price for her indexing; and the Kenyon College Department of Classics Palmer-Fink Fund as well as the University of Richmond College of Arts & Sciences for compensating the work of these two industrious individuals. Any errors that remain are our own. This volume comes to publication after the death of one of its contributors, Eleanor Winsor Leach, whose work on the Roman world and on landscape and space, in particular, is an inspiration to the editors. We mourn her passing, and are thankful to her estate and to T. Davina McClain for making it possible for Leach’s chapter to appear in this volume. Finally, all due thanks to our wonderful families and caregivers for their help and support.

Figure 0.1 The Roman world c. 60 BCE.

1

Introduction: Traversing empire Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer

What does Latin poetry have to do with Roman travel and geography? Or, to put it in the terms of this introduction’s subtitle, what does verse have to do with the countless traverses of the Mediterranean basin and beyond that occurred under Roman rule? Let us start from Horace Odes 1.3’s address to a ship ostensibly conveying Vergil to Attica (1-24):1 Sic te diva potens Cypri, sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera, ventorumque regat pater obstrictis aliis praeter Iapyga, navis, quae tibi creditum debes Vergilium; finibus Atticis reddas incolumem precor et serves animae dimidium meae. illi robur et aes triplex circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci commisit pelago ratem primus, nec timuit praecipitem Africum decertantem Aquilonibus nec tristis Hyadas nec rabiem Noti, quo non arbiter Hadriae maior, tollere seu ponere vult freta. quem mortis timuit gradum qui siccis oculis monstra natantia, qui vidit mare turbidum et infamis scopulos, Acroceraunia? nequiquam deus abscidit prudens Oceano dissociabili terras, si tamen impiae non tangenda rates transiliunt vada.

5

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2 Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer May the goddess ruling over Cyprus, and Helen’s brothers, those bright stars, and the father of winds, confining all the others except for the Iapyx, guide your course, o ship that owes me Vergil—for he has been entrusted to you!—I pray that you bring him safely to Attica’s shores, and that thereby you preserve one half of my soul. Oak and triple bronze surrounded the heart of that man who first entrusted a fragile vessel to the cruel sea and did not fear the headlong Africus struggling with the Aquilo’s blasts, nor the sad Hyades, nor the Notus’ rage—there is no mightier master of the Adriatic than the latter, whether it chooses to raise waves or to calm them. What stride of death terrified him who looked with dry eyes upon swimming monsters, the stormy sea, and the infamous rocks of the Acroceraunia? In vain did the wise god divide the discordant lands with the ocean, if nonetheless impious ships leap across sea depths that ought to be left untouched. In this poem, Horace engages with a tradition of propemptika that stretches back to the Greek world, while in turn influencing subsequent send-off poems.2 The Horatian narrator traces his fear for Vergil’s safety back to the first sailor and presents sea travel as a fundamental geospatial transgression, a cosmos-altering innovation that he goes on to compare in verses 27-33 to Prometheus’ theft of fire. From the reference to the Iapyx in the fourth verse, a wind that blows from Apulia towards Greece, the description of travel in 1.3 3 suggests an eastward voyage across the Adriatic. The poem also resonates with the theme of the sea and seafaring as metaphors for poetry and for poetic composition that goes back to Pindar (e.g., Pyth. 11.39-40) and Callimachus Hymn 2.105-6 (Cody 1976: 82-9; Kidd 1977: 103; Harrison 2007: 1-4). In the Callimachean tradition, sea and seafaring metaphors for poetry particularly evoke epic, a genre with which Vergil was deeply engaged during the 20s BCE. Indeed, Vergil’s journey in Odes 1.3 reverses a portion of Aeneas’ voyage in the Aeneid, and Horace’s mention of the first sailor resonates with Vergil’s relationship to Homer, the first epic poet. From this perspective, 1.3’s depiction of Vergil risking a sea crossing recalls the poetic tradition of expressing the dangers of sailing already emphatic in the Odyssey and Hesiod, while simultaneously pointing to the risks of undertaking an epic poem. Yet Odes 1.3 does not put us only in the world of travel as poetological metaphor and literary trope. The voyage from Italy to Attica that the poem implies, with a crossing at Acroceraunia where the Southern Adriatic is narrowest (20), evokes one of the most important sea lanes connecting the Italian peninsula to Greece and to the eastern Mediterranean. It is a journey that would have been familiar to many in the Roman world, whether they made the trip to engage in conquest, commerce, tourism, pilgrimage, or education, as agents of imperial administration, as migrants, or as the enslaved or otherwise coerced human spoils of Roman domination. Given this context, the literary and “real” strains of travel in Odes 1.3 may be inextricable from one another.

Traversing empire

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To risk an anachronism, in somewhat the same way as an American road trip is an often self-conscious activity, undertaken in the shadow of Kerouac and others, some in Horace’s most immediate audiences might have read real journeys into poetic representations of travel and geography like Odes 1.3 and, conversely, “read” poems such as 1.3 into the experiences of actual Adriatic voyages that they undertook.4 The double-sidedness of travel in Odes 1.3—as literary metaphor and as a reference to routes, modes of travel, and imperial dynamics that linked the Roman world—encapsulates the theme of the present volume, whose chapters demonstrate how representations of travel and geography in Roman poetry privilege literary tradition, aesthetics, and allusion, while often also speaking to the realities of travel and of the social contexts in which poets wrote and viatores undertook journeys. In addition, poems like Odes 1.3 show that “travel” is often practically synonymous with “empire” in Roman poetry. For travel and geographical knowledge in the Roman world were predicated on literary and intellectual traditions as well as upon vast, complex networks of transit, transport, and trafficking. These networks circulated imperial power in its manifold expressions as well as the victims and spoils of conquest, while also granting to some social, economic, and physical mobility for trade and travel, as well as making possible everyday movement along roads, rivers, and seaways. To return to the questions posed at the opening of the Introduction, this volume will offer two major claims about what Latin poetry has to do with travel and geography. First and foremost, it explores how the spaces of the Roman world and the variety of mobilities within that world helped shape the poetry that was produced. Second, the volume addresses a closely linked if inverse phenomenon: how poetic discourses about travel and geography could not only reinforce, but also reshape Roman conceptualizations of geographical space and of journeys through that space. In sum, this volume argues that Latin poetry cannot be understood in its context without engaging with the connections between travel, geography, imperialism, and writing. We posit that Latin poetics were fundamentally shaped by their relationship to an interconnected empire with a broad reach, in which mobility played a key part. Had there never been a Roman empire, the marginal writings of a provincial, rural Rome not only would be profoundly different, but they also would have never survived in anything like their present state, as the losses of local poetic traditions around the ancient Mediterranean demonstrate.5 Thus, Latin poetry as a cultural phenomenon frequently responds to—and is shaped by—travel and geography. At the same time, poetry about travel and geography contributes to how individuals and communities conceptualized their space in the world, geopolitical relationships, and networks of interconnectivity with the rest of the Mediterranean. Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry argues this thesis in a variety of generic and historical contexts, with contributors considering poetic representations of travel and geography, what we call the “poetics of

4 Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer travel and geography,” in topics ranging from Roman Comedy to late antique verse.6 The chapters in the volume each approach the topic with different emphases, representing a selection of the ways that the poetics of travel and geography may be approached. Collectively, the chapters offer explorations of: (1) the complex relationship between Latin poetry, Roman identity, imperialism, and travel and geospatial narratives; and (2) the diachronic and generic evolutions of poetic descriptions of space and mobility. In addition, two chapters contextualize and respond to the volume’s discussion of poetry by looking at ways in which Romans not only wrote and read poems about travel and geography, but also made reading and writing part of the experience of traveling and a reflection of living in a mobile society, as demonstrated in their epigraphic practices. This volume seeks to expand the scope of the scholarly discussion by providing new insights into the rhetoric and representation of travel and geography in Latin poetry. Why focus on poetry in particular? The formal nature of verse calls special attention to the poem as a space, analogous to geographical space, where words, meters, and rhythms can function like landscapes, waterways, and streets through which narratives and characters move. Verses, poems, and texts as a whole have edges, boundaries, and middles—and, like many Roman viatores, poetry relies on its feet.7 To take another example from Horace, in Satires 1.9, as the narrator moves along the via Sacra, his first attempts to shake that poem’s famous bore are reflected in the rhythm of the verse: ire modo ocius, interdum consistere, in aurem | dicere nescio quid puero (“Now I went more quickly; then at times I stopped; into my slave’s ear I whispered something,” 9-10). Verse 9 moves from an elided dactyl in the second foot as the narrator quickens his pace, to spondees in the third and fourth feet as he abruptly stops, to another elision in the fifth foot as he turns immediately to addressing the slave that accompanies him: meter, narrator, and reader move as one.8 In addition to intersections of this sort between narrative motion and the rhythmic movement of the poem, ancient literary traditions make use of travel and geography to talk about poetry, poetics, and the journey of a poet’s career. The present volume’s discussion of the poetics of travel and geography contextualizes, for instance, the travel theme in Apollo’s advice in the prologue to Callimachus’ Aetia (fr. 1.25-8) to drive the untrodden path (to take a Hellenistic example that echoes through Latin poetry), and Ovid’s lament in ex Ponto 4.5.1-6 that his elegiac epistles will struggle on unequal “feet” as they travel from their exiled author back to Rome. These two examples and others like them belong to a system of metaphor in which travel and geography are ways of conceptualizing poetry, a perennially popular topic within the highly self-conscious and self-referential poetic practices of the Greco-Roman world. To illustrate further the poetics and metaphorics of travel and geography in Latin poetry, let us consider another example from Horace, Satires 1.5 (1-3):

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Egressum magna me accepit Aricia Roma hospitio modico; rhetor comes Heliodorus, Graecorum longe doctissimus. Departing from mighty Rome, Aricia received me in a modest inn; the orator Heliodorus was my companion, by far the most learned of Greeks. So begins Horace’s famous narrative of a journey from Rome to Brundisium that intertwines descriptions of travel and geography with literary allusion and references to contemporary society and politics, and ends at an intersection of textual and geographical space (finis chartaeque viaeque, 104; see below for a translation and further discussion of this phrase). Although Satires 1.5 is not to be approached as a literal account of a journey (Anderson 1955-6; Gowers 2009; Cucchiarelli 2001), the poem vividly evokes travel south from Rome, a trip that may well have been familiar to many in Horace’s initial audiences. It offers a hodological perspective through its linear focus on routes, journey segments, and stops.9 The poem’s narrator and his traveling companions move through Italy by carriage, by boat, and on foot. Details such as the number of miles between places—three miles from Feronia to Anxur, 24 miles by carriage from Trivicium to a town whose name will not scan (23-5, 86-7)—lend an element of realism, as do the complaints about illness and the presence of contemporary literary and political figures.10 The latter are linked to the maintenance of Triumviral alliances and point to threats of civil war in the 30s BCE that cast a menacing shadow over the journey and over Horace’s larger poetic project in Satires Book 1.11 Along with elite travelers like Maecenas, Varius, Plotius, and Vergil, the poem depicts, from the Horatian narrator’s privileged perspective, individuals from a variety of social strata who make journeys or support the infrastructure of travel in Roman Italy. For instance, the narrator laments the noise that slaves and sailors make on a dock (11-13), and expansively details a humorous war of words between Messius Cicirrus, an Oscan local, and the freedman Sarmentus (51-70). During this exchange, Cicirrus accuses Sarmentus of being a fugitivus, a runaway slave (67-8). The jocular context of Cicirrus’ accusation does not hide the fact that Sarmentus, as a freedman, now has the potential to exercise autonomous mobility denied many enslaved people in the Roman empire, and that travel, whether voluntary or forced, was part of the experience of people across classes in the ancient world.12 As much as Satires 1.5 evokes a journey through real places during the Triumviral period, the poem refuses to allow itself to be mapped clearly onto either space or history, with certain details of the route left unclear and the precise diplomatic occasion obfuscated.13 As important as whatever actual travel may lie behind Satires 1.5 is the way that Horace situates the poem within the tradition of literary journeys in satire and beyond. Satires 1.5

6 Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer recalls Lucilius’ Iter Siculum, while also distinguishing itself from its satirical predecessor in its style, length, and itinerary.14 The Odyssey, the archetypal travel poem, likewise looms over Satires 1.5 from its opening, quoted earlier, which evokes Odysseus commencing his account of his journeys to the Phaeacians (Od. 9.39-40).15 Horace’s poem, in turn, becomes a touchstone for subsequent accounts of travel in Roman poetry stretching all the way to Rutilius Namatianus.16 Satires 1.5 also plays with the Odyssean theme of nostos and points to the importance of travel in literary biography: the journey south reverses Horace’s childhood journey from Venusia to Rome. Yet just after the narrative closes in on Horace’s home country (77-8) and readers might expect a Horatian nostos, the poem reminds us that it is neither epic nor biography, but satire. It becomes at once its most vague about the route and its most self-reflexive about its metrical form with the reference to the town that will not scan (87). Here, too, Horace may be saying more about poetic tradition than the metrical structure of toponyms, since in his satires Lucilius leaves a festival unnamed, claiming it does not fit into hexameter (fr. 252–3 W).17 Even the first travel companion mentioned in Satires 1.5, Heliodorus (2), may not be a person but a poem. Emily Gowers suggests that “Heliodorus” is a reference to the Theamata (or Thaumata) Italica, a hexameter work by a certain Heliodorus, taken along by the Horatian narrator as a textual comes to explain the sights and wonders of Italy (2009: 166). The final line of Satires 1.5 epitomizes the issues in the poem about poetry, journeys, and geographical and textual space: Brundisium longae finis chartaeque viaeque est (“Brundisium is the end of a long sheet and of a long journey,” 104). This verse encompasses travel, poetics, and the materiality of the composition and consumption of texts by yoking the length of the journey to both the length of the poem and the length of a papyrus sheet. Yet in what sense is verse 104 a finis chartae? Ancient readers of Satires Book 1 would presumably have been in the middle of a bookroll when they encountered 5.104. Much like the Horatian narrator, who needs to make the return journey from Brundisium, for readers this verse marks not a finis but a middle.18 Does this verse refer to a different kind of finis chartae, the coincidence of the end of a poem and the end of a column at the lower margin of the bookroll?19 Or are we left with the image of the narrator writing on a sheet of papyrus while on the road and running out of space like many a postcard author in a modern context?20 If so, verse 104 calls attention to Satires 1.5’s materiality as a text, but in a manner that does not accord with the experience of the bookroll reader. Thus, the poem ends by distinguishing between the sedentary reader and the traveling narrator, and by calling attention to travel and geography as metaphors for poems and for poetic composition.

Contexts The preceding discussions of Horace offer examples of how the Roman poetics of travel and geography may be approached. These approaches as

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well as those of the contributors to Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry explore the significance for Latin poetry of three interrelated developments in scholarship on travel and geography. The first development is the focus on the essential importance of spatiality and mobility to understanding human activities and experiences, that is, the so-called “spatial turn” and, more recently, the “mobility turn” that have occurred across cultural studies. The spatial turn approaches space not as an objective, inert dimension in which activity occurs, but as socially and politically constructed, and, in turn, a factor in the construction of individuals, societies, and polities. The spatial turn proposes that spatiality is as important for analyzing the human experiences as are approaches that focus on historical and social dimensions. The mobility turn emphasizes the movement of humans and things through the places and spaces that the spatial turn brings to the forefront. The mobility turn also considers movement in relation to stopping, sedentarism, and other sorts of immobility.21 Applications of the spatial turn to the ancient world consider space on many scales, from micro (a single room or performance space), to middle (a complex of buildings), to macro (space beyond what an individual can directly perceive with one’s eyes).22 The mobility turn is also concerned with scale, both the scale of motion, from local to global, and the scale of the number of individuals in motion, from solo travelers to entire communities or even the migration of whole populations.23 The primary focus of the contributions in this volume is poetic representations of larger scale geographical spaces and longer distance mobilities, but scales such as the urban environs of Rome that encompass middle and macro also feature. Along these lines, we might consider Carl Thompson’s definition of travel as encompassing everything from a journey around the globe to simply exiting a domicile and moving through one’s own locality (2011: 9). Again Horace Satires Book 1, which presents the Horatian narrator in motion around the city of Rome as well as traversing the Italian peninsula, provides a model, one that allows us to engage with key insights of the spatial and mobility turns in Latin poetry. In Satires 1.6, the narrator’s perambulations through the city are fundamental to his persona as a poet. Otium allows him to wander Rome as if anticipating the modern flâneur (111-14), and, after sleeping in, to choose between going for a walk, reading, or writing: ad quartam iaceo; post hanc vagor aut ego lecto | aut scripto quod me tacitum iuvet unguor olivo (“I lie in bed until midmorning. Then I take a stroll, or having read or written something that will please me in a quiet moment, I anoint myself with oil,” 122-3). Similarly, in 1.9, already mentioned earlier, moving around the city is the narrator’s habit (mos, 1). In this poem, his urban iter (16) brings him into contact with that satire’s bore as both circulate through Rome, although the movements and habits of each also distinguish the Horatian narrator socially and literarily from his unwanted interlocuter. In short, the Horatian narrator’s movement and its style within Rome and beyond constitute part of his identity.24

8 Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer The relationship between space, movement, and identity recurs throughout Satires 1, as it does throughout the poetry discussed in this volume. This relationship is likewise demonstrated in analyses motivated by the spatial and mobility turns upon which this collection builds. The second development in scholarship, itself stemming from the broader spatial and mobility turns, is reanalysis, especially by historians and archaeologists, of textual and material evidence for Roman travel and geography. This scholarship has elucidated the diverse manners in which individuals and communities in the Roman world conceptualized, described, visualized, and traveled through geographical space. Pietro Janni’s fundamental contribution, La mappa e il periplo: cartografía antica e spazio odologico (1984), explores linear conceptions of space in the ancient world and demonstrates the variety of ways that individuals and societies understand and represent space. Claude Nicolet’s analysis of Roman geography and its uses in imperial discourses in L’inventaire du Monde: Géographie et politique aux origines de l’Empire romain (1988) has also been widely influential. The decades since these works appeared have seen considerable investigation into Greek and Roman conceptual geography and into the related ongoing discussion about maps and their uses in the ancient world.25 The spatial and mobility turns and new approaches to Roman travel and geography are also linked to a third development: reappraisals of interregional and crosscultural connectivity in the ancient world. This work offers reassessments of the core/periphery paradigm of Immanuel Wallerstein (1974-89) and of the Mediterraneanism model of Fernand Braudel (1949). Scholarship, especially after Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell’s The Corrupting Sea (2000) and Ian Morris’ “Mediterraneanization” (2003), has applied models that emphasize contact zones, networks of connectivity, and globalization, along with regionalism and localism.26 This scholarship has also emphasized the importance and frequency of travel and transport, especially relative to Moses Finley’s model, which overstated the picture of a largely static ancient world.27 As noted earlier, within classics these three scholarly developments have especially been a focus of historians and archaeologists. Among scholarship on classical literature, Alessandro Barchiesi’s 2001 Gray Lectures on geopoetics in the Aeneid, which introduced the concept of geopoetics to the discipline, stand as a watershed.28 In the last decade or so, spatiality in Greek prose and Greek and Roman epic have become topics for literary critics.29 Our emphasis on Roman poetic representations of travel and geography also complements scholarship on literary representations of imperial space, on landscape, on the poetics of Roman ethnography, and on ancient conceptions of the edges of the oikoumene.30 Building on the wide-ranging scholarship on travel and geography in the ancient Mediterranean, Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry surveys cross-generic discourses and developments from early Latin poetry to the 5th century CE in order to elucidate new correspondences across

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Roman poetic, geospatial, and travel discourses. Our volume demonstrates how Latin poetry responds and contributes to broader Roman concepts of travel, geography, and the spread of goods, people, and ideas within the Roman empire. The collection thus not only offers important insights into Roman conceptions of movement and geographical space, but also draws new connections between subfields of classics, and provides novel answers to our underlying questions: how do the poetics of travel and geography engage, refract, and critique Roman imperium and geographical concepts? What forms of travel appear more frequently in poetic texts and what are their social and poetological significances? How did reading and hearing poetry enrich a Roman traveler’s experience of travel, and how did various forms of travel and the written environment of inscriptions aimed at travelers color Roman poetics? To approach these questions the contributors to this volume explore key aspects of the essential interconnections between Latin poetry, Roman travel, and geography. First, for a number of our contributors, poetic representations of travel around the empire provide the epistemological foundations to investigate both Roman identities and anxieties. Geographic and travel-related poetic representations of imperial activities, even when they appear to praise such activities, also speak to persistent apprehensions about cultural corruption and dangers borne by the roads and sea lanes which make that activity possible, and the expanding frontiers that are the result (Richlin, Lindheim, Keith, and Miller). Even when poets such as Statius and Ausonius offer a positive picture, one that occludes the darker side of the imperium with which Roman travel and geography are often implicated, they do so in the shadow of more pessimistic poetry or geopolitical events (Newlands and Parker). Another facet of identity in the poetics of travel and geography is the effect of travel on the authorial persona, other figures that populate the poems, and the anticipated audience of the poetry (Lindheim on Catullus; Keith on love elegy; Blake on Martial; Parker on Ausonius and Rutilius Namatianus). Poetic travel around the urbs itself can play a fundamental role in identity formation (Zimmermann Damer on Ovid), and entire regions can also become linked to Roman self-identity as well as to Roman ideas about Greek identity in geopoetic discourse (Leach on Arcadia). Finally, psychoanalytic theory has much to say about identity; for two contributors Lacan offers an approach that reveals how circulation between the center and imperial peripheries fundamentally destabilizes the poetic ego (Lindheim on Catullus; Miller on Tibullus). The second key aspect is travel by non-elite individuals, a topic that provides insights into Roman representations of trafficking, trade, and slavery. Three contributors demonstrate the conceptual overlaps that Roman poetry creates between mobility, trafficked humans, traded goods, and literary practices, and speak to the oppression as well as to the degree of agency that trafficked people, often women, find in poetic texts (Richlin on Plautus; Keith

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on elegy; Blake on Martial).31 Moreover, these chapters establish parallels between non-elite individuals across different genres and periods of Roman poetry, whose literary travels through the Roman Mediterranean mark them as mobile exoticized and eroticized commodities. In addition, these discussions of representations of non-elite travel are affirmed in epigraphic evidence, the third key aspect of the volume. Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry synthesizes the sometimes divergent approaches of literary critics and epigraphists in order to contextualize representations of travel and geography in poetry through analysis of the vast inscriptional evidence for travel throughout the Roman Empire. A traveler on a Roman road would have met numerous sepulchral inscriptions written on the tombs and funerary monuments that lined the roads outside of city walls. Between two-thirds and three-quarters of all our surviving inscriptions are funerary,32 and around 80% of all poetic inscriptions derive from funerary contexts (Schmidt 2015: 772). Thus, many of the inscriptions that travelers in the Roman world would have met would have been metrical funerary inscriptions, common forms of commemoration for elite and nonelite individuals from the Augustan period to the 3rd century CE (Schmidt 2015: 772). In other words, travelers would have routinely encountered Latin poetry while on the roads of the Roman empire.33 The epigraphic record offers points of contact with representations of women travelers in Latin love elegy (Keith). Furthermore, inscriptional evidence from roads around the Roman West reveals how individuals understood geographic space and their relationship to the travel infrastructure of the Roman Empire, and how inscriptions commemorated acts of travel and strove to engage passers-by, including through the use of meter or poetic allusion (Meyer). These essays also underscore an important aspect of the Roman experience of travel by calling attention to the pervasive mobility evinced by the Roman “epigraphic habit.” As these contributors show, epigraphic texts can and should be read alongside poetic ones as parallel testimonia, and as important indices for the pervasive connections between travel on Roman roads and Latin poetry. A fourth key theme addressed in the volume is the forms and modes of travel through geographical space. Land travel and the viae upon which it takes place are often privileged in the poetry discussed in Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry. Within and beyond Latin poetry, viae, as one of the primary manifestations of state power, are prime symbols of imperium (Miller). Yet they are also linked with poetic innovation via the association with Callimachean new paths (Keith). In addition, the roads of the Roman West are rich textual environments filled with inscriptions that engage travelers and shape their journeys, poetically and physically (Meyer). Sea travel and the Mediterranean-wide transit networks that it makes possible are associated with carrying the human and material bounty of imperium (Richlin), and with demarcating and collapsing the space between Rome and its provinces (Blake). Rivers are deployed in poetry to similar effect, linking

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remote spaces to Rome’s Mediterranean world (Miller on the Nile; Parker on the Moselle). Collectively, the volume demonstrates the fundamental importance of travel and geography to Latin poetry as well as reflecting that there are a variety of ways that these subjects can be approached. When read together, the contributions to the volume argue that Roman poetics as we know it were shaped both by literary traditions of travel and geography and by real-world interactions with Rome’s globalizing empire.

Mapping the volume We turn now to the arrangement of Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry. In Chapter 2 (“The Stage at the Fair: Trade and Human Trafficking in the Palliata”) Amy Richlin surveys Plautine comedy in order to demonstrate how the content and performance context of the palliata repeatedly evoke the mercantile side of ludi and other festivals in a manner that reflects the movement—free and forced—of people around the Mediterranean in the mid-Republic, especially merchants, enslaved individuals, the trafficked, soldiers, and actors. From this perspective, Plautus offers important insights into the longstanding links between trade, travel, Latin poetry, dramatic performance, and the multifarious modes of predation that supported the formation and expansion of empire. Richlin’s reading reveals how the poetics of travel and geography treated in this volume, and indeed in Roman literature more broadly, are implicated in the violence of trade and of other sorts of mobility. From the comic stage and its reflections of travel, trade, and trafficking in the mid-Republic, Sara Lindheim brings us in Chapter 3 to the mid-1st century BCE—a time when Roman power was expanding outward with thrilling and at times vertiginous effects—through her discussion of the geospatial aspects of the fractured self of Catullus’ poetic ego (“Expanding Geographies and Unbounded Subjects in Catullus”). Applying Lacanian theory about the constitution of the subject, Lindheim demonstrates how poems from across the Catullan corpus react to what Vergil would later call imperium sine fine by evincing obsessions with the fixity as well as the transgression of boundaries, whether geographical, social, physical, or psychical. Surveying sources from Vergil’s Eclogues to Statius’ Thebaid, in Chapter 4 (“Arcadia and the Roman Imagination”) Eleanor Leach considers the place of Arcadia in Roman poetics of travel and geography, and shifts the focus from comedy and lyric to hexameter poetry. Her essay demonstrates that Arcadia becomes for Roman poetry not just an actual place in Greece nor only an idealized Hellenic literary landscape, but also a mobile cultural entity that acts through a kind of metonymic reversal: Arcadia comes to stand for instrumental music, discipline, and frugality, qualities that are transported from Greece to Italy in the Roman imagination. Leach’s diverse versions of a literary Arcadia converge on the view that Arcadia is no golden

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paradise of Roman escapism, but rather a site of hardships and challenges that reflects Roman views about their own ideal disposition. Moreover, as Arcadia’s representation becomes assimilated to myths about pre-Saturnian Italy, Arcadia is both separate in the Roman imagination from the rest of Greek literary space and also reconfigured as the region that perfectly links Rome and Greece. Chapter 5 (“Women’s Travels in Latin Elegy”), Alison Keith’s essay on representations of travel by women in Latin love elegy and the epigraphic record, finds evidence of both voluntary and coerced movement of women around the Roman empire, reminding us that the forced migrations Richlin illuminates in Plautus endure into the Principate. Keith first surveys the anxieties that Latin love elegists from Gallus to Ovid express about their puellae traveling in and out of Rome and, thus, in and out of the grasp of the amator, a mobility that hints at travel’s potential to disrupt social hierarchies. These poetic representations of travel interact with inscriptional evidence for enslaved and freedwomen who bear the names of elegiac puellae. Keith’s discussion reveals how the poetics of travel in elegy, though highly aestheticized, nonetheless hint at the historical contexts of human mobility and trafficking in which both elite literature and the epigraphic record were composed. Her essay thereby introduces an important point of contact between poetry about travel and geography and the epigraphic environment through which Romans moved, a point to which Alexander Meyer returns in the final chapter of the volume. Dovetailing with Keith’s discussion of elegy and Lindheim’s Lacanian reading of Catullus, Paul Allen Miller in Chapter 6 (“On the Road with Tibullus: Aporia or Castration as the Way of Love”) explores the contradictions inherent in Tibullus 1.7’s celebration of Messalla as the incarnation of Osiris. The comparison to Osiris lauds Messalla’s role in expanding Rome’s global reach from the Atlantic to the Nile and in building roads that facilitate travel and empire. Yet in Miller’s reading, Messalla-Osiris also embodies the Lacanian Law of the father and he paradoxically represents both what makes the Tibullan poet-lover’s rustic fantasy possible and the circulating imperial power that destroys that fantasy. While travel by land and sea makes imperial as well as literary activity possible, Miller’s reading of Tibullus exemplifies how Roman poetic attitudes toward travel remain ambivalent into the Augustan period. While other essays look to the poetic representation of travel across broad geographical expanses, Erika Zimmermann Damer explores in Chapter 7 (“Competing Itineraries, Travel, and Urban Subjectivity in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria”) how journeys even within Rome reflect the spatial poetics of travel and geography. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria coincides with an evolving interest in urban identity, mapping, and dividing the empire and the city into geographical regions. Both forms of discourse, poetic and cartographic, strive to conceptualize Roman mobility through the vast urban environment of a mega-city. Ovid’s master of love offers his students—male and

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female—carefully orchestrated itineraries both between and within Augustan buildings, reinforcing his provocative claim that love is an art that can be taught and performed. Zimmermann Damer argues that in doing so, Ovid reveals the co-constitutive interplay between poetic subjects and the rapid conceptual transformations of the geography and architecture of the urban Rome in which they move. Carole Newlands in Chapter 8 (“Statius’ Propemptikon and the Geopoetics of Silvae 3.2”) turns to the geopoetics of Statius Silvae 3.2, arguing that it is a deeply intertextual and self-reflexive poem that repurposes the traditions of the propemptikon to fit Flavian cultural and literary aesthetics. In Newlands’ reading, Silvae 3.2 reflects upon Statius’ concurrent efforts to complete the Thebaid and reframe civil war epic: Statius’ propemptikon articulates a new stable imperial geography through which Maecius Celer will travel, one that domesticates the dangerous and combustible imperial geographies of Lucan’s Bellum Civile into “museums” of cultural geography, to use Benedict Anderson’s term. This engagement with Lucan’s epic is rendered all the more poignant by the possibility that Pollius Felix, to whom Silvae Book 3 is dedicated, was married to Lucan’s widow. The first eight chapters in the volume often show how Latin poetic representations of travel focus on the Italian peninsula or privilege links between Rome and the eastern Mediterranean, reflecting Rome’s simultaneous sense of its cultural exceptionalism and of its deep ties to the Greek world. In Chapter 9 (“Martial, Spain, and the Dancers from Gades: Travel and Identity in Flavian Epigram”), Sarah Blake turns our attention westward with an investigation of travel, movement, and the cultural politics of Spanish identity in Martial’s epigrams. In Blake’s reading of Martial, Spanishness takes on ethnically and geographically specific qualities. Gades, in particular, situated at the boundary between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, becomes gendered, sexualized, and marginal, while also occupying an important place in Roman thought, not least through the puellae Gaditanae. The “girls of Cadiz,” who appear in several of Martial’s epigrams, are dancers associated with luxury, eroticism, and seduction. At times, Martial’s poetry and his own origin at Bilbilis connect him to the puellae Gaditanae. Yet for Martial, a man of status, his Spanish identity can be expressed in degrees, negotiated, or even disavowed in favor of Roman elite status. In addition, like the puellae Gaditanae and the poet himself, Martial’s poetry books are represented as traveling, circulating through a broad territory and enacting erotized imperialism, holding power over colonists and provincial readers, and titillating audiences back in Rome. Grant Parker’s essay, Chapter 10 (“Memory Spaces of Ausonius and Rutilius Namatianus”), brings the volume into Late Antiquity, exploring two poems from the 4th and 5th centuries CE, Ausonius’ Mosella and Namatianus’ De reditu suo, as case studies for investigating the significance of travel writing as a poetic genre near the end of Roman imperial dominance in the West. He suggests that Ausonius’ Mosella, like Martial’s

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epigrammatic reflections on Spain and Spanish identities, should be viewed through Ausonius’ perspective as a Gallic provincial. Ausonius’ geography is one of memory, yet with an optimistic forward-looking gaze toward the thriving Roman regional elites in his home province. In Namatianus’ De reditu suo, by contrast, sea travel becomes the only advisable route since Goths have beset the via Aurelia after the Visigothic Sack of Rome in 410 CE. Namatianus also writes a geography of memory, but one now invested in memorializing the past. In addition, Parker connects the dots between the poetics and the cartographies of travel when he reads the Mosella and the De reditu suo as versified maps, or verbal representations of landscapes tied to memory. The eleventh and final chapter of Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry by Alexander Meyer (“Travelers and Texts: Reading, Writing, and Communication on the Roads of the Roman West”) offers a comparative approach to literature and material culture, situating Roman poetics of travel and geography in relation to inscriptional evidence. This contribution both complements Keith’s chapter and contextualizes the whole volume’s analysis of poetic representation by exemplifying how poetry interfaces with inscriptions that travelers in the Roman world read and wrote. Meyer discusses a variety of inscriptions from the Roman West, including some in meter, that travelers—both privileged and non-elite—would encounter, such as milestone markers, elogia, nundinal calendars, and epitaphs. Meyer’s analysis of the epigraphic impact on the spatial environment reminds us that readers in the Roman world not only had a vast assortment of texts about travel at their disposal, but that travelers were also readers who moved through spaces that were often rich with inscriptions and other textual objects. Meyer’s chapter, moreover, indicates how inscriptions and the historical experience of travel might have informed the producers and consumers of poetic representations of travel, while at the same time literary traditions influenced Roman epigraphic habits.

Further directions In addition to presenting the scholarship that provides the foundations for Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry and summarizing the subsequent chapters, this chapter has explored examples of how Latin poetry, especially Horace’s, “traverses” the Roman empire. In this manner, we have intended to introduce the volume, to illustrate some of the ways that the poetics of travel and geography will be applied in subsequent chapters, and also to point to additional approaches to the topic that might be explored by others in future work. The sheer ubiquity of travel and geography across Latin poetry makes it impossible for any single volume to cover the topic comprehensively as it pivots between verse and the Roman universe. Instead, Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry surveys the terrain and, though the chronological reach is broad, some genres, especially elegy,

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are more well-represented than others, in particular epic, given the latter’s prominence in Latin poetry. Our briefer discussion of epic in this volume complements the particular attention paid to epic in prior investigations of space and literature.34 While the implications of travel as a phenomenon are a unifying theme, aspects such as vehiculation, velocity, and poetic representations of sky travel fall outside the breadth of our survey.35 In addition, though the volume integrates epigraphic evidence, much other evidence from material culture remains to be considered. In this respect, as in others, Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry seeks to add to, not to foreclose, the discussion. The essays in this volume reveal a surprising quality of Roman poetic texts about travel and geography. Many studies of the realities of travel in the Greek and Roman world rightly emphasize the importance and efficiency of sea and river travel as a less expensive, and often quicker, means of moving through the Mediterranean.36 Moreover, ancient travel narratives often focus on sea voyages, not least of all Odysseus’ epic voyage home and Aeneas’ migration to Italy. Yet many of our contributors’ essays also highlight the particular significance that Latin verse places upon the representation of land travel in the Roman empire. One reflection of the special emphasis on land travel is the Romans’ use of the word via not just to describe a fundamental element of land travel, that is, a road or path, but also as a poetic metonymy for the journey itself, by land especially, but even by water.37 As we have seen earlier, the use of via to signify a journey, already found in Plautus (Rud. 150), occurs at the end of Satires 1.5 in a manner that configures both journeys and texts as viae. What then does via evoke for Roman poets? Is the longer duration and higher cost of travel by land a mark of elite status? Does it communicate the reality of distances between places more evocatively? Does it represent less of a transgression of the natural order than a ship sailing forth upon the sea, as in Odes 1.3? Do viae, as roads, loom particularly large in the Roman imagination given their fundamental role as projections of—and conduits for—imperial power? Or is there something inherently poetic about the metaphors and language for land travel that the poems in this collection interrogate? Again, we return to the conceptual overlaps created between the traveler’s foot and the feet that constitute a poetic verse, between the roads connecting the Roman empire and the paths poets take as they compose their works. Whether on land or sea, journeying from one place to another, charting a territory, or, for that matter, mapping the arc of poetic careers and imperial projects are all acts that draw out tensions between fixity and movement, completion and process, reality and representation. These tensions—and the fact that they can never be resolved—are laid bare in the papers in this volume. Like the archetypal traveler Odysseus, whose shadow falls across all poetics of travel and geography in the classical context, poetry is always arriving somewhere and either about to head or already heading someplace new: poetry in motion, motion in poetry.

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Notes 1 Text of Horace follows Shackleton Bailey 2001. Unless otherwise noted, translations are our own. 2 Nisbet & Hubbard 1970: 40–43; Cairns 2007: 231–5. In this volume, see Newlands’ discussion of Statius Silv. 3.2, a propemptikon that follows in the footsteps of Odes 1.3. The discussions of Odes 1.3 and Sat. 1.5, 1.6, and 1.9 in this introduction build upon previous work on the role of space in Horace, esp. Oliensis 1998: 107–27; Rimell 2015: 82–106; Fitzgerald 2018. 3 Critics divide over the question of whether and to what extent Odes 1.3 refers to an actual journey. As Cody 1976: 76 notes, Rosenberg 1881: 598–9 already suggests that the travel in Odes 1.3 might be read symbolically. For this interpretation, see also esp. Elder 1952: 158; Lockyer 1967; Cairns 2007: 235; Kidd 1977; Basto 1982: 33–40; Santirocco 1986: 27–9; Oliensis 2004: 32; Rumpf 2009. Rejections of the poetological reading include: Syndikus 2001: 61 n. 13; Nisbet & Hubbard 1970: 44–5; Nisbet 1995: 418–19; Cucchiarelli 2005: 71 n. 122; Fitch 2006-7: 37–9; Mayer 2012: 79–80. 4 Here, we approach what Edward Soja, a leading theorist of the “spatial turn” (see below), terms “Thirdspace.” Soja 1996: esp. 53–82 defines Thirdspace as space that is simultaneously real and imagined, encompassing and transcending the dualities between what he calls “Firstspace” (space as a material object that can be empirically measured) and “Secondspace” (conceptualized and imagined space). While the contributors to this volume do not explicitly reference Soja’s Thirdspace, we see resonances throughout with his concept as well as with his insistence that spatiality be at the forefront of critical analysis. 5 Feeney 2016 highlights the extraordinary development of a Latin literary tradition. Wiseman 2016, despite objections to Feeney’s thesis, also links the textual tradition of Latin literature to Rome’s victory in the First Punic War and the resulting increased access to papyrus from Egypt. Cf. Benedict Anderson’s 2006: 39–48 discussion of the connections between the rise of European vernacular literary traditions and the development of nationalism. 6 “Poetics of travel and geography” is inspired by the term “geopoetics,” which White 1992: 174 defines as “a higher unity” of poetry and geography. See further discussion of geopoetics in Classics below. 7 See Oliensis 1998: 107–27 and Fitzgerald 2018, who explore how Horace engages with the edges and middles of his poems. See also Parker in this volume, who notes, along with Cairns 2007, that many genres, for example, the epibaterion and syntaktikon, relate to travel: the links between literature, travel, and geography are fundamental to form as well as content. Note also Parker’s discussion of Rutilius Namatianus’ comparison between dividing a poem into multiple books and the manner in which milestones divide up a traveler’s journey (2.7–8). 8 Cf. Gowers 2009: 286. 9 See Janni 1984, discussed below, for a foundational study on hodological perspectives in the Greco-Roman world. 10 As Gowers 2009: 156–7 notes, the realism of Sat. 1.5 inspired many later readers to attempt to recreate the journey. See Meyer in this volume for context on what is distinctly poetic about Horace’s description in comparison to inscriptions and other navigational resources available for travelers in Roman Italy. 11 Cf. Du Quesnay 2009: 74–5. 12 As one of the reviewers points out, however, Tacoma 2016: 45–6 concludes that after manumission many ex-slaves continued to live in geographical proximity to their former masters. According to schol. ad Juv. 5.3, Maecenas freed Sarmentus after his master, M. Favonius, a Pompeian partisan, was killed during the proscriptions after Phillipi (see Gowers 2012: 200). Sarmentus’ presence in Maecenas’

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15 16 17 18 19 20

21

22 23 24 25

26 27

28 29

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traveling party as a freedman scriba (Sat. 1.5.66), therefore, reflects the spectrum of autonomy and coercion relating to mobility in the Roman world. See esp. Gowers 2009: 159. For the relationship between Sat. 1.5 and Lucilius, already identified by Porphyrio, see esp. the speculations of Fiske 1920: 306–16 and the more measured approaches of Sallmann 1974; Freudenburg 1993: 201–2; Gowers 2009: 164–5. See Ehlers 1985: 80–1. Other Odyssean features of Sat. 1.5 are summarized at Gowers 2009: 51–3, 2012: 183. Gowers 2009: 158. On Namatianus, see Parker in this volume. Morgan 2000: 113 argues that both Lucilius and Horace comment ironically on the sort of topics that are proper for hexameter poetry. For the structure of Satires Book 1 and the placement of 1.5 therein, see Reckford 1999: 549–51, with further references. On references to column beginnings and ends in Roman poetry, see Schafer 2017. Cic. Fam. 7.18.2 presents as normative the use of chartae to write while traveling. On chartae in Satires 1 see Cucchiarelli 2007: 176; Gowers 2012: 338; cf. Reckford 1999: 531–3. Chartae also reflect other sorts of mobility: they were available for use thanks to networks that linked Egypt’s papyrus plantations and manufacturing sites to the broader Mediterranean basin (see Lewis 1974: 3–4; Wiseman 2016; cf. Myers 2018: 231–2). Spatial turn: Foucault 1986 (based on a 1967 lecture; cf. Foucault 1980); Lefebvre 1991, Bourdieu 1977; Tuan 1978; Soja 1989, 1996; Hubbard, Kitchin & Valentine 2004; Warf & Arias 2009. Mobility turn: Hannam et al. 2006; Sheller & Urry 2006; Cresswell 2011. Clifford 1997 offers a critical foundation for the mobility turn, as Knappett & Kiriatzi 2016: 1 note. In classics see esp. Vidal-Naquet 1986; Edwards 1996; Edwards & Woolf 2003; Larmour & Spencer 2007; Laurence & Newsome 2011; O’Sullivan 2011; Scott 2013; Skempis & Ziogas 2014; Gilhuly & Worman 2014: Barker et al. 2015; Östenberg et al. 2015; Rimell 2015; Russell 2016; Knappett & Kiriatzi 2016; Rimell & Asper 2017; Gargola 2017; Van Nuffelen 2019; Collar & Kristensen 2020; Hutchinson 2020. Scott 2013: 2–7 summarizes inquiries into space in the ancient world across all scales. Knappett & Kiriatzi 2016: 5–6. On Roman migration, see esp. Tacoma 2016. On walking and Roman identity, see Zimmermann Damer in this volume and O’Sullivan 2011. Geography: Brodersen 1995; Talbert & Brodersen 2004; Dueck 2012, 2021; Geus & Theiring 2012; Bianchetti et al. 2015. Maps: Brodersen 2010 and Talbert 2017 summarize the work on and reassessments of Roman and Greek cartography since Dilke 1985; cf. Talbert 2010, 2012. Contact zones: Whittaker 1994. Networks: Malkin esp. 2003; Malkin et al. 2009. Localism, inter-regionalism and globalization: Hingley 2005; Seeland 2008; Purcell 2013; Broodbank 2013; De Angelis 2013; Pitts & Versluys 2015. Finley 1973; cf. Adams & Laurence 2001; Moatti 2004; Schlesier & Zellman 2004; Adams 2007; Adams & Roy 2007; Olshausen & Sauer 2014; Tacoma 2016; de Ligt and Tacoma 2016; Isayev 2017; Meyer in this volume. See also Loar et al. 2018 on another dimension of Roman mobility, the appropriation of literary and material culture. Casson 1974 remains a standard survey of Greek and Roman travel. See Asper 2011: 156 n. 2. Barchiesi 2006, 2017 offer further discussion of Vergilian geopoetics. See now also Barchiesi & Graziosi 2020. Bexley 2009; Purves 2010; Lindheim 2010; Clay 2011; Myers 2011, 2019; Pogorzelski 2011; Willis 2011; Fletcher 2014; Skempis & Ziogas 2014; Barker

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Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer et al. 2015; Pandey 2018: 142–84. Biggs & Blum 2019 explore the “epic journey” across Greco-Roman literature. De Jong 2012 exemplifies the narratological approach to space in ancient literature. Imperial space: Rimell 2015; Rimell & Asper 2017, Fitzgerald & Spentzou 2018. Landscape: well summarized in Spencer 2010. Ethnography and Roman poetry: Thomas 1982. Edges of the oikoumene: Romm 1992; Parker 2008. Cf. Woolf 2013; Bruun 2016; Foubert 2016 for broader context on evidence of women’s mobility in the Roman world. Chioffi 2015: 627, who also notes that of 95,000 published and unpublished inscriptions from Rome, some 85,000 are tituli sepulcrales. This theme in the present volume complements analyses in Sears et al. 2013 of how Roman epigraphic culture affected the use of spaces and movement through those spaces. For scholarship on epic and space, see n. 29. Vehiculation: Hudson 2018, 2021. Velocity: Willis 2011: 38–55. Sky travel: Barchiesi 2009. We are grateful to an anonymous reviewer for calling our attention to some of these further dimensions of travel. See esp. Scheidel 2014 with http://orbis.stanford.edu. OLD s.v. via 4; for via as maritime journey: e.g., Prop. 1.8.18.

Works cited Adams, C. 2007. Land Transport in Roman Egypt: A Study of Economics and Administration in a Roman Province. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Adams, C. & R. Laurence, eds. 2001. Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire. London. Adams, C. & J. Roy, eds. 2007. Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East. Oxford (Oxbow Books). Anderson, B. 2006. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and the Spread of Nationalism. Revised ed. London (Verso). Anderson, W. S. 1955-6. “Poetic Fiction—Horace Serm. 1.5.” CW 49: 57–9. Asper, M. 2011. “Dimensions of Power: Callimachean Geopoetics and the Ptolemaic Empire.” In B. Acosta-Hughes, L. Lehnus & S. Stephens, eds. Brill’s Companion to Callimachus. Leiden (Brill), 155–77. Barchiesi, A. 2006. “Mobilità e religione nell’Eneide. Diaspora, culto, identità locali.” In D. Elm von der Osten, J. Rüpke & K. Waldner, eds. Texte als Medium und Reflexion von Religion im römischen Reich. Stuttgart (Steiner), 13–30. Barchiesi, A. 2009. “Phaethon and the Monsters.” In P. Hardie, ed. Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 163–88. Barchiesi, A. 2017. “Colonial Readings in Vergilian Geopoetics: The Trojans at Buthrotum.” In V. Rimell & M. Asper, eds. Imagining Empire: Political Space in Hellenistic and Roman Literature. Heidelberg (Universitätsverlag Winter), 151–66. Barchiesi, A. & B. Graziosi 2020. Ritorni difficili. Rome (Edizioni di storia e letteratura). Barker, E., S. Bouzarovski, C. Pelling & L. Isaksen, eds. 2015. New Worlds from Old Texts: Revisiting Ancient Space and Place. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Basto R. 1982. “Horace’s Propempticon to Vergil: A Re-Examination.” Vergilius 28: 30–43.

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Bexley, E. 2009. “Replacing Rome: Geographic and Political Centrality in Lucan’s Pharsalia.” CPh 104: 459–75. Bianchetti, S., M. R. Cataudella & H.-J. Gehrke, eds. 2015. Brill’s Companion to Ancient Geography: The Inhabited World in Greek and Roman Tradition. Leiden (Brill). Biggs, T. & J. Blum, eds. 2019. The Epic Journey in Greek and Roman Literature. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Bourdieu, P. 1977. The Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Braudel, F. 1949. La Méditerranée et le Monde Méditerranéen à l’Epoque de Philippe II. Paris (A. Colin). Brodersen, K. 1995. Terra cognita: Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung. Hildesheim (G. Olms). Brodersen, K. 2010. “Space and Geography.” In A. Barchiesi & W. Scheidel, eds. The Oxford Handbook of Roman Studies. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 827–37. Broodbank, C. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Bruun, C. 2016. “Tracing Familial Mobility: Female and Child Migrants in the Roman West.” In L. de Ligt & L. E. Tacoma, eds. Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire. Leiden (Brill), 176–204. Cairns, F. 2007 [1972]. Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry. Revised ed. Ann Arbor (Michigan Classical Press). Casson, L. 1974. Travel in the Ancient World. London (Allen & Unwin). Chioffi, L. 2015. “Death and Burial.” In C. Bruun & J. Edmondson eds., The Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 627–44. Clay, J. S. 2011. Homer’s Trojan Theater: Space, Vision, and Memory in the Iliad. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Clifford, J. 1997. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Cody, J. V. 1976. Horace and Callimachean Aesthetics. Brussels (Latomus). Collar, A. & T. M. Kristensen, eds. 2020. Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean. Leiden (Brill). Cresswell, T. 2011. “Mobilities I: Catching Up.” Progress in Human Geography 35.4: 550–58. Cucchiarelli, A. 2001. La satira e il poeta: Orazio tra Epodi e Sermones. Pisa (Giardini). Cucchiarelli, A. 2005. “La nave e lo spettatore: Forme dell’allegoria da Aleco ad Orazio II.” SIFC 3: 30–72. Cucchiarelli, A. 2007. “Come si legge la satire romana?” In K. Freudenburg, A. Cucchiarelli & A. Barchiesi, eds. Musa pedestre: Storia e interpretazione della satira in Roma antica. Rome (Carocci), 167–202. De Angelis, F. ed. 2013. Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity: Exploring Their Limits. Leuven (Peeters). De Jong, I. J. F., ed. 2012. Space in Ancient Greek Literature. Leiden (Brill). de Ligt, L. & L. E. Tacoma, eds. 2016. Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire. Leiden (Brill). Dilke, O. A. W. 1985. Greek and Roman Maps. Ithaca, NY (Cornell University Press).

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Dueck, D. 2012. Geography in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Dueck, D. 2021. Illiterate Geography in Classical Athens and Rome. London (Routledge). Du Quesnay I. M. Le M. 2009 [1984]. “Horace and Maecenas: The Propaganda Value of Sermones I.” In K. Freudenburg, ed. Horace: Satires and Epistles. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 42–101. Edwards, C. 1996. Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Edwards, C. & G. Woolf, eds. 2003. Rome the Cosmopolis. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Ehlers, W. W. 1985. “Das ‘Iter Brundisinum’ des Horaz Serm. 1.5.” Hermes 113: 69–83. Elder, J. P. 1952. “Horace C. 1.3.” AJP 73: 140–58. Feeney, D. 2016. Beyond Greek: The Beginnings of Latin Literature. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Finley, M. 1973. The Ancient Economy. London (Hogarth). Fiske, G. C. 1920. Lucilius and Horace: A Study in the Classical Theory of Imitation. Madison, WI (University of Wisconsin Press). Fitch, J. G. 2006-7. “Horace, Odes 1.3: Nature’s Boundaries.” Eranos 104: 31–40. Fitzgerald, W. 2018. “The Space of the Poem: Imperial Trajectories in Catullus and Horace.” In W. Fitzgerald & E. Spentzou, eds. The Production of Space in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 147–68. Fitzgerald, W. & E. Spentzou, eds. 2018. The Production of Space in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Fletcher, K. F. B. 2014. Finding Italy: Travel, Colonization, and Nation in Vergil’s Aeneid. Ann Arbor (The University of Michigan Press). Foubert, L. 2016. “Mobile Women in P.Oxy. and the Port Cities of Roman Egypt: Tracing Women’s Travel Behaviour in Papyrological Sources.” In L. de Ligt & L. E. Tacoma, eds. Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire. Leiden (Brill), 285–304. Foucault, M. 1980. “Questions on Geography.” In C. Gordon, ed. Power/ Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings. New York (Pantheon Books), 63–77. Foucault, M. 1986. “Of Other Spaces.” Diacritics 16: 22–7. Freudenburg, K. 1993. The Walking Muse: Horace on the Theory of Satire. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Gargola, D. J. 2017. The Shape of the Roman Order: The Republic and Its Spaces. Chapel Hill (The University of North Carolina Press). Geus, K. & M. Theiring, eds. 2012. Common Sense Geography and Mental Modelling. Berlin (Max-Planck-Institut für Wissenschaftsgeschichte). Gilhuly, K. G. & N. Worman, eds. 2014. Space, Place and Landscape in Ancient Greek Literature and Culture. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Gowers, E. 2009 [1993]. “Horace, Satires 1.5: An Inconsequential Journey.” In K. Freudenburg, ed. Horace: Satires and Epistles. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 156–80. Gowers, E. 2012. Horace: Satires Book I. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Hannam, K., M. Sheller & J. Urry. 2006. “Mobilities, Immobilities and Moorings.” Mobilities 1: 1–22.

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Harrison, S. 2007. “The Primal Voyage and the Ocean of Epos.” Dictynna 4: 1–14. Hingley, R. 2005. Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire. London (Routledge). Horden, P. & N. Purcell 2000. The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford (Blackwell). Hubbard, P., T. Kitchin & G. Valentine, eds. 2004. Key Thinkers on Space and Place. London (Sage). Hudson, J. 2018. “Obviam: The Space of Vehiculation in Roman Literature.” In W. Fitzgerald & E. Spentzou, eds. The Production of Space in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 69–92. Hudson, J. 2021. The Rhetoric of Roman Transportation. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Hutchinson, G. O. 2020. Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Isayev, E. 2017. Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Janni, P. 1984. La mappa e il periplo: cartografía antica e spazio odologico. Rome (Bretschneider). Kidd, D. A. 1977. “Vergil’s Voyage.” Prudentia 9: 97–103. Knappett, C. & E. Kiriatzi 2016. “Technological Mobilities: Perspectives from the Eastern Mediterranean—An Introduction.” In C. Knappett, C. & E. Kiriatzi, eds. Human Mobility and Technological Transfer in the Prehistoric Mediterranean. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 1–17. Larmour, D. H. J. & D. Spencer, eds. 2007. The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Laurence, R. & D. Newsome, eds. 2011. Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Lefebvre, H. 1991 [1974]. The Production of Space. Oxford (Blackwell). Lewis, N. 1974. Papyrus in Classical Antiquity. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Lindheim, S. H. 2010. “Pomona’s Pomarium: The ‘Mapping Impulse’ in Metamorphoses 14 (and 9).” TAPA 140: 163–94. Loar, M. P., C. MacDonald, & D. Padilla Peralta, eds. 2018. Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Lockyer, C. 1967. “Horace’s Propempticon and Vergil’s Voyage.“CW 61: 42–5. Malkin, I. 2003. “Networks and the Emergence of Greek Identity.” MHR 18: 56–74. Malkin, I., C. Constantakopoulou & K. Panagopoulou, eds. 2009. Greek and Roman Networks in the Mediterranean. London (Routledge). Mayer, R. 2012. Horace: Odes Book 1. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Moatti, C., ed. 2004. La mobilité des personnes en Méditerranée, de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne. Rome (Ecole Française de Rome). Morgan, L. 2000. “Metre Matters: Some Higher-Level Metrical Play in Latin Poetry.” PCPS 46: 99–120. Morris, I. 2003. “Mediterraneanization.” MHR 18: 30–55. Myers, M. Y. 2011. “Lucan’s Poetic Geographies: Center and Periphery in Civil War Epic.” In P. Asso, ed. Brill’s Companion to Lucan. Leiden (Brill), 399–416. Myers, M. Y. 2018. “Import/Export: Empire and Appropriation in the Gallus Papyrus from Qasr Ibrim.” In M. P. Loar, C. MacDonald & D. Padilla Peralta,

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The stage at the fair: trade and human trafficking in the palliata Amy Richlin

Something rich and strange.1 Before there was Roman literature, there was performance in Latin. Travel, often involuntary, was integral to the formation of the palliata in the war-racked 200s BCE, when shipments of the newly enslaved arrived in ports, mercenary soldiers reached Carthage from all points of the compass, famous comedians traveled from court to court, and the less famous somehow made it across the Latin language line into central Italy.2 To please their traumatized audiences, these players made soldiers and traders funny and played them for laughs, for people love to laugh at what they fear; so there is a whole play titled Mercator, as well as Miles Gloriosus, now much better known; so risky business and risky trips drive the plots. By the time we get to Catullus, the trader is an outsider; we have a top-down view, as Latin poetry has come up in the world; but in the early palliata, we still see trade from below and from within. We find ourselves in a nexus of theater, shipping, trade, human trafficking, and religion: a comic map, a trail of tears, where the wake lines of warships, trading ships, and pirate ships crisscrossed, and an acting troupe might meet a coffle of slaves on the road to Rome. (Grex: 1. a flock of sheep; 2. a troupe of actors; 3. a coffle of slaves.) In a joking exchange in Menaechmi, the puzzled Menaechmus II meets the equally puzzled prostitute Erotium, who has a date with Menaechmus I. The new twin has just come from the port; Erotium has been expecting her (local) lover for lunch. Confusion ensues (Men. 401–05): [MEN II]. prandi in navi, inde huc sum egressus, te conveni. ER. eccere, perii misera! quam tu mihi nunc navem narras? MEN II. ligneam, saepe tritam, saepe fixam, saepe excussam malleo; quasi supellex Pellionis, palus palo proxumust. ER. †iam, amabo, desine† ludos facere … 405 [MEN II]. I had lunch on the ship, from there I came straight here, I met you. ER. What a mess, poor me, I’m dead! What is this ship you’re telling me, now? MEN II. The wooden kind,

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Amy Richlin often worn down, often nailed up, often knocked apart with a hammer; just like that rig that Pellio has, it’s plank to plank, put side by side. ER. Now, please, lovey, stop putting on a show … 405

Menaechmus II’s riddling definition of a ship aligns it with the temporary stage that traveled along with the troupes of actors who made the palliata, a comparison foregrounded by a metatheatrical reference to the actor T. Publilius Pellio, known from the Stichus didascalia (200 BCE) and from a joke in Bacchides (214–15).3 Erotium accordingly replies to Menaechmus with another theatrical joke; the stage and the ship that carried Menaechmus here merge into a single vehicle, arrived in town for the ludi. That the stage was a magical vehicle for instantaneous travel is a running joke in the prologues; the Truculentus prologue speaker declares that “I’m moving this stage across from Athens as is, | at least while we’re getting this comedy across” (Athenis traveho, ita ut hoc est, proscaenium | tantisper dum transigimus hanc comoediam, 10–11).4 It seems likely that acting troupes might have performed at ordinary market days, nundinae, in central Italy, but we know of them from the major ludi at Rome—religious festivals meant to encourage the gods to promote the victories of the Roman state.5 Scholars tend to treat ludi as religious and political, statist, but in the palliata they are mainly mercantile, trans-state, involving dedicated travel by those looking to buy and sell on a large scale. From the trader’s perspective, these are trade fairs, and they come up so often in the plays that it is surprising to read that the very existence of trade fairs in antiquity has been questioned due to what is seen as a dearth of evidence. Jean Andreau (2002: 119–22) not only points out that there were fairs, but argues that they need to be studied in conjunction with their “cultural and religious aspects.” Andreau here follows Luuk de Ligt’s work on fairs during the Principate; the question should be of equal interest for the violent world of the mid-Republic, where fairs would have been risky business. The religious events, the performance events, the incidental rapes and kidnappings, and trade, including the movement and sale of enslaved persons, were simultaneous and consubstantial.6 The word mercatus in the plays is usually translated “market” without, I am sure, any concern for the technical difference between a market and a fair, but long-distance travel to regularly occurring large-scale events is indeed what we hear of onstage: trade fairs, and all that went with them. This presence should not be treated as an artifact of the Greek plays from which the palliata drew some titles, some shtick, and plotlines. Yes, Plautus’s Mercator is based on the Emporos of Philemon, or says it is (graece haec vocatur Emporos Philemonis; | eadem latine Mercator Macci Titi, Mer. 9–10).7 However, just as these lines balance graece with latine and Philemonis with Macci Titi, so Plautus’s audience lived in a world with trade of its own, with its own meaning. Italian traders were operating in the eastern Mediterranean from the early 200s BCE onward (Kay 2014:

The stage at the fair 27 12–13; Roselaar 2012); during the Mercenary War in Carthage (241–237 BCE), the Romans stepped in to negotiate for the release of about 500 “persons sailing from Italy” who had been supplying the (polyglot, international) mercenaries (Polyb. 1.83.7–8); the First Illyrian War (229 BCE) began over complaints about the Illyrian pirates that climaxed after they robbed a group of Italian emporoi, killing some and carrying off others alive (Polyb. 2.8.3). To the Illyrians, predation was a way of life (Gabrielsen 2003); Erotium’s city, Epidamnus, was near the south edge of Queen Teuta’s Illyrian realm. Which came first, trade or the flag? As Matthew Leigh argues, “Merchant activity and the cultural instability attendant on empire are inextricably linked” (2004: 156). Leigh’s “cultural instability” refers to a philosophical discourse on morals and the best way of making a living; in considering the audience of the palliata, however, I want to think about the cultural instability whereby predation made travel dangerous and war put people into the holds of ships.

Scenes of exchange The god Mercurius serves as the prologue speaker of Amphitruo, dressed as a slave (116–24) because, as he later complains, his father has made him be one for this play (177–8). He launches his speech, however, with a ringing (and longwinded) captatio benevolentiae (1–16), of which the first five lines give a good notion (1–5): ME. Ut vos in vostris voltis mercimoniis emundis vendundisque me laetum lucris adficere atque adiuvare in rebus omnibus et ut res rationesque vostrorum omnium bene expedire voltis peregrique et domi

5

ME. As you want me, in all your trade-goods buyings and sellings, to be happy and ply you with profit and help you in all your business matters, and as you, all of you, want your business and bottom line to turn out well in foreign parts and at home

5

He is a god of trade, both local and long-distance, and he makes it clear that he sees his audience as interested in what he can do for them. This turns out to be ironic, as he soon confesses (26–31) that not only he but his father Jupiter are mortal and fearful of a beating; they are actors, and, by this selfdescription, slaves. That at least some troupe members were slaves is the source of jokes within the plays. Yet such jokes also address slaves in the audience, so that the question arises, what might a group of slaves and freed slaves think of the people who brought you human trafficking? Was

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Mercurius their god, too? Perhaps insofar as he is here enslaved, or protects their current livelihood. The gods of the palliata are Hercules, Castor, Pollux; everyone swears by them (hercle, edepol, ecastor): all gods of travel, guardians of traders and traded.8 A joke about a trade fair in Poenulus suggests how money made the traffic go. Here the besotted young man Agorastocles greets his beloved Adelphasium as she primps to get ready for the Aphrodisia festival in Calydon. Adelphasium and her sister are owned by a pimp, and are concerned to make a good showing (Poen. 339–42): … ADE. apud aedem Veneris hodie est mercatus meretricius: eo conveniunt mercatores, ibi ego me ostendi volo. AG. invendibili merci oportet ultro emptorem adducere: proba mers facile emptorem reperit, tam etsi in apstruso sitast.

340

… ADE. At the temple of Venus today it’s the Prostitutes Trade Fair: the traders are all gathering there, and I want myself to be displayed there. 340 AG. It’s unsaleable trade goods you have to drag a buyer in for: honest trade goods easily find a buyer, even when placed in a hidden spot. He means this as a compliment, although the girls are not that proba, as Adelphasium’s desire for display makes clear; the common use of mala merx to mean “naughty girl,” as will be seen, makes proba mers into an oxymoron and his whole speech into a (sleazy) joke, as he goes along with Adelphasium’s self-definition as trade goods. The conjunction of temple cult, religious festival, trade fair, and display sets the scene for the show Adelphasium puts on for her customer—and the actor puts on for the punters in the audience. The concentration of mercantile vocabulary, of buying and selling (invendibili, emptorem, emptorem) and particularly of trade (mercatus, mercatores, merci, mers) turns out to tally with a marked use of mercor and its relatives in Plautus in connection with the flesh trade. This is, after all, a mercatus meretricius. Together, this vocabulary points up the relation to money in the term meretrix, whose base, mereo (“earn”), with its relatives merces, mercennarius, sets up a bank account for wordplay. Moreover, in Poenulus Adelphasium and her sister enter singing a song comparing themselves, as women, to ships—both expensive to rig out (210-32); the parallel between women and ships goes back to Old Comedy. Ironically, Erotium herself figures as a pirate ship before Menaechmus II meets her (navis praedatoria, 344; see Leigh 2004: 122). In other plays, other young women are themselves the praeda. Note the subjective fluctuation between woman/ship as a vehicle for male pleasure—sex as sailing—and woman/ship as predatory: for spectators and actors, both positions are available. The ship becomes, and is, its own cargo—talking cargo. Onstage in

The stage at the fair 29 Poenulus, two male actors in drag claim their own objectification, both as “women” and as actors (possibly slaves; potentially available), standing on a platform in the marketplace within view of those other platforms that displayed talking cargo.9 This open joke about what goes on is a form of the “chattel principle” in the North American slave trade, whereby “slaves’ values always hung over their heads” (Johnson 1999: 19). The other big factor in the flesh trade onstage is war. A competitive display of prostitutes for the return home of the legion features in Epidicus (206–35), while the soldiers parade their captured draft animals (iumenta, 209) and slaves (pueros, virgines, 210). Telestis, the main sex object in that play, is a Theban captive, purchased “from the spoils” (de praeda mercatust, 44; in praeda es mercatus, 108) by a returning soldier, and indeed there is a persistent connection in the plays between soldiers and prostitutes, a holdover from Greek Middle and New Comedy where the mercenary embodied global warfare after Alexander and the sex trade it fostered (compare Menander Misoumenos). But Epidicus, although it includes such a relationship in a sidebar (465–6), focuses on the war captive Telestis, an (illegitimate) freeborn girl who has been enslaved and taken away from her home city, from which her mother must travel to find her. The process of enslavement and deracination is laid out step by step in a bogus letter home from a traveling merchant in Persa. The slave Toxilus (who actually wrote the letter) gives it to Dordalus, the pimp he plans to dupe, and the pimp starts to read (Per. 503–9): [DO.] ego valeo recte et rem gero et facio lucrum neque istoc redire his octo possum mensibus, itaque hic est quod me detinet negotium. Chrysopolim Persae cepere urbem in Arabia, plenam bonarum rerum atque antiquom oppidum: ea comportatur praeda, ut fiat auctio publicitus; ea res me domo expertem facit. I’m feeling well, I’m doing business, I’m making a profit, and I can’t get back to town for another eight months or so, such is the business that’s detaining me here. The Persians have seized the City of Gold in Arabia, an ancient town, full of luxury goods: these spoils are being collected for an auction, a public one, and that’s what’s keeping me away from home.

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This fantasy ties in with other onstage visions of the wealth to be had from the fabulous Orient: not only Persia but a military expedition to Arabia; the ancient City of Gold. The interface between war and trade manifests itself as the spoils (praeda) come up for auction, and Toxilus’s merchant owner

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is supposedly staying on for this purpose. He has been making a profit (lucrum), and this word is picked up when the spoils, a girl falsely represented as an abducted Arabian, names herself “Lucris” in a long scene that plays out what it feels like to be sold to a pimp (549–672; see Richlin 2017: 260–5). For the merchant has sent home a sample, for sale by the man who has been hosting him in Persia, to whom he feels he owes some return of hospitality (510–12). The pimp, egged on by the slave, continues to read (520–7): DO. ist’ qui tabellas adfert adduxit simul forma expetenda liberalem virginem, furtivam, abductam ex Arabia penitissuma; eam te volo curare ut istic veneat. ac suo periclo is emat qui eam mercabitur: mancupio neque promittet neque quisquam dabit. probum et numeratum argentum ut accipiat face. haec cura et hospes cura ut curetur…

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The guy who brings this letter has brought with him 520 a free-type girl—a virgin—with a very choice body— stolen—she was carried off from deepest Arabia. I want you to see to it that she gets sold here. And whoever takes her in trade buys her at his own risk: nobody will promise or give her for legitimate sale. 525 See to it that he’s paid in honest, counted-out cash. Take care of these things and take care that my hospes is taken care of. The girl is treated as a captive in the sale scene, but is spoken of here as stolen and kidnapped; as will be seen, these modes of transfer alternate onstage. Praeda, which has the technical sense “military spoils,” is used by extension in the palliata to mean “loot,” just as ancient piracy and related forms are conventionally referred to as “predation” by economic historians.10 Elizabeth Fentress invokes “Horden and Purcell’s useful formula that piracy is commerce carried on by other means” (2013: 159), in her delineation of the growth of elite cross-cultural networking through trade and war; the hospes relationship that underpins the transaction in Persa reflects the well-attested real-life interrelationships found in trading enclaves across the Mediterranean: business friendships.11 Playing the role of the owner’s hospes onstage in this scene is the slave Sagaristio, the eponymous Persa, who has been costumed as a “foreigner” (peregrinus, 157), with a turban (tiara, 463), as befits a man who is in town to sell a virgin (he later incorporates Virginesvendonides into the name he invents for himself, 702); the connection between traders, business friends, and the traffic in women is played out at much greater length in Mercator, where the young mercator is the buyer rather than the seller (see James 2010; Marshall 2013).

The stage at the fair 31 Some cargos were mixed; the best-described example onstage is the one in Stichus (373–89), where a multi-year venture in “Asia” (367) pays off in silver and gold (374), wool and purple dye (376), lecti inlaid with ivory and gold (377), Babylonian tapestries and carpets (378), musical slave-women (fidicinas, tibicinas, | sambucas, 380-1), and comedians (388). That the musicians are intended for sexual use is spelled out by their description (forma eximia, 381); compare the Arabian virgin, forma expetenda. And indeed these slave-women are duly off-loaded and, as non-speaking eye candy, appear at the start of the next scene (402), stand there during the ensuing dialogue, and are marched into the house (age abduce hasce intro quas mecum adduxi, 418, 435; ite hac secundum vos me, 453). Later the old man will beg his sons-in-law, the traders, for four of them to sleep with (quicum cubitem, 548); he frames this as a quid-pro-quo in return for his daughters’ bodies (quicum cubitares, 547), as if he had read “The Traffic in Women.”12 This cargo, however, was not brought back for home use; the traders have a business to run. That businessmen considered the flesh trade within their purview is suggested by the repeated insulting juxtaposition of bankers and pimps onstage, confirmed by the banker in Curculio who casually observes, at the end of his monologue as he is on the way to the pimp’s house, “I want to buy myself some boy who could be marketed | for rental from me. There’s money in rentals” (cupio aliquem emere puerum qui usurarius | nunc mihi quaeratur. usus est pecunia, Cur. 382–3). A banker’s house never appears onstage, although pimps’ houses also feature in Persa, Poenulus, and memorably in Pseudolus (the pimp in Rudens has been shipwrecked). But when bankers and pimps are discussed onstage, they are located together in the forum; the convenience of this arrangement is emphasized in the opening speech of Truculentus, where the prostitutes themselves are treated as pages in a ledger (66–73; see Kay 2014: 124 for a financial analysis). As Leigh points out, the stage itself, with its houses, is located at a midway point between two exits that are charged with meaning (2004: 156–67). He is concerned with the contrast between “agrarian and mercantile economies, situated off-stage at the end of each of the side-exits”; I want to stress here the connection between the port (exit stage R) and the forum (exit stage L).13 Leigh rightly observes that the pimp, “frequently identified as an outsider …, does business in the forum, and makes regular business journeys around the Mediterranean” (2004: 134). Next to him in Business Class were the mercenary soldiers who make fantastic voyages through the plays, trailing an entourage of flatterers (Bacchides, Miles Gloriosus) and military slaves (Curculio, Pseudolus, Trinummus), bringing exotic gifts (Truculentus, including two Syrian slavewomen), taking along a contract sex-worker, usually unenthusiastic (Bacchides, Miles Gloriosus), making deals with bankers and pimps, sometimes by longdistance bank draft (Curculio). Slaves also accompany regular soldiers (Amphitruo, Captivi, Casina, Epidicus) and traders and travelers (Menaechmi, Poenulus, Stichus), sometimes drawn into the deal (Bacchides, Mercator); the

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slave Palaestrio, on a lone mission, is himself captured by pirates (praedones) and given as a gift to a soldier (Mil. 118–20). Connectivity is in the nature of trade, even of war, as Fentress argues, and the host/guest relationship plays a significant role in the arrival onstage of the Carthaginian Hanno in Poenulus. He is looking for his lost daughters (kidnapped with their nanny from a Carthage suburb by a Sicilian latro, who took them to Anactorium, where he sold them to a pimp, who took them to Calydon); he has traveled all around the Mediterranean searching for them, renting prostitutes in every port (a sort of sex tourism); and, having arrived in Calydon, he is looking for the son of his old hospes Antidamas (1042–60).14 By an amazing coincidence, he at once meets Agorastocles, who turns out also to have been kidnapped from Carthage, and to have been purchased, then freed and adopted, by Antidamas. Hanno presents, as proof of this hospitium relationship, his part of the tesseram | … hospitalem that marked their friendship (1047–8); Agorastocles says he has the other half at home (1049). The prop tessera onstage represented something real; tesserae hospitales form part of the archaeological record attesting to elite connectivity through trade in the Hellenistic Mediterranean (Fentress 2013: 163–4). This network also stimulated a lower-level connectivity of artisans, as merchants either brought their own housing styles with them or copied at home what they had seen in the homes of their hospites, engaging in competitive display. That is, when rich men traveled, they brought lower-class people along, “traveling for work” as we would say, just as the merchants were “making business trips.” Rich men had tesserae; the craftsmen’s presence is attested by what they made—tilework, for example. The barbarus opifex plays an important role in the palliata as an avatar of the comedians who made the plays, and indeed sometimes rich men brought back a writer as a souvenir, as Terentius Lucanus is said to have done with Terence. Plays and poems, tilework and paintings, fungible in the 200s like coins or tesserae or slaves, would over time grow in value and turn into Art. But to Hanno (not in town to do business) is attributed a cargo that is only comically exotic, as he speaks Punic to the slave Milphio and Milphio pretends to translate (Poen. 1008–16): …MI. tu qui sonam non habes, quid in hanc venistis urbem aut quid quaeritis? HA. muphursa. AG. quid ait? HA. miuulechianna. AG. quid venit? 1010 MI. non audis? mures Africanos praedicat in pompam ludis dare se velle aedilibus. HA. lechlachananilimniichot. AG. quid nunc ait? MI. ligulas, canalis ait se advexisse et nuces: nunc orat operam ut des sibi, ut ea veneant. 1015 AG. mercator credo est.…

The stage at the fair 33 …MI. You without the belt, why have you come to this city or what are you looking for? HA. [Punic.] AG. What’s he saying? HA. [Punic.] AG. Why has he come? 1010 MI. Aren’t you listening? African mice, he’s announcing he wants to offer them to the aediles for the parade at the ludi. HA. [Punic.] AG. What’s he saying now? MI. That he’s brought with him shoelaces, pipes, and nuts: now he’s asking you to help him get them sold. 1015 AG. I believe he’s a trader.… Agorastocles displays his customary speed of thought here; the interpretation of Hanno as trader is implicit in all Milphio’s invented translations. The rude greeting, “you without the belt,” continues a deictic joke on Hanno’s exotic appearance as Milphio and Agorastocles first notice him (975–81).15 But what is most marked here is the language. Wolfgang de Melo argues (2012: 173–222) that the lines of Punic preserved in the manuscript tradition were, before the inevitable mangling, actual responses in Punic; although he estimates that few in the audience “apart perhaps from some sailors and merchants” would have understood these lines (173–4), surely, if they are not comic gibberish, the actors had to have known what they meant, and the joke would also benefit by having in the audience a substantial number of Punic speakers (the effect is visible today in the audiences of bilingual comedies: sudden identification of the bilingual in the crowd). Moreover, the list of trade goods begins with an offering of improbable exotic creatures precisely for the ludi, to be dealt with by the city officials who were in charge of the logistics of the festival (just as, in Captivi, war captives are bought out of the praeda “from the quaestors,” Capt. 34). The rest of the items on the list are random, based on the sound of the words in Punic, and so the gag plays out for another six lines, adding equally unromantic items (lard, agricultural equipment). This joke opens the possibility that the actors were playing to an audience which they knew included people involved in trade, again pointing to the placement of the stage at the fair. Or to people they knew had been traded; the presence of North African slaves in central Italy is likely from the First Punic War onward and is attested in an uprising of Carthaginian slaves and hostages in Latin towns in 198 BCE (Livy 32.26). Considering the equivocal figure cut by the traders seen so far, it is poignant that upwardly-striving slaves onstage sometimes fantasize about going into business, morphing from trade goods into traders. The slave Leonida in Asinaria, in a long scene, tries to convince a mercator to pay him the money that is due for a consignment of donkeys. Masquerading as the atriensis, a slave overseer with authority within the household, he reels off a series of grand transactions attesting to his fiscal probity, but nothing works, as seen in this exchange (As. 497–502):

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Amy Richlin …LE. quamquam ego sum sordidatus, frugi tamen sum, nec potest peculium enumerari. ME. fortasse. LE. etiam [nunc dico] Periphanes Rhodo mercator dives apsente ero solus mihi talentum argenti soli 500 adnumeravit et credidit mihi, neque deceptust in eo. ME. fortasse.… …LE. Although I wear a working man’s clothes, I am prudent nonetheless, and my peculium is beyond counting. ME. Maybe. LE. Even Periphanes, the rich trader from Rhodes, while my owner was away, he alone counted out a talent of silver 500 to me alone, and entrusted it to me, nor was he deceived in doing so. ME. Maybe.…

Leonida wants to be thought credit-worthy, an ongoing preoccupation of slaves onstage, particularly visible in Persa.16 The verb credo here is a marker of that concern, just as the slave’s savings, the peculium (not really owned by him) and the slave’s virtue, frugi (a good-behavior warranty) mark the iron ceiling that locked slaves in. Leonida claims the respect of businessmen, like the wine-seller Exaerambus (436), who brings a banker to the house to do a credit transaction (440; see Kay 2014: 121). What he does not get is any respect from the mercator, whom he insults wildly, and to whom he says, “I am just as much a human being as you are” (tam ego homo sum quam tu, 490). The most florid fantasy belongs to the slave fisherman Gripus in Rudens, who pulls up a suitcase full of money in his net. He has a big musical number in which he plans how he will use the money to buy his freedom, and goes on to foresee a glorious future (Rud. 930–5a): iam ubi liber ero, igitur demum instruam agrum atque aedis, mancupia, 930 navibu’ magnis mercaturam faciam, apud reges rex perhibebor. post animi caussa mihi navem faciam atque imitabor Stratonicum, oppida circumvectabor. ubi nobilitas mea erit clara, oppidum magnum communibo; ei ego urbi Gripo indam nomen, monumentum meae famae et factis, 935 ibi qui regnum magnum instituam. Now when I get free, then finally I’ll set up a field and a house, and slaves, 930 I’ll carry on trade in big ships, I’ll be called a king among kings. Then, because I want to, I’ll have me a ship built and I’ll imitate Stratonicus,

The stage at the fair 35 I’ll cruise around the towns. When my reputation gets famous, I’ll fortify a big town; I’ll give this city the name “Gripus,” a monument to my fame and deeds, there I’ll set up my big kingdom.

935

Gripus’s fantasy notably includes the purchase not only of real estate but slaves, an irony familiar to all readers of Trimalchio’s autobiography (Petronius Sat. 75.10–77.6, esp. the cargo at 76.6: vinum, lardum, fabam, seplasium, mancipia, “wine, bacon, beans, perfume, slaves”). He does not specify what cargo will be on his ship; the role model he invokes is the famous comic singer Stratonicus (see Richlin 2016: 88–9), who traveled for show business rather than the flesh trade. Gripus’s plan to have a kingdom with a town named after him, on the other hand, belongs to the world made by the Diadochoi: Alexandria, Antioch, Seleucia. Stratonicus came to a bad end in what turned out to be a dangerous game—speaking too much truth to power—and both trade and the fair onstage have a rough side. The lead actor in Mercator purchases the woman he brings home, but other businessmen use their out-of-town status to grab some swag, as did the old man in Cistellaria when just a boy (156–9): fuere Sicyoni iam diu Dionysia. mercator venit huc ad ludos Lemnius, isque hic compressit virginem, adulescentulus, , vinulentus, multa nocte, in via. A long time ago the Dionysia were on at Sicyon. A trader came there to the ludi, a guy from Lemnos, and there he raped a virgin, himself just a teenager, by force, when he was drunk, late at night, in the road. Rape at a festival is a common plot point in Greek New Comedy, familiar from Epitrepontes, where Habrotonon tells how she saw it happen (475–91); both in Cistellaria and probably in Epidicus the rape is committed by a man in town on business. In Epidicus, the Athenian Periphanes raped a virgin at Epidaurus who, it is repeatedly emphasized, was poor (169, 540–2, 555–6); the circumstances are not specified, but Epidaurus was a theater town. The ludi are generally unsafe places; Selenium, result of the rape at Sicyon, grows up and is followed home from the Dionysia by the young man she now loves (per Dionysia | mater pompam me spectatum duxit, Cist. 89–95). Planesium as a child was taken by her nutrix to see the shows at the Dionysia (ea me spectatum tulerat per Dionysia, Cur. 644–5), where the grandstand collapsed

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and someone stole her (646–50) and sold her to a pimp (528–30). The Menaechmi prologue gives a fuller account of the kidnapping of the young Menaechmus, stolen while on a voyage to Tarentum with his merchant father (Men. 24–33): …pater oneravit navim magnam multis mercibus; imponit geminum alterum in navim pater, Tarentum avexit secum ad mercatum simul, illum reliquit alterum apud matrem domi. Tarenti ludei forte erant quom illuc venit. mortales multi, ut ad ludos, convenerant: puer aberravit inter homines a patre. Epidamniensis quidam ibi mercator fuit, is puerum tollit avehitque Epidamnium. …His father loaded a big ship with many trade-goods; and the father put one of the twins on the ship, and carried him away to Tarentum with him, to the trade fair, while he left that other one at home with his mother. At Tarentum, by chance, the ludi were on when he got there. Many souls had gathered there, since it was the ludi: the boy ran away from his father among the people. There was a trader there from Epidamnus, he picks the boy up and carries him off to Epidamnus.

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Menaechmus’s father had sailed from Syracuse to Tarentum—not a long voyage—but the trader who kidnapped his son had come a much longer way, down the Adriatic and around the heel of Italy, from Epidamnus, which, as seen above, is at the southern end of Illyria. He brought home an unexpected souvenir from the ludi, and, like Antidamas in Poenulus, adopted this disparented boy as his own son; we never see boys onstage being sold to a pimp, although Tyndarus in Captivi (kidnapped by a runaway slave) is taken by ship to Elis and sold as a house slave, then later resold as a war captive. The religious dimensions of the ludi, as well as archaeological evidence, also hint at the presence of out-of-towners in the audience. Historians of Roman theater like to treat the Roman ludi as religious festivals, and religion does sometimes form part of the nexus of theater, shipping, trade, and human trafficking onstage, from the Aphrodisia in Poenulus to the shrine of Aesculapius and altar of Venus in Curculio to the shrine of Venus on the beach in Cyrene in Rudens. Religious travel, however, is rarely a plot engine (note forte at Men. 29), although it is well attested in the material record in

The stage at the fair 37 Italy in the 200s BCE. The little terracotta figurines of actors that were found at Lipari (Bernabò Brea 1981, 1992, 2001) are often treated as ritual objects, because they were found in tombs in association with the cult of Dionysos; some have thought that figurines like this might be souvenirs of a trip to the theater (Green 2012; see Frayn 1993: 137 on fairings). Based on the conjunction of the theater with festival, and festival with trade, surely the souvenir function of these objects cannot be separated from their religious function. Objects have histories; a made object like a figurine marks the arrival of a traveler at a destination and then his or her successful return home, bearing the proof and the blessing. Slavery again features here: figurines of slave characters seated on altars were the most popular single type in this period (see Webster 1995: 1.229–35). If you had more money, you could bring home a real slave, wholesale (like a trader or a pimp) or retail (as in Epidicus and Mercator), or by helping yourself (like the praedones in Curculio and Poenulus and Rudens, or the trader in Menaechmi). Indeed, not only could crowds expedite kidnapping; slave markets themselves were convenient to temples, while actors sometimes gesture at nearby temples and audiences sometimes sat on temple steps. Yet onstage (Mostellaria, Rudens), and as attested in law from the Gortyn Code to the Roman empire, temples gave slaves their only sanctuary, lending the cheap figurines of slaves on altars an unspoken significance.17 Trade itself is a common plot engine, and many characters have been away on business, often for years and in exotic places, like Toxilus’s owner’s imaginary business trip to Persia. Pimps, as Leigh noted, move around for business purposes: the pimp in Poenulus is in Calydon, but some time previously had been in Anactorium, where he bought the two girls and their nutrix; the pimp in Rudens bought an Athenian virgin from a praedo and brought her to Cyrene, and as the play opens is en route from Cyrene to Sicily, where he has been told he can make the biggest profit on prostitutes (40–1, 54–6). He has at least two with him when the ship sinks (perhaps more, as line 63 hints). The pimp in Persa has just moved to Athens from Megara (137–8). The young man in Bacchides has been in Ephesus on business with his slave Chrysalus for two years (170–1); the young man in Mercator has been in Rhodes for two years with his slave Acanthio (11–12, 90–110); Menaechmus I was taken along on his father’s trading trip; the old man in Mostellaria has been in Egypt for three years (440); the young traders in Stichus have been in Asia for three years with the slave Stichus (30); the old man in Trinummus has been in Seleucia (112). The mercator in Asinaria comes to Athens from Pella in Macedon (As. 397). Human trafficking motivates knock-on travels to find lost kin, all extreme: Hanno’s search across the Mediterranean, accompanied by native bearers (Poen. 978–81); the circuit of Italy by Menaechmus II and his slave Messenio (235–8); Philippa searching alone for her daughter in Epidicus; even the fictional search of the slave Sagaristio as the Persian hospes looking for his enslaved twin (Per. 695–6). All the travels in the palliata were exhaustively listed by

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Charles Knapp (1907a, 1907b) and have been mapped, if not entirely accurately, by François de Callataÿ (2015), who leaves out all the locations in Italy, as he believes the palliata describes conditions in Athens at the time of Menander. But as well as a joke that involves place names along the via Latina (Capt. 881–4; see Richlin 2017: 366–71), the plays involve jokes about other towns and regions in Italy (Apulia, Capua, Lanuvium, Praeneste), and neighborhoods in Rome where you could buy certain goods (oil-sellers in the Velabrum, Capt. 489; the famous tour of the forum in Curculio, where the goods are mainly fleshly). These travels in turn are outdone by the fantastic journeys across the Near East to India and out of this world altogether, associated with soldiers (Curculio, Miles Gloriosus) and traders (Trinummus). The geography of the plays is one of war and trade.

Human bodies as the object of trade onstage: somantics Onstage, travel is linked with trade, trafficking, and the movement of actors. Here in barbaria, the Greek of Diphilus is replaced by a lingo that bears the marks of transit. The very vocabulary of trade in Plautus shows a surprising degree of overlap with human trafficking, as a lexical survey of mercor and its relatives reveals. Both the slave trade in general and the traffic in sex slaves, in particular, have a bad reputation onstage despite their ubiquity—the pimp is the villain—and this taints trade itself.18 Sometimes trade is just trade, with its own general rules. When a mercatus is mentioned, it is usually in connection with specific cities: Tarentum (Men. 27, 29, 1112); Rhodes (Mer. 11); Eretria (Per. 259, a cattle market). The mercatus at the temple of Venus in Poenulus is exceptional; although it is a joke, however, it also takes place “here,” so no city tag is needed. Only the old man in Mostellaria has just gone, vaguely, ad mercatum (971); he himself announces, on his return, that he has been in Egypt (440). Mercatores onstage, as seen above, engage in travel for business with pleasure, if any, on the side, but at least one mercator serves as a means of communication: “I gave the letter to a certain trader to carry to him” (tabellas … | dedi mercatori quoidam qui ad illum deferat, Mil. 130-1). A figurative use of mercator associates this agent with praeda, specifically with the traffic in women, as the old man in Epidicus greets his friend, who has a fidicina in tow: “But here comes my friend Apoecides, with the loot. | I’m glad to see the trader has come home safe” (sed meu’ sodalis it cum praeda Apoecides. | venire salvom mercatorem gaudeo, 394–5). His joke merges into the conventional welcome home; Apoecides has brought back the goods. Mercatura can refer neutrally to trade (Mos. 639, real estate; Rud. 931, Gripus’s fantasy), and it is once distinguished from the slave trade: “Was he mixed up in trade or did he have slaves for sale when he lost all his money?” (mercaturan an venalis habuit ubi rem perdidit, Trin. 332)—both being viewed here as quick ways to lose your investment (see Leigh 2004: 138). However, commercium, although it forms part of an idiom “have (no) business with”

The stage at the fair 39 (Aul. 631, Bac. 117, Rud. 725), shows up as the price paid to a prostitute in return for her services, as Diniarchus catches sight of Phronesium’s slave Astaphium: “I’ve also had business dealings with her, as well” (cum ea quoque etiam mihi fuit commercium, Truc. 94). A connection to human trafficking turns out to be normal for commercor, as in the descriptions of Hegio’s engagement in slave-dealing in Captivi (27, 100), frowned upon as quaestum…inhonestum (98-9); the pimp in Persa is castigated as “one who trades in free citizen persons” (qui hic commercaris civis homines liberos, 749; cf. Cur. 620, Per. 845). The word mercimonium, “trade goods,” commonly applies to a slave-woman used for sex (Cur. 564, Mer. 500, Per. 532, 543), except when it applies to a house (Mos. 904, 912, 915); hence the words of Mercurius at the start of Amphitruo have a slight smell of the slave trade, as do the thanks given to Mercurius (qui me in mercimoniis | iuvit) by one of the returning traders in Stichus—“he quadrupled my net worth!” (St. 404–5). As we have seen, his mixed cargo includes female sex slaves. The words of an old man in Mercator capture the tone: “I bought this piece of goods. [To the girl he is leading:] You’re mine; follow me already” (hoc emei mercimonium. mea es tu, sequere sane, Mer. 500).19 Most strikingly, 12 of the 22 uses of mercor in Plautus refer to the trade in female sex slaves.20 Of the rest, five refer to farm animals, but two of these (Mer. 229, 232) form part of a dream in which a pretty she-goat stands in for the sex slave who is the chief point of contention in the play, and in the other three, the money for oxen (Per. 259, 322) or for “ewes from Tarentum” (Truc. 649–55) is going to be converted into the price of a prostitute; as is the money for the donkeys in Asinaria: mutually fungible. The rest refer to the act of trading (Mer. 83, 358), a house (Mos. 648), and groceries (As. 199—a lesson on economics from a lena, who is speaking figuratively about paying for sex). The collocation of sex slaves with farm animals recalls the praeda brought home by the legion in Epidicus, above: iumenta, pueros, virgines. The bottom line is that mercor is used almost always of res mancipi—real estate, farm animals, and slaves: all serious business, big-ticket items. The most familiar member of this lexical group in connection with women, merx, only refers to women as merchandise twice: once, as seen above, in Agorastocles’ rules on marketing (Poen. 341–2), and again when the pimp is bargaining for the Virgo in Persa: “She’s your merchandise: you’re the one to set the price” (tua mers est: tua indicatiost, 586). Otherwise it refers to shopping in the marketplace (As. 201 [but cf. above], Mil. 727–9, Rud. 373), or again to general shipping (Men. 25; Mer. 76, 87, 93, 96). The phrase mala merx, which often does apply to women, is also applied by a slave to the pimp Ballio (Ps. 954). Its tone is quite derogatory, and generally implies something devious in its object’s behavior: applied by a slave, nastily, to an old slavewoman (Cist. 727); applied by the boy Paegnium to a prostitute’s slavewoman, in a verbal duel (Per. 238); applied by a young man to the prostitute Phronesium, her slave-woman, and their plot (Truc. 409); applied by a vilicus to all the women in the household, who are indeed plotting against him

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(Cas. 754a); applied by the slave Palaestrio to the women pretending to be in love with the soldier (Mil. 1023). Bad merchandise.

Where do we go from here? The association between trade, human trafficking, and sex tourism perhaps clings to the low regard expressed for traders in later Latin literature, most famously by Cicero in De officiis (1.150-1). The smell of human trafficking sticks to the traders who debauch Roman virgins and matronae in Horace’s sixth Roman Ode (3.6.30-2). The Greek-named boys and girls beloved by elegists form part of a process of mystification: where did you come from, baby dear? Paradoxically, as slaves in Italy came to form part of the luxury trade after Cynoscephalae, this exotic nomenclature was imposed on them as a sign: value added.21 And so, in time, Lesbia, Cynthia, Delia, Marathus coexisted with Volumnia Cytheris, and not just in texts (see Keith 2011); as Alison Keith shows in this volume, the unreality of the scripta puella depends on the reality of the ancilla, somehow more controllable on the page. Conversely, Parthenius—actual merchandise—hovers unnamed behind Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Whereas in the 200s the stage at the fair was both familiar and problematized onstage for a mixed audience that included both slaves and traders, sailors and soldiers, by the time of Horace it has become a trope, even for the (self-proclaimed) freedman’s son. And yet, as Sarah Blake suggests in her chapter, the fungibility of epigrams themselves resembles the fungibility of Martial’s Spanish dancing girls (a thoughtful gift!): disdained by the poet but claimed as embodiments of his art. The “weaker voice” of Roman poets lets them take a walk on the wild side, flirt with the low (Fitzgerald 2019). As performance turned into literature, so slavery became a naturalized part of it, part of its fabric, as in toile. The only really positive speeches on travel in the palliata say how good it is, or would be, to get home, and that wish takes us out of comedy into another register altogether.

Notes 1 Many thanks to the editors for their patience and their invitation to join the presenters of the stimulating 2014 SCS panel that is the basis for the present volume. Particular thanks, as always, to Matthew Leigh for many years of conversation on the palliata in its historical context; this essay is but a footnote to his own discussion of trade in the palliata (2004: 98-157). I am grateful to Elizabeth Fentress and Jonathan Prag for an introduction to Carthaginian trade networks. Jasmine Akiyama-Kim provided a meticulous check under pandemic conditions. Except as otherwise noted, the text referred to throughout is Lindsay’s 1903-5 OCT. Translations throughout are my own. 2 This essay rests on historical arguments presented in Richlin 2014, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, and takes a generally less rosy view of mobility in the mid-Republic than is expressed in Isayev 2017. On travel and slavery in the palliata, see Richlin 2017: 351-87, 414-77. 3 For the reading supellex Pellionis, see Gratwick 1993 ad loc.; Lindsay reads pellionis, so that supellex pellionis just means “a tanner’s rig.” Plautus has plenty

The stage at the fair 41

4 5

6

7

8 9

10

11

12

of out-of-left-field jokes like that, but the metatheatrical reading works well with ludos, and the image of the stage as ship fits with a whole system of ideas in the plays, as will be seen. Moreover, what tanners have is mainly not racks but vats of smelly solvents; for a detailed look at a preindustrial tannery (in present-day Fes, Morocco), see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUunnTq9i10. My thanks to Sander Goldberg for consultation on this passage. I here print the text as in de Melo 2013. See also Men. 49-56, 72-77; Poen. 79-82; Moore 1998: 56-58; Richlin 2017: 385-7. On nundinae, see Meyer in this volume, filling out the mercantile landscape of Latium; also Fentress 2005: 224-25, 228, for a map and discussion, and Richlin 2017: 15-17 (of which this chapter constitutes an expansion), 366-71 on roads and a joke about the towns along the via Latina. Frayn 1993 vividly maps the markets and fairs of Italy, without reference, however, either to performance or to the selling of slaves, indeed deleting an actual slave market at one point (1993: 143, cf. Harper 2011: 98). For the ludi as statist, see Jeppesen 2020 and Padilla Peralta 2020a. For the risks of travel, see Meyer in this volume on the Roman West and, for central Greece in the 200s BCE, the travel guide of Heraclides Creticus (text in Pfister 1951; disc. Richlin 2017: 367). On the mix of events, see van Nijf 2001: 330 on fairs in the high empire, featuring a “tax-free festival market,” fortune-tellers, jugglers, peddlers, “show-people,” and “mobile brothels,” a mix similar to the one outlined here; and now Kowalzig 2020. Padilla Peralta 2020b focuses on religious trade brotherhoods in Delos and the proximity of temples to the port, without much mention of the slave markets for which Delos was famous. On sex trafficking onstage, see Marshall 2013, 2015. For a treatment of Mercator as a faithful translation of its Greek original, see Dunsch 2008, with a useful overview of mercantile themes in Middle Comedy, the Nea, and the palliata (11-19); note esp. his analysis of Miles 1177-82, where the shipcaptain’s costume (ornatus) instantiates the trader as stock character in the Nea. I would emphasize that Periplectomenus is expected to have such a costume on hand because “he owns fishermen” (piscatores habet). The chalcidicum at Capua “was ornamented with statues of the Dioscuri, gods of commerce” (Fentress 2005: 223): whose gods? Cf. 2005: 229 on the “tutelary deities” of markets and the “combination of the mundane and the pious.” See Fentress 2005: 221 on catastae (where slaves were auctioned) as wooden platforms, like the temporary stages of the palliata: “a feature of the periodic market.” The slave Chrysalus in Bacchides warns his owner, “You’re standing on the very stone where the auctioneer does his sales pitch” (in eopse astas lapide ut praeco praedicat, 815). Cf. Peter Bang’s analysis of Roman “predatory imperialism” in a chapter titled “Predation” (2012), which starts off resoundingly with the rape of the Sabines. He treats the mid-Republic briefly (200-1) and, as he says, impressionistically: “It is difficult to exaggerate the scale of brutality, human suffering, and sheer ruthlessness involved in this process of expansive imperial predation” (201). Rome was not alone (cf. Eckstein 2006); the geography of the palliata suggests who else was out there. See Fynn-Paul 2009 on the creation of “slaving zones” on the edges of empires. See, besides Mercator, Persa, and Poenulus: As. 361, 582; Bac. 231, 250-345 (gold and pirates); Cur. 429 (soldier to banker about a purchase from a pimp); the fictional murder of a transmarinus hospes in Mostellaria (479-503, auri caussa); the wicked Sicilian hospes who accompanies the pimp in Rudens. See Leigh 2004: 10 on Titinius’s togata titled Psaltria in connection with Livy 39.6.8, where the psaltria is listed among luxury goods brought back from Asia in

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13 14

15

16 17

18 19 20 21

Amy Richlin 186 BCE. On the impact of mute characters onstage, see Klein 2015; Richlin 2017: 288. Gayle Rubin’s classic essay “The Traffic in Women” (1975) analyzed the sex/gender system as a form of economic exchange in which women are commodified. On the stage exits, see Marshall 2006: 50. For Hanno’s journey as sex tourism, see Marshall 2013: 188, in a discussion of Mercator; on the possible interpretations of the joke, see Leigh 2004: 30 n. 29. On the openings for latrones created by slaving zones, see Fynn-Paul 2009: 10-11 (“armed brutes”); on slave dealers and markets, see the special section of Journal of Roman Archaeology 2005 edited by Elizabeth Fentress, esp. Bodel 2005, Fentress 2005. On Hanno’s appearance, see Starks 2000; Richlin 2017: 295-303, 375-7, 2019 on deictic reception, the possibility that Africans onstage appeared in dark masks (which here would have included Agorastocles as well as Hanno), and the presence of Carthaginians in Italy. See, on Leonida, Richlin 2017: 187, and generally 184-96. Markets convenient to temples, Frayn 1993: 133-44; Fentress 2005: 229; Padilla Peralta 2017: 334-5, with disc.; temples as staging areas, Goldberg 1998; a sanctuary in the Gortyn Code, 41 IV 5-17, disc. Davies 2005: 323; in Roman law, Buckland 1908: 37-8. On the strongly negative profile of the slave trade during the principate, see Bodel 2005, with extensive comparative material. See Richlin 2017: 327-9 on the use of possessive pronouns in speaking of human beings onstage as definitive of slavery. Cur. 620; Epid. 44, 108, 457, 495, 641; Mer. 976; Per. 524, 845; Ps. 617; Rud. 40, 81. On slave onomastics in the middle Republic, see Richlin 2017: 72-84, esp. 74 n. 7 with reference to Varro Ling 8.21. On the arrival of luxury slaves, see discussion in Leigh 2004 (above, n. 12).

Works cited Andreau, J. 2002. “Markets, Fairs and Monetary Loans: Cultural History and Economic History in Roman Italy and Hellenistic Greece.” In P. Cartledge, E. E. Cohen & L. Foxhall, eds. Money, Labour and Land: Approaches to the Economics of Ancient Greece. London (Routledge), 113‒29. Bang, P. F. 2012. “Predation.” In W. Scheidel, ed. The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 197‒217. Bernabò Brea, L. 1981. Menandro e il teatro greco nelle terracotte liparesi. Genoa (Sagep). Bernabò Brea, L. 1992/93. “Masks and Characters of the Greek Theatre in the Terracottas of Ancient Lipara.” Trans. C. Coen & J.-P. Descoeudres. MeditArch 5/6: 23‒31. Bernabò Brea, L. 2001. Maschere e personaggi del teatro greco nelle terracotte liparesi. Rome (“L’Erma” di Bretschneider). Bodel, J. 2005. “Caveat emptor: Towards a Study of Roman Slave-Traders.” JRA 18: 181‒95. Buckland, W. W. 1908. The Roman Law of Slavery: The Condition of the Slave in Private Law from Augustus to Justinian. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Callataÿ, F. de. 2015. “Comedies of Plautus and Terence: An Unusual Opportunity to Look into the Use of Money in Hellenistic Time.” RBN 161: 17‒53.

The stage at the fair 43 Davies, J. 2005. “The Gortyn Laws.” In M. Gagarin & D. Cohen, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Law. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 305‒27. de Melo, W., ed. and trans. 2012. Plautus: The Carthaginian, Pseudolus, The Rope. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). de Melo, W., ed. and trans. 2013. Plautus: Stichus, Three-Dollar Day, Truculentus, The Tale of a Traveling-Bag, Fragments. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Dunsch, B. 2008. “Il Commerciante in Scena: Temi e Motivi Mercantili nel Mercator Plautino e nell’Emporos Filemoniano.” In R. Raffaelli & A. Tontini, eds. Lecturae Plautinae Sarsinates XI: Mercator. Urbino (QuattroVenti), 11‒41. Eckstein, A. M. 2006. Mediterranean Anarchy, Interstate War, and the Rise of Rome. Berkeley (University of California Press). Fentress, E. 2005. “On the Block: Catastae, Chalcidica, and Cryptae in Early Imperial Italy.” JRA 18: 220‒34. Fentress, E. 2013. “Strangers in the City: Élite Communication in the Hellenistic Central Mediterranean.” In J. R. W. Prag & J. C. Quinn, eds. The Hellenistic West: Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 157‒78. Fitzgerald, W. 2019. “Claiming Inferiority: Weakness into Strength.” In S. Matzner & S. Harrison, eds. Complex Inferiorities: The Poetics of the Weaker Voice in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 13‒28. Frayn, J. M. 1993. Markets and Fairs in Roman Italy. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Fynn-Paul, J. 2009. “Empire, Monotheism and Slavery in the Greater Mediterranean Region from Antiquity to the Early Modern Era.” Past and Present 205: 3‒40. Gabrielsen, V. 2003. “Piracy and the Slave-Trade.” In A. Erskine, ed. A Companion to the Hellenistic World. Oxford (Blackwell), 389‒404. Goldberg, S. 1998. “Plautus on the Palatine.” JRS 88: 1‒20. Gratwick, A. S., ed. 1993. Plautus: Menaechmi. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Green, J. R. 2012. “Comic Vases in South Italy: Continuity and Innovation in the Development of a Figurative Language.” In K. Bosher, ed. Theater Outside Athens: Drama in Greek Sicily and South Italy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 289‒342. Harper, K. 2011. Slavery in the Late Roman World AD 275‐425. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Isayev, E. 2017. Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). James, S. L. 2010. “Trafficking Pasicompsa: A Courtesan’s Travels and Travails in Plautus’ Mercator.” NECJ 37: 39‒50. Jeppesen, S. A. 2020. “Religion in and Around Plautus.” In G. F. Franko & D. Dutsch, eds. A Companion to Plautus. Hoboken (Wiley-Blackwell), 317‒30. Johnson, W. 1999. Soul by Soul: Life Inside the Antebellum Slave Market. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Kay, P. 2014. Rome’s Economic Revolution. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Keith, A. 2011. “Lycoris Galli / Volumnia Cytheris: A Greek Courtesan in Rome.” EuGeStA 1: 23‒53.

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Klein, S. 2015. “When Actions Speak Louder than Words: Mute Characters in Roman Comedy.” Classical Journal 111: 53‒66. Knapp, C. 1907a. “Travel in Ancient Times as Seen in Plautus and Terence.” CP 2: 1‒24. Knapp, C. 1907b. “Travel in Ancient Times as Seen in Plautus and Terence.” CP 2: 281‒304. Kowalzik, B. 2020. “Festivals, Fairs, and Foreigners: Towards an Economics of Religion in the Mediterranean.” In A. Collar & T. M. Kristensen, eds. Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean. Leiden (Brill), 287‒328. Leigh, M. 2004. Comedy and the Rise of Rome. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Lindsay, W. M. 1903-5. T. Macci Plauti: Comoediae. 2 vols. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Marshall, C. W. 2006. The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Marshall, C. W. 2013. “Sex Slaves in New Comedy.” In B. Akrigg & R. Tordoff, eds. Slaves and Slavery in Ancient Greek Comic Drama. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 173‒96. Marshall, C. W. 2015. “Domestic Sexual Labor in Plautus.” Helios 42: 123‒41. Moore, T. J. 1998. The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience. Austin (University of Texas Press). Padilla Peralta, D. 2017. “Slave Religiosity in the Roman Middle Republic.” ClAnt 36: 317‒69. Padilla Peralta, D. 2020a. Divine Institutions: Religions and Community in the Middle Roman Republic. Princeton, NJ (Princeton University Press). Padilla Peralta, D. 2020b. “Gods of Trust: Ancient Delos and the Modern Economics of Religion.” In A. Collar & T. M. Kristensen, eds. Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean. Leiden (Brill), 329‒56. Pfister, F., ed. & trans. 1951. Die Reisebilder des Herakleides. Vienna (Rudolf M. Rohrer). Richlin, A. 2014. “Talking to Slaves in the Plautine Audience.” ClAnt 33.1: 175‒226. Richlin, A. 2016. “The Kings of Comedy.” In S. Frangoulidis, S. J. Harrison & G. Manuwald, eds. Roman Drama and Its Contexts. Berlin (Walter de Gruyter), 67‒95. Richlin, A. 2017. Slave Theater in the Roman Republic: Plautus and Popular Comedy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Richlin, A. 2018. “The Traffic in Shtick.” In M. P. Loar, C. MacDonald, & D. Padilla Peralta, eds., Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 169‒93. Richlin, A. 2019. “Blackface and Drag in the Palliata.” In S. Matzner & S. Harrison, eds. Complex Inferiorities: The Poetics of the Weaker Voice in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 49‒72. Roselaar, S. T. 2012. “Mediterranean Trade as a Mechanism of Integration between Romans and Italians.” In S. T. Roselaar, ed. Processes of Integration and Identity Formation in the Roman Republic. Leiden (Brill), 141‒58. Rubin, G. 1975. “The Traffic in Women.” In R. R. Reiter, ed., Toward an Anthropology of Women. New York (Monthly Review Press), 157‒210. Starks, J. H., Jr. 2000. “Nullus Me Est Hodie Poenus Poenior: Balanced Ethnic Humor in Plautus’ Poenulus.” Helios 27: 163‒86.

The stage at the fair 45 van Nijf, O. 2001. “Local Heroes: Athletics, Festivals and Elite Self-fashioning in the Roman East.” In Goldhill, S., ed., Being Greek Under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 306‒34. Webster, T. B. L. 1995. Monuments Illustrating New Comedy. 3rd ed. revised and enlarged by J. R. Green & A. Seeberg. 2 vols. London (Institute of Classical Studies).

3

Expanding geographies and unbounded subjects in Catullus* Sara H. Lindheim

Catullus is a bundle of contradictions. He says so himself. His feelings about desire unveil most clearly the Catullan subject’s lack of fixity. In what is arguably his most famous poem, he offers a pithy but discordant statement: odi et amo (85.1). The carmina Catulli do not lack sophisticated interpretations that discuss the paradoxical layers that make up the “I,” especially ones that consider the poet’s treatment of amatory or poetic issues.1 While the divided Catullan subject occupies my attention in this chapter, for the most part, I explore poems that belong in the category neither of Lesbia poems nor of poems about aesthetic choices. My interest lies instead in poems that highlight geography, the physical space of the imperium Romanum, as Catullus conceives of it in his poetry. I define the physical space of empire broadly to include, along with an interest in geographical expanses, the flow of people, goods, and information from one place to another, for political as well as non-political (commercial, travel, etc.) purposes. I suggest that these poems, in a manner that rivals the poems that center on the amatory experience, present a fractured and divided subject, who cannot cleave to a narrative of wholeness, but rather slides from signifier to signifier. The question is why the thought of geographical space seems to incite, in the Catullan text, the dissolution of subjects as coherent, fixed entities. In an effort to cast light on the polysemous subject that emerges from these particular poems, I shall draw on the psychoanalytic theories of Jacques Lacan about subjectivity and desire in conjunction with the work about changing Roman conceptions of their imperium by the Roman historian Claude Nicolet.2 In Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire, Nicolet argues that the Augustan Age moves Romans towards a new understanding

* This is an early version of the first chapter of my book, Latin Elegy and the Space of Empire (Oxford Studies in Classical Literature and Gender Studies, 2021: 27–55). It appears by permission of Oxford University Press. My thanks to the editors of this volume, Micah Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer, as well as to the anonymous readers, for their helpful comments and suggestions.

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 47 and conceptualization of the geographical space of their empire. As Octavian transforms into Augustus and establishes his rule, as Rome grows from “having to becoming an empire,” the princeps’ “obsession with space” (Nicolet 1991: 8) becomes increasingly pervasive. An emphasis on territorial expansion spills over into other strategies for ordering space, such as a reorganization of Rome and of Italy into regions and a movement to centralize and classify archives. And yet, imperial conquest is hardly a concept novel to Augustus. Nicolet himself acknowledges that Pompey and Caesar, too, focus their attention on the space of empire. Both men link together vast territorial expansion and the intoxicating notion that Roman political dominion stretches over the orbis terrarum.3 Pompey’s conquests in the East not only extend the fines imperii to an almost unfathomable degree, but also allow him to boast Asiam ultimam provinciarum accepisse eandemque mediam patriae reddidisse (“that he had received Asia as the most remote of [Roman] provinces and had handed it back to his country at its center,” Pliny NH 7.99.4 Emphasizing his victories in Spain and Africa, along with his eastern expansion, in triumphs, inscriptions, speeches, coins, and the décor of his theater,5 Pompey trumpets to Rome the idea that imperium sine fine is the new Roman reality. Caesar pursues a similar policy of aggressive expansion, pushing back Roman boundaries through military conquest in Gaul, Germany, and even Britain. Indeed, Pliny claims, should anyone wish to scrutinize Caesar’s achievements, totum profecto terrarum orbem enumeret, quod infinitum esse conveniet (“he would assuredly reckon up the whole world, which task will be agreed to be infinite,” NH 7.99). Between the actual conquests of the two commanders and their self-promoting efforts to ensure awareness of their accomplishments at home, a person living in Rome in the late 60s through the mid-50s BCE cannot but be acutely aware of the constant and tremendous widening of his world. Though originally from Verona, Catullus lived in Rome during this heady time of Roman expansion. In this chapter, I explore the ways in which his poetry responds to the ever-increasing geographic space of Roman imperium; indeed, even a cursory reading of the extant Catullan corpus reveals fairly frequent and insistent geographical references. It is important to note here that a fantasy of territorial boundlessness does not reveal an insouciance about limits. On the contrary, imperium sine fine, somewhat paradoxically, reveals an obsession with, not a heedlessness of, geographical boundaries—an obsession simultaneously with their fixed existence and with their transgression. Geographical boundaries always will invite an imperial power first to apprehend them and then to dismantle, deconstruct, re-erect them further on down the line. They are markers not only of the end of empire at any given time, but also the line beyond which Romans must constantly aspire to reach.6 The constitution of the subject, in Lacanian theory, mirrors the problems with the establishment of physical, imperial boundaries; the subject too seeks

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to lay down its boundaries, which must inevitably, inherently be transgressed. Lacan argues that the subject is intrinsically fractured and lacking; language (among other factors) insists that the subject be irremediably divided.7 The lack results in desire, a desire to discover the object that will confer wholeness to the subject, a wholeness in the form of coherence, and a unified self-image. On the one hand, the “I” develops from a fusion or sedimentation of linguistically structured images that coalesce into a whole. On the other hand, however, language is always already lacking.8 A signifier acquires meaning in its relation of difference to other signifiers; “Man” requires “Woman” to make sense while “Roman” has meaning only through the existence of what is “non-Roman.” But the other signifier, in relation to which the first signifier gains meaning, must be fixed and stable in order for this operation to work. And yet, by definition, the signifier is never static, for there is always the possibility of another signifier emerging that threatens to shift the definitions of already existing signifiers. If, by continuing conquest, what was previously “non-Roman” becomes suddenly “Roman,” for example, the definitions, the boundaries of both categories dissolve and reconstitute themselves in a disquietingly shifting way. In this chapter, I argue, with the help of Lacanian theory, that Catullus betrays an intense awareness of his changing geographic world in his poems and that one can trace the impact of this historical, spatial awareness on the ways in which the poet imagines the subject in his verses. The lack of spatial fixity, introduced together with the sense of a practically unlimited potential for Roman expansion, causes an anxiety made manifest as Catullan subjects come apart at the seams.

The whole wide world: poems 11, 29, 39, 84, 95, 115 The poems of Catullus have a cosmopolitan feel. On one level, the poet seems obsessed with defining and defending his own urbanitas, as well as the big-city sophistication of his social set of friends and fellow-poets.9 Unlike Egnatius, the Spaniard, who brushes his teeth with his own urine until they shine brightly (39.17–21), or Suffenus whose abundance of bad verses renders him “more crude than the crude rustic countryside” (inficeto... inficetior rure, 22.14), Catullus is a man of Rome, a writer of witty, Callimachean verse. On another level, however, the poet’s work exudes a sense of Rome’s place in a wider geographical context. Catullus himself is Transpadanus (from northern Italy, 39.13); he and his friends circulate, traveling east to Bithynia and Macedonia (10, 28, and back 31), and west to Spain (9, 12). Products also flow to Rome, like the napkins that Veranius and Fabullus bring home from Spain as gifts for Catullus (sudaria Saetaba ex Hiberis, 12.14). Catullan Rome and its inhabitants, for better but more often for worse, direct their attention outward, beyond the boundaries of the city to the boundaries of the world. The lived reality of Roman territorial expansion crops up in many guises in Catullan verse. Poem 84, which seemingly centers on the speech

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 49 impediments of Arrius, reveals that undertaking a journey to Syria from Rome is one of the everyday experiences that make up the texture of Catullan verse. Not only people, but information too flows freely between places, since a message comes back to the city announcing Arrius’ progress. A similar interest in geographic spaces emerges when Catullus imagines literary fame. In 95, a poem that surely reveals the poet’s allegiance to Callimachean aesthetics,10 Catullus sharply contrasts the verses of Cinna and Volusius. In nine long years, Cinna has composed the Zmyrna (95.1–2), a poem whose glory will transcend time (95.6) and also space (95.5). Its fame will reach the hollow waves of Satrachus (cavas Satrachi... ad undas, 95.5), a river in Cyprus, home of Zmyrna’s story. Volusius, meanwhile, a prolific writer, will not enjoy similar success. His verses will immediately provide abundant wrappings for mackerel (laxas scombris... tunicas, 95.8),11 presumably fished out of the Padus (Po) river where Catullus assures us Volusius’ literary fame will die (95.7). Bad poetry has no afterlife in time or space. Excellent poetry, on the other hand, transcends its author, read (and appreciated) by future generations not only in the place where Cinna wrote, but throughout the Roman world. Territorial expansion through military conquest also plays a significant role in creating the sense of Rome’s infinite geographic possibility that emanates from Catullan verse. Poems 29 and 115 center on Mamurra, a Roman eques from Formiae (poems 41, 57) who served under Pompey in the East, and under Julius Caesar in Spain in 61-60 BCE as well as in Gaul. A scathing attack on all three of his countrymen, poem 29 expresses Catullus’ feelings of outrage at Mamurra’s large-scale profligacy. Enriching himself with spoils from Pontus (29.18) and then Spain (29.19), Mamurra manages to spend his profits faster than he acquires them (29.17–20).12 Insatiable, he now desires quod Comata Gallia | habebat ante et ultima Britannia (“that which Long-Haired [Transalpine] Gaul and farthest Britain used to possess before,” 29.3-4). Catullus links Mamurra’s appetites with the extent of territory under Roman domination; both emerge from the poem as limitless, ever capacious.13 For one so lacking control, his estate, even if it should acquire boundaries usque ad Hyperboreos et mare ad Oceanum (“all the way to the land of the Hyperboreans and to Ocean,” 115.6)—boundaries equivalent to the ends of the earth—would not provide him with sufficient resources.14 The link between Mamurra’s boundless excesses and expanding Roman territory turns poem 115’s usque ad Hyperboreos et mare ad Oceanum into an expression of a lust for imperium sine fine. Catullus’ most overt and best-known poetic discussion about the geographic expanse of empire comes in poem 11. Addressed to Furius and Aurelius, the poem takes the reader on a far-reaching tour of the world for the opening three stanzas. Furius’ and Aurelius’ alleged willingness to follow Catullus to the ends of the earth—India, Arabia, Parthia, Egypt, and Gaul right up to its border with Germany, Britain—turns out to be merely a prelude to the serious business of the poem. Catullus wants his comites to end his

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relationship with his girlfriend by pointing out, in crude terms, her chronic infidelity. It is striking for Catullus to announce his failed relationship with Lesbia in the context of a catalog listing the remotest geographic parts of his world.15 Interpreters have long pointed out the political overtones of the poem that link Lesbia’s voracious sexual appetite to Roman leaders’ boundless cupidity for imperial expansion.16 But let us change the angle of approach. We have seen that Catullan poems emphasize the contemporary expansion of the late Republican Roman world. Let us now turn our attention to the poetic subject in the face of this new geographic possibility.

velut prati | ultimi flos (11.22-23): poems 11, 63, 10, 28, 68, 101 A closer look at poem 11 reveals that neither space nor subject emerges intact. On the one hand, Catullus draws up for Furius and Aurelius what might be considered a map of empire, painting the contours in broad brushstrokes to present an image of a whole. His friends are eager for this foreign travel, and the sheer speed of the poem’s movement over the landscape reduces the scale of their voyage. The trajectory is deliberately East to West, but strikingly absent is the center: Rome. On the other hand, however, William Fitzgerald draws our attention to a Catullan voice that “evinces a delight in exotic places,” and that dallies “in the expansive imaginative possibilities of the imperial world.”17 On this reading, in his tour of Roman imperial aspirations, the poet lingers over the far-off people of India (2), the sound of the Eastern wave (3–4), the effeminacy of the Arabs (5), the colors of the Nile (7–8), and creates a frisson of excitement as he gestures towards the wild waters of the Rhine (11) and the remote, alien inhabitants of Britannia (11–12). The world, on one glance reduced to a small, conquerable scale, now also seems distant, strange, foreign. We shall see that a similar but more pervasive unraveling of fixed notions of place is apparent in poems about the death of Catullus’ brother. Suddenly Catullus puts the brakes on his companions. Furius and Aurelius, it turns out, do not need to travel.18 They must seek out Lesbia, and tell her that Catullus is ending their relationship.19 But the reader feels space shifting again, since she now is asked to direct her glance towards a periphery, but not one already visited either in the East or in the West. Lesbia has utterly destroyed Catullus’ love that “has died like a flower on the meadow’s edge, after it has been grazed by a passing plow” (cecidit velut prati | ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam | tactus aratro est, 11.22-4). The poem has elicited many sensitive readings. Michael Putnam’s classic New Critical approach asks us to appreciate the poet’s assumption of the feminine role; the poet imagines himself as a flower, a beautiful, virginal image he deploys for the bride in one of his epithalamia (poem 62.39–40). Conversely, he attributes to the puella masculine qualities of aggression and potency. Moreover, Putnam argues, Catullus, as feminized, betrayed lover, links himself with the great, abandoned heroine of his poetry collection,

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 51 Ariadne, left behind by Theseus in poem 64.20 Changing the interpretive angle, a New Historicist reading pushes us to consider the Catullan flower and the Lesbian plow in the political/historical context of the 50s BCE. Catullus compares Lesbia’s voracious sexuality to the capaciously expanding Roman empire as the plow, “an agent of ruthless civilizing power,”21 indifferent, violent, like Roman imperial power, cuts down the meadow-flower, just at the periphery of the plow’s reach.22 Let us focus on the ways in which both interpretations intersect, revealing a similar response on the part of the poet. As the world opens up to declare its practically unlimited potential for Roman conquest, and geographical space seems less fixed than it should be, the individual also becomes increasingly fluid. Whether we choose to think about Catullus as oscillating between masculine and feminine incarnations or as alternating between the imperialist and peripheral victim of Rome’s ruthless imperial drive, both self-representations share at their core a strikingly analogous sense of disintegration. As the poem opens, Catullus lays a strong claim to his masculinity, vaunting his ability to “penetrate” with his companions into India, in a verse where the verb penetrabit aggressively inserts itself between the noun Indos and the adjective extremos that modifies it (line 2), or “prepared” along with Furius and Aurelius “to make an attempt on all things” (temptare, a verb with strong sexual innuendo,23 line 14). He is ruthless, masculine, Roman, expanding his empire to the boundaries of the world. But suddenly, representations change. Before our eyes, his puella suffers a metamorphosis, and as she transforms so too does he. Sleeping with a hyperbolic 300 lovers, she appears at first stereotypically feminine, lacking in the all-important masculine virtue of self-control. And yet, by the end of the poem, she has become the plow, and Catullus the flower; she has assumed the masculine role, and he the feminine. The alignment with shifting signifiers in the space of 24 short lines reveals a fractured and incoherent subject. The same impossibly contradictory impulses emerge as the poet veers from imperial expansionist to mowed-down flower, at the very edge of the meadow, a victim of the very expansionism he just seemed to represent.24 In this scenario, the puella figures first as non-Roman other to be conquered, only to become aligned by the end with the Roman agent of conquering power, while he himself takes up residence, like the Indi or the Britanni, on the margins.25 This sense of the disintegrating and self-contradictory subject emerges from the Catullan corpus whenever geographic space comes into play. Scholars interested in gender have recently unpacked the fluctuating identity of Attis, a young man who, traveling east from Greece to the Troad, castrates himself in the Phrygian forests, and gives him/herself over to worshipping the goddess Cybele (poem 63).26 Like poem 11, poem 63 once again links together geographical movement and the dissolution of the subject. We find an “I” who is both, yet simultaneously neither, masculine and/or feminine.

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Like Attis, Catullus too travels abroad. In 57–56 BCE he joins the retinue of the praetor Memmius in Bithynia. His adventures in foreign lands render Catullus, like Attis, incoherent as a subject, a collection of signifiers that become unstable even as he attempts to present a unified self.27 In poems 10 and 28, which both center on the direct aftermath of the Bithynian trip, the poet’s self-representation emphatically stresses confusion, in particular a strange difficulty in drawing distinctions between self and other. In part, of course, this is a joke, a playful turn of the story for the benefit of the reader. And yet, a careful examination of the two poems reveals that it is not only the concluding punch-line of poem 10 where lines of identity become blurred. Once again we find an intertwining of the expanding geographical space of the Roman world with a lack of clear, bounded fixity of the Catullan subject, especially where gender boundaries are concerned. Poem 10 opens with Catullus classifying Varus’ girlfriend as a scortillum... non sane illepidum neque invenustum (“a little whore, not entirely without charm and elegance,” 3–4). Scortillum is jarring, and serves, as Marilyn Skinner notes (1989: 16), to mark Varus’ girlfriend as different from, and more precisely, inferior to, Catullus in class and gender. Conversely, lepos and venustas are markers of the neoteric urbanitas and Callimachean polish that Catullus and his set embrace as self-defining hallmarks. If he begins the poem as simultaneously both like and unlike Varus’ girlfriend, the complications with his identity only grow as the text unfolds. Varus and his girlfriend question Catullus about how he profited financially from his recent travels (6-8). We expect Catullus to take the moral high ground, especially after his outrage against Mamurra’s excessive self-enrichment in the provinces under Pompey and Caesar. Indeed, in the Late Republic, Cicero argued that Rome had a moral responsibility to provide just government to its allies and subjects,28 and we have seen Catullus align himself with this stance. Contrary to expectations, however, we discover Catullus lamenting the lack of personal enrichment resulting from his trip to Bithynia. Suddenly Catullus launches into a diatribe against moral probity in provincial administration.29 Because he was not permitted to exploit subject peoples for personal financial gain, the poet disparagingly claims that Memmius does not care for his retinue (10.13), and worse that he is an irrumator (10.12). He repeats this characterization of Memmius in poem 28, when he again contemplates his lack of financial gain in Bithynia. In a direct apostrophe, Catullus baldly states: o Memmi, bene me ac diu supinum | tota ista trabe lentus irrumasti (“as I lay well and truly supine for a long time, you slowly crammed the whole length of your penis in my mouth,” 28.9–10). Not only does he now espouse the view, at odds with other incarnations of himself, that Roman imperial rule owes self-enrichment to its governing elite, rather crudely referring to himself as “screwed” because he was prevented from acquiring what he felt he deserved, but further, and rather surprisingly, he adopts a subordinate and not altogether masculine stance, in relation to other men, through the sexual metaphor he deploys.30

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 53 When Varus and his girlfriend respond lightheartedly that surely Catullus acquired litter bearers, the luxury item for which Bithynia is known, Catullus changes tack. He claims that he did manage to obtain a litter and eight strong men to carry it (10.18–20). Suddenly, as Marilyn Skinner observes, Catullus, with a sly intertextual marker (dicitur, 10.15), conjures himself up as a Verres figure, who, Cicero notes, traveled around in a litter with eight litter-bearers in the manner of the Bithynian kings.31 The poet rejoices in his corruption; there, in Rome, for his friends to see, he dangles his foreign, luxury imports, spoils of unprincipled provincial administration.32 Varus’ girlfriend, however, dashes this image. She requests to borrow his conveyance, and he must admit to his lies. In doing so, however, he makes two rather interesting moves. First, he attempts to heap opprobrium on the woman, claiming that she behaves ut decuit cinaediorem (“as befits a [male] whore,” 10.24). What should we make of this? A cinaedus, as Skinner notes, is “absolutely gender specific: in all other instances of its occurrence in Classical Latin, it describes a male subject.”33 In fact, the last male subject we saw in the poem performing the sort of sexual acts associated with the cinaedus was Catullus himself, the victim of his praetor’s irrumatio (10.12 in conjunction with 28.9–10).34 Once again, mirroring the poem’s opening, he subtly blurs the lines between himself and Varus’ girlfriend by throwing issues of gender and status into confusion. His second moment of confusion in the portrayal of the subject is emphatically explicit. Back-pedaling hard, Catullus announces that he must have been out of his mind. What he meant was that the litter and the bearers belong to his friend Cinna; sometimes it is just hard to differentiate. “Whether they are his or mine,” he continues, “who cares? I use them as freely as if I should have procured them for myself” (verum utrum illius an mei, quid ad me? | utor tam bene quam mihi pararim, (10.31–2). Of course, Catullus is joking, attempting suavely to get out of an awkward situation; on the surface, this is a witty tale. And yet, many interpreters observe the more serious undertones that serve to put the woman in her place.35 I suggest that there is something serious in Catullus’ choice to blur the boundaries between himself and Cinna as well and point out that a similar lack of delineation also occurs in poem 28. In this poem, Catullus again discusses his travels to Bithynia, and again bemoans his fate as an exploitative imperialist manqué.36 Once more he seems to have problems differentiating between himself and others. Here he likens himself to Veranius and Fabullus, victims of yet another praetor, Piso. The similarities are multiple, the outcome identical (pari... casu, 28.11–12). Like Catullus, Veranius and Fabullus have not managed to plunder the locals while the praetor turned a blind eye, remaining instead an “empty-handed cohort” (cohors inanis, 28.1). Indeed, underscoring the analogous nature of their plight by employing parallel constructions,37 Catullus bleakly jokes that for all of them a little expenditure counts, paradoxically, in the profit column (28.6–8). Just as the poet suffered at the

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hands of Memmius the irrumator (10.12 and 28.9–10), so too Catullus vividly conjures up an identical assault on Veranius’ and Fabullus’ gender and status under Piso, deploying the same metaphor of sexual dominance of the praetor over the cohort: nam nihilo minore verpa | farti estis (“for you were stuffed by no less of a prick,” 28.12–13). For all three elite Roman men, both their masculinity and their elite male subjectivity seem less than secure. Perhaps the greatest disruption, however, occurs as the result of a journey that Catullus’ brother undertakes. The death of his brother in the Troad, far from home, inspires some of Catullus’ most beautiful, but also most unsettling and unsettled, verses. As he imagines visiting his brother’s grave (poem 101), at Troy far from his ancestors, or contemplates the possibilities for writing poetry after such a monumental loss (poems 65, 68), Catullus circles again and again around issues of dissolving boundaries, lack of center (at the physical level of home [domus], as well as at the individual level of the subject), and seemingly shifting points of reference. And while one might argue that a brother’s death might indeed cause such profound dislocation,38 also common to these poems is an insistent focus on the geographical distance between Catullus and his dead brother. Death changes everything. When his brother dies in Asia Minor, Roman imperial holdings become suddenly distant, alien, and threatening. To reach the site of his brother’s grave, Catullus must travel “through many peoples and across many waters” (multas per gentes et multa per aequora, 101.1), a line acknowledged by interpreters to allude to the beginning of the Odyssey, thus drawing parallels between Catullus’ voyage and Odysseus’ epic(ly long) journey from Troy back home to Ithaca.39 The constantly repeated Troia (5 times in 12 lines, 68[b].88-100) is nefas, obscena, and infelix (“unspeakable,” “vile” and “ill-omened,” 68[b].89 and 99), an aliena terra (“foreign land,” 68[b].100), “so far away” (tam longe, 68[b].97). Troy “detains his brother in soil at the furthest edge of the world,” “neither among known tombs nor near kindred ash,” (detinet extremo... solo, 68[b].10040 and non inter nota sepulcra | nec prope cognatos... cineres, 68[b].97-98).41 Suddenly territory that belongs to empire, not even at its outer boundaries, is redefined. While Catullus constructs Troy as aliena, however, the allusion to the Odyssey at the beginning of poem 101 opens up the possibility of equating Troy with home. In this reading, Catullus’ journey, like Odysseus’, is a homecoming that promises a reunion with a loved one. And yet, the Odyssean reminiscence provides many layers of richness to the Catullan text. On the one hand, Catullus’ journey becomes a tragic reversal of Odysseus’ homecoming; Catullus’ reunion is with a dead brother, and brings in its wake the destruction of the poet’s entire house (68[a].22, 68[b].94). Odysseus’ nostos allows a joyful reconstitution of his own family. On the other hand, Troy is Rome’s point of origin, and so Troy for Catullus, unlike for Odysseus, is home in both a national and literary sense.42 As William Fitzgerald observes (1995: 188): “It is entirely appropriate that the Roman

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 55 should find his brother at the home of Rome’s great ancestor,” and in doing so he makes triumphant cultural claims. And yet, is Catullus laying claim to being Roman? Where is his home? These are questions that his brother’s death, emphatically in Troy, brings to the fore. Indeed, poem 68 relentlessly explores the notion of home, of the domus.43 And home, like so much else in this poem, acquires an increasingly vertiginous definition. What should be a bounded, clearly definable space, or set of spaces, loses its fixity, reshapes itself to accommodate increasingly different and incompatible options. The first time the word domus appears, Catullus has broken off his explanation to Mallius about why he cannot write him the poem he owes.44 Grief over his brother’s death, he explains, has taken away his poetic inclinations. Catullus then launches into an apostrophe of his brother, insisting: tecum una tota est nostra sepulta domus (“together with you our whole house lies buried,” 68[a].22). Here the poet seems to define domus as the family line of the Valerii,45 now supposedly without hope of future offspring after his brother’s demise. A mere five lines later, however, domus morphs into a more concrete notion of place. Catullus quotes Mallius as saying that it is disgraceful (turpe) that Catullus is in Verona (68[a].27), the home to which he has retreated in response to his brother’s death. Five lines later, however, Catullus once again redefines domus. Catullus now offers Mallius a new explanation about why he cannot produce poetry.46 He lacks books—scriptorum non magna est copia apud me (“there is no great abundance of writings at my house,” (68[a].33); only one case, out of many, followed him to Verona (68[a].36). And yet surely Catullus does not require a full library of texts to produce a poem. A second glance at the passage reveals a greater problem; he is not at home. The reason for lacking his library (hoc fit, 68[a].34), he clarifies for his audience, is that: “I live in Rome,” (quod Romae vivimus, 68[a].34). Rome, he continues, is his domus (68[a].34), his sedes (“seat,” 68[a].35), where he spends his time (mea carpitur aetas, 68[a].35), and, perhaps most importantly, where he keeps his library. If the location of Catullus’s domus seems to shift—Verona? Rome? Troy?—what the word signifies remains similarly elusive—family residence, his house and library in Rome, the family line of the Valerii. The word, however, appears twice more in this dizzying poem, each time slightly altering its definition. After announcing that he is currently incapable of poetic creation, the poet performs an abrupt volte face and begins singing the praises of Allius. The man deserves immortality in Catullan verse because at a time when the poet was suffering with love, Allius “opened up a closed field by means of a wide path” (clausum lato patefecit limite campum, 68[b].67) and offered the poet a domum (68[b].68), here an actual dwelling in which he can spend time with his beloved. The metaphor of the field is somewhat jarring. We learn later in the poem, when the word domus comes up yet again (68[b].144), that the beloved is married and thus the affair with Catullus (and also with other lovers, 68[b].135ff.) is adulterous. Is she then

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the “field,” property of another, formerly closed off to Catullus?47 Yes, in a way, but the metaphor also serves to bring to the fore questions of space and (violated) boundaries and to link these explicitly with Troy. Once Allius allows for the crossing of a previously established boundary, the floodgates open. Catullus’ beloved appears on the scene, patently transgressing the boundary of the domus by stepping rather ominously with her “shining foot” (fulgentem plantam, 68[b].71) in a “squeaky sandal” (arguta solea, 68[b].72) on the very threshold (in limine, 68[b].71) as she crosses it.48 Catullus launches into a simile to capture the moment; she is like Laodamia, who “burning with love for her husband” (coniugis... flagrans... amore, 68[b].73) comes to Protesilaus’ house (domum, 68[b].74). Here begins one of the densest, most confusing parts of the poem, as Catullus slides from simile to simile, image to image, leaving the reader scrambling to connect the dots. Indeed interpreters of poem 68 often remark on a sharp contrast between the surface linguistic order and structure of the simile’s overt alignment (x is like y) and the baffling confusion the images actually engender (x looks suspiciously like z instead, and also maybe like something else).49 The comparisons that keep threatening to run off course enhance the boundless or unbounded identity of the various subjects in the poem and seem profoundly intertwined with issues of geographical space. From Laodamia’s ill-omened marriage, we move swiftly to the plains of Troy where Protesilaus is the first Greek to die in the war. The mythical story segues into the death of Catullus’ brother, which we discussed above (68[b].87ff.). Returning to Laodamia, Catullus compares her despair and also her love to the barathrum (“drainage ditch,” 68[b].108;117) that Hercules “is once said to have dug in the dark innards of a mountain” (quondam caesis montis fodisse medullis / audit, 68[b].111–112). Once he has broken down natural boundaries and performed his famous labors, Hercules transitions from mortal to immortal by crossing the threshold of Olympus and receiving Hebe’s virginity as his prize (68[b].115–116). By my count, three boundaries, limits, or fines—human/divine, physical, and bodily—transgressed in two lines, although with the repetition of markers denoting the “Alexandrian footnote” in ferunt (“they say,” 68[b].109) and audit (“is said to,” 68[b].112),50 it is likely that textual boundaries are also being infringed. The poem continues, but let us stop here momentarily to take stock. Not just his brother’s death but his brother’s death in Troy has caused Catullus to come unmoored. While Troy slides between point of origin and aliena, Catullus can no longer pin down a single, coherent meaning or location for domus. Once we recognize the slippery nature of the signifier domus (Miller 2004: 59), we notice that the dislocation does not end there. Each comparison confuses, rather than illuminates, the picture. Individuals meld into one another, even (and especially) across gender lines. Protesilaus, like Catullus’ brother, died at Troy; Laodamia grieves the death of her husband with almost boundless sorrow, mirroring Catullus inconsolable at the loss of his

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 57 brother, who assumes the role of (lost) loved one (like Lesbia?).51 So far, so good, but Laodamia arriving at Protesilaus’ house as a bride also appears as a doublet for Lesbia, a candida diva as she crosses the threshold to the house that Allius provides for her assignation with Catullus, and looks suspiciously, for a moment at least, like Hebe awaiting the deification of Hercules to receive her husband (68[b].115–16). Momentarily Catullus resembles Hercules, but then Catullus, awaiting the arrival of the beloved in the domus, also fleetingly resembles Protesilaus, and more lastingly, Hebe. Moreover, in yet another comparison, we learn that Laodamia surpasses the wanton-yetmonogamous dove in her passion for her husband, while Catullus’ beloved yields “nothing or little” (aut nihil aut paulo, 68[b].131) to the heroine in her yearning for the poet. Immediately thereafter, however, it is Catullus’ desire, and not Lesbia’s, that resembles Laodamia’s most closely. Identifications remain unstable as Catullus acknowledges that Lesbia, like Jupiter, engages in adultery, while he, like Juno, must swallow his anger (68[b].135–140).52 The brother’s geographically distant death, a central driving force of poem 68, brings in its wake a dissolution of boundaries, a lack of stability, and fixedness on almost every level of the text. Place, space, signifiers, comparisons, subjects spiral together until they seemingly intertwine and then blend again, in yet different combinations – sine fine.

Conclusion: usque ad Hyperboreos et mare ad Oceanum (115.6) The geographical focus of Catullus’ poetry resonates within the historical, political, cultural contexts of the Late Republic, as Caesar and Pompey compete to be the most prolific and successful extender of the fines imperii (“boundaries of empire”). As the two great men focus the capital’s attention on the space of Roman empire, capacious and relentlessly increasing, Catullan verse celebrates Rome’s place in the center of this growing territorial expanse. People go abroad for political, business, or travel purposes, and return to Rome with luxury items. News circulates and so does poetic fame, especially for and among the urbane set. The possibilities seem infinite. But look a little closer and a bleaker, less celebratory sense creeps in. Roman geographical space appears boundless, formless, and ever-changing. On some level, at least, this is an anxiety-provoking proposition; human beings like both control and coherent definition. In the age of Augustus, as the world continues to open up, measures of all sorts are put into place to regulate and control geographical space.53 This impetus to assert control culminates in a world map, a device that provides a visual conceptualization of empire, inviting viewers to acquire knowledge and mastery over the land, depicted with fixed, stable boundaries and as a coherent unit.54 In the 50s BCE, however, Agrippa’s map and the impulses to erect it lie in the future. What we see in Catullus is a response to a dawning understanding that Roman imperium stretches with newly capacious boundaries throughout the inhabitable world. In his poetry, goods and people circulate through

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geographical space, often with devastating consequences, always with increasing ease, quasi-tangible proof of the porous nature of geographical boundaries. Faced with these realities, signifiers, genders, identities, all ways by which the subject constructs itself as a coherent, unified entity for itself and for the world, suddenly seem equally precarious. Simultaneously, spaces—the domus, Rome, Verona, Troy—and selves—his own, his brother’s, his friends’, Lesbia’s, his other poetic characters’—begin to blur with other spaces and selves, ever-changing, and with ever-shifting boundaries.

Notes 1 For example, see Greene 1998: 1-36; Fitzgerald 1995. Miller 2004 and Janan 1994 fall partially into this category, but their use of Lacanian theory means that the desire they are exploring goes beyond the erotic self-portrait of the amator. Quotations from Catullus follow Thomson 2003. 2 In this volume, see also Miller’s Lacanian reading of Tibullus 1.7 3 See Nicolet 1991: 29–56 for a discussion of how and when the expression orbis terrarum appeared in Roman political discourse, and then in official Roman documents. 4 Pliny claims that Pompey uttered this boast when discussing his achievements in the assembly (NH 7.99). Similarly Cicero Prov. cons. 31. 5 Nicolet 1991: 31ff.; RRC no. 426 4a (= Crawford 1974), described by Nicolet 1991: 37. See also Kuttner 1999. For more detail about Pompey’s portico, see Zimmermann Damer in this volume. 6 And indeed Whittaker 1994 points out that, practically and conceptually, the boundaries of the Roman empire consist of fluid zones rather than clear lines. 7 Lacan 1981: 203–15 and 138–42. 8 Lacan 2006: 495. 9 For example, Fitzgerald 1995: especially 87–93 on urbanitas as a social and ethical but also aesthetic stance. 10 There is much scholarship on Callimachus as Catullus’ primary poetic model. Frequently cited is Clausen 1964. In the latest companion to Catullus, see Knox 2007 and Batstone 2007. 11 See Thomson 2003: ad loc. for the assertion that laxas means abundant. 12 Pliny (NH 36.48) notes that Mamurra’s house was infamous for its excessive luxury, especially its marble paneled walls (Wiseman 1985: 103 with n. 40). 13 So Konstan 2007, but he focuses on Catullus’ serious critique of Roman military expansion motivated by “a hollow lust for power, display, and sex” on the part of the ruling men of the time (75). 14 See Konstan 2007: 75. 15 Konstan 2007: 78. 16 See, for example, with differing interpretations, Sweet 1987: 517; Fitzgerald 1995: 179-86; Konstan 2007. 17 Fitzgerald 1995: 182 and 183, respectively. 18 Although they do not leave Rome, Catullus asks that they travel within the city. On movement through Roman urban space, see Zimmermann Damer in this volume. 19 Catullus’ Lesbia remains (mostly) in Rome. See Lewis 2018 on how the poet constructs Lesbia in physical space and compare Keith on women’s travels in Latin elegy in this volume. 20 Putnam 1982: 20-4.

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 59 21 Fitzgerald 1995: 180. Also, cf. Konstan 2007: 78–9. 22 Fitzgerald 1995: 182. Fitzgerald, however, emphasizes that Lesbia’s position is ambiguous. She figures Roman imperial expansion, but conversely, her lust represents a threat to the expansionist power like the dangerous, foreign peoples just beyond the reach of the civilized world. 23 See Janan 1994: 64; Greene 1998: 31. 24 Although she does not discuss Catullus, the argument in Rimell 2015, that we can trace a retreat in Augustan and post-Augustan literature to enclosed spaces that are at once secure and horrifying, works well here. 25 Consider the adjectives: extremos Indos, ultimos Britannos, ultimi prati. 26 For me, the most influential is Janan 1994: 103–7. 27 Cf. Blake in this volume on the shifting and unstable identifiers Martial deploys for himself. 28 Braund 1996: 49-52, with a careful review of the evidence in Cicero. 29 Tatum 2007 argues that Catullus has a shifting invective voice, performing both righteous moralizer and “compromised iambic reveler,” 358. 30 The position he most frequently adopts with other men is “aggressor,” for example, at the opening of poem 16: pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo (16.1). Also see 21, 37, and consider Wray’s 2001 discussion of the coded poetic performances of manhood in Catullus. 31 See Skinner 1989: 13. 32 See Hudson 2013: 32–74 for a poetics of the litter, including its purported Bithynian origins. 33 Skinner 1989: 17. 34 Consider also Skinner 1989: 17 who notes that cinaediorem (of the girlfriend) is an “audible echo of beatiorem seven lines earlier,” an adjective Catullus uses of himself. 35 Fitzgerald 1995: 177 and Skinner 1989. 36 Skinner 1980: 149. 37 See Thomson 2003: ad loc. 38 Indeed, most readings of poems 65, 68, 101 focus on Catullus’ reactions to his brother’s death. Janan 1994 widens the net to read poem 68 as a meditation on “loss in love and its consequences, whatever the nature of that love may be,” 122. 39 Conte 1996: 32–9; Fitzgerald 1995: 187–9. 40 Thomson 2003: ad loc. 41 Feldherr 2001 argues that Catullus uses his verse to create a community of mourning and remembrance in Rome. 42 Cf. Theodorakopoulos 2007: 324. 43 For example, see Miller 2004: especially 52–9; Skinner 2003: 43; Sarkissian 1983: 24-26; Janan 1994: 121–4. Armstrong 2013: 64–71 explores the shifting definition of domus in the Catullan collection. For the shifting definition of domus in elegy, see Gardner 2010. 44 There is much scholarship about whether poem 68 is a unified whole and whether Mallius/Allius are one addressee or two. See especially Janan 1994: 113–14 with n. 26; Skinner 2003: 40–4; Thomson 2003: 472–4; Theodorakopoulos 2007: 31516. I prefer the argument that poem 68 is made of two parts to form a (problematically unified) “whole” – 68[a] 1-40 and 68[b] 41–160. 45 Janan 1994: 115 and 118. 46 Possibly, however, as some interpreters argue, Mallius is making two requests, one for sexual favors and another for poetry; see Thomson 2003: ad loc., for example. It seems more likely that Mallius is referring to love poetry vel sim. (Skinner 2003: 146–53). 47 Skinner 2003: 144.

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48 Sarkissian 1983: 17 points out that Lesbia’s ill-omened step introduces a sinister element to what otherwise replicates a wedding ritual. On marriage imagery, see Quinn 1970: ad loc. See also Fitzgerald 1995: 208. 49 Here, see Feeney 1992 and consider his claim that the “similes are no added ornament to the poem... They are the poem, they are what the poem is saying” (35, emphasis his). Also, consider Kennedy 1999 in response to Feeney; Janan 1994: 124ff; Miller 2004: 36–50. 50 See Thomson 2003: ad loc. 51 Protesilaus’ stark lack of reciprocal passion and his departure to Troy without a backward glance replicate some of Lesbia’s hallmark traits from Catullus’ Lesbia poems, Janan 1994: 124–5. 52 Most recent scholarship on poem 68 considers the varying similarities between the characters. See, for example, Miller 2004: 45ff.; Janan 1994: 115–42; Sarkissian 1983: 18ff; Skinner 2003: 153ff.; Feeney 1992; Kennedy 1999: especially 38–41. Miller 2004: 44-50, adds another allusive subtext, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, thereby introducing a new series of similarities for the characters to inhabit. 53 For example, census-taking, cadastration, writing of geographic literature, division of Rome and Italy into discrete units; Nicolet 1991: passim. 54 Lindheim 2021: Introduction, for a full discussion and bibliography.

Works cited Armstrong, R. 2013. “Journeys and Nostalgia in Catullus.” CW 109: 43–71. Batstone, W. W. 2007. “Catullus and the Programmatic Poem: The Origins, Scope, and Utility of a Concept.” In M. Skinner, ed. A Companion to Catullus. Malden (Blackwell), 235–53. Braund, D. 1996. “The Politics of Catullus 10: Memmius, Caesar and the Bithynians.” Hermathena 160: 45–57. Clausen W. 1964. “Callimachus and Latin Poetry,” GRBS 5: 181–96. Conte, G. B. 1996. Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets. Trans. C. Segal. Ithaca (Cornell University Press). Crawford, M. H. 1974. Roman Republican Coinage. Vol. 2. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Feeney, D. 1992. “‘Shall I compare thee...?’ Catullus 68b and the limits of analogy.” In T. Woodman & J. Powell, eds. Author and Audience in Latin Literature. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 33–44. Feldherr, A. 2001. “Non inter nota sepulcra: Catullus 101 and Roman Funerary Ritual.” ClAnt 19: 209–31. Fitzgerald, W. 1995. Catullan Provocations: Lyric Poetry and the Drama of Position. Berkeley (University of California Press). Gardner, H. H. 2010. “The Elegiac ‘Domus’ in the Early Augustan Principate.” AJP 131: 453–93. Greene, E. 1998. The Erotics of Domination: Male Desire and the Mistress in Latin Love Poetry. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press). Hudson, J. 2013. “On the Way: A Poetics of Roman Transportation.” Ph.D. diss., UC Berkeley. Janan, M. 1994. “When the Lamp is Shattered:” Desire and Narrative in Catullus. Carbondale (Southern Illinois University Press).

Geographies and subjects in Catullus 61 Kennedy, D. 1999. “‘Cf.’: Analogies, Relationships and Catullus 68.” In S. M. Braund & R. Mayer, eds. Amor: Roma. Love and Latin Literature. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 30–43. Knox, P. E. 2007. “Catullus and Callimachus.” In M. Skinner, ed. A Companion to Catullus. Malden (Blackwell), 151–72. Konstan, D. 2007. “The Contemporary Political Context.” In M. Skinner, ed. A Companion to Catullus. Malden (Blackwell), 72–91. Kuttner, A. L. 1999. “Culture and History at Pompey’s Museum.” TAPA 129: 343–73. Lacan, J. 1981. The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York (Norton). Lacan, J. 2006. Écrits. Trans. Bruce Fink. New York (Norton). Lewis, M. 2018. “Gender, Geography, and Genre: Catullus’ Constructions of Lesbia in Time and Space.” In W. Fitzgerald & E. Spentzou, eds., The Production of Space in Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 119–45. Lindheim, S. H. 2021. Latin Elegy and the Space of Empire. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Miller, P. A. 2004. Subjecting Verses: Latin Love Elegy and the Emergence of the Real. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Nicolet, C. 1991. Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire. Trans. H. Leclerc. Ann Arbor (University of Michigan Press). Putnam, M. C. J. 1982. Essays in Latin Lyric, Elegiac and Epic. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Quinn, K. 1970. Catullus: The Poems. London (MacMillan). Rimell, V. 2015. The Closure of Space in Roman Poetics: Empire’s Inward Turn. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Sarkissian, J. 1983. Catullus 68: An Interpretation. Mnemosyne, suppl. 76. Leiden (Brill). Skinner, M. 1980. “Parasites and Strange Bedfellows: A Study in Catullus’ Political Imagery.” Ramus 8: 137–52. Skinner, M. 1989. “Ut Decuit Cinaediorem: Power, Gender, Urbanity in Catullus 10.” Helios 16: 7–23. Skinner, M. 2003. Catullus in Verona: A Reading of the Elegiac Libellus, Poems 65116. Columbus (Ohio State University Press). Sweet, D. R. 1987. “Catullus 11: A Study in Perspective.” Latomus 46: 510–26. Tatum, W. J. 2007. “Social Commentary and Political Invective.” In M. Skinner, ed. A Companion to Catullus. Malden (Blackwell), 333–54. Theodorakopoulos, E. 2007. “Poem 68: Love and Death, and the Gifts of Venus and the Muses,” In M. Skinner, ed. A Companion to Catullus. Malden (Blackwell), 314–32. Thomson, D. F. S. 2003. Catullus: A Critical Edition. Revised ed. Toronto (University of Toronto Press). Whittaker, C. R. 1994. The Frontiers of the Roman Empire: A Social and Economic Study. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press). Wiseman, T. P. 1985. Catullus and His World: A Reappraisal. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Wray, D. 2001. Catullus and the Poetics of Roman Manhood. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press).

4

Arcadia and the Roman imagination* Eleanor W. Leach

If you travel to Rome and walk down the steep slope of the Janiculum in the direction of the Via Garibaldi and make a sharp turn to the left into a narrow stairway almost concealed by high flanking walls on either side, you will come to an elegantly curved portal with the inscription “Accademia degli Arcadii.” Inside, within a pleasant garden ambience bearing the name of Bosco Parrasio, has since 1725 been located the seat of a literary society, the Accademia Letteraria Italiana, founded in 1690 by distinguished Italian writers at the inspiration of the expatriate Queen Christina of Sweden in the interests of anti-mannerist reform. In the words of an encyclopedia definition, “the Arcadians resolved to return to the fields of truth, always singing of subjects of pastoral simplicity and drawing their inspiration from GrecoRoman bucolic poetry. The ideal parameters for the artistic work were simplicity and a sense of measure and beauty.”1 For their discussions and intercommunications all members adopted shepherd names, and although they were primarily Italian, notable foreigners could be included. Haydn attended several meetings and by his own account, Goethe was virtually coopted during his Italian sojourn.2 That such a society founded in Rome should name itself for Arcadia is hardly coincidental and quite fitting if we consider the noteworthy presence of Arcadia in Roman legend and literature from the Republic onward. For of course a real geographical Arcadia does exist as a region in midGreece—the present-day traveler will remember its barren, rocky slopes, and an absence of amenities—and it likewise existed in Roman times. Although we have no record of any Roman traveling there, a connection between the two places emerges in Roman literature’s mental geographies of Arcadia. This chapter traces literary Arcadias and Arcadians through Augustan

* The editors would like to express their gratitude to Professor T. Davina McClain, who worked on behalf of Eleanor Leach’s literary estate to revise this paper. It is thanks to her generosity with her time and effort that this paper appears in the volume. We share Professor Leach’s paper in honor and in commemoration of her influential contributions to the study of space and landscape in Latin poetry.

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writers, giving particular attention to the Aeneid and Eclogues of Vergil and the Fasti and the Metamorphoses of Ovid, concluding with a Flavian postscript in the figure of Parthenopaeus in Statius’ Thebaid. These poets sought to transport their audiences to Arcadia through the images of places and people distant from the Rome that surrounded them. Building upon and responding to the work of Erwin Panofsky and others who trace the origins of a literary Arcadia to Vergil’s Eclogues,3 the present chapter explores Latin poetry’s Arcadian geopoetics, revealing the region not as idealized, but as a landscape associated with mountainous topographies and difficult labor, and one that is also fertile with mythical, poetic, and song traditions.4 This chapter demonstrates that Roman poets conceptualized Arcadia in a manner that made the region at once Other and one of Rome’s paramount cultural connections to the Hellenic world, with deep roots in Roman selfconceptions, especially through King Evander. Before examining the Augustan geopoetics of Arcadia, it is worth detailing the core ideas most frequently associated with the region. According to native-born Polybius, all Arcadians practice some form of music following customs instituted by their ancestors as a counter to the hard labor demanded by their rugged countryside environment.5 For, as Polybius has it, music is beneficial to all men, but for Arcadians it is a necessity imposed by the conditions of their environment (4.21.1): ταῦτά τέ μοι δοκοῦσιν οἱ πάλαι παρεισαγαγεῖν οὐ τρυφῆς καὶ περιουσίας χάριν, ἀλλὰ θεωροῦντες μὲν τὴν ἑκάστων αὐτουργίαν καὶ συλλήβδην τὸ τῶν βίων ἐπίπονον καὶ σκληρόν, θεωροῦντες δὲ τὴν τῶν ἠθῶν αὐστηρίαν, ἥτις αὐτοῖς παρέπεται διὰ τὴν τοῦ περιέχοντος ψυχρότητα καὶ στυγνότητα τὴν κατὰ τὸ πλεῖστον ἐν τοῖς τόποις ὑπάρχουσαν, ᾧ συνεξομοιοῦσθαι πεφύκαμεν πάντες ἄνθρωποι κατ᾿ ἀνάγκην. Now all these practices I believe to have been introduced by the men of old times, not as luxuries and superfluities, but because they had before their eyes the universal practice of personal manual labor in Arcadia and in general the toilsomeness and hardship of men’s lives as well as the harshness of character resulting from the cold and gloomy atmospheric conditions usually prevailing in these parts—conditions to which all men by their very nature must assimilate themselves. Because of Polybius’ direct connection between the harshness of nature and the laboriousness of Arcadian lives, we may presume that his manual labor is agricultural, yet the musical culture he describes is not a rustic or pastoral phenomenon but rather, as implied by its performance venues, an established civic institution, instituted by childhood training and practiced by boys and men in choral competitions, but also banquet entertainment as well as military parades and theater dances (Polyb. 4.20.8–12).

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To this sober account, mythology adds magic and a rural ambience in the person of Pan, the flute-playing deity who inhabits a rugged world beyond urban borders. Thus we find him in Pausanias, who tells of several sanctuaries, but especially Mt. Lycaeus and the territory of Maenalus in which he describes the god’s particular influence (8.36.8): τὸ δὲ ὄρος τὸ Μαινάλιον ἱερὸν μάλιστα εἶναι Πανὸς νομίζουσιν, ὥστε οἱ περὶ αὐτὸ καὶ ἐπακροᾶσθαι συρίζοντος τοῦ Πανὸς λέγουσι. Mt. Maenalus is held to be especially sacred to Pan so that those who dwell around it say that they can actually hear him playing his pipes. So may we understand of the verses in Eclogue 4 where the Eclogue poet boasts a future victory over Pan (58-9): Pan etiam, Arcadia mecum se iudice certet, Pan etiam Arcadia dicat se iudice victum. Even Pan, should he contend with me with Arcadia as judge, even Pan may confess himself conquered with Arcadia as judge

Just as the poet’s vaunted rivalry is an imaginary contest, so it is imaginary and legendary travel that affects Rome’s interchange with Arcadia and establishes the Arcadian presence in Rome.

Roman Arcadia Unquestionably the many Romans who read their Polybius would have readily recognized Arcadia as a rugged country and an unlikely counterpart to their present-day environment. But it is precisely its natural harshness that gives it significance both in literature and in history as a feature of Rome’s legendary past. In several major accounts of early Rome, Arcadia figures as the homeland of King Evander, the initial human settler on the city’s site. Thus, travel in the form of the immigration of Evander from Arcadia to Italy proves central to the cultivation of Roman territory and Roman identity. Servius attributes the first mention of this legend to Varro (ad Aen. 8.51), but its Augustan transmitters in various forms are Vergil (Aen. 8), Ovid (Fast. 1), Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Ant. Rom. 1.31–4), and Livy (1.5–7).6 Their diverse versions credit the Arcadian immigrants with a number of cultural importations: a name for the Palatine Hill, the cult of Pan and his music, the ritual of the Lupercalia, and even the Greek language (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom.1.34).7 Of the four Augustan writers, Vergil stands out for the close bond he creates between Evander and Aeneas by reason of their alliance in the war against the Latins and Aborigines that troubles the

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establishment of the new Trojan settlement. He is, in fact, the only one of the four authors to afford Aeneas an actual visit to the future site of the city to be made great by his descendants, and the conduct of his narrative of Aeneas’ journey might seem to reflect, with considerable idealization, the Polybian image of Arcadia as a country of virtuous hard labor. Thus as Aeneas travels to where Rome will be, Vergil takes his reader on a journey to a past that is at once Arcadian and Roman. Vergil guides his audience to encounter Evander’s settlement through the eyes of Aeneas. Alerted in a dream by the River Tiber of the need to procure allies for an impending conflict, he turns his ship upriver to the small community of the Arcades, comrades of Evander already engaged in ongoing hostilities with the natives of Latium (Aen. 8.49–80). Following the bends of the river beneath a noon-day cover of green trees, he sees from far off the citadel and sparse huts where Evander hazards his slender resources (8.100: tum res inopes Evandrus habebat). Like Aeneas, Evander is not Italian, but has come with his band of foreigners as an exile in search of a home. Amid a landscape no less harsh and austere than that of the Arcadia left behind, Evander is easily at home there by reason of a lifestyle that fosters discipline and effort rather than self-indulgent pleasure. Under his leadership, the proto-Roman community might be seen as a second virtuous Arcadia and an important prefiguration of the better self-image that the Romans themselves want to recognize beneath the overlay of their monumental city.8 The essence of Evander’s doctrine is the dignity of simplicity. To this end, he urges Aeneas (8.364-5): aude, hospes, contemnere opes et te quoque dignum finge deo, rebusque veni non asper egenis. Have courage, my guest, to scorn opulence and fashion yourself worthy of the god, and come without criticism of impoverished circumstances. With these words, he leads an ingens Aeneas (367) beneath the rooftree of his narrow dwelling into the small hut that once in the manner of a palace readily welcomed as a guest a traveling Hercules (363: illum regia cepit), whose humility configures him as a role model to Aeneas. In this image of angusti... fastigia tecti (366) any Augustan might readily have recognized a semblance of the primitive “hut of Romulus” preserved both on the Palatine and the Capitoline as a monument to a revered if partially imagined past.9 As Evander tells his story to Aeneas, he is actually the second in a series of exiles who have found refuge in this territory, proud to style himself as successor to, and beneficiary of, the ancient Saturn driven from Olympus by Jove, who on arrival found a genuinely primitive population of fauns,

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nymphs, and a people born from trees, scarcely in command of the skills and resources needed to sustain a civilized existence (8.314–18): haec nemora indigenae Fauni Nymphaeque tenebant gensque virum truncis et duro robore nata, quis neque mos neque cultus erat, nec iungere tauros aut componere opes norant aut parcere parto sed rami atque asper victu venatus alebat These groves the native Nymphs and Fauns were possessing and a race of people born from tree trunks and hard wood who had neither custom nor culture, not knowing how to yoke oxen or consolidate resources or sustain their offspring, but boughs and keen hunting for sustenance nourished them. To these, the exiled god gave laws and a sense of community, ruling his contented people in peace and thus the true author of long-lived aurea saecula on the future site of Rome (8.324–5): aurea quae perhibent illo sub rege fuere saecula: sic placida populos in pace regebat Golden, they say, were the centuries beneath That monarch; thus he was ruling his peoples in placid peace.10 Nevertheless, as a fellow immigrant, whom Evander reveres as a predecessor but has never seen, King Saturn is a figure of mythical history and, for all the Arcadian ruler’s admiring homage, his aurea saecula is no longer the climate in which his human successor actually lives. Rather his story carries a coloring of nostalgia for what has been lost before it could be actually known (8.326–7): deterior donec paulatim ac decolor aetas et bello rabies et amor successit habendi. Until by gradual stages a lesser and tarnished age took over and the madness of war and a passion for gain.11 The image of a pastoral world in which hardship once focused on providing the necessities of life has now given way to a destructive and self-serving struggle for possessions and power. Like Arcadia for Evander, the Golden Age is lost to the past. Whereas Aeneas hears this history from Evander, the interlocutor of Ovid’s Fasti Book 1 reports it from his interview with Janus, the poem’s first spokesman for Rome’s religious traditions. Even older than Saturn, and a monarch in his own right, Janus had witnessed the arrival of the exiled god

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(1.233–8) at a time when the site of Rome was an uncut forest with pasturage only for scarce cattle, and gods still walked the earth (1.243–8): hic, ubi nunc Roma est, incaedua silva virebat tantaque res paucis pascua bubus erat. arx mea collis erat, quem volgo nomine nostro nuncupat haec aetas Ianiculumque vocat. tunc ego regnabam, patiens cum terra deorum esset et humanis numina mixta locis. Here, where now Rome stands, the uncut forest grew green offering just such resources as to nourish a few cattle. The hill was my citadel, which the people address by my name, and the present age calls Janiculum. I was ruling then, when the earth sustained deities and divine powers were mingled with human places. Despite his omission here, the exiled Evander is not entirely neglected in Ovid’s narrative but enters into the calendar of the Fasti on 11 January, a feast celebrated in honor of his mother Carmenta who has accompanied her son in exile to Rome, an inversion of Aeneas’ own parent/son undertaking with Anchises. As a truth-speaking prophetess whose name, as Servius observes, can be seen to distinguish her in this role (ad Aen. 8.336: nam antique vates carmentes dicebantur), Carmenta has foreseen the Arcadian migration as the workings of destiny and thus consoles her son with the insistence that his misfortune is no fault of his own but a fate shared with such heroic models as Cadmus, Tydeus, and Jason. Carmenta’s arrival is dramatic. Looking very much the prophetess, she stands high on the prow of their ship with her hair blowing wild and Evander scarcely able to restrain her on board. In keeping with her prophetic identity is her ceremonial greeting to the indigenous powers of the new homeland in which she invokes their blessing on herself and her son as she envisions a grandiose future for these small beginnings (1.509–16, 518): ‘di’ que ‘petitorum’ dixit ‘salvete locorum, tuque, novos caelo terra datura deos, fluminaque et fontes, quibus utitur hospita tellus, et nemorum silvae Naiadumque chori. Este bonis avibus visi natoque mihique ripaque felici tacta sit ista pede. fallor, an hi fient ingentia moenia colles. iuraque ab hac terra cetera terra petet? …………………………… quis tantum fati credat habere locum?

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In Fasti 2, this early Arcadian background for Rome returns on the 15th of February, the feast day of the Lupercalia sacred to Faunus and Pan as the poet takes up the question of why the priests of the cult run their festival races nude (2.269). Again we hear of Arcadia as the country of origin from which Evander brought Pan to Latium (2.279: transtulit Evander silvestria numina secum). Again, we are reminded of the primitive heritage of the original Arcadians, a people born before the moon and existing before the birth of Jove (2.289–302).12 In their races, they imitate the god who runs naked in the high mountains and orders his priest followers to do the same. From this exposure of bare bodies beneath the open sky comes their endurance of rain and wind. The present-day ritual of their nakedness keeps the old customs alive (2.301–2): nunc quoque detecti referunt monimenta vetusti moris, et antiquas testificantur opes. Now also uncovered they revive the memories of ancient custom and provide witness to ancient resources. Remembering the scandal of Antony’s Lupercalian nudity,13 we might see in this mention of ancient customs and monuments a defensive gesture toward redeeming the respectability of the ritual. As for the name of the festival and its celebrants (Lupercalia, Luperci), these, according to Ovid, did not come from Arcadia with Evander, but rather has been grafted onto the ritual in honor of a place, the cave on the Tiber side of the Palatine where the maternal lupa nourished Romulus and Remus as sons of Mars (2.421–2): illa loco nomen fecit, locus ipse Lupercis, magna dati nutrix praemia lactis habet. She gave a name to the place; the place itself to the Luperci. Such great rewards has the nurse for her giving of milk.

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With its double pedigree, the festival gains an Arcadian-Roman hybridity.14 Perhaps it was with these very items in mind that Augustus included the Lupercal in his program of architectural enrichments for the city (RG 19). To this story, however, Ovid adds two further verses posing a countersuggestion that gives the status of an Arcadian import to the name (Fasti 2.423–4): Quid vetat Arcadio dictos a monte Lupercos? Faunus in Arcadia templa Lycaeus habet. What hinders the Luperci from being named for an Arcadian summit? Lycaean Faunus has temples in Arcadia.

Arcadian metamorphoses Mention of this Arcadian mountain landmark with its lupine affinities opens a whole other chapter of Arcadian mythology, for the name itself can appear to be derived from Lycaon, the savage ruler of primitive Arcadia before Evander’s time whose offenses against Jove were the precipitating cause of the flood which brought about the first destruction of a newly created world. Ovid himself had treated this story in his Metamorphoses as the first transformation of a human into animal form. Why he chose to locate the first instances of human wickedness in Arcadia can only be speculated. Yet the details of his narrative, while containing no trace of Polybius’ virtuous Arcadia, are much in keeping with the hardness of the Arcadian landscape. As Jupiter travels across the territory to make a personal investigation of rumors regarding the inhuman banqueting at Lycaon’s table (Met. 1.165: foeda...convivia mensae), details of his journey through beast-infested Maenalus and the pine grove of cold Lycaeus make this place seem wild and remote. From here he enters the dwelling of Lycaon. Even in this isolated situation, the ordinary human beings show awe and reverence, while the royal actors mock their piety and prepare to murder their visitor in his sleep. Jove’s vengeful response is not even so much a penalty as a gesture to expose the threat that Lycaon’s savagery poses. From cannibal tyrant to wolf is no great alteration for Lycaon; as he runs howling into the night devoid of human voice, the new lupine aspect embodies his craving for slaughter and externalizes the physical marks of savagery in his facial features: pallid countenance, glittering eyes (1.238-9: eadem violentia vultus, | idem oculi lucent, eadem feritatis imago est). But, in this form, he becomes the father of a new race. Although no sensible Roman would charge the Arcadian immigrants with having brought wolves with them into Italy, a sinister reminiscence of origins inheres in the wild image which the benevolent wolves of the Lupercalia festival can only partly domesticate.

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Not only wolves, but also bears have their legendary origin in Arcadia. Here again, Ovid’s Metamorphoses relate the transformation that gave them birth. Following the two episodes of destruction, the flood from which a new generation has resulted, and Phaethon’s fire, the poem returns our attention to Arcadia with the story of Callisto, another instance of Jove’s philandering exploitation of human vulnerability. His new victim is a follower of Diana committed to virginity and devoted to hunting whom he discovers as he traverses the landscape damaged by Phaethon’s fire, returning springs to stalled rivers and reanimating burnt grass and trees (2.401–40). Although Callisto is a daughter of Lycaon, she lacks his savage nature. Her only vestige of wildness is her unkempt hair and her skill with woodland weapons, but her allegiance to Diana makes her easy prey to deception when Jove assumes the face and dress of the goddess herself. Not Jove but Juno is the agent of Callisto’s transformation; her jealousy aims to destroy the girl’s offensive beauty in the most hideous possible form, body bristling with black hairs, hands, and feet ending in hooked claws and the face once praised by Jove now stretched into a wide-jawed grin. Her voice also becomes rough and threatening, yet even more cruel than transformation might seem the retention of her accustomed consciousness with a sensibility attuned to her sufferings (2.485: mens antiqua manet). This new aspect might seem still another version of familial savagery save that the transformed bear is of a timid disposition who lives a life of terror, pursued by dogs, the huntress becomes the prey of hunters, and fearful even of other bears but also, despite the paternal link, afraid of wolves (2.493–4). Her son Arcas grows up as a bowman only narrowly saved from killing his mother by Jove who translates both bodies to the sky where Juno works her final revenge by fixing their eternal circuit. Manilius, although he neither uses Callisto’s name nor tells her story, all the same mythologizes her constellation with epithets recalling her parentage (2.29: raptamque Lycaone natam; 3.359: prona Lycaoniae spectantem membra puellae). At the same time Arcas in spite of his bodily elevation is the father who gives the race of Arcades their name, and Arcades is the name by which Evander still calls his followers in exile.15 It should not seem too surprising then that some four decades before the Metamorphoses (and, in the mythological timeline, untold generations after Evander) skilled singers in Vergil’s pastoral poems are referred to as Arcades.

Arcadia in the Eclogues Aside from the poet/persona’s recreational challenge to Pan in Eclogue 4, four other voices in the collection have Arcadian associations with embedded songs addressed to audiences of like name. So, in the seventh poem, Corydon and Thyrsis are Arcades ambo (4) of flourishing age, et cantare pares et respondere parati (“equally matched in singing and in preparation to sing,” 5); the eighth poem features Damon who performs “Maenalian

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stanzas” in competition with Alphesiboeus; and the fourth is Vergil’s fellow poet Cornelius Gallus in Eclogue 10, the latter two lamenting failures in love. Yet neither Eclogue 7 nor Eclogue 8 professes to locate its pastoral singers in Arcadia. In Eclogue 7 the songs of Corydon and Thyrsis come secondhand from Meliboeus, who witnessed their competition on the occasion of their performance for Daphnis, but their setting is specifically the River Mincio (12–13). In Eclogue 8, before the contest between Damon and Alphesiboeus begins, verses from the Eclogue poet himself with allusions to an Illyrian campaign (5–6) and the composition of Sophoclean tragedy (9–10) identify as dedicatee Asinius Pollio at whose “behest” the songs are begun (11–12). The effect of this intervention is to distance us from the contest for which no location is given, only a time: the dews of an early morning rendezvous (14–16). However, the competitive format and the Theocritean character of Alphesiboeus’ song indicate that “performances” are what we are witnessing. And it is in keeping with this performative distancing that Damon, as first singer, proclaims his lyrical complaint as an imitation of the Maenalian mode with language that recalls Polybius’ geographical excursus on this wild mountain district as the haunt of Pan (21–4): incipe Maenalios mecum, mea tibia, versus. Maenalus argutumque nemus pinusque loquentis semper habet, semper pastorum ille audit amores Panaque, qui primus calamos non passus inertis. Begin with me, my pipes, Maenalian stanzas. Maenalus has always its shrill sounding grove and loquacious pine trees. And always Pan hears the love songs of the shepherds, Pan, who first could not allow the reeds to lie idle. By contrast, Eclogue 10 introduces its protagonist, the poet Cornelius Gallus, as if in Arcadia, “perishing of an unworthy love” (10: indigno… amore peribat). Lying sprawled beneath a cliff on the slope of pine-bearing Maenalus, he is surrounded by the rocks of cold Lycaeus amid a cluster of standing sheep and visited by a remarkable procession of deities: Menalcas, Silvanus, Apollo, and Pan, who come as spectators to chide the extravagance of his passion (14–26). By virtue of its naming the actual Mt. Maenalus as its setting, the episode seems to ground itself in Arcadian geography; but its substance nonetheless is pure fiction. As David Ross has decisively stated, “No one, I expect, has ever imagined the flesh and blood Gallus actually languishing under some lonely Arcadian crag surrounded by sheep and shepherds addressed in words of comfort and advice by Apollo, Silvanus and Pan” (1975: 87). As we go on to investigate the ephemeral nature of this new Arcadian vision, it is well to allow for the particular instability of a military career, the guise in which Gallus, as speaker, would seem to have constructed his persona (44: duri me Martis in armis), but also

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to remember that he, as the first of the elegists, is not an Augustan poet but triumviral, and his own vacillations may reflect the uncertainties that troubled the period.16 Instability is the condition that makes erotic elegy interesting. For this effect it finds its ideal focus in Gallus’ obsession with the notorious Lycoris/Cytheris, whose presence in his poetry appears corroborated by mention of her name in the papyrus fragment discovered in 1978: tristia ṇequit[ia fact]ạ, Lycori, tua (Gallus fr. 2.1 Courtney). Possibly the nequitia of the fragment might be intimated in Eclogue 10.22–3 by a dual reference to her absence on an Alpine journey through ice and snow following an alium in whom Servius recognizes subtiliter an allusion to Antony, her elsewhere attested lover.17 Certainly Servius credits the historical reality of this affair and perhaps on more reliable grounds than some other supposed allusions.18 Given Gallus’ position as a partisan of Octavian, one might well read a political subtext in veiled references to a rivalry that pits soldier against soldier. But if the amatory intrigue had some basis in historical actuality, nothing we know in Gallus’ career indicates an actual sojourn in Arcadia, nor does Republican military history supply any evidence of campaigning in this country. Why then, the curious reader asks, does the Eclogue poet transport him there? To this question, Servius ventured a partial answer based on genre when he identified as the poem’s model the dying Daphnis of Theocritus’ first Idyll, with its procession of animals, country folk, and deities baffled by this fatal passion, as also shadowed in the Daphnis lament of Eclogue 5. But Daphnis is Sicilian, not Arcadian. Where attentive Nymphs had wept for Daphnis’ passing (Ecl. 5.23–5), in Eclogue 10.9–10 an absence of puellae Naiades indicates something amiss, as does the dumb spectatorship of the sheep (16: stant et oves circum) whom Servius calls bemused by Gallus’ love (ad 10.16: eius amorem stupentes). Likewise the procession of visitors whose sensibly well-taken reproaches directly address the folly of Gallus’ obsession, but perhaps also, by inference, the poetry that dwells on it. Nor is Gallus content to die passively as does Daphnis, but rather he gets his role wrong as expressed in a hybrid series of scenarii alternating between the gratification of his devotion and escape from it. He imagines successive and irrational changes of identity from life as an agricultural hand in the vineyard to center of feminine attention in a rustic idyll (10.35–41) that bears a strong resemblance to that of Corydon’s failed courtship song in Eclogue 2. Momentarily he threatens a virtual change of poetic identity through a transformation of genre (50–4): ibo et Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu carmina pastoris Siculi moderabor avena. certum est in silvis inter spelaea ferarum malle pati tenerisque meos incidere amores arboribus: crescent illae, crescetis amores.

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I will go and retune those songs that I couched in Chalcidician metrics to the rhythm of a Sicilian shepherd’s reed pipe. Surely it will be preferable to suffer in the forests among the haunts of wild beasts and to carve my love lines into tender trees. They will grow; you also, my love verses, will grow. Here, Servius gives a puzzling but intriguing answer when he claims to see an embedded segment of Gallus’ own verses (ad 10.46), but he provides no precise designation to mark out the extent of the quotation. But no matter whether such a poem attempting to merge elegy into pastoral ever was written, touches of humor soon reveal the Eclogue poet’s representation as a tease. A large part of its humor comes from the graphic imagining of a living Gallus as a fictive body situated within a landscape composed of literary references and persons. And yet, by contrast with the established pastoral identity of the Eclogue poet’s voice, this transformative fantasy reveals its own weakness as Gallus himself seems to acknowledge when he abruptly remembers his situation on Maenalus. Accordingly the landscape changes from a soft meadow into the familiar rugged Arcadian wild forest: an environment that is all about hunting, an occupation better suited to his own military talents than fluteplaying, although here also he cuts companion nymphs into the picture (10.55–60): interea mixtis lustrabo Maenala nymphis, aut acris venabor apros. Non me ulla vetabunt frigora Parthenios canibus circumdare saltus. Iam mihi per rupes videor lucosque sonantis ire, libet Partho torquere Cydonia cornu spicula – tamquam haec sit nostri medicina furoris. Meanwhile I will course around Maenalus in the company of the nymphs or I will hunt fierce boars. Nor will any cold prevent me from surrounding Parthenian marshes with dogs. Now I seem to go through cliffs and echoing groves; it’s a joy to twist the Cydonian javelin with its Parthian horn – just as if this may be an alleviation of my fury. David Ross has made out a convincing case that the derivation of this new Arcadian vision can be explained by the poet Gallus’ incorporation into his love elegies of the courtship of the Arcadian natives Atalanta and Milanion, as evidenced by Propertius’ appropriation of the exemplum as a programmatic link to distinguish his persona from that of his immediate predecessor.19 In this triangular poetic interrelationship Ross finds the explanation for the

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hunting motif in Gallus’ speech in Eclogue 10.55–60, less explicitly present in Propertius, although the elegist may well have borrowed from Gallus the Arcadian wild landscape with caverns, rocks, and shaggy beasts. That we find Milanion’s story not only in Propertius 1.1 but also in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria 2.185-96 does indicate a common source, and so Ross proposes Gallus as the first imaginary traveler to Arcadia.20 Although both Propertius’ and Ovid’s versions follow the same Arcadian story, that is, that a much-enduring Milanion wins over the resistant Atalanta by his deeds, the two differ conspicuously in detail even in their one common feature, Milanion’s wounding by the centaur Hylaeus. In Propertius he receives a blow from a club that leaves him groaning on the cliffs (1.1.13–14), whereas in Ovid the weapon is an arrow from the Centaur’s stretched bow (2.191). But the Propertian version, being less explicit, is the more romantic, for his Milianion comes, driven by something like elegiac love-madness, wandering amens in Parthenian caverns (1.1.11).21 Nor is there any precise explanation of the way in which Atalanta’s capitulation comes about, save with a vague intimation of force on the lover’s part (10: saevitiam durae contudit Iasidos; 15: potuit domuisse puellam) combined with more peaceful preces and bene facta (16). In the Ars Amatoria, however, dominatio reverses accustomed gender patterns as the lover acts out in a rather comic fashion the servitium amoris with the menial activity of bearing the hunting nets on his shoulders, a task that only a master’s slave would perform, although he seems actually and more companionably to have had the opportunity of also casting his spear himself (2.189–90). In spite of these differences, in both cases, Milanion’s courtship is notably successful. Both versions of the lover overcome resistance and thus their activity can serve as an exemplum. Or so Propertius intimates in framing his vignette with the complaint that for himself love is not proceeding by known ways (1.1.18)—as difficult as these in themselves will have been. Ovid on the other hand uses his exemplum for humorous contrast as he notes that a lover need not go to such athletic extremes (2.193–6): non te Maenalias armatum scandere silvas nec iubeo collo retia ferre tuo pectora nec missis iubeo praebere sagittis artis erunt cautae mollia iussa meae. I am not bidding you to climb Maenalian forests in armor, nor to carry hunting nets on your neck, nor do I command you to expose your chest to shot arrows. The orders of my circumspect art will be gentle. Given these pronounced differences, it seems unlikely that Propertius’ version inspired Ovid, but rather that the two bounced off Gallus as a common

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source. As for where Gallus himself derived the story, Ross gives the plausible explanation that he had found it, along with many others, among the now lost poetry of Parthenius, whose Erotika Pathemata are in fact dedicated to the Roman poet with the expressed hope that they will be useful in his poems.22 And should this be the case, it might be Parthenius that was the source for Ovid’s configuration of the myth. As for the landscape, although merely shadowed in the features surrounding Milanion’s adventure, it is, all the same, the rocky, rough forbidding world of Polybius. But whatever success Gallus’ Milanion might have realized in the caverns of Arcadia, the poet himself hardly enjoys a steady success in love. Vergil may have chosen the rocky landscape of Arcadia as a reflection of Gallus’ emotional struggle. It is indeed the vision of Vergil’s deluded Gallus that has captured the imagination. Gallus may have sought out Arcadia as a refuge for his heartbreak, but he has learned that travel to a place so distant from, yet connected to, Rome cannot soften the loss he has suffered at home.

A further chapter Arcadia can, however, be a place for love. The outcome of Atalanta’s courtship is Parthenopaeus, whom we meet a century later as one of the Argive champions within the epic context of Statius’ Theban War, and who thus becomes one more person who travels away from the Arcadian wilderness.23 As he had earlier figured in Aeschylus’ Septem, Parthenopaeus is a native Arcadian son of a mountain mother, although an image on his shield as described in Statius might indicate that his mother was the Atalanta who had bested the Calydonian boar, which might make his father Meleager instead of Milanion (Theb. 4.267–8). No mention of a father appears in Statius’ Arcadian forest where Atalanta has reared her son as the sole parent with the approbation of Diana, who has gifted the young man with his arrows and quiver (4.257–9). But once word of war reaches Arcadia, its confines become too restrictive for his youthful ambitions and impulses (4.260–4): prosilit audaci Martis percussus amore, arma, tubas audire calens et pulvere belli flaventem sordere comam captoque referri hostis equo: taedet nemorum, titulumque nocentem sanguinis humani pudor est nescire sagittas. Forth he leaps, struck by a daring love of Mars on fire for weapons and the noise of trumpets and soiling his golden hair with the dust of battle and returning on a captured horse. He becomes impatient of groves and it is a disgrace for his arrows to lack the harmful distinction of human blood.

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All the same, as Statius intimates, these very impulses indicate naiveté,24 as his mother remonstrates once she has learned of his intentions. Immediately she springs into action summoning her legendary attribute of speed as she moves swifter than the wind over rocks and across rivers like a tigress tracking stolen cubs (4.312–16). Whatever had been the details and conduct of Atalanta’s courtship, her feminine identity emerges in her sentiments as a mother resisting the endangerment of her son. The boy, as she calls him (4.330), seems somewhat younger, perhaps, and in his youthful enthusiasm more sympathetic than the personage halfway between man and boy whom the hostile messenger in Aeschylus’ Septem describes as “savage” in contradiction of his maidenly name (536–7). But the intervention of Atalanta appears as Statius’ own embellishment of the story. Her emotional investment and unfamiliar soft side make the demise of Parthenopaeus, despite the gesture of filial disobedience, the one instance of unalloyed pathos in the deaths of Greek champions, contrasting with the majestic descent of Amphiaraus into Hades or the grisly cannibal death of Tydeus. Mourning women are a motif of the Thebaid, so conspicuously that this price of war might even appear as the primary theme of the epic. Yet Atalanta’s grief stands apart, not only because of her masculine nature but also through the engagement of divine elements in the form of Diana, whose presence stands in for Atalanta on the fatal battlefield, and who is no less emotionally engaged, and suffers the frustration of powerlessness against fate. In the line of mythological chronology all this occurs centuries before the exile of Evander, nor is there any reference to the Roman connection in Statius’ narrative, which nonetheless makes use of the traditions. The everpresent cold Lycaeus (250) and Maenalus (256) are invoked and the troops Parthenopaeus leads into battle are descended from the people before the moon (4.275–281): Arcades huic veteres astris lunaque priores agmina fida datis, nemorum quos stirpe rigenti fama satos, cum prima pedum vestigia tellus admirata tulit; nondum arva domusque nec urbes, conubiisve modus; quercus laurique ferebant cruda puerperia, ac populos umbrosa creavit fraxinus, et feta viridis puer excidit orno. With him are old Arcadians, a race born before moon and stars, faithful battle lines, whom legend brings forth from the stiff bark of the groves when an amazed earth first bore the print of footsteps. Not yet were fields measured, and neither houses nor cities, nor matrimonial customs. Oak and laurel bore rough childbearing. The shady beech created a population and the green child came forth from the fertile ash.

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Following a catalogue of the districts depopulated by Parthenius’ recruitment efforts, Statius adds an element of visual detail to unite these troops with their leader through a disorder of weapons and attire (4.299–304): Arcades hi, gens una viris, sed dissona cultu scinditur: hi Paphias myrtos a stirpe recurvant et pastorali meditantur proelia trunco, his arcus, his tela sudes, his cassida crinis, integit, Arcadii morem tenet ille galeri ille Lycaoniae rictu caput asperat ursae. Arcades these, one people but divided by diverse culture. These have bent Paphian myrtle from its stalk and propose to do battle with a shepherd’s staff. These have a bow; these burnt stakes for weapons. Some have cased their hair in helmets; that head keeps the custom of the Arcadian cap and that head bristles with the grinning jaw of the Lycaonian bear. Their makeshift adaptation of weapons from nature bespeaks their descent from primitive origins and suggests a naïve lack of experience equivalent to that of Parthenopaeus as their leader, while the catalogue ends with a headpiece that perpetuates the transformed face of Callisto as ancestress of the race.

Conclusion These diverse versions of a literary Arcadia, deriving from several strains of Arcadian mythology, have in common one point that constitutes its mental geography: that the home country of Polybius is no golden paradise of Roman escapism, but rather a land of challenges more in keeping with the ideal of the Roman character, from the virtuous poverty of exiled Evander to Milanion’s combats with aggressive centaurs to Parthenopaeus’ restless craving for military action. Its women, such as they are, Callisto and Atalanta, are huntress devotees of Diana; its landscape, always centered about Mt. Maenalus, can be marked by rugged cliffs and by caverns. As a nationality or an ethnicity originating before the moon and stars and a progeny dropping from trees, its anthropological fantasy is analogous to the legends of pre-Saturnian Rome. Even Vergil’s Gallus does appear to capture a sense of the real Arcadia when he turns from love-sickness to hunting—one furor expelling another, although this new pastime likewise does not hold him for long. But the sum of this survey may give us to understand that Arcadia needs by no means be ideal or Utopian to exercise its hold on Roman imagination. The journey that these

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writers take to and from the image of Arcadia reflects the struggle within the late republican, Augustan, and Flavian worlds, worlds both new and unfamiliar, yet focused on invoking the values and character of Rome’s past.

Notes 1 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Accademia_degli_Arcadi 2 In his Italian Journey, Goethe gives an account of the meetings and their content, noting that, since the members were “ecclesiastics and other men of dignity,” both their poetry and their activities at the Accademia necessarily excluded “the Amor of the Roman triumvirs” (1982: 19; trans. Auden and Mayer). 3 Panofsky 1936. See also esp. Snell 1953: 281–310; Leach 1978; Kennedy 1987; Jenkyns 1989; Connolly 2001; Papaioannou 2013. 4 On geopoetics, see the Introduction and Newlands in this volume. 5 For Polybius’ Arcadian origins: Suda Ψ 1941; Walbank 1970, 1 ff. 6 According to Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom 1.31.2, Evander was hospitably received by Faunus, a descendant of Mars, and granted a gift of land. 7 Serv. ad Aen. 8.51 cites several possible derivations for the name of the Palatine, most associated with Arcadia: 1) Evander’s own grandfather, and thus the ancestor of peoples from Pallentia; 2) a daughter of Evander raped by Hercules and buried by him in situ; 3) Evander’s son, the same whom Turnus killed in combat; 4) from balatus, the bleating of sheep, with the original name being Ballanteum. 8 If Evander was, as Servius alleges, exiled for killing his father (ad Aen. 8.51, 333), this would scarcely fit Vergil’s very positive picture of his character, though it resonates with Romulus’ foundational fratricide. The Carmenta of Ovid’s version consoles her son with assertions of his innocence (Fast. 1.480–6), while Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.3.2 attributes the exile to internal sedition in Arcadia wherein Evander’s faction was defeated and fled. 9 On huts: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.79.11 (“One of these, called the hut of Romulus, remained even to my day on the flank of the hill which faces toward the Circus and it is preserved holy by those who have charge of these matters”); Vitruvius 2.1.4 (“The hut of Romulus on the Capitoline is a significant reminder of old times”). Although this memento of the first ruler is discussed with special veneration, archaeology reveals that it was only one among many presumably similar structures in communities throughout early Latium (Smith 1996: 35–100). Moreover, while a single hut had long been considered as the dwellings of a nuclear family, Colantoni 2012: 31–2 uses an anthropological model to propose that a single-family unit may have utilized several contiguous structures. Now see also Wiseman 2019: 84–7. 10 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.33.1–5 attributes this civilizing function to the Arcadians themselves, making them the builders of temples of Greek design, teachers of music, and givers of law, all of which transform the native dwellers from bestiality. 11 Note the similar tone of Livy’s praefatio 9 about the decline of Rome from a place of discipline to a culture of vice. 12 The tradition of the Arcadians as προσέληνοι is already reflected in Aristotle (fr. 591). 13 As in Cic. Phil. 2.34: O praeclaram illam eloquentiam tuam, cum es nudus contionatus (“O that famous eloquence of yours, when you in the nude delivered a speech”).

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14 According to Livy (1.5), it was during the celebration of the Lupercalia that Remus was abducted by the Alban ruler Amulius, thus further linking Rome’s foundation with Arcadian origins. 15 Additionally, in Pausanias 8.9.3–4, we find mention of the preservation of Arcas’ bones as part of an ancestor cult. 16 In his short chapter “Uncertainties,” Kenney 1982: 297–300 notes the complexities and experimentalism of both politics and literature during these years. As one of the reviewers points out, although there is good reason to associate Gallus’ elegies with the mid to late 40s BCE, the beginning and end dates of his poetic career are uncertain; see the summary of the evidence in Lightfoot 1999: 215–17. 17 Cf. Cic. Phil. 2.58 where Antony is scarcely on Alpine campaign but rather riding about Rome sprawled in a litter in the company of a mime actress whom he calls by Volumnia, her given Roman name. 18 As, for example, ad Ecl. 2.1, where Corydon’s elusive beloved might be Julius Caesar or else some puer Caesaris. In Eclogue 10 Servius devotes his entire introductory note to the affairs of Gallus and Antony (ad Ecl. 10.1): hic autem Gallus amavit Cytheroidem meretricem, libertam Volumnii quae eo spreto, Antonium euntem ad Gallias est secuta. 19 Ross 1975: 88–91, building on Skutsch 1901: 2-27, 1906: 155–92. 20 Ross 1975: 61–5, further supported by Rosen & Farrell 1986. 21 As a reviewer notes, as in Ecl. 10, in elegiac contexts Arcadia becomes associated with lovers’ journeys. 22 Ross 1975: 63 n.5. 23 On Statius, see also Newlands in this volume. 24 See Vessey 1973: 201, 299–302.

Works cited Colantoni, E. 2012. “Straw to Stone: Huts to Houses: Transitions in Building Practices and Society in Protohistoric Latium.” In M. Thomas & G. Myers, eds. Monumentality in Etruscan and Early Architecture: Ideology and Innovation. Austin (University of Texas Press), 21–40. Connolly, J. 2001. “Picture Arcadia: The Politics of Representation in Vergil’s Eclogues.” Vergilius 47: 89–116. Courtney, E. 1993. The Fragmentary Latin Poets. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Goethe, J. W. von. 1982. Italian Journey (1786-1788). W. H. Auden & E. Mayer, trans. San Francisco (North Point Press). Jenkyns, R. 1989. “Virgil and Arcadia.” JRS 79: 26–39. Kennedy, D. 1987. “Arcades Ambo: Vergil, Gallus, Arcadia.” Hermathena 143: 47–59. Kenney, E. J. 1982. “Uncertainties.” In E. J. Kenney & W. V. Clausen, eds. Cambridge History of Classical Literature: Volume II: Latin Literature. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 297–300. Leach, E. W. 1978. “Parthenian Caverns: Remapping of an Imaginative Territory” Journal of the History of Ideas 39: 539–60. Lightfoot, J. L. 1999. Parthenius of Nicaea: The Poetical Fragments and the Erotika Pathemata. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Panofsky, E. 1936. “Et in Arcadia ego: On the concept of Transience in Poussin and Watteau.” In R. Klibansky & H. J. Paton, eds. Philosophy and History: Essays presented to Ernst Cassirer. Oxford (Clarendon Press), 223–54.

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Papaioannou, S. 2013. “Embracing Vergil’s ‘Arcadia’: Constructions and Representations of a Literary Topos in the Poetry of the Augustans.” AAntHung 53: 145–70. Rosen, R. M. & J. Farrell 1986. “Acontius, Milanion, and Gallus: Vergil, Ecl. 10.51–61.” TAPA 116: 241–54. Ross, D. 1975. Backgrounds to Augustan Poetry: Gallus, Elegy and Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Skutsch, F. 1901. Aus Vergils Frühzeit. Leipzig (B. G. Teubner). Skutsch, F. 1906. Gallus und Vergil. Leipzig (B. G. Teubner). Smith, C. 1996. Early Rome and Latium: Economy and Society. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Snell, B. 1953. The Discovery of the Mind: The Greek Origins of European Thought. Oxford (Blackwell). Vessey, D. 1973. Statius & The Thebaid. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Walbank, F. W. 1970. A Historical Commentary on Polybius. Vol. 1. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Wiseman, T. P. 2019. The House of Augustus: A Historical Detective Story. Princeton (Princeton University Press).

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Women’s travels in Latin elegy* Alison Keith

The Latin elegiac poets, from Gallus to Ovid, represent themselves as cosmopolitan citizens of Rome and her empire. By preference, they base themselves in Rome.1 Thus, Propertius declines to accompany his patron Tullus to Lydia because he prosecutes his all-consuming love affair in Rome (Prop. 1.6.1-6; cf. Prop. 1.8.31-2) and Ovid openly celebrates the choice of women available to the would-be lover in the great city (Ars 1.55-6). Tibullus too implies the importance of the urban center to the urbane poetry of love elegy in his self-exhortation to abandon the city for the country after his mistress relocates to a rural villa (2.3.1-4). Even Gallus (fr. 145.2-5 Hollis) implies a desire to be in Rome, in the prettily turned compliment he makes to Caesar that he will admire the imperial city’s temples enriched by his war booty. This is not to deny that the elegists have wide-ranging experience of travel around the Mediterranean, however. Scholars have reconstructed Gallus’ travels in Egypt on military service for Octavian from 30 to 27 BCE,2 and Vergil consistently represents his friend as a traveling man, though in Bucolics 6 and 10 his itinerary is literary, rather than literal. Bucolics 6 (vv. 64-7) sets Gallus at the base of Mt. Helicon by the Boeotian river Permessus, a poetic landscape that recalls Hesiod’s initiation there by the Muses in the Theogony (22-35) and Callimachus’ dream vision of such a meeting (Aetia frr. 2-2j Harder), while Bucolics 10 (vv. 11-15) relocates the elegist from the Boeotian spring of Aganippe (Callimachus’ “daughter of Boeotian Permessus,” Aetia fr. 2) to Arcadia, and the mountains of Maenalus and Lycaeus.3 The Tibullan elegiac speaker also explicitly represents himself as a military adventurer, who followed Octavian’s general Messalla on military service, making it as far as Corcyra (Tib. 1.3.1-4, 55-6)

* My thanks to Erika Zimmermann Damer and Micah Myers for their organization of the 2014 SCS panel from which this volume arises, and to Sarah Blake and Sarah McCallum for stimulating discussion of Latin elegy and Roman women over many years. I am also grateful to Georgia Ferentinou for her editorial assistance with the chapter. All remaining errors are my own.

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and perhaps Aquitania (Suet. Tib.; cf. Tib. 1.7.9).4 Although the Propertian poet-lover declines to accompany his friend Tullus to the east in elegy 1.6, he plans a journey to Athens and other famous Greek cities in elegy 3.21 in order to commemorate his renunciation of the elegiac love affair with Cynthia (1-2, 15-24). Even the Ovidian amator, who does not travel so far afield in the Amores, is represented as traveling about Italy, with Amores 2.16 set in Sulmo (1-2) and Amores 3.13 in Falerii (1-2). These journeys, however, represent unhappy separations from their mistresses for the elegiac poet-lovers, who prefer to remain in the imperial metropolis in order to indulge in their love affairs (e.g., Prop. 1.7-9; Tib. 1.2; Ov. Am. 1.4) and the concomitant production of amatory verse for circulation to friends both at home (e.g., Gallus fr. 145.6-9 Hollis; Prop. 1.4, 7, 9) and abroad, in Rome’s far-flung dominions (e.g., Prop. 3.22; Tib. 1.3). In this context, the potential mobility of the elegists’ mistresses constitutes a threat both to the elegiac love affair, as Sara Lindheim and Grant Parker have shown,5 and to the elegiac writing project, as Maria Wyke has shown.6 This paper explores the elegists’ depiction of women’s journeys within Roman territories and analyzes their travels in the context of erotic and imperial economies that give evidence of both female agency and military contingency. We will consider both the literary and epigraphic evidence for the circulation of elegiac puellae and the trafficked historical enslaved and freedwomen evoked by love elegy.7 We may begin with Propertius’ elegy 1.8, in which the poet-lover laments his mistress’ threatened departure for Illyria (1.8.1-8):8 Tune igitur demens, nec te mea cura moratur? an tibi sum gelida vilior Illyria? et tibi iam tanti, quicumque est, iste videtur, ut sine me vento quolibet ire velis? tune audire potes vesani murmura ponti fortis, et in dura nave iacere potes? tu pedibus teneris positas fulcire pruinas, tu potes insolitas, Cynthia, ferre nives? Are you mad, then, and does no concern for me delay you? Or am I worth less to you than icy Illyria? And does that fellow of yours, whoever he is, seem worth so much to you, that you would willingly go wherever the wind blows, without me? Will you be able to listen to the swell of the raging sea with courage, and lie in the hard berth of a ship? Will you be able to support settled hoarfrost with your tender feet, Cynthia, and endure the unaccustomed snow? The Propertian speaker worries that his mistress may decide to follow a rival to Illyria rather than remain in Rome with him. The elegy opens with a strongly drawn contrast between “epic” and “elegiac”: the epic foreign

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 83 landscape of frigid Illyria, to which the elegist’s rival (apparently a military man, possibly a Roman official, to anticipate the Illyrian praetor of elegy 2.16; certainly an epic character) is going by “harsh” ship over the raging “sea” (more epic metaphors); while at the same time the poem presents the elegiac mistress’ dainty, not to say elegiac, figure in the form of her “tender” feet. This programmatically charged language points up the disjunction between the exquisite elegiac beloved, who, like other luxury products of empire, belongs in the wealthy imperial capital, and the hardy Roman administrator, whose “epic” labors on the militarized periphery contribute to the influx of riches to the center.9 Later in the poem, the speaker celebrates her decision to remain with him at Rome in equally programmatically charged language (1.8.29-32): falsa licet cupidus deponat gaudia Livor: destitit ire novas Cynthia nostra vias. illi carus ego et per me carissima Roma dicitur, et sine me dulcia regna negat. Let greedy Envy lay aside false joys: our Cynthia has ceased to embark on new paths. She says I’m dear and because of me Rome is dearest and she denies that kingdoms are sweet without me. Here the “elegiac” language of love and poverty (in bold) seems to trump the “epic” language of grandeur and wealth (italicized). Yet there are some unsettling conjunctions of the two generic lexica. Epic regna, for example, receive the elegiac epithet dulcia (1.8.32), while Cynthia refuses to set out on the “new paths” (1.8.30) associated by Callimachus with elegy in the Aetia prologue (Aet. fr. 1.25-8 M). Of course, those new paths could lead her out of Rome and hence out of Propertian elegy—a tension between elegiac convention and imperial mobility that we will see recurs throughout the genre. Cynthia may already be following in the footsteps of an earlier elegiac mistress at the outset of 1.8. For the scenario recalls the model of Gallus, whom Vergil represents in despair after his faithless mistress Lycoris has abandoned him for a rival lover-soldier whom she has followed to the ends of the empire on campaign (Buc. 10.46-9). Servius (ad Buc. 10.46) famously attributes these lines to Gallus and, as they are full of the same programmatic elegiac language that pervades Propertius’ elegy 1.8, scholars have generally accepted this testimony.10 Vergil thus apparently quotes Gallus in his description of an elegiac puella who has abandoned elegy and crossed into the territory of hexameter epic where, far from Rome, she scales the snowy Alps to witness the frigid Rhine, braving cold and ice to do so (Buc. 10.47-8): Alpinas, a! dura nives et frigora Rheni | me sine sola vides. (“Alpine snow—alas!—and the harsh cold of the Rhine you will see alone without me.”) As Cynthia proposes to do in Propertius 1.8, moreover, Lycoris has followed a new lover who is clearly a military man (Buc. 10.21-3): venit Apollo:| ‘Galle, quid insanis?’ inquit. ‘tua cura

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Lycoris | perque nives alium perque horrida castra secuta est. (“Apollo came: ‘Gallus, why are you raving?’ he asked. ‘Your girlfriend Lycoris has followed another through snow and camps of shuddering cold’.”) The faithless Lycoris thereby enters the epic world of rough soldiers and frigid landscapes, and thus blazes the trail for her elegiac sisters in later Latin amatory verse. This glimpse of Lycoris’ travels is all we have from Gallus, and it is so thoroughly mediated by Vergil (and Propertius) that there is little more we can say about the elegiac mistress’ travels in Gallan elegy.11 But there is much more to say about Cynthia and her desire to travel, even though she does not ultimately go to Illyria in Propertius 1.8. For Propertius elsewhere represents her as remaining very interested in travel—not only her own, but also in that of a rival lover. Located in Rome when we first meet her, Cynthia travels to the fashionable resort town of Baiae in elegy 1.11 (1.11.1-8): Ecquid te mediis cessantem, Cynthia, Bais, quae iacet Herculeis semita litoribus, et modo Thesproti mirantem subdita regno proxima Misenis aequora nobilibus, nostri cura subit memores a! ducere noctes? ecquis in extremo restat amore locus? an te nescio quis simulatis ignibus hostis sustulit e nostris, Cynthia, carminibus? While you linger amid the pleasures of Baiae, which lies along the shore that Hercules made, Cynthia, and admire how the sea near renowned Misenum has now been added to Thesprotus’ realm—do you think of me? Do you lie awake at night remembering me? Does any place remain on the edge of your affection? Or has some enemy stolen you from our verses, Cynthia, with his feigned love? There the poet-lover depicts her lingering (cessantem, 1.11.1) in a landscape characterized by epic toponyms (Hercules’ shores, 1.11.2; Thesprotus’ kingdom, 1.11.3; the sea neighboring Misenum, 1.11.4). No wonder he worries that he will retain no place in her affections (6)! He suspects that a rival, characterized as an epic hostis, there undermines her loyalty to him, tempting her away from his elegiac verse (1.11.7-8). Thus he begs her to return to Rome at the end of the poem, lest she succumb to the corruption of Baiae and sunder their relationship (1.11.27-30):12 tu modo quam primum corruptas desere Baias: multis ista dabunt litora discidium, litora quae fuerant castis inimica puellis: a pereant Baiae, crimen Amoris, aquae!

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 85 Only, as soon as possible, leave corrupt Baiae! Those shores will give many a divorce—shores, which had been hostile to chaste girls: ah may Baiae’s waters, Love’s crime, fail! In the following poem, Propertius offers a further reflection on the consequences of the elegiac mistress’ absence from Rome (1.12.3-6, 11-12): tam multa illa meo divisa est milia lecto, quantum Hypanis Veneto dissidet Eridano; nec mihi consuetos amplexu nutrit amores Cynthia, nec nostra dulcis in aure sonat... non sum ego qui fueram: mutat via longa puellas. quantus in exiguo tempore fugit amor! She has been parted from my bed by so many miles, as many as separate the Hypanis from the Venetian Po. Nor does Cynthia nourish our accustomed love with her embrace, nor does she sound sweetly in my ear… I am not who I had been: a long journey changes girls; how great a love has fled in a short time! To the lover, his mistress’ decision to leave Rome (she is presumably still in Baiae) renders her as unattainable as if they were as far apart as the river Hypanis (the modern Bug), which flows into the Black Sea, is distant from the Po in northern Italy. Sara Lindheim has well discussed the spatial, indeed imperial, politics that enter Propertius’ poetry through his engagement of exotic geographic toponyms here.13 We may note, in addition, that if the poet has figured his separation from his mistress in generic terms in the previous poem—as that of an epic rupture of elegiac amatory conventions—here he figures their spatial rupture intertextually, in elegiac terms, with a nod in verse 4 to Gallus’ description of the Scythian river Hypanis (Gallus fr. 144 Hollis, uno tellures dividit amne duas), which “divides two lands with its single stream” (Hollis 2007: 240-1). The poet follows Gallus in his use of a verb of separation (dissidet ~ dividit), and retains (with variatio) the preciosity of Gallus’ word order, closing each of the pentameter’s hemiepes with an exotic river-name. The elegy’s narrator is transformed as much as Cynthia by her travel since, removed from his embrace, she no longer supports his role as either lover or poet (1.12.11): non sum ego qui fueram; mutat via longa puellas. (“I am not who I had been; a long journey changes girls.”) In the first collection then, Propertius depicts the elegiac mistress as an amatory agent whose choice between rival lovers entails a choice between a life of luxury at Rome with the poet-lover and an active life of travel around Rome’s Mediterranean empire in the company of his rivals.14 Like the poetlover, she is associated particularly closely with Rome, as we can see in a variety of passages from all the books. Thus the Propertian speaker opens

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elegy 1.6, as we have seen, with the refusal to leave Rome because that is the location of his mistress, and he opens elegy 2.5 with reproaches about her dissolute life in the capital (Prop. 2.5.1-2): Hoc verum est, tota te ferri, Cynthia, Roma, | et non ignota vivere nequitia? (“Is this true, Cynthia, that you are talked about throughout Rome and live in your familiar dissolute idleness?”) His comparison of Cynthia to a series of Greek courtesans at the opening of elegy 2.6 (vv. 1-6) assimilates her to those well-traveled women of Greek history (and literary legend), and implies her rehearsal at Rome of their exotic lifestyle, though there is apparently no longer any question of her travel to Illyria when the praetor of elegy 2.16 appears on the scene (2.16.1-4, 7-10).15 In the second collection, Cynthia demonstrates her continuing independence from the lover-poet in the decision to take a trip to the countryside (2.19.1-10): Etsi me invito discedis, Cynthia, Roma, laetor quod sine me devia rura coles. nullus erit castis iuvenis corruptor in agris, qui te blanditiis non sinat esse probam; nulla neque ante tuas orietur rixa fenestras, nec tibi clamatae somnus amarus erit. sola eris et solos spectabis, Cynthia, montis et pecus et finis pauperis agricolae. illic te nulli poterunt corrumpere ludi fanaque, peccatis plurima causa tuis.

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Though you leave Rome against my will, Cynthia, I’m glad that you’ll inhabit the pathless countryside without me. There will be no youthful seducer in the chaste fields to lure you from probity with flattery; nor will any quarrel arise before your windows, nor will your sleep be broken by entreaties from the street. You’ll be alone, Cynthia, and see the lonely mountains, the flocks, and fields of a poor farmer. There no games and shrines, the most common cause of your misbehavior, will be able to corrupt you. The Propertian speaker applauds Cynthia’s decision, though she leaves against his wishes, on the grounds that there will be no rival to corrupt her in the countryside. Scholars have interpreted Cynthia’s new interest in the countryside as reflecting a new interest on Propertius’ part in the rustic settings of Tibullus’ first book of elegies, for his mistress’ decision to “cultivate the pathless countryside” (devia rura coles, 2.19.2) echoes Tibullus’ fantasy of an idealized life with his mistress in the countryside (Tib. 1.5.21): rura colam, frugumque aderit mea Delia custos (“I will cultivate the countryside and my Delia will be there, guardian of the crops.”)16 Elsewhere in his second collection, Propertius represents Cynthia as having the potential to leave Rome in the company of other men, if not to go

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 87 to Illyria on the margins of empire, then to go to Lanuvium and other old Italian towns at the heart of the Latin world. Thus in elegy 2.32, he berates his mistress for her trips to nearby Praeneste, Tusculum, Tibur, Lanuvium on the Appian Way, and even Nemi (2.32.3-10):17 nam quid Praenesti dubias, o Cynthia, sortis, quid petis Aeaei moenia Telegoni? cur ita te Herculeum deportant esseda Tibur? Appia cur totiens te via Lanuvium? hoc utinam spatiere loco, quodcumque vacabis, Cynthia! sed tibi me credere turba vetat, cum videt accensis devotam currere taedis in nemus et Triviae lumina ferre deae. For why do you seek riddling oracles at Praeneste, Cynthia, or the walls of Circe’s son Telegonus at Tusculum? Why do war chariots carry you down to Herculean Tibur? Why does the Appian Way carry you so often to Lanuvium? I wish you would stroll here in Rome, whenever you will be at your leisure, Cynthia! But the crowd forbids me to feel sure of you, when they see you run into the grove of Nemi and, bound by your vow, carry the brands of Diana with their torches lit. The poet-lover suspects the purity of Cynthia’s motives for these trips out of Rome, since it is implied that a throng (turba, 8)—of admirers?— accompanies her. His suspicions are amply justified, moreover, in the miseen-scène of elegy 4.8, where she is represented (retrospectively) on a visit to Lanuvium to see the shrine of Juno (Prop. 4.8.3, 15-26):18 Lanuvium annosi vetus est tutela draconis…. huc mea detonsis avecta est Cynthia mannis causa fuit Iuno, sed mage causa Venus. Appia, dic quaeso, quantum te teste triumphum egerit effusis per tua saxa rotis, turpis in arcana sonuit cum rixa taberna, si sine me, famae non sine labe meae! spectaclum ipsa sedens primo temone pependit, ausa per impuros frena movere iocos. serica nam taceo vulsi carpenta nepotis atque armillatos colla Molossa canis, qui dabit immundae venalia fata saginae, vincet ubi erasas barba pudenda genas.

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Ancient Lanuvium offers protection to an aged serpent.… There my Cynthia was conveyed on clipped Celtic ponies: the ostensible reason

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Alison Keith was Juno, but Venus was the real reason. Appian Way, please report—you were witness—how great a triumph she had over your rocks with her wheels careering, when a shameful quarrel resounded in a secret tavern, if without me, not without a stain to my reputation! She herself, a show to watch, sat hanging over the furthest end of the yokepole, audaciously wielding the reins, with filthy jokes. For I keep silent about the plucked profligate’s carriage with silk curtains and his Molossian dogs, wearing ornamental collars on their necks. He will sell his destiny for the foul food of gladiators when a shameful beard will cover his shaved cheeks.

Vituperative invective colors the speaker’s description of Cynthia’s male companion as a ‘plucked profligate’ (4.8.23), who pampers even his Molossian hounds with fancy gear (4.8.25). The same rhetorical strategy, employed to discredit the amatory speaker’s rival, is on display in elegy 2.16 (vv. 27-8): barbarus excussis agitat vestigia lumbis | et subito felix nunc mea regna tenet! (“The barbarian plies his steps, jerking his loins out and, suddenly rich, he now holds my kingdom!”) The second collection as a whole thus exhibits a narrative progression from the poet-lover’s literary and amatory success to an increasing disillusionment with the elegiac mistress/ book, “Cynthia.” For with the diffusion of Propertius’ literary fame comes the promiscuity of his girlfriend, figured in her travels near and far.19 No longer incomparable and exquisite, she can be represented as sullied by contact not only with her admirers but also with his readers, who are her admirers as much as his. Propertius thereby literalizes the trope that figures the publication of elegiac poetry as his mistress’ sexual circulation among men.20 But we can also gauge the financial wherewithal of the Propertian elegiac mistress, not only from her ability to command the means to travel, but also from her ability to exercise the choice to do so. As we have seen, Gallus’ Lycoris also seems to have enjoyed the financial and legal freedom to travel, following his rival over the Alps to war in Gaul. Ovid too represents his mistress Corinna as enjoying this freedom to travel in Amores 2.11, a propemptikon occasioned by her apparently imminent departure from Rome on a sea voyage (2.11.5-8): o utinam, ne quis remo freta longa moveret, Argo funestas pressa bibisset aquas! ecce fugit notumque torum sociosque Penates fallacesque vias ire Corinna parat. I wish that the Argo, overwhelmed, had drunk the deadly waters, so that none might move the long straits with an oar! Look! Fleeing a known bed and allied household gods, Corinna prepares to embark on deceptive travels.

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 89 Although Ovid nowhere specifies her destination or even hints that she will enjoy rival male companionship on the trip, McKeown (1987–1998, 3.234 ad loc.) has rightly commented that the phrase notum torum (7) “hints at the possibility of a rival,” while the application of the epithet fallaces to vias (8), “also seems to suggest Corinna’s unfaithfulness.” In figuring her as unfaithful in her travel plans, Ovid symbolically encodes deception into the networks of Roman imperialism. Moreover, the opening couplet of the following poem (2.12.1-2: ite triumphales circum mea tempora laurus! | vicimus: in nostro est ecce Corinna sinu [“Surround my temples, triumphal bay leaves! We have won: look, Corinna is in my embrace”]) implies the poetlover’s successful dissuasion of his mistress from the threatened rupture, in its continuing reminiscences of the movement of Propertius’ elegy 1.8.21 Normally a triumph requires military success abroad, but Ovid inverts the trope and triumphs at home because she has stayed in Rome and foresworn her travel plans.22 The Tibullan poet-lover likewise depicts his mistresses traveling outside of Rome—Delia to the countryside (if only in fantasy) in elegy 1.5.19-36, and Nemesis to a rural villa in elegy 2.3 (vv. 1-4, 67-74). In striking contrast to the traveling mistresses of Gallus, Propertius, and Ovid, however, the Tibullan speaker does not call his mistresses’ sexual fidelity into question by their travels outside of the city, but rather in connection with their mobility within the city itself, as they move around the city from assignation to assignation. Thus elsewhere in elegy 2.3, reflecting on Nemesis’ love of expensive luxury products, he represents her promenading through the city in luxurious style and all too available to a rival lover (2.3.53-64, discussed below), while in elegy 1.6, he regrets having taught Delia how to slip past her guard (1.6.9-12) and instructs her vir (1.6.17-22) not to let her flirt with other youths or attend the rites of Bona Dea, which men were forbidden to see. Like the elegists’ mistresses, their female relatives and slaves also seem to move freely around the city of Rome, often engaged in the logistics of amatory assignation, as we see in Ovid’s paired poems Amores 1.11-12 and 2.7-8.23 Likewise in Tibullan elegy, the speaker recalls the help he received from Delia’s mother, who led his mistress to him through the shadows and kept watch by night for him (Tib. 1.6.59-62): haec mihi te adducit tenebris multoque timore coniungit nostras clam taciturna manus. haec foribusque manet noctu me affixa proculque cognoscit strepitus me veniente pedum. In the dark she leads you to me and though terrified stealthily with no word spoken joins our hands. Pressed to the door at night, she listens, waiting for me— can recognize, far off, approaching steps as mine.

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But the sexual availability of the puella attended only by her lena (in this case her mother) often invited violence, as the Tibullan poet-lover intimates in his report of the oracles of Bellona’s priestess immediately preceding these lines (1.6.51-5): “parcite quam custodit Amor violare puellam, ne pigeat magno post tetigisse malo. attigerit, labentur opes, ut vulnere nostro sanguis, ut hic ventis diripiturque cinis.” Et tibi nescio quas dixit, mea Delia, poenas; “See you do no violence to the girl whom Love protects, lest you repent of touching her to your great evil after. If any man should touch her, his wealth shall flow away As blood flows from my wounds and wind scatters this ash.” She also spoke of punishments for you, my Delia… The Tibullan poet-lover prays for Delia’s safety as she circulates through the dark and dangerous city, but violence was endemic in the prosecution of an illicit sexual affair (McGinn 2004: 86-92), and occasionally explicit constraints on elegiac ancillae appear even in the poets’ amatory verse as, for example, when the elegists themselves threaten their mistresses’ lenae (Tib. 2.6.44-8, 53-4; cf. Ov. Am. 1.8; Prop. 4.5). In a slave economy such threats, along with violent reprisals, must be expected (cf., e.g., Ov. Am. 2.7.21-2). But elegy also hints at the darker picture of sexual trafficking and women’s forced mobility as a result of enslavement.24 Ovid reassures his readers in Ars 1 that Rome provides an abundance of foreign women from whom to choose a mistress (Ars 1.173-6):25 nempe ab utroque mari iuvenes, ab utroque puellae venere, atque ingens orbis in Vrbe fuit. quis non invenit turba, quod amaret, in illa? eheu, quam multos advena torsit amor! Surely youths and maidens came from either sea, and the whole huge world was in the City. Who did not find something to love in that crowd? Alas, how many men did a foreign love overthrow! We may well wonder how all these women reached the imperial metropolis. Thomas McGinn has collected ample evidence of the importation of female slaves from the eastern empire, and he has also noted the widespread sexual availability of both enslaved and freedwomen to elite Roman men.26 Roman inscriptional evidence, moreover, attests to the presence of enslaved women and libertae in Italy with the Greek names ascribed by the Roman elegists to their mistresses.27 Indeed, despite Apuleius’ identification of the elegists’ mistresses as elite Roman women, their Greek pseudonyms bear a servile

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 91 valence from contemporary attestation in the Roman epigraphic record. Thus, for example, the name Delia, which Apuleius identifies as concealing a Plania in Tibullus’ elegies, is attested as the name of a freedwoman at Rome: L(ucius) [A]elius Flaesc[- - -] | Delia T(iti) et (mulieris) l(iberta) Me[- - -] (Ferrua 1966, Nr. 51).28 The name Cynthia is the least frequently attested in the epigraphic dossier, though there is a tantalizing fragmentary reference to a [ - - -]uttidia Cynthia (CIL VI 33672).29 By contrast, the name of the mistress celebrated in Ovid’s Amores, Corinna, is explicitly attested in the inscriptional record of Rome, borne by 1) a libraria, a female copyist or store-room clerk (ollaṃ [dat] | Corinnae | libr(ariae), CIL VI 3979),30 of Augustan date; 2) a slave of Julio-Claudian date (CIL VI 7332); 3) a freedwoman of the same period (Fabiae Corinnae l., CIL VI 17588); and 4) a likely freedwoman of the 1st century CE (Corinnae Argentariae, AE 1988, 157).31 Perhaps not surprisingly, however, Nemesis (“retribution”) is the most frequently reported name in the Roman epigraphic record, with 13 attestations, again primarily for enslaved and freedwomen.32 Particularly noteworthy are the Julio-Claudian dancing girl Iulia Nemesis (saltatrix, CIL VI 10143) and the freed maid Nemesis Nicenis Tauri l. (ancilla, CIL VI 6490), since both these servile professions are attested in the elegiac corpus (Ov. Am. 2.4.29-30; Prop. 1.9.3-4; cf. Hor. C. 2.4.1) and imply the sexual availability of their bearers.33 These inscriptional comparanda offer a particularly compelling social context for assessing the significance of the Tibullan Nemesis’ circulation through the streets of Rome in elegy 2.3, to say nothing of her association with a foreign slave (Tib. 2.3.55-66): ut mea luxuria Nemesis fluat utque per urbem incedat donis conspicienda meis. illa gerat vestes tenues quas femina Coa texuit, auratas disposuitque vias. illi sint comites fusci quos India torret, Solis et admotis inficit ignis equis. illi selectos certent praebere colores Africa puniceum purpureumque Tyros. Vota loquor: regnum ipse tenet quem saepe coegit barbara gypsatos ferre catasta pedes. At tibi, dura Ceres, Nemesim quae abducis ab urbe, persolvat nulla semina terra fide. My Nemesis shall float in luxury and strut the Roman streets parading gifts of mine. She shall wear fine silks woven by women of Cos and patterned with paths of gold. She shall have swart attendants, scorched in India, stained by the Sun-God steering near.

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Alison Keith Let Africa with scarlet and Tyre with purple compete to offer her their choicest dyes. My words are day-dreams. King is the very man whom often a foreign scaffold forced to mark time with chalked feet. Ah Ceres, cruel temptress of my Nemesis from Rome, May earth break faith and pay you back short [of ] seed.

The vignette of Nemesis parading like the strumpet she is through the imperial metropolis evokes the rich spoils of empire but frames Roman wealth and luxury as a reproach to the foreign mistress, whose diaphanous dress of “Coan” silk, rich dyes of scarlet and purple, and exotic Indian attendants (all expensive eastern luxury imports at Rome), advertise their wearer’s sexual availability and thereby leave her open to the familiar denunciations of the Roman moralizing tradition.34 Moreover her possession by a wealthy former slave, whose chalked feet Tibullus emphasizes as a mark of his erstwhile sale at foreign auction (2.3.63-4), may imply her own servile past, even if she is now in a position to remove to the countryside under the auspices of Ceres (and Bacchus, 2.3.67-70). Roman elegy thus hints at an ongoing tension between the class background of the mistress and her economic power. Tibullus’ elegy 2.3 closes with the poet-lover’s hope that he will recover his mistress from his wealthy foreign rival, in a move that ostensibly overturns the class, ethnic, and gender hierarchies operative in Roman society (2.3.81-4): nunc, si clausa mea est, si copia rara videndi, heu miserum laxam quid iuvat esse togam? ducite. ad imperium dominae sulcabimus agros: non ego me vinclis verberibusque nego. But if my girl’s a prisoner now and I can rarely see her, what good to me, alas, is a toga flowing free? Lead on. I’ll plough the furrows at the bidding of a mistress and cheerfully accept the leg-irons and the lash. The dossier of contemporary epigraphic evidence from Rome underlines the cruel ironies inherent in the elegiac speaker’s insouciant disavowal of imperium (Tib. 2.3.83) and implicit acceptance of the posture of servitium amoris here. If the elegiac puella herself has been read as symbolic of imperial Rome’s dominion over her empire,35 her enslaved sisters give material voice to the human costs of Roman imperialism in their funerary epitaphs. For they invite interpretation as material evidence from Rome’s conquered territories of the sexual spoils imported into the city from the provinces, like the other luxuries the wealthy and capricious elegiac mistress demands. Just because the elegists, like our other elite male literary sources, take little

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 93 interest in the human trafficking that delivered subaltern foreign women to the imperial metropolis does not mean that these chattels cannot be glimpsed, if only fitfully, in their verse. The inscriptional evidence for women in the Roman world who bore the names of elegiac puellae offers vivid illustration of the contemporary currency of the Greek names of the Latin love poets’ girlfriends (and often boyfriends)36 in early imperial Rome, where their names are resonant of the Romans’ hegemony over the wealthy Greek eastern Mediterranean, and the resulting flow of slaves into the metropolitan center. Paul Allen Miller, among others, has theorized that Latin love elegy arose in the period that witnessed the breakdown of republican governmental structures at Rome and flourished especially in the equestrian order as a result of elite male frustration at Augustus’ increasing control over the traditional avenues of a public career. On this theory, the puella is a symptom of elite male disenfranchisement—an available but ever deferred sexual outlet for his political ambitions;37 a medium of exchange circulated within the poets’ homosocial groups;38 and a symbol of imperial Rome’s dominion over her empire.39 At the discursive level, the name of the puella offers the illusion of control and domination that the poets lack, but desire, under the new rules of public and political engagement. From this perspective, the traveling puella embodies elegy’s fundamental anxieties.40 By contrast to what we can surmise about the forced mobility of the enslaved and freedwomen of the Roman epigraphic dossier, the puellae of Latin elegy seem to move freely not only around the city of Rome but also around her Mediterranean empire. The mobility of the elegists’ mistresses points up the failure of the poets themselves to participate in the masculine project of empire (Prop. 1.6, 1.14; Tib. 1.3; cf. Cat. 10; Verg. Buc. 10).41

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11

Cf. Zimmermann Damer in this volume. See Hollis 2007, with full bibliography. On Arcadia, see Leach in this volume. On Tibullus’ representation of Messalla’s travels in elegy 1.7, see Miller in this volume. Parker 2008; Lindheim 2011, 2021. Wyke 2002: 11-191. See Richlin in this volume on the circulation of trafficked women in Roman comedy. On Roman imperialism and plunder, see Loar et al. 2018. I cite Propertius from the Teubner text of Fedeli 1984; Martial, Vergil and Ovid from the OCT texts of Lindsay 1929, Mynors 1969, and Kenney 1994, respectively. I cite the text and translation of Tibullus from Lee rev. Maltby 1990. All other translations are my own. For a similarly charged intergeneric dialogue between Statian lyric and Roman epic, see Newlands in this volume. See Hollis 2007: 235-7. For the vexed question of just how much Gallus can be recovered from Vergil and Propertius, see most recently Cairns 2006 and Heslin 2018, adopting diametrically opposed positions.

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12 A famous epigram by Martial elaborates Baiae’s reputation for debauchery (Epigr. 1.52); on female mobility in Martial see also Blake in this volume, and Keith 2020. 13 See Lindheim 2011, and on the imperial politics of Propertian elegy see further Bowditch 2003, 2006, 2009, 2012; Keith 2008: 139-65. 14 Parker 2008. 15 On the plot arc of the Cynthia poems, see Keith 2008: 86-114, and Keith 2013. 16 On Propertius’ ripostes to Tibullan elegy, see Solmsen 1961; Lyne 1998; Cairns 2006: 204-9; Keith 2008: 69-73. 17 On Prop. 2.32, cf. Pandey 2018: 101-8. 18 Cf. Hutchinson 2006: 194 ad 23-4. 19 Propertius’ Arethusa is likewise concerned about the (erotic) company that her Lycotas might keep on his travels (4.3.25-6, 69), another example of the threat to elegiac love posed by imperial mobility. Cf. Lindheim’s discussion of the domus in Catullus in this volume. 20 On this figure, see Oliensis 1997; Fear 2000; Petrain 2000; Wray 2001; Miller 2004; Keith 2008. 21 On the intra- and intertextual programmes of Ov. Am. 2.12, see McKeown 1987–1998: 3.263-4. 22 One of the anonymous readers, whose phrasing I have gratefully adopted, has refined my interpretation of the adjectives fallaces and triumphales. 23 In these paired poems, the puella is the center around whom the slaves (and the poet) move, in an inverse relation to the pattern of gendered mobility traced here. 24 Cf. Richlin in this volume. 25 Cf. Zimmermann Damer in this volume. 26 McGinn 1998, chapter 8, discusses the sexual exploitation of slaves in familiae; cf. McGinn 2004: 55-72. Horden & Purcell 2000: 377-91 consider the redistribution of labor in the ancient Mediterranean (often through the slave trade) from a macroeconomic and -ecological perspective. They offer (2000: 380) as an example of this process “an Epirote woman who was enslaved by the conquering Romans in 167 BCE and transported to Italy and who bore five slave-children on a Roman estate,” and they note (2000: 384) that both “safe, controlled” mobility and “violent, compelled” mobility “are closely connected and each reinforces the other as part of the range of possibilities available to the inhabitants of the Mediterranean.” War and enslavement were indeed two sides of the same Roman imperial coin: cf. Richlin in this volume. 27 See Keith 2016, drawing on the evidence of Solin 2003, s.v. Corinna, Lesbia, Lycoris, and Nemesis; and cf. Keith 2011. 28 There is also a single attestation of the Greek name Δηλία on a Hellenistic inscription probably from Athens (IG II2 1534 B, c. 259/8 BCE): see LPGN II 102 s.v. Δηλία. 29 I have found no attestations of the name Κυνθία in the Greek epigraphic record. 30 The worker is tentatively defined by the OLD, s.v. 1, as “(prob.) A female secretary or copyist,” while Treggiari 1976: 78, identifies her as “a store-room clerk, perhaps working under a storekeeper, cellarius.” The inscription, in the epigraphic collection of the Capitoline Museums in Rome, has been re-edited: see AE 1992, 92, no. 22. 31 Argentaria | Albana fecit | Corinnae | Argentariae matri | quae v(ixit) a(nnis) L. Mother and daughter share the same gentilician, but their praenomina are Greek (Corinna) and Latin (Albana), respectively, which may imply either the daughter’s free birth and the mother’s marriage to her patron, or the daughter’s birth as a verna to her enslaved mother and then the pair’s manumission by the same patron; cf. Bruun 2013, on Latin names for vernae.

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 95 32 Solin 2003: 469-70. The name is also widely attested in the Greek epigraphic record: Fraser & Matthews 1987 record nine examples of the name, with one each from Crete (IC 3 p. 71 no. 49), Cyrene (BMI 1060), Leuctra (IG V.1, 1330), and Macedonia (SEG XLIX 699), and five from southern Italy (four of the five in Latin), including the freedwoman Furia Nemesis (PdelP 33 [1978] 64 no. 8): see LPGN IIIA 312 s.v. Νέμεσις. In addition to the abundant epigraphical evidence for the contemporary currency of the name Nemesis for enslaved and freedwomen in Rome, however, there is also the rich evidence of Hellenistic epigram, in which the haughty beloved often bears the name: e.g., AP 5.273 (Agathias); 9.260 (Secundus of Tarentum); 405 (Diodorus); 11.326 (Automedon); 12.193, 229 (Strato); 140 (anon.); 141 (Meleager). As Smith 1913: 53 well remarked, the name “typifies the idea of retaliation, of repayment in kind for injuries received, of which we hear so much in the Anthology … and which Tibullus himself expresses in 1.9.79.” 33 On female slaves in elite Roman households, see Treggiari 1976: 76-80 on ancillae, 90-2 on entertainers. Ovid assumes the erotic appeal of dance throughout his elegiac corpus: see Ars 1.595, 2.305, 3.350; Rem. 334, 754; Pont. 4.2.33; cf. Prop. 2.22A.5-6; Tib. 1.9.66. On the sexual appeal of dance in particular, see Adams 1982 : 194; McKeown 1987-1998: 3.77 ad Ov. Am. 2.4.29-30; Alonso Fernández 2016; Blake in this volume on dancing puellae Gaditanae. 34 On the eastern provenance of the articles of Nemesis’ luxurious toilette, see Miller 1969: 104-5, 108; Dalby 2000: 168-72 and 184; and Maltby 2002: 408-10 ad loc., with further bibliography. On the moralizing tradition against the luxury associated with “effeminacy” (mollitia), see Edwards 1993: 63-97. On luxurious dress and its association with Greek license, see Griffin 1986: 10. 35 See further Bowditch 2003, 2006, 2009, 2011, and 2012; and Keith 2008, 2011, and 2016. 36 See Keith 2016. 37 Miller 2004; see also Janan 2001. 38 Wray 2001; Keith 2008: 115-38. 39 Bowditch 2003, 2006, 2009, 2012; Lindheim 2011. 40 Cf. Lindheim in this volume. 41 Cf. Hor. C. 1.22, where Horace rejects military service to indulge in erotic dalliance with Lalage.

Works cited AE = L’Année Épigraphique. 1888–. Paris (Presses Universitaires de France). Alonso Fernández, Z. 2016. “Docta Saltatrix: Body Knowledge, Culture, and Corporeal Discourse in Female Roman Dance.” Phoenix 69: 304–33. Bowditch, P. L. 2003. “Propertius 2.10 and the Eros of Empire.” In P. Thibodeau & H. Haskell, eds. Being There Together: Essays in Honor of Michael C. J. Putnam on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday. Minneapolis, MN (Afton Historical Society Press), 163–80. Bowditch, P. L. 2006. “Propertius and the Gendered Rhetoric of Luxury and Empire: A Reading of 2.16.” Comparative Literature Studies 43: 306–25. Bowditch, P. L. 2009. “Palatine Apollo and the Imperial Gaze: Propertius 2.31 and 2.32.” AJP 130: 410–38. Bowditch, P. L. 2011. “Tibullus and Egypt: A Postcolonial Reading of Elegy 1.7.” Arethusa 44: 89-122.

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Bowditch, P. L. 2012. “Roman Love Elegy and the Eros of Empire.” In B. Gold, ed. A Companion to Roman Love Elegy. Malden, MA (Wiley Blackwell), 119–33. Bruun, C. 2013. “Greek or Latin? The Owner’s Choice of Names for Vernae in Rome.” In M. George, ed. Slavery and Material Culture. Toronto (University of Toronto Press), 19–42. Cairns, F. 2006. Sextus Propertius: The Augustan Elegist. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. 1863-. Berlin (de Gruyter) . Dalby, A. 2000. Empire of Pleasures: Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World. London and New York (Routledge). Edwards, C. 1993. The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Fear, T. N. 2000. “The Poet as Pimp: Elegiac Seduction in the Time of Augustus.” Arethusa 33: 217–40. Fedeli, P., ed. 1984. Sexti Properti: Elegiarum Libri IV. Stuttgart (Teubner). Ferrua, A. 1966. “Antiche iscrizioni inedite di Roma.” Epigraphica 28: 18-49. Fraser, P. M. & E. Matthews, eds. 1987–. A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Griffin, J. 1986. Latin Poets and Roman Life. Chapel Hill (University of North Carolina Press). Harder, A., ed. 2012. Callimachus, Aetia. 2 vols. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Heslin, P. 2018. Propertius, Greek Myth, and Virgil: Rivalry, Allegory, and Polemic. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Hollis, A. S., ed. 2007. Fragments of Roman Poetry c. 60 BC – AD 20. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Horden, P. & N. Purcell. 2000. The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Malden, MA and Oxford (Oxford University Press). Hutchinson, G., ed. 2006. Propertius: Elegies Book IV. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). IG = Inscriptiones Graecae. 1873 –. Berlin (de Gruyter). Janan, M. W. 2001. The Politics of Desire: Propertius IV. Berkeley (University of California Press). Keith, A. 2008. Propertius, Poet of Love and Leisure. London (Duckworth). Keith, A. 2011. “Lycoris Galli/Volumnia Cytheris: a Greek Courtesan in Rome.” EuGeStA 1: 23–53. Keith, A. 2013. “Propertius,” in T. S. Thorsen, ed. Cambridge Companion to Latin Love Elegy. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 97–113. Keith, A. 2016. “Naming the Elegiac Mistress: Elegiac Onomastics in Roman Inscriptions.” In A. Keith & J. Edmondson, eds. Roman Literary Cultures. Toronto (University of Toronto Press), 59–88. Keith, A. 2020. “Women about Town in Martial’s Rome.” Papers of the Langford Latin Seminar 18: 1–29. Lee, A.G., ed., rev. R. Maltby 1990. Tibullus: Elegies. Introduction, Text, Translation and Notes. 3rd ed. Leeds (Francis Cairns). Lindsay, W. M., ed. 1929. M. Val. Martialis, Epigrammata. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Lindheim, S. 2011. “What’s Love Got to Do With It?: Mapping Cynthia in Propertius’ Paired Elegies 1.8A-B and 1.11-12.” AJP 132: 633–65.

Women’s travels in Latin elegy 97 Lindheim, S. 2021. Latin Elegy and the Space of Empire. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Loar, M., C. MacDonald & D. Padilla Peralta, eds. 2018. Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Lyne, R. O. A. M. 1998. “Propertius and Tibullus: Early Exchanges.” CQ 48: 519–44. Maltby, R., ed. 2002. Tibullus: Elegies. Text, Introduction and Commentary, ARCA 41. Cambridge (Francis Cairns). McGinn, T. J. 1998. Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law in Ancient Rome. Oxford (Oxford University Press). McGinn, T. J. 2004. The Economy of Prostitution in the Roman World. Ann Arbor (University of Michigan Press). McKeown, J. C. 1987-1998. Ovid: Amores. Text, Prolegomena and Commentary. 3 vols. Leeds (Francis Cairns). Miller, J. I. 1969. The Spice Trade of the Roman Empire, 29 B.C. to A.D. 641. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Miller, P. A. 2004. Subjecting Verses. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Mynors, R. A. B., ed. 1969. P. Vergili Maronis: Opera. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Oliensis, E. 1997. “The Erotics of Amicitia: Readings in Tibullus, Horace and Propertius.” In J. P. Hallett & M. B. Skinner, eds. Roman Sexualities. Princeton (Princeton University Press), 151–71. Pandey, N. 2018. The Poetics of Power in Augustan Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Parker, G. 2008. “The Gender of Travel: Cynthia and Others.” MD 61: 85–100. Petrain, D. 2000. “Hylas and Silva: Etymological Wordplay in Propertius 1.20.” HSCP 100: 409–21. SEG = Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. 1923–71, 1979–. Smith, K. F., ed. 1913. Tibullus: The Elegies. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Solin, H. 2003. Die griechischen Personennamen in Rom. 3 vols. Berlin (de Gruyter). Solmsen, F. 1961. “Propertius in His Literary Relations with Tibullus and Vergil.” Philologus 10: 273–89. Treggiari, S. 1976. “Jobs for Women.” AJAH 1: 76–104. Wray, D. 2001. Catullus and the Poetics of Roman Manhood. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Wyke, M. 2002. The Roman Mistress. Oxford (Oxford University Press).

6

On the road with Tibullus: aporia or castration as the way of love Paul Allen Miller

In poem 1.7, Tibullus celebrates the accomplishments of his patron Messalla as an incarnation of Osiris: road builder, traveler, pacifier of faraway lands, the embodiment of the circulation of cultural forms between the Roman center, and the Egyptian periphery. The occasion of the poem is the birthday of the triumphant general (1.7.1–2), and the mythic evocation of the god that occupies its center, as in a Pindaric ode, was meant to reflect the glory of the laudandus (Murgatroyd 1991: 209–10). The identification of Messalla, a Roman patrician, with the eastern, castrated consort of Isis is, however, striking, to say the least. In part, the poem’s mythic center functions so as to equate the prominent Roman general, literary patron, and political personality with the extent of the empire—its global reach under the reign of Octavian and its mapping of a new cosmopolitan world of conquest and exchange stretching from Aquitaine in the West to the Nile in the East (Lee-Stecum 1998: 214–15). The poem and its rhetorical strategy are nonetheless surprising on several levels. First, the poet seems completely to dissociate his earlier erotic preoccupations from the concerns of this poem, and in fact, 1.7 occupies a significant structural position in the collection since his beloved, Delia, is never mentioned again after 1.6 (Murgatroyd 1991: 212; Lee-Stecum 1998: 210–11). While Leach (1980: 90) once argued that this gesture represents a move “in the direction of reality” and represents the view of the “historical Tibullus,” such a reading, as we shall see, involves at minimum a very strange conception of history and reality, at least as normally understood, one which is deeply saturated with the mythic and the oneiric. This poem may talk about concrete events in history and actually existing personalities, as opposed to the hazy and often dreamlike world of Tibullan erotic elegy, but it is anything but realistic and in no way strives for an accurate rendering of history in any conventional sense of the term. Nonetheless, poem 1.7 is sufficiently different in tone from its predecessors, that Leach’s desire to mark that difference as ontologically significant (reality versus fiction) is understandable. As we shall argue, that difference is best understood through taking the focus on the castrated Osiris seriously. In what follows, we shall offer a Lacanian reading of Tibullus’s assimilation of Messalla’s accomplishments

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to the figure of the Egyptian god, arguing that the poem’s focus on Messalla’s travel and conquests, including his status as road-builder, is inseparable from his role as the embodiment of the Law of the father, a role that always assumes both the possession of the phallus as the symbol of that Law and the phallus’s submission to the law under the sign of castration.1 Such a reading clearly builds on my previous work on Tibullus and elegy (Miller 2004). Yet, as I hope to demonstrate, this reading in no way involves submitting the Tibullan text to an artificial or externally imposed interpretive framework, but rather it offers the fullest explication of the problems and paradoxes posed by the text itself. The second surprising aspect of 1.7 relates to how the poet in other poems throughout the corpus frequently contrasts his ideal life of love and otium with that of the soldier, who is its antithesis and who is associated with violence, greed, and foreign travel in search of gain.2 Poem 1.1 famously opens the collection with this arresting contrast (1-6): DIVITIAS alius fulvo sibi congerat auro et teneat culti iugera multa soli, quem labor adsiduus vicino terreat hoste, Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent: me mea paupertas vita traducat inerti, dum meus adsiduo luceat igne focus.

5

Let some other pile up riches for himself in tawny gold and let him hold many acres of newly tilled soil, whom constant struggle strikes with fear, the enemy at hand, whose sleep the blasts of martial trumpets set to flight: while me let modest means hand over to a quiet life, so long as my hearth may glow with constant fire.3 The soldier and the traveler in Tibullus represent the end of the Golden Age and thus also the end of the ideal of amorous plentitude and rural simplicity with which the age is often, though not unproblematically, associated (Bright 1978: 24, 199; Lyne 1980: 153). When Saturn reigned there were no roads, travel, no trade, no agriculture, no property, and no doors. One made love in the open where, when, and with whom one wanted, and the earth spontaneously offered up its bounty. Thus in 1.3, Tibullus recounts how he was supposed to join Messalla on his expedition to the East after the battle of Actium4 but fell ill and was forced to remain on Corcyra (modern Corfu), which is referred to under the mythical name of Phaeacia, making the sickly poet a failed modern Odysseus, an epic hero fallen into elegy. There, under the influence of fever, he recalls the love he left behind, and he dreams of a prelapsarian world before roads, war, conquest, possession, and writing (1.3.35-46):

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Paul Allen Miller quam bene Saturno vivebant rege, priusquam tellus in longas est patefacta vias! nondum caeruleas pinus contempserat undas, effusum ventis praebueratque sinum, nec vagus, ignotis repetens compendia terris presserat externa navita merce ratem. illo non validus subiit iuga tempore taurus, non domito frenos ore momordit equus, non domus ulla fores habuit, non fixus in agris qui regeret certis finibus arva, lapis. ipsae mella dabant quercus, ultroque ferebant obvia securis ubera lactis oves.

35

40

45

How well they lived when Saturn was king, before long roads laid the wide earth open! Not yet the blue waves had the pine contemned nor offered to winds a billowing sail, not yet had the wandering sailor, for gain from nameless lands, pressed down his raft with foreign wares. Strong bulls had yet to go under the yoke, nor horses bit the bridle with a tame mouth, No house as yet had a door, nor in the fields were boundary stones fixed. The oaks themselves gave honey, and ewes of their own accord bore udders swollen with milk to men who lived without care. In the world of Tibullan erotic elegy, the general and the traveler were signs of the fall from the Golden Age, envisioned as a world of undifferentiated plenty. The Golden Age and its loss, of course, is a recurring theme throughout the Tibullan corpus,5 and however ironic the intent of its depiction, it establishes a utopian alternative to the world of conquest, travel, and trade celebrated in 1.7. That irony is compounded when we realize that Messalla as the poet’s patron is, however, also the condition of possibility for the poet’s dream to realize itself. The world Tibullus imagines in his poetry is, in fact, made possible by its negation, by the urban sophisticate’s denial of rural and amorous plenitude, and that negation is embodied by Messalla, its sponsor. The final surprising rhetorical strategy is related to Osiris who, in his function as the bringer of agriculture and civilization, is linked with Bacchus later in the poem, and is thereby said to be the father of poetry and song. The identification of Messalla, the conquering general, with Osiris and Bacchus is not without precedent in the ancient world. Alexander also identified with Dionysus after the conquest of India and was frequently so portrayed in later Ptolemaic iconography.6 Likewise, Arrian tells us that

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Alexander performed sacrifice to and identified with Apis, who was identified with Osiris in Ptolemaic cult (Anab. 3.1.4). The poem itself presents Messalla as a world conqueror, traveling from Gaul in the West to Cydnus, Taurus, Cilicia, and ultimately the Nile in the East (vv. 9–22). In doing so, Francis Cairns argues, Tibullus portrays Messalla as retracing Alexander’s own march to the East and elevates “into a major triumphal campaign some much less important activity…in order to attach to Messalla [this] potent image” (1979: 44). Thus, Messalla, in so far as he is a conqueror of worlds, is implicitly identified by the poem with Alexander and explicitly with the great conqueror’s divine avatars, Bacchus and Osiris. At the same time, Messalla as a patron of the arts and specifically of Tibullus is also, on another level, identified with Bacchus and Osiris, not as emblems of conquest, but as the founding gods of song and festivity, the celebration of the very agricultural plenty Tibullus identifies elsewhere with the Golden Age (Maltby 2002: 281). In short, through these divine figures, Messalla is identified with everything the poet cites elsewhere as the antithesis of the life of Alexandrian war and ruthless conquest: i.e., poetry, love, festivity, and agricultural abundance. The overall movement of the poem is from war to peace, from Alexander to Osiris as god of culture and to Messalla as patron of the arts of peace: song, travel, and trade on the via Latina, the repair of which is celebrated at the poem’s end. Hence, we have at minimum a paradox. Messalla, as the poet’s patron and avatar of Osiris, is identified with the very origins of Tibullus’ art. Yet, as the previous points make clear, he is also the symbol of all that opposes the idyllic life of love, which constitutes the subject of that art: war, commerce, travel, and the end of the Golden Age (Bright 1978: 41; Johnson 1990: 96109). Messalla, thus, as Osiris is the very figure of the elegist’s impasse in relation to Roman culture: his simultaneous dependence on and separation from what Lacanian theory would term its Symbolic norms: the shared linguistic and cultural usages that constitute the social. Within poem 1.7, then, Messalla is figured as both a castrated eastern god and the symbol of Roman military dominance, and in that guise, he makes possible a poetry that posits itself as symbolically opposed to that military dominance (1.1-10) and thus to all that Messalla as triumphing general seems to represent. It is little wonder then that Mutschler, while acknowledging the vast amount of scholarship that assumes the identification between Messalla and Osiris and while noting that it is difficult to understand the point of such a 22-line digression (vv. 27-48) in the middle of a 64-line poem without that identification, nonetheless observes that the conqueror of Aquitaine and the Egyptian god can hardly be seamlessly elided one into the other. The identification, while a necessary supposition of any interpretation, remains problematic and raises at least as many questions as it answers.7 Indeed, the poem as a whole and its relation to the Tibullan corpus is founded on a series of ideological aporias. On the one hand, the metonymic

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identification of the Roman youth celebrating Messalla’s triumph over the Aquitanians (pubes Romana, 1.7.5) with the Egyptian youth (pubes…barbara, 1.7.27–8) who hymn Osiris in his incarnation as the bull of Memphis (Apis) represents precisely the kind of syncretism that made the pax Augusta possible. This new Golden Age of peace under Roman hegemony was conceived under the rubric of a unified Mediterranean culture in which Roman institutions found their proper “barbarian” analogs. Thus on a structural and poetic level, the description of the laurel-crowned Messalla driving his ivory chariot in the triumphal procession as the momentary incarnation of Jupiter Optimus Maximus prepares the way for and makes possible his subsequent identification with Osiris (Putnam 1973: ad loc.; Bright 1978: 53–4; Maltby 2002: ad loc.). On the other hand, it is precisely the loss of Roman identity through its absorption by an effeminized East, symbolized by Cleopatra and her subjected consort, Mark Antony, that formed an integral part of Octavian’s propaganda leading up to the final confrontation at Actium. As noted above, Alexander identified with Bacchus/Dionysus. But Antony also deliberately cultivated comparison with Bacchus and Alexander during his time in Egypt, and the latter, far from being presented as a figure of emulation, became identified in Augustan propaganda with the antithesis of Octavian’s vision of Roman renewal: eastern, effeminate, and debauched. The figure of Osiris/Bacchus then is deeply problematic in the context of Messalla’s triumph. Rome, in fact, cannot be both Roman and Egyptian at once, if it is to remain Rome.8 While Osiris may function as the local analogue of Roman Jupiter in Egypt (Koenen 1976: 157–8), he cannot replace Jupiter on the Capitoline. By the same token, one of Messalla’s central accomplishments is his repair of the via Latina, the main road linking Rome to its traditional Latin heartland, for which he is identified in the poem with Osiris in his guise as culture hero (1.7.57–62).9 Roads are what make trade and military dominance possible.10 But roads are not, therefore, of necessity good. Tibullus, as we have already seen, tells us that viae are signs of the end of the Golden Age (1.3.35–36; cf. 1.1.25–26).11 Likewise, in 1.3, he recounts how his decision to go on the road with Messalla caused a near-fatal separation from his beloved (1.3.1-10; see earlier discussion). The world of travel, conquest, trade, and exchange, which depends on roads, is itself foundational for Roman imperial civilization, for Tibullus’s relation with Messalla, and, as we find out later, for exclusive sexual possession itself. Road-building was a central part of the Roman imperial project, creating artifacts and symbolic representations of Roman power while at the same time tying the increasingly far-flung empire together and promoting economic growth. Thus, as Hitchner makes clear, and as in many ways the rest of the current volume attests, Roman roads and the travel they made possible were among the primary manifestations of Roman state power:

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Indeed, what stands out…is the degree to which the Roman state took an interest in constructing trunk roads…capable of sustaining year-round wheeled traffic weighing as much as 1500 Roman pounds per vehicle by law, irrespective of distance and environment. While it is important to recognize that the primary purpose of Roman roads was for state and military functions, this load- and wheel-bearing standard of construction allowed it to transcend this limited purpose. Building roads of such durability at the apex of the network appears to have made the use of wheeled vehicles ubiquitous in many parts of the empire…. The point is significant because economies dependent on wheeled vehicles have historically demonstrated more and faster movement of goods and services and by extension productivity, more resources, and ultimately more choice and more freedom to move and to choose (2012: 223–4). Roman roads then were both a manifestation and the foundation of Roman economic and political power.12 Indeed, roads themselves became a way of organizing the landscape and of imposing a grid of geographical intelligibility on the world. They were in many ways a concrete manifestation of the law and of the hegemony of the Roman religious and political worldview (Purcell 2002: 12–15). Messalla as both a re-builder of roads and a triumphing general becomes the symbolic instantiation of Roman power within the poem and thus both the antithesis of the Tibullan ideal of the Golden Age and the foundation of his poetic vocation. Moreover, in Tibullus, there is in fact no “love” as we know it, no exclusive amorous possession, without the intrusion of this world of Roman roads and travel. The central paradox of this relationship between love, elegy, and all that is its negation is well outlined in four consecutive couplets in 1.1, three of which end with the syllables –vi –as. The poet has just said that nothing makes one so happy as lying in bed with one’s mistress while the winter winds pour cold rain outside (1.1.45–56): hoc mihi contingat. sit dives iure, furorem qui maris et tristes ferre potest pluvias. o quantum est auri pereat potiusque smaragdi, quam fleat ob nostras ulla puella vias. te bellare decet terra, Messalla, marique, ut domus hostiles praeferat exuvias: me retinent vinctum formosae vincla puellae, et sedeo duras ianitor ante fores. May this be my lot. And let him be rightly rich, who can bear the raging sea and harsh storms. Better all the world’s gold and emeralds perish, than any girl should weep on account of our roads.

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Paul Allen Miller It is fitting, Messalla, that you wage war on land and sea so the house might display the enemy’s spoils. The chains of a beautiful girl hold me bound and I sit a slave before unyielding doors.

What do the storms borne by the wealthy merchant, the riches of faraway lands, and the captured enemy booty displayed as a symbol of wealth, power, and masculine dominance have in common? The same road (via) runs through them on both the pragmatic—without roads and travel the rest of these are impossible—and the phonetic level. And where does this road lead? It takes us straight to the door of Messalla and right next-door (in poetic if not geographic space) to the door of Delia, where the poet’s pose as her amorous slave is but the next stop on the road that leads to empire. Moreover, the Golden Age is characterized by Tibullus not only as a time before roads, but also before doors and the constitution of private space they represent. The Golden Age was a time when fur-clad, acorn-eating primitives made love in the open air as the opportunity presented itself (2.3.67–74): o valeant fruges, ne sint modo rure puellae: glans alat et prisco more bibantur aquae. glans aluit veteres, et passim semper amarunt: quid nocuit sulcos non habuisse satos? tunc, quibus aspirabat Amor, praebebat aperte mitis in umbrosa gaudia valle Venus. nullus erat custos, nulla exclusura dolentes ianua: si fas est, mos precor ille redi.

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Ah farewell to crops, so long as girls be not on farms: let the acorn feed, as in olden days, and water be drunk. The acorn fed our forebears, who made love wherever they lay: How did it harm them to have no furrows sown? To those whom Love inspired, then, mild Venus proffered open joys in shady vales. There was no guard, no door to lock out those in pain: if it be right, I pray, that custom may return again. In the Golden Age, men had no mistresses then; they only had pleasures (gaudia). There was no possession and hence no possibility of either trade or betrayal. Doors represent borders, passageways, and hence the possibility of literal transgression. Janus, the god of doors, gates, and transitions, was also the god whose temple housed the gates of war (Res Gestae 13). Before doors, there was no possibility of transgression because there were no borders, no delimitations of inside and outside, and hence no possibility of either travel or love, no possibility of possession or dispossession. Messalla as the roadbuilding avatar of Osiris is, then, both the necessary condition for Tibullus’

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vocation as a poet of exclusive love and the symbol of all that divides him from the fulfillment of that vocation and condemns him to a fallen world of violence, domination, and exchange.13 Thus, the fantasized elegiac idyll of exclusive amorous possession, such as that envisioned in poem 1.5’s evocation of Delia serving Messalla the fruits of a mythically harmonious estate, in fact, depends upon the renunciation of that desire’s final fulfillment: Delia is a creature of the city, and the Golden Age precludes property and possession.14 Logically, Delia and the Golden Age are mutually exclusive operators within the Tibullan dream, but it is precisely the fantasized possibility of their conjugation that constitutes that dream. Likewise, the fantasy of a Roman unity of East and West, evoked by Tibullus’s linking of Messalla with Osiris in 1.7, depends upon the aggression that makes that unity impossible. And the fantasy of a return to the Golden Age, as propagated both in elegiac poetry and Augustan propaganda, depends upon the elaboration and repair of the very institutions that are its systematic negation: the roads, travel, trade, and conquest that are the lifeblood of the empire (Van Nortwick 1990: 119; Bowditch 2011). It is no accident, then, that Osiris is the sponsoring deity under whom these foundational aporias (literally the lack of a “way,” a via, or a poros) are celebrated: for Osiris is the god whose yearly return is identified with the Nile flood (Campbell 2012: 28), which restores fertility to the soil and feeds both Egypt and Rome. It is he who institutes agriculture and so he who lays the foundation of empire and the domination that goes with it. Osiris is not the only watery hero of the poem. Messalla too is identified with images of water and flooding from the very beginning of the poem. His conquest of the aptly named Aquitanians is described as a flooding or deluge, literally a “pouring out” or “rout” (fundere 1.7.3), and the Gallic river Atax15 (modern Aude) is said to quake before him: Aquitanas posset qui fundere gentes,| quem tremeret forti milite victus Atax (“which was able to rout the Aquitanian peoples, | at which the Aude trembled, conquered by brave soldiering,” 1.7.3-4). The Arar (Saône), the Rhodanus (Rhône,) and the Garunna (Garonne), and even the Liger (Loire) are marshaled as witnesses to Messalla’s triumph: testis Arar Rhodanusque celer magnusque Garunna, |Carnutis et flavi caerula lympha Liger (“The Saône is witness, as are the swift Rhône, the great Garonne, | and the Loire, caerulean course of the blond Carnutes,” 1.7.11-12). From these western rivers, we move east to the river Cydnus rising on Mount Taurus in Cilicia (13) and then to Syria and Tyre (18, 20): the sites of Messalla’s progress after the battle of Actium, as he makes his way (via) to Egypt, but also the centers of luxury and trade.16 The series of rivers, which are identified with Messalla’s triumphal procession through the empire and hence function as a set of metonymic substitutions for the great man himself, continues with the Nile. More precisely, after evoking Messalla’s passage through Tyre, the poet makes the turn round the Levant and asks a pair of pregnant questions. How is it that the Nile floods during the hottest days of summer when Sirius, the Dog Star,

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cracks the fields (1.7.21–2)? And where does the river Nile hide its headwaters (1.7.23–4)? This is a subtle rhetorical move because, on the one hand, it continues the narrative of Messalla’s triumph and, on the other, it introduces the mythic complex that surrounds Osiris. We begin, as often in this poem, with a paradox: the Nile floods during what should be the driest part of summer, the moment when the Dog Star shines. Heat and water are antithetical, and the Egyptian god who represents heat is Seth, the brother of Osiris. It is Seth who kills Osiris and chops him into tiny pieces and hence is both the enemy and ultimate cause of the Nile flood. The Dog Star itself, moreover, was known in Egyptian myth as Sothis, who was a manifestation of Isis, Osiris’s sister-wife. It is she who after the slaughter finds and reassembles him, with the exception of one “vital” part, which is consumed by the fish of the Nile and whose loss is the predicate of the returning flood: a wash of fertility that spreads across the plain.17 The question, then, of where does the Nile hide its head, in fact, is also the question of where was Osiris buried. That burial is the source of the river’s yearly flood, which comes in opposition to the summer’s heat but under the gaze of the Dog Star/Sothis/Isis who makes the flood possible through the reassembling of Osiris after his sparagmos. The fertility that the Nile brings is symbolized by the lost phallus of the god, which becomes embodied by the river itself, and thus simultaneously evokes the full potency of the phallus and its necessary loss. It is in this duality, in turn, that Osiris comes to figure as the founder of agriculture (1.7.29–38). Messalla, then, in his role as a spreader of “civilization” and hence as the image of the subjection of the world to Roman imperium and law, becomes metonymically identified with Father Nile (Nile pater, 1.7.23).18 The latter is, in turn, a manifestation of Osiris or at least of his phallus: for, when the Nile is in flood, it is the bringer of agricultural fertility and hence of grapes, wine, song, and rhythmic dance (1.7.29-39). But this identification of Messalla with Osiris means that Messalla too is castrated, that he only wields phallic power insofar as that phallus is no longer fully his own but has been submitted to the law, or to speak Lacanian, insofar as it is precisely the phallus and not the penis (Julien 1990: 185, 190). By the same token, Bacchus himself, another avatar of Osiris and hence of Messalla within the poem, is only able to assume his full power of fertility, intoxication, and song to the extent that his flesh is rent, that he too undergoes the sparagmos that allows his reconstitution and resurrection as both culture hero and force of nature.19 Like Osiris, he too is missing one crucial part—in this case his heart—whose restoration again allows him to be brought back to life and the cycle of fertility to be ensured. In both cases, the loss of the plenitude of pleasure, and the continued existence of a necessary remainder that can neither be consumed and metabolized nor given over to an economy of exchange, are the predicates for the continuity of life and culture, for law and transgression, for both the constitution of home as a bounded space, with doors, and of travel, the movement beyond that bounded space and the

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bounds of the known. While such a reading of the Bacchic sparagmos may not constitute the original meaning of the myth and not correspond to the exact role it played in the Orphic mysteries, by the time Tibullus appropriates it for both identification with Osiris and with the triumphant, road rebuilding Messalla, all the elements are there.20 Agriculture, as we have seen, like roads and the travel and trade they make possible, is a sign of the end of the Golden Age (cf. 1.3.45–6, quoted above). It is a sign that the spontaneous fertility of the Earth and the unbridled sexuality of a time before the Law have submitted to the forces of governance and exchange (Moore 1989: 427; Kristeva 1989: 201). The coming of civilization brings with it boundaries and the possibility of their transgression: hence both property and theft, kinship and the incest taboo, as well as exclusive sexual possession and infidelity.21 Messalla and Osiris are not the tyrannical first fathers of Freud’s fable of the primal horde. They are not what Žižek, following Lacan, terms the obscene father of enjoyment, the savage father who claims all the women of the group as his own and who must be killed by his own sons if civilization is to be instituted. It is those sons, in turn, who, according to Freud’s foundational myth, institute the Oedipal family and with it the threat of castration.22 Rather Messalla and Osiris/Bacchus represent the ideal imaginary father who assumes the image of God. As Lacan observes: Is it not around the experience of privation that the little infant—not so much because he is small as because he is human—is it not around what is for him privation that the grief for the imaginary father is fomented and forged?—that is to say of a father who truly can be someone. … This imaginary father, and not the real father, is the foundation of the providential image of God. (1986: 355) Only the phallus, the image of the father, which has submitted to the Law and hence privation, can be the totem and the harbinger of culture (Althusser 1996: 27). Osiris must be castrated for the Nile to flood, and Messalla, in turn, as the avatar of Osiris is the post-Oedipal father, the one whose phallic domination brings divine plenitude, who brings peace and prosperity to all, even at the price, implicitly, of his own submission to the Law, of his own rending, and the loss of the innocence of the Golden Age (Johnson 1990: 96–7). Osiris, then, as the source of the Nile flood, is both the image of masculine potency and necessarily castrated. Indeed, rivers throughout the poem are of ambiguous gender. It is true that river gods are exclusively masculine, and the poem directly addresses “Father Nile.” But water and liquidity are frequently associated with the feminine, the shapeless, and the grotesque in Roman ideology, whereas masculinity is associated with the hard, the dry, and the welldefined. This association has, in fact, been demonstrated across a wide swath of ancient genres and is seconded by modern psychoanalytic theory.23

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Messalla, then, as triumphing general and the master of the river gods who march in his train, is the image of the dominant Roman male, who exercises mastery over himself and others. He institutes the law that makes property and exchange, travel and trade possible. He occupies the position of a god and it is thus suitable that he be compared to a culture hero/god such as Osiris. But, in so far as Messalla becomes also the image of liquid fertility, the river in flood, then his masculine dominance knows, if not a direct challenge, then distinct limits. Indeed, as Simone de Beauvoir reminded us many years ago in the Second Sex, after a long investigation into the myths of the feminine and ancient kinship and marriage practices from Greece and Rome, a woman is the Other that allows the masculine subject to define the Same: Man wants to affirm his singular existence and rest proudly on his “essential difference,” but he also wishes to break the barriers of the self, mingle himself with water, earth, night, with Nothingness, with Totality. Woman, who condemns man to finitude, also allows him to transcend his own limits: hence the ambivalent magic in which she is cloaked. (1949: 242) The task for the masculine culture hero, whether Hercules, Messalla or Osiris, is always to penetrate and tame the Other (Johnson 1990: 106), to transgress those limits, without ever completely mingling with the ambiguous realm of “water, earth, [and] night,” without dissolving. The foreign, the Other, and the feminine are to be brought under the dominance of the Roman, the Same, and the masculine, without ever threatening their hegemony or challenging their nature.24 Roads must be built and rebuilt, new lands sought out, and conquests made. Hence, images of dissolution, of dissolving in water, are both evoked and pushed aside in the poem. On the one hand, we read that Bacchus has given to the farmer release (dissolvenda) from care in liquid form (1.7.39–40: Bacchus et agricolae magno confecta labore | pectora tristitiae dissolvenda dedit; “And when the farmer’s heart was overcome with toil, | Bacchus caused their hearts to be released from sadness”). On the other we are also told that the destiny sung by the spinning Fates for Messalla cannot be dissolved (1.7.1–2: hunc cecinere diem Parcae fatalia nentes | stamina, non ulli dissolvenda deo; “The fates sang of this day while spinning | the fated threads that no god can undo”), an image that leads directly into the conquest of the river Atax and the “pouring out” (fundere) of the watery Aquitanians in rout (1.7.3–4). Messalla’s fate is both rock solid and not to be dissolved, and yet he is identified with a series of rivers, and eventually with the Nile itself in flood as the bringer of civilization and hence of the dissolution of care that only Bacchus can bring. He is Osiris, and Osiris is the Nile. Yet Messalla cannot be the flood that dissolves all boundaries, for his very progress, his travel across the globe, also institutes those boundaries through a bringing

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of the Law, through imposing the grid of geographical intelligibility that is the Roman system of roads and the concomitant network of exchanges they help institute and maintain. In sum, Egyptian myth, almost in the voice of Freud himself, tells us that it is Osiris’s murder and castration at the hands of Seth that make the Nile flood possible, just as it is the renunciation of the limitlessness of pleasure that makes possible the continuity of life and civilization.25 Aporia, thus, represents not our negation, but the condition of the possibility of pleasure as a relationship of exchange with the reality principle, as a series of substitutions defined by the Law, a series of ways under and around our initial impasse. The aporia of castration is what keeps the death drive and its awful jouissance—the deluge—at bay. Through castration the subject exchanges a bit of himself for the ability to adopt a subject position within the system of exchange; it is this renunciation of the fullness—but also of the psychosis—of the Real, that makes civilization possible (Ragland-Sullivan 1986: 55-7; Žižek 1992: 171). The Real is a realm of absolute and suffocating presence, and it is precisely castration that names the instance of Symbolic substitution, the institution of the signifier and its infinite exchangeability (Copjec 2002: 54; Lewis 2008: 70). I will renounce the Thing I want, but which if I get will obliterate my existence as an autonomous self, and accept instead a rule-based series of taboos and recognized objects, of empire and the Law (Althusser 1996: 29). Nonetheless, the fact of renunciation, the refusal of the loss of the self in a mingling with the other, does not eliminate the desire for the fullness that mingling would represent, the desire to fill that lack that castration names, a desire for love (Luepnitz 2003: 227). Rather castration, like the loss of the Golden Age, institutes a series of exchanges, as one object of desire comes to succeed another under the twin laws of the pleasure and the reality principles (Lacan 1975: 58; Lacan 1986: 68; Žižek 1989: 132; Copjec 2002: 34). Messalla in 1.7 is celebrated as an avatar of the aporetical and castrated Osiris, precisely because he represents the Law, and as the Law, he is what makes Tibullus’s desire possible and yet what also forever denies its fulfillment, who ensures Tibullus never arrives at this destination, but always remains traveling on the via Latina.

Notes 1 The literature on these topics is very large but for a brief conspectus of important formulations, see inter alia Lacan 1975: 74; Moi 1985: 99-100; Ragland-Sullivan 1986: 55; Žižek 1992: 171; Janan 1994: 47; Braunstein 2003: 111; and Lewis 2008: 71. In this volume, see also Lindheim’s cognate use of Lacan to analyze geography in Catullus, chapter 3. 2 Boyd 1984: 273-4; Kennedy 1993: 14-15. On the theme of the mistress traveling in elegy, see Keith, chapter 5 in the current volume; see also Zimmermann Damer’s instructive reading of the way walking through the Roman cityscape is gendered, chapter 7.

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3 All translations are my own. The text of Tibullus follows Postgate 1915. 4 Cf. Riposati 1945: 27-8; Dettmer 1980: 73. 5 Putnam 1973: 8; Bright 1978: 24, 75, 86-7; Cairns 1979: 106; Dettmer 1980: 73; Whitaker 1983: 84-6; Moore 1989: 426; Johnson 1990: 109; Miller 2004: 111-28; Miller 2013 passim. 6 Plut. vit. Alex 2., De Cohib. 3; Curt. 3.12.18, 8.5.11-12, 8.10.1, 9.2.29, 9.4.21-23, 9.8.5, 9.10.24; Stephens 2010: 57. 7 See Mutschler 1985: 110-13; Moore 1989: 424; Johnson 1990: 105. 8 Augustus’s taking of Egypt as his personal province indicates the centrality of the Egyptian grain supply to Rome, which itself is dependent on the Nile flood, but Egypt remains culturally foreign in the Roman imagination of the 1st century BCE. 9 Cf. Patterson 1993: 141. Tib. 1.7.61-2: te canet agricola, a magna cum venerit urbe | serus inoffensum rettuleritque pedem (“The farmer will sing of you, as they come from the great city, | bringing his foot home at night without a stumble”). Cf. 1.7.27-8: te canit atque suum pubes miratur Osirim | barbara (“The Egyptian youth sing of you and worship you as their Osiris”). 10 On the roads of Roman Egypt as “complex palimpsests” rather than simple instantiations of centralized state power, see Gates-Foster 2012. 11 See Johnson 1990: 106. 12 For some salutary cautions regarding whether the Romans fully conceived of their road system as a “network” or conceptualized it in the same terms that we would, see Talbert 2012. See also in chapter 11 of this volume Meyer’s discussion of the Elogium from Polla and tabellaria as evidence that at least some Roman road administrators and travelers conceptualized road systems as a web. 13 See Whitaker 1983: 84-6; Moore 1989: 425, 429; Fineberg 1991: 135-6, 153; Maleuvre 1998: 22; Lee-Stecum 1998: 222-4. 14 See Wimmel 1976: 33; Johnson 1990: 109; Van Nortwick 1990: 116; Miller 2004: chapter 4. 15 Or Atur, if we accept Scaliger’s emendation. 16 Putnam 1973: ad loc.; Maltby 2002: ad loc. Rivers were a primary means of transport in the ancient world. Faster and more efficient than travel overland, they were the ancient equivalent of the modern superhighway. See Campbell 2012: 328-9. Oddly enough, while rivers have become a topic of scholarship in classics, both as literary motifs and as objects of historical and geographic study, Tibullus 1.7 is often ignored in these works. See, for example, Jones’s otherwise very thorough monograph (2005). 17 Müller 1918: 56, 94-5; Mullen 1968; Koenen 1976: 137, 141; Moore 1989: 426-7; Murgratroyd 1990: ad loc.; Maltby 2002: ad loc. 18 On the term Nilus Pater see Campbell 2012: 136-7 19 See Gernet 1982: 99-101, 106-7. 20 Cf. Detienne 1979: 8-9, 68-94; Goldhill 1990: 126-9. 21 Bright 1978: 59; Lacan 1986: 83; Silverman 2000: 38-9; Lewis 2008: 50-1. 22 Freud 1950; Lacan 1986: 356-7; Žižek 2006: 206; Janan 2009: esp. 41-5. 23 See Irigaray 1977; Brenk 1979; Carson 1990; Edwards 1993: 175; Miller 1998; Janan 2001: 71-3. 24 Cf. Edwards 1993: 95, 175, 195; Konstan 1995: 121; Richlin 1995: 191-3; Wyke 1995: 119; Corbeill 1996: 145; Walters 1997: 30. 25 See Freud 1961.

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Miller, P. A. 2013. A Tibullus Reader: Seven Selected Elegies. Mundelein, IL (Bolchacy-Carducci). Moi, T. 1985. Sexual/Textual Politics: Feminist Literary Theory. London (Routledge). Moore, T. J. 1989. “Tibullus 1.7: Reconciliation through Conflict.” CW 82: 423–31. Mullen, W. 1968. “Fragment from the Egyptian, Eighteenth Dynasty.” Arion 7: 68. Müller, W. M. 1918. “Egyptian.” In L. H. Grey, ed. The Mythology of All Races. Vol. 12. Boston (Marshall Jones Company). Murgatroyd, P. 1991. Tibullus I: A Commentary on the First Book of the Elegies of Albius Tibullus. Bristol (Bristol Classical Press). Mutschler, F.-H. 1985. Die Poetische Kunst Tibulls: Struktur und Bedeutung der Bücher 1 und 2 des Corpus Tibullianum. Frankfurt am Main (Peter Lang). Patterson, J. R. 1999. “Via Latina.” In E. M. Steinby, ed. Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. Vol. 5. Roma (Edizioni Quasar), 141. Postgate, J. P. 1915. Tibulli Aliorumque: Carminum Libri Tres. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Purcell, N. 2002. “The Creation of the Provincial Landscape: The Roman Impact on Cisalpine Gaul.” In T. Blagg & M. Millett, eds. The Early Roman Empire in the West. Oxford (Oxbow Books), 6–29. Putnam, M. C. J. 1973. Tibullus: A Commentary. Norman (University of Oklahoma Press). Ragland-Sullivan, E. 1986. Jacques Lacan and the Philosophy of Psychoanalysis. Urbana (University of Illinois Press). Richlin, A. 1995. “Making Up a Woman: The Face of Roman Gender.” In H. EilbergSchwarz & W. Doniger, eds. Off With Her Head!: The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture. Berkeley (University of California Press), 183–213. Riposati, B. 1945. Introduzione allo studio di Tibullo. Como (Carlo Marzorati). Silverman, K. 2000. World Spectators. Stanford (Stanford University Press). Stephens, S. 2010. “Ptolemaic Alexandria.” In J. J. Clauss & M. Cuypers, eds. A Companion to Hellenistic Literature. Malden, MA (Wiley-Blackwell), 46–61. Talbert, R. J. A. 2012. “Roads Not Featured: A Roman Failure to Communicate?“ In S. E. Alcock, J. Bodel & R. J. A. Talbert, eds. Highways, Byways, and Road Systems in the Pre-Modern World. Malden, MA (Wiley), 235–54. Van Nortwick, T. 1990. “Huc Veniet Messalla Meus: Commentary on Johnson.” Arethusa 23: 115–23. Walters, J. 1997. “Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought.” In J. P. Hallett & M. B. Skinner, eds. Roman Sexualities. Princeton (Princeton University Press), 29–43. Whitaker, R. 1983. Myth and Personal Experience in Roman Love-Elegy: A Study in Poetic Technique. Göttingen (Vanderhoek & Ruprecht). Wimmel, W. 1976. Tibull und Delia: Erster Teil, Tibulls Elegie 1,1. Wiesbaden (Franz Steiner Verlag). Wyke, M. 1995. “Taking the Woman’s Part: Engendering Roman Love Elegy.” In A. J. Boyle, ed. Roman Literature and Ideology: Ramus Essays for J. P. Sullivan. Bendigo, Australia (Aureal), 110–28. Žižek, S. 1989. The Sublime Object of Ideology. London (Verso). Žižek, S. 1992. Enjoy Your Symptom: Jacques Lacan in Hollywood and Out. New York (Routledge). Žižek, S. 2006. Metastases of Enjoyment: On Women and Causality. London (Verso).

7

Competing itineraries, travel, and urban subjectivity in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria Erika Zimmermann Damer

Ovid’s interest in the sites of urban Rome appears as early as Amores 2.2 and 3.2, but the first overview of the geography and topography of the Augustan city appears in Ars Amatoria 1, where Ovid reformulates many of Augustus’ recently built or sponsored monuments as spaces suitable for finding women (Ars am. 1.1.49-50). The speaker of the Ars catalogues porticoes, theaters, the Temple of Isis, Fora, the Arena, the Circus Maximus, and the Temple of Palatine Apollo (1.67-88) as places to visit. Just as the apostrophes to Roman youth (1.459) and warding off the fine fillets of the Roman matronae (1.31) develop a precise addressee for the praeceptor’s narrative, this topo­ graphical montage sets the scene clearly in Augustan Rome, sometime be­ fore 2 BCE. By shifting from studies of architectural monuments in isolation to examine what travel between those monuments may mean in a text,1 this chapter offers a deep reading of the mental cartographies of the intraRoman walking tours of Ars 1 and 3 as locations for the development of urban identities, and attends to the ways in which Ovidian poetics play upon movement and travel within Rome as gendered acts. I will look to the ways Ovid speaks about movement between and within urban geography in the Ars Amatoria, and to the resulting gendered and classed identities this movement forms, ideas I term mental cartography.2 Ovid’s focus on his contemporary city in the Ars offers a turning point in Roman poetry from late Republican Triumviral nostalgia for pre-urban spaces to urban poetry of the Roman Empire proper. Ovid offers two Roman itineraries in the Ars, one to young men in Ars 1 and another to women in Ars 3.3 These two versions articulate distinctive gendered, urban identities for Romans in the Augustan period with their parallel instructions to a male and a female intended audience. Upon comparing the two versions of the walking tour of Rome in the Ars Amatoria, the first stands out in so far as it does not name Augustus, nor is it a logical spatially designed itinerary. Instead, Ovid attends to some of the most luxurious porticoes of Augustan Rome. Ovid’s Ars is often direct, though decorous, about sexuality, and even about lovers engaging in sexual activities.4 In the passages on the Passeggiata Romana in Ars 3, however, this chapter demonstrates that the same spots that were playfully erotic in

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 115 Ars 1 earn descriptions that Augustus himself would surely have approved in their classicism, given their focus on the Domus Augusta and military tri­ umphs. The women’s itinerary and their movements flatten and simplify the men’s itinerary. Women, furthermore, appear less as viewers themselves taking in the wonderful sights than materia to be seen.5 The contrasting ideologies suggested by Ovid’s different itineraries in Ars 1 and Ars 3 further complicate questions of Ovid’s stance relative to Augustan transforma­ tions.6 If the tour in Ars 1 can be read as undermining Augustan morality, how should the resolutely Augustan tour of Ars 3 be interpreted?7 I begin with the men’s itinerary, then examine the poetics of men’s movements within Rome’s porticoes before addressing the women’s itinerary. I conclude by looking to the wider cultural significance of urban walking tours in Ovid’s poetry. This study joins recent critical interest in Ovidian and elegiac mapping of urban Rome (Lindheim 2010, 2021; Edwards 1996; Henderson 2002; Boyle 2003; Welch 2005) with the emerging study within classics of movement in space (Laurence & Newsome 2011; Laurence 2015, Östenberg, Malmberg & Bjørnebye 2015). This spatial turn has transformed understandings within Roman texts of the relationships between human identity and movement through the urban spaces of Rome, although most studies of Augustan Rome have concentrated upon prose or material culture.8Miller 2007, O’Sullivan 2015, and Pandey 2018 have offered suggestive beginnings that this chapter complements while heading in new directions that emphasize the ways in which movement between monuments create human identities.9 My work also resonates with Walter Benjamin’s analysis of flânerie, where Benjamin sees the city itself not as a static setting, but as a story.10 Though the flâneur has an ironic detachment from the city, his selfhood is never­ theless linked to that city. Elizabeth Grosz’s (1995) conception of the in­ terconnectedness of the human subject and urban space as a dyadic, mutually constitutive relationship provides a third source of inspiration.

Urban travel in the Ars Amatoria: first walking itinerary Ovid’s interest in traveling through the architecture of urban Rome flour­ ishes in the Ars Amatoria, where the praeceptor teaches eager tyros where to hunt out and find an apta puella (44), how to successfully woo her, and how to keep her love for a long time (35-8). Finding the love object somewhere in the world constitutes the male audience’s first task, and the praeceptor as­ sures them that the suitable girl can be found by making a walking tour around the city of Rome. As he introduces where to find a girl, it is clear that Rome itself is a travel destination fit for sightseeing and walking tours: nec tibi ut invenias longa terenda via est, (“you don’t need to pound a long road to find someone,” 1.52). Indeed, the praeceptor remarks that being in Rome is as good as traveling the entire world since Rome habet, ut dicas, quicquid in orbe fuit (“has, you may say, whatever was in the world,” 1.56).11

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Next, the praeceptor maps out locations in Rome where his audience can find his apta puella on his perambulation. Ovid’s phrasing encodes many of these places with foreign regions of the Roman empire, from Persia, Syria, and Egypt, to Greece. Seeing these sites in Rome allows the audience to travel imaginatively across the Empire (Ars am. 1.55, 67-80, 89-90):12 tot tibi tamque dabit formosas Roma puellas… tu modo Pompeia lentus spatiare sub umbra, cum sol Herculei terga leonis adit: aut ubi muneribus nati sua munera mater addidit, externo marmore dives opus. nec tibi vitetur quae priscis sparsa tabellis porticus auctoris Livia nomen habet: quaque parare necem miseris patruelibus ausae Belides et stricto stat ferus ense pater. nec te praetereat Veneri ploratus Adonis, cultaque Iudaeo septima sacra Syro, nec fuge linigerae Memphitica templa iuvencae: multas illa facit, quod fuit ipsa Iovi. et fora conveniunt (quis credere possit?) amori, flammaque in arguto saepe reperta foro… sed tu praecipue curvis venare theatris; haec loca sunt voto fertiliora tuo.

55

70

75

80 90

Rome will give you so many beautiful girls… You just stroll leisurely under Pompey’s shade when the sun reaches the back of Hercules’ lion. Or where the mother has added her own gift to those of her son, a rich building in foreign marble. Nor avoid that portico, decorated with ancient paintings, the one that has the name Livia for its sponsor: and where those Belides dared to prepare murder for their wretched cousins and where their savage father stands with sword drawn. Nor let Adonis, lamented by Venus, pass you by or the Seventh holy day, kept by the Syrian Jews. Don’t flee the Memphitic temple of the heifer clad in linens, she makes many girls, what she herself was to Jove. Even the fora are fit for love (who could believe it?) and love’s flame is often found in the wordy forum.... But especially go hunting in the curved theaters, these places are more fertile for your wish.13 As a practical itinerary for a walking tour, this route makes no sense. A walker would begin by heading south through the Campus Martius to the eastern side of the Circus Flaminius, then leap straight east over the devel­ oped Republican core of the city to the Esquiline Hill, then skip westwards to the Palatine, back northwest to the Temple of Isis in the Campus Martius, then to the Julian Forum, then back to the three theaters in the Campus Martius and finally southwards to the Circus Maximus (see Figure 7.1).

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 117 This itinerary does not operate, I argue, according to a logical structure in geographical space, but rather along several competing spatialities. It is this lack of logical geographical organization that suggests to me that Ovid speaks about Rome with a mental cartography, a mapping that acknowledges the dynamic, fluid interactions between given spaces or topography, a character’s perspective, and the cultural ideals, expectations, and values associated with that space, and the ways that interaction forms a character’s identity as a gendered, classed, Roman or non-Roman subject.13 How then is this mental cartography structured, and how does a lover move through its walking itinerary? It is not surprising that Pompey’s portico is the first stop on the tour of Rome. Pompey’s portico, completed circa 52 BCE, represented the first monumentalized public park complex in the Campus Martius.14 This por­ tico was significant in the Roman cultural imagination for the richness of its sculptural decorations,15 its great size, its public display of imported Eastern luxury objects, and its garden landscaping within the portico.16 It was, moreover, a place with established literary status from its appearances in Catullus 55 and Propertius 2.32.17 The portico’s rich visual display was complemented by water and landscaping that would have cooled and sweetened the air, provided the calm noise of burbling water in the temple and portico, and offered a welcome enclosure as an oasis from the bustle and grime of the densely-populated city of Rome.18 Gleason and Kuttner have demonstrated how Pompey’s construction emulated Hellenistic Greek models in its wedding of an ambulatio, a colonnaded walking space, with garden and water features, picture and sculpture galleries, and in the use of the location for serious conversations and meetings.19 In the poetic tradition reflected in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, however, Pompey’s portico became a space for erotic encounters, not the sort of serious political and philosophical male meetings imagined elsewhere. While the spolia imported from around the Roman empire and the statues of conquered nations may have been read as triumphal and imperialist (Kuttner 1999; Evans 2009), after the completion of Augustus’ forum and its Temple of Mars Ultor in 2 BCE, the luxur­ iousness and greenery of Pompey’s portico became feminized spaces by contrast (Ramsby & Severy 2007), and in the vision of the Ars’ praeceptor the portico becomes a place to move in a leisurely manner (lentus spatiare, 1.67; see further discussion below), and to encounter some of the women Rome has to offer. The itinerary of Ars 1 next travels along the sight-line of a coherent urban unit (68-70), a complex of porticoes along the eastern side of the Campus Flaminius that had taken form by the second decade of Augustus’ reign.20 From Pompey’s portico, the traveler walks along the road past the Porticus Octavius, the Republican portico restored by Augustus in 33 BCE, and past the sanctuary of Hercules Magnus Custos and the Porticus Philippi, restored in 29 BCE, before stopping off in the Porticus Octaviae, funded by Octavia, and dedicated after 23 BCE to serve as the portico for the theater of Marcellus.21

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Octavia’s portico was renowned for its Greek and Roman libraries and for the quality of artworks it held, including the famous portrait statue of Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi (Pliny N.H. 34.31). The next stop in the itinerary, the Porticus Liviae, is not linked by spatial proximity but by connections to Augustus. For the praeceptor, this is an­ other sight worthy of seeing for its art. Where the Porticus Octaviae is distinctive because of its foreign marbles (Ars am. 1.70), the Porticus Liviae offers another picture gallery decorated with imported Greek paintings (Ars am. 1.71). This portico, replacing the vast private house of Vedius Pollio on the Esquiline Hill, is also clad in marble and sited to render it visually dis­ tinct from, though spatially connected to, the Forum Romanum, the old Republican center of Rome.22 Livia Drusilla, third wife of Augustus, is the only named historical woman in the Ars Amatoria, and here she earns credit for funding her porticus, dedicated in 7 BCE in celebration of her son Tiberius’ triumph. Like Pompey’s complex, the Porticus Liviae also had an interior garden (Plin. N.H. 14.11) and Ovid’s priscae tabellae (1.71) are most likely the famous paintings that Strabo categorized as a wonder of Rome (5.236).23 Although spatial proximity is not the governing principle of the itinerary, as this tour of Rome’s newly built monuments continues, the praeceptor steers his audience closer and closer to the Palatine and to Augustus’ home. Yet Ovid mixes proximity with silence; Augustus dedicated buildings to his wife, sister, son-in-law, nephew, and patron deity on the Palatine Hill, but none are named in Ovid’s passage. When the tour reaches the Palatine itself, the speaker skirts Augustus’ house altogether and heads to the portico of the Danaids in front of the Temple of Apollo.24 Here, the praeceptor invokes the wrong father, Danaus who incited his daughters to murder their grooms, rather than Augustus, named Pater Patriae in 2 BCE.25 The itinerary in Ars 1 suppresses personal names, and raises a new question: why is Augustus’ name or role as patron of many of these de­ velopments omitted from this discussion of Augustan buildings? In this passage and in the itinerary in Ars 3, only two architectural developments are referred to by the name of their patrons, Pompey and Livia. Livia’s importance here as a patron of the arts and architecture is remarkable and equally remarkable is Octavia’s portico, the Porticus Octaviae.26 The prae­ ceptor’s itinerary tantalizingly suggests that contemporary Roman citizens around 2 BCE may not have credited Augustus with these buildings, in line with scholarship that argues against Augustus’ patronage for the Porticus Octaviae and Porticus Liviae.27 Ovid’s praeceptor provides one itinerary that diminishes the contributions of the princeps to the landscape, even as the activities and the locations that the praeceptor recommends could only exist through Augustus’ changes. The fact that the princeps goes unnamed in the itinerary reflects the near total omission of Augustus from the Ars. Augustus is named in only a single passage, 1.171-222, and so his omission from the

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 119 tour of Rome in Ars 1 seems as deliberate as Ovid’s purposeful omissions of Augustus’ monuments in Tristia 3’s tour of the Palatine and the Roman Forum (Huskey 2006). The itinerary the praeceptor constructs competes with the carefully orchestrated Augustan architectural program to advocate for a life of disreputable, naughty love in lieu of the Augustan restoration of old-fashioned morality, fertility, and family.28

The poetics of movement and gender in Ars Amatoria 1 Throughout the tour of Rome in the Ars Amatoria, the praeceptor of Ars 1 and 3 teaches his audiences to move. They walk with a variety of words and at different tempos: in Ars 1, the youths stroll (spatiari, 67-70), nor do they avoid (nec vitare, 71), pass by (nec praeterire, 75), nor flee (nec fugere, 77); they also meet (reperire, 80), and hunt (venari, 89). In Ars 3, movement and the interaction between the addressees and their built environment reoccurs, but the vocabulary simplifies in the women’s case. While the iuvenes walk in various ways, the feminae go to see (visere, 389, 393, 394), they behold (spectare, 395), and they simply go (ire, 387), the most neutral verb of motion in Latin. In the repetition of this itinerary in Ars 3, the politics of the itinerary have shifted. In the second itinerary, Augustus, styled as dux, en­ ters as the focal point of a constellation of family connections that structure the female traveler’s path through the city by guiding her through buildings associated with the Domus Augusta. In each case, walking around the city becomes the means by which these mental cartographies shape the intended audience in gendered ways. The praeceptor of Ars 1 marks his addressee as a lover through the se­ mantics of his gait and movement. The first instance of walking on the tour articulates a gendered, urban identity: tu modo Pompeia lentus spatiare sub umbra, (you just promenade slowly under the shade of Pompey’s portico, Ars am. 1.67). The OLD glosses spatiari, to stroll or promenade, by com­ parison to its related idea, ambulare (s.v. spatiari). This language echoes Cynthia’s final prohibitions to the Propertian speaker at 4.8.75, tu neque Pompeia spatiabere cultus in umbra, and activates the alternative masculi­ nities of prior Roman elegy. In his impressive study of the semiotics of walking in Roman texts, O’Sullivan’s (2011) ideal Roman man ambulat when he walks: he moves neither too quickly, nor too slowly. The walk that is too slow is effeminate, while the gait that is too quick is servile. As the Ovidian youth promenades slowly, he engages with and is shaped by what he encounters. This walking does not then reflect simply on the human being by himself.29 Instead, to promenade (spatiari) is an interactive, dynamic process of exchange between the human being and his movement through his built environment. As with Benjamin’s flâneur, Grosz’ urban citizen, or our contemporary tourist, the walk makes the man.

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The Roman man constructed as the praeceptor’s audience in Ars 1 strolls in a very deliberate manner. Further, the praeceptor singles out the utility of stop-and-go motion in winning a girl in the second section of Ars 1 (491-6): seu pedibus vacuis illi spatiosa teretur porticus, hic socias tu quoque iunge moras: et modo praecedas facito, modo terga sequaris, et modo festines, et modo lentus eas: nec tibi de mediis aliquot transire columnas sit pudor aut lateri continuasse latus

495

Or if a long portico is tread by her idle feet, here too join in friendly delays. And now make sure you go in front, now that you follow behind, sometimes hurry up, and sometimes go slowly; neither let it shame you to pass through with a few columns in the middle, or to come together side-by-side Movement, like the rest of human activity in the Ars, is subject to the principles of ars and disciplina.30 In the opening itinerary, the amator will move through the city of Rome (lines 67-262) to find a puella. In the second section of Ars 1, on wooing the girl, movement within the architecture of contemporary Rome will itself become a deliberate form of courtship and erotic persuasion. The iuvenis’ movement here becomes a choreographed dance of response where the amator leads (praecedas, 493), pursues (sequaris, 493), and plays peekaboo with his prize in between the columns of a Roman portico (495-6). The instructions, played broadly, make for a ridiculous image, but the praeceptor also hints at movement’s role in creating erotic success through the elegiac ending to this passage (nec…sit pudor…lateri continuasse latus, 495-6). As ever, Ovid deploys the euphemistic vocabulary of Roman erotic elegy to create an erotic frisson. The social interaction of joining the girl here in friendly dawdling (492) culminates with bodies pressed together, as side meets side. That particular collocation of two cases of an erotic body part joined by a perfect infinitive is as close as Tibullus, Propertius, and often the Amores get to displaying a couple in a sexual embrace together (cf. Catullus 69.2; femori conseruisse femur, Tib. 1.8.26; femori impositum sustinuisse femur, Ov. Am. 3.14.22).31 Moreover, the praeceptor marks the naughtiness of this passage with a suggestion to ignore pudor (496), erotic modesty and a sense of shame. Movement between these places through the itinerary makes the amator who he is: namely, one liable to find, woo, and bed a girl. When read through the lens of prior Roman elegy, the praeceptor’s language promises that sightseeing will make the lover a successful one, if he follows these instructions for movement perfectly. The suggestion of a successful erotic encounter with a woman one has only just met speaks to the deep privilege of the Roman elite male audience

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 121 the praeceptor instructs. Feminist scholars have long exposed the implicit power Roman men hold over others in Roman elegiac poetry.32 The didactic poetry of the Ars uses an argument from nature to justify the reduction of women from potential equals to subordinate material to be shaped. Leach (1964) and Myerowitz Levine (1981) demonstrated how the imagery of nature, agriculture, and the hunt in the Ars Amatoria equates women with nature and animals to be domesticated. Similarly, Ovid’s descriptions of women’s movements through Rome in Ars 3 alter their agency by subtly reframing their actions in terms of family relationships to Augustus, and by simplifying the language of their movements to stress their visibility as po­ tential love objects, not as lovers.

Women’s urban travel in Ars 3 In Ars 3, with its didactic aims that differ from Ars 1, namely, to arm women with the knowledge of how they can be loved (femina praecipiam quo sit amanda modo, 3.28), the porticoes of Pompey, Octavia, Livia, the Palatine Hill, the Temple of Isis, the three theaters, gladiatorial arenas, and the Circus Maximus reappear, and Agrippa’s Saepta Iulia appears for the first time (see Figure 7.2). As in Ars 1, women in Ars 3 also become urban, gendered subjects through movement or travel in the city.33 They, how­ ever, receive different mental cartography—one that reinforces particular kinds of identification with traditional Roman mores of familial connec­ tion, albeit to the princeps, and emphasizes the successful military work of the Roman empire as much as rich spatial descriptions. This second itin­ erary further elaborates the competing organizational principles of Ovid’s literary cartographies (Ars am. 3.385-97). nec vos Campus habet nec vos gelidissima Virgo nec Tuscus placida devehit amnis aqua. at licet et prodest Pompeias ire per umbras, virginis aetheriis cum caput ardet equis. visite laurigero sacrata Palatia Phoebo (ille Paraetonicas mersit in alta rates) quaeque soror coniunxque ducis monimenta pararunt navalique gener cinctus honore caput, visite turicremas vaccae Memphitidos aras, visite conspicuis terna theatra locis. spectentur tepido maculosae sanguine harenae metaque ferventi circumeunda rota. quod latet, ignotum est: ignoti nulla cupido

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Neither the Campus holds you, nor the iciest Aqua Virgo, nor does the Tiber river carry you down in its calm water. But it is allowed, and it profits you to go through Pompeian shade, when the head burns with the Virgin’s

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Erika Zimmermann Damer celestial horses; go see the Palatine, sacred to laurel-wearing Phoebus; he sank the Egyptian ships in the deep; and which monuments the sister and spouse of the leader prepared, and his son-in-law, head crowned with naval glory; go see the incense-burning altars of the Memphitic heifer, go see the three theaters in conspicuous seats. Let the sands stained with warm blood be seen, and the turning post rounded by the speeding wheel. What hides, is unknown; there’s no desire for an unknown.

In Ars 3, the precepts for movement and the description of places to go see has changed. In Augustan Rome, movement through and within space (e.g., in theaters) was restricted along gendered lines by laws as well as by social forces.34 After three prohibitions, the praeceptor emphasizes that it is allowed (licet) for women to wander through Augustus’ pleasure zone in the southern part of the Campus Martius, composed of the porticoes, theaters, amphitheater, and tem­ ples that Strabo (5.3.8) praises.35 Where men could engage in sport and linger throughout the entire Campus Martius, women were restricted to its southern half. The places women or men were allowed or forbidden from, and the re­ sulting segregation of public social spaces across the city of Rome, shape nor­ mative gender roles which Ovid’s mental cartography reflects. In each of the two itineraries, logical spatial proximity and family re­ lationships compete to organize Roman mental cartographies. The list of places from the first half of the Ars 1 passage is compressed in Ars 3 and individual descriptions are flattened or eliminated such that family members of the Domus Augusta are emphasized instead of what a visitor might see when she arrives at a stop on the tour. What began as real spaces imagined with some detail in Ars 1 becomes a simple list of family members who dedicated monuments in 3.391-2. The sister, wife, and the son-in-law of the dux all feature in a single couplet which compresses a six-line itinerary of Ars 1.69-74 into the barest description of places to go. Moreover, repetitive constructions with the verbs used to describe women’s movement further flatten this mental cartography. While an itinerary remains, it is harder to imagine the women addressed by the praeceptor picturing themselves moving between and within actual places in pursuit of lovers. In Ars 3, in other words, richly articulated spatial description gives way to a disembodied idea, the importance of family, as a means of forming urban identities. Where Livia was named in Ars 1, here she is called by her re­ lationship to Augustus, as his wife, coniunx ducis (391). In addressing her by her family relation, she becomes equal to two other family members who have also erected portico monuments in the city.36 As Barchiesi observes, this is the only passage in the Ars where Ovid mentions historical Roman family relationships: the only son-in-law in the poem is Agrippa, Augustus’ son-in-law; and only here are a sister and a coniunx historical, rather than mythological, people (2006: 102). This tour reinforces Augustan values

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 123 associating women with the family and marriage, and these buildings with the Domus Augusta and military conquest. The second portion of the tour of Ars 3 becomes one that people could actually walk. The tremendous expanse of Agrippa’s Saepta Julia, dedicated in 26 BCE, is adjacent to the Temple of Isis next on the tour (Ars 3.393).37 Continuing along the itinerary, furthermore, would mean moving through a coherent urban unit of adjacent buildings: traveling from the Saepta Julia, the women would move next door to the Temple of Isis in the Campus Martius, then onto the three theaters in the southern Campus Martius and then to one of the arena locations in Augustan Rome (the Forum Romanum, the amphitheater of Statilius Taurus, or the Circus Maximus). A final difference is worth examining. In Ars 1 the youths are instructed not to avoid the portico of the Temple of Palatine Apollo, where statues of the 50 Danaids were placed in the intercolumniations (Ars 1.73-4). Here Ars 3 has changed the focus to the male god, instead of the subjected Danaids. The temple complex of Palatine Apollo received a full ecphrasis in prior elegy (Prop. 2.31.1-15), and it appears four times in total throughout Ovid’s poetry (Am. 2.2.3-4, Tr. 3.1.61-2; Ars 1.73-4; 3.389-90). Outside of this passage from Ars 3, Ovid’s three other references to the complex consistently mention the portico, the Danaids, or their father, and none name Caesar Augustus, its builder. In Ars 3, however, the Palatine is presented to the feminae as a space sacred to Apollo, who sank the Egyptian ships at Actium (3.389-90). The language recalls Augustus’ associations with laurel, Apollo, and military victory over foreign threats, and reinforces rather than silences hegemonic Augustan ways of reading the space of the Palatine.38 The most obvious suggestion is that the praeceptor realized that women who murdered their bride-grooms on their wedding night were not suitable models for loveable women, yet Ovid is not one to avoid similarly awkward juxtapo­ sitions of mythological exempla that undermine his erotodidaxis.39 Instead, their omission in favor of Actian Apollo, Augustus’ patron god, shows how much these two itineraries differ in the meanings their mental cartographies communicate. The omission of the Danaids on the Palatine and their replacement by Apollo thus points again to an emerging attempt to gender the ideological impact of architectural programs for urban itinerant male or female audi­ ences. Ovid’s controlling hand here has revised an initial narrative in Ars 1 that gave too much power to a potentially subversive narrative of love­ making within Augustan buildings. Ovid’s revision emphasizing women’s association with family and marriage thus reinforces Augustan moral values while also suiting the praeceptor’s aims of making the female addressees of Ars 3 objects shaped by patriarchal, if erotodidactic, control. In revising the itinerary for a new group of readers, anonymous Roman women, Ovid at­ tempts to shape women as love objects and thus to check their agency. This conservative revision of his mental cartography stands out as a tacit ac­ knowledgment of the revolutionary power of the women of the Domus

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Augusta. This gendered reshaping acknowledges that women are not only passive recipients of ideological statements, but possibly disruptive subjects in a cityscape who are just as capable as the male addressees of corrupting Augustan messages of moral rebirth.40

The cultural significance of strolling in the porticoes Ovid’s itineraries focus primarily on new porticoes in the city of Rome, those of Pompey, Octavia, and Livia, the Saepta Iulia, and the Danaid Portico on the Palatine. The cultural significance of this architectural form, developed from the Greek stoa, as a setting for serious and philosophical engagement, becomes clear in Ciceronian thought at de Oratore 2.20. Here one of the figures in the de Oratore, Q. Lutatius Catulus, says to his inter­ locuter, L. Licinius Crassus, as they walk through a portico of the latter’s villa at Tusculum: num tandem aut locus hic non idoneus videtur, in quo porticus haec ipsa, ubi nunc ambulamus, et palaestra et tot locis sessiones gymna­ siorum et Graecorum disputationum memoriam quodam modo com­ movent? …yet do you really think this scene ill-fitting, where this very colonnade, in which we are now walking, this exercise-ground, and these benches placed at so many points, in some degree awaken memories of the gymnastic schools and the discussions of the Greeks? (E.W. Sutton, tr. 1988) As O’Sullivan remarks on this passage: “the act of walking itself contributes to the atmosphere of genteel intellectualism that Cicero evokes here. As Catulus’ phrasing implies, the portico of Crassus’ villa encourages move­ ment of body and mind” (2011: 78). In the Ars then, the portico setting lends some intellectual authenticity to the subjects of this didactic instruction. Like the students of a philosophical teacher, these Roman youths engage in rigorous disciplina that molds the body and the mind into the ideal Ovidian lover. This path through Rome’s newly built porticoes may parody Roman peripatetic and Stoic habits lauded in Cicero’s passage. That some Roman portico gardens were named after the clustered philosophical schools of Athens, like Cicero’s own Tusculan villa evoking the Academy (Att. 1.4.3, 1.9.2 and 1.11.3), further suggests that porticoes transported the imagination of their strollers to a different place and mindset by evoking mental topo­ graphies of the Greek world.41 Promenading in a portico is also part of a broader Roman cultural phe­ nomenon of what a walk meant about the walker, not only in terms of movement, but in terms of social standing.42 That the iuvenis can stroll through the porticoes advertises his status as a Roman elite, a man with the

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 125 time and resources for otium and its activity, the ambulatio, rather than the officia of the client. Such embodied displays of social class, culture, and gender, articulated through leisurely movement in urban architectural spaces, are to be expected in a culture so completely obsessed with visible displays of social position. Perhaps too, the buildings’ newly gleaming marble and avant-garde imported objects allow those strolling to encounter foreign spoils from the perspective of a Roman imperial urbanite, to bask in luxury goods brought to the Empire’s cosmopolis through travel and traf­ ficking, and to reaffirm their elite status as idlers. Favro, Macaulay-Lewis, and O’Sullivan have shown how these porticoes construct meaning and urban identity as a monumental group within Augustan Rome. The Campus Martius, with its deliberate alignment of buildings along the cardinal points, became a “showcase” pleasure district outside the Pomerium (Favro 1996: 206). In this period of rapid transforma­ tion and expansion of the urban center of Rome, the Campus Martius con­ structions were immediately distinguished from older constructions because of the regularity and orthogonality of their placement and architecture, and be­ cause of their extensive and remarkable use of marble in place of older buildings worked in brick and tufa (Favro 1996: 218-23; cf. Suet. Div. Aug. 28). On the urban scale, these internal-facing complexes created “islands of order” and “carefully manipulated artistic programs” within Rome.43 Moreover, as Macaulay-Lewis has demonstrated, porticoes were the place for leisured walking, because movement into and out of such porticoes was controlled, and the gardens, artworks, orderliness, and even deliberate width of the colonnades created a pleasant environment (2011: 272-9). Indeed, the open ambulatories of Augustan Rome’s porticoes were often wider than streets in Rome and far more ordered (Macaulay-Lewis 2011: 288). Ovid innovates by showing how travel through this group of monuments shapes urban walkers, male and fe­ male. In his famous defense of his poetry at Tristia 2.279-88, Ovid argues that the Ars Amatoria is as faultless as Roman monuments, including theaters, the Arena, the Circus Maximus, porticoes, and even temples: ut tamen hoc fatear, ludi quoque semina praebent nequitiae: tolli tota theatra iube! peccandi causam multis quam saepe dederunt, martia cum durum sternit harena solum! tollatur Circus! non tuta licentia Circi est: hic sedet ignoto iuncta puella viro. cum quaedam spatientur in hoc, ut amator eodem conveniat, quare porticus ulla patet? quis locus est templis augustior? haec quoque vitet, in culpam siqua est ingeniosa suam.

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Even if I confess this, the games too offer the seeds of nequitia; order every theater abolished. How often they gave an opportunity for sinning

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Erika Zimmermann Damer to many, when the Martian arena strews the hard earth. Let the Circus be razed; not even the Circus’ freedom is safe; here a girl sits right up next to an unknown man. When any woman can wander in, so that she might meet her lover there, why is any portico open? What space is more holy than temples? Let her avoid these also, if she is at all clever in her mischief.

Since Ovid returns to itineraries of movement after the Ars, and since they first appear in Ars Amatoria 1, I posit that this mental cartography forms an Ovidian metonymy for his Rome, in the collocation of fora, temples, theaters, porticoes, the Campus Martius, and gardens.44 The coincidences between Ovid’s map of Roman pick-up spots in the Ars Amatoria and the Tristia, the Epistulae ex Ponto,45 Strabo, and other contemporary de­ scriptions of Rome corroborate the significance of these gendered carto­ graphies. When the praeceptor frames these two walks for his intended male and female audiences so distinctly, Ovid adds a layer of special gendered resonances. The role of movement between and within newly built architecture in Rome has framed this reading of Ovid’s descriptions of where to find love in the city, the first instructions to the would-be amatores of Book 1. This description is not merely a setting; rather, the passeggiata’s carefully

Temple of Isis Porticus of Pompey Julian Forum

Porticus of Livia

Porticus of Octavia Theater of Marcellus

Porticus of the Danaids

Figure 7.1 Ars Amatoria 1.67-90: Route for men to walk. Base map from David Gilman Romano, Digital Augustan Rome, http://digitalaugustanro­ me.org, reproduced with permission of the author.

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 127

Saepta Julia Temple of Isis Porticus of Pompey Porticus of Livia The three Theaters

Amphitheater of Statilius Taurus

Circus Maximus

Figure 7.2 Ars Amatoria 3.385-97: Route for women to walk. Base map from David Gilman Romano, Digital Augustan Rome, http://digitalaugustanro­ me.org, reproduced with permission of the author.

orchestrated itinerary of movements between and within Augustan buildings reinforces Ovid’s provocative claim that love is an art that can be taught and performed, that a lover acquires his and her subjectivity through the itera­ tive process of performing love acts and through the careful cultus of his and her own person in this most cultivated of all cities: first is where to go and where to be seen. As I have argued, the buildings operate not just as sites on a potential tour, but as an integral component of making the audience who they are—urban subjects shaped by their mental cartographies into who they are and what they do (Figures 7.1 and 7.2).*

Notes 1 Favro’s groundbreaking study (1996) of walking through the Augustan cityscape offers an elegant example of this type of work, as Zanker’s 1987 tour had done. For the study of Ovid, see Boyle’s 2003 inclusive catalogue of Rome in Ovid’s poetry. 2 Cf. concepts of “Psychogeography” from Larmour & Spencer 2007: 4–5; “me­ taphysical topography” from Vassaly 1993 cited in Edwards 1996; Grosz 1995: 243; Lindheim 2010, 2021 on the “mapping impulse;” “mental maps” in Götz & Holmén 2018. 3 Ovid’s texts also presume that women may read Ars 1 and 2, and that men may read Ars 3. James 2003, 2008 demonstrates that the women imagined in these

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relationships are elite courtesans who would be quite dismayed to read or hear how they are dehumanized, objectified, manipulated, and endangered with vio­ lence and pregnancy by the instructions of Ars 1 and 2, and then instructed to fool their lovers in Ars 3. See Gibson 2003: 388 on the decorousness of Ovid’s technical instructions for sexual positions that suit a woman best (3.769–808) as continuity with Roman elegy and as Ovidian moderation. Ars 2.717–32 also places two lovers in bed together. Gibson 2003: 25-37 has argued for a provocative tension for the female addressees of the Ars 3 as neither matronae nor scorta, and thus able to step around the prohibitions of the Julian marital legislations while reading a poem that skirts the edge of prohibited activity. On women as materia in the Ars, see foundational pieces by Leach 1964; Myerowitz Levine 1981; On women as materia in early Ovidian erotic poetry, see Greene 1998; Sharrock 1991. I agree with Miller 2004, elaborating on Kennedy 1992, that Ovid’s position cannot be described as either pro- or anti-Augustan, but rather ironic and para-Augustan. Pandey 2018: 170-83 reads the propemptikon to Gaius Caesar (Ars 1.177-228) as correcting the omission of the Forum Augustum from this tour, and questioning the militaristic ethos and triumphalist Augustan ideology of the Forum. See Gibson 2003: 258 with earlier bibliography on using Augustan buildings as places to meet lovers as a mockery of Augustan morality; cf. Labate 2006: 48-64 on Ovid’s tour as Hellenistic eulogy. Östenberg, Malmberg & Bjørnebye 2015: 2. On the spatial turn, see also the Introduction to this volume. Miller 2007: 152-160 reads Ovid’s tour as a carnivalesque uncrowning of Augustan authority in the search for pleasurable sexuality that ironically re­ inforces the “vitality of the Roman street as a site for desire” in the stability of the Principate (152). O’Sullivan’s 2015 study of literary walks in Rome looks to Tristia 3.1 in the context of Aeneid 8 and Horace, positing that the Roman poetic process itself is a metaphor for movement. My reading also looks to Larmour & Spencer’s 2007 “psychogeography of Rome,” a phenomenological, human, psychically-centered understanding of to­ pography, derived in part from Benjamin’s flânerie (esp. 17–18). Lefebvre, one of the most influential 20th-century critics of the city and of the spatial turn, echoes the praeceptor’s words when he notes that “the city was not one space among others but…something vaster.” Rome metonymically re­ presented space as a whole, both the city, the earth, and the world (1991: 244; cf. 235). Ovid will later claim (Fasti 2.684) that the space of the city of Rome and the world are metaphorically the same. I thank one of our anonymous referees for this insight. The imported plane trees in Pompey’s portico recall Persia and the East more broadly; the Danaid portico, Temple of Isis, and Adonia recall Egypt; the Sabbath evokes Syria and Judea; and the Pinaces on public display in Octavia’s and Livia’s porticoes recall Greece. Texts of Ovid follow Kenney’s OCT, all translations are my own, unless other­ wise noted. Gros in LTUR s.v. Porticus Pompeii, 148; Vitruv. De. Arch. 5.9.1; Gleason 1990. See Coarelli 1971–72; Gros LTUR 149; Evans 2009. For a reconstruction of Pompey’s garden, see Gleason 1990, 1994. Kuttner 1999: 345 details some of the rare plants and gardening books Pompey brought back from the east for his triumph, including living Judaean balsam, “Ethiopian” palm trees and the Asiatic plane tree (Plin. N.H. 12.20). Sauron 1994, chapter 3 gives an extensive discussion of the features of Pompey’s portico. See Kuttner 1999.

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 129 18 Prop. 2.32.11–16; Kuttner 1999: 347. After 30 BCE, when Octavian transformed the Curia into a latrine, the portico may not have smelled so uniformly sweet. 19 Gleason 1990; Kuttner 1999: 346–7. 20 Favro 1996: 173. 21 Richardson 1976 clarifies the identification of the Porticus Octaviae, surrounding the Temples of Juno Regina and Jupiter Stator, adjacent to the theater of Marcellus, and distinguishes it from the Porticus Octavia. 22 Favro 1996: 212. 23 Bassani & Berno 2019 note that this portico transforms the private luxuria of Pollio into public munificence, and share what we know about the archaeology of the portico. 24 On silence and the interpretive autonomy of the elegists in the face of Augustus’ attempts to establish a hegemonic moralizing and aesthetic reading of the Palatine, see Pandey 2018: 87–96. 25 See O’Gorman 1997: 105; Barchiesi 2006: 103. 26 See Milnor 2005: 61–2; Severy 2003: 70–4. 27 Richardson 1976; Flory 1984; Ackroyd 2000; Woodhull 2003. 28 See also Pandey 2018: 170–82 on omissions and reanalyses of Augustan control of this urban landscape. For Pandey, Ovid challenges the centrality of Augustus’ control in establishing hegemonic readings of the city he remade, particularly on the Palatine and in his omission of the Forum Augustum. See also Boyle 2003: 810, 19–20; Miller 2007: 152 29 O’Sullivan’s (2011) sociological inquiry focuses on the incessus, the gait, in Roman philosophical and rhetorical texts to explore how the walker presents himself in Roman society, and how the walker is perceived by other Romans. This chapter differs from O’Sullivan’s work by attempting to reintegrate the human subject actively into his and her interactions with their built environment, and to see how dynamic and interactive this model of movement can be in Ovid’s poetic text. 30 Labate 2006: 193–215. 31 On the latus as erotic body part in Ovid, see Am. 1.13.6, Am. 3.7. 36, Ars 1.140, 1.606; Ep. 2.58; Ep. 18.138; see Pichon 1991s.v. latus; See also Wills 1996: 200–5 on amorous polyptoton in the elegists. 32 See, for instance, Sharrock 1991; Greene 1998; Myerowitz Levine 1981 on women as artistic materia to be shaped by the male elegiac lover or Ovid’s praeceptor amoris; James 2006 on controlling women’s movements in the dining room. 33 On women’s travel in elegy, cf. Keith in this volume. See also Blake in this vo­ lume on Martial’s puellae Gaditanae. 34 As by the Lex Julia Theatralis, praised at Suetonius Div. Aug. 44 and Pliny N.H. 33.32, that assigned women to the back caveae of the theater, and further divided spectators according to class and occupation. 35 Strabo Geography 5.3.8: πλησίον δ᾽ ἐστὶ τοῦ πεδίου τούτου καὶ ἄλλο πεδίον καὶ στοαὶ κύκλῳ παμπληθεῖς καὶ ἄλση καὶ θέατρα τρία καὶ ἀμφιθέατρον καὶ ναοὶ πολυτελεῖς καὶ συνεχεῖς ἀλλήλοις, ὡς πάρεργον ἂν δόξαιεν ἀποφαίνειν τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν. Next to the Campus Martius is another plain, with numerous encircling colonnades, sacred groves, three theaters, an amphitheater, and extravagant temples, in a line with each other, all very close together so that they would seem to render the rest of the city as a mere accessory.

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36 Gibson 2003: 261, based on a suggestion by Haslam, notes that Ovid’s language briefly allows that the soror and coniunx may be, as in the Ptolemaic dynasties, the same person. 37 Gibson 2003: ad 3.391–2; Favro 1996: 171-3. Cassius Dio (53.27.1) agrees with Ovid’s framing of the Saepta as a work in honor of Agrippa’s naval victory at Actium. In honor of his victory at the battle of Naulochus in 36 BCE, Agrippa earned the corona rostrata, and these lines may also allude to his central role in Augustus’s victory at Actium (Gibson 2003: ad 392). 38 My reading of Ars 3 here complements Pandey’s (2018: 89–117) reading of the Palatine complex. 39 On these awkward juxtapositions of narrative and instruction, see Sharrock 2006; Casali 2006; Labate 2006. 40 Cf. Milnor 2005: 47–93; Barchiesi 2006; Gibson 2003: 257–8. 41 O’Sullivan 2011: 94–107. 42 See O’Sullivan 2011: 116–49; Corbeill 2002. 43 Favro 1996: 171, 174; cf. Zanker 1987. 44 We can compare this to Strabo’s famous description of Augustus’ Rome (above, n. 35). 45 Pont. 1.8.33-6: a que domo rursus pulchrae loca vertor ad Urbis cunctaque mens oculis pervidet illa suis. nunc fora, nunc aedes, nunc marmore tecta theatra, nunc subit aequata porticus omnis humo And I turn back from home to the places of the lovely city and my mind surveys it all with its own eyes. Now it comes upon the fora, the temples, now the marble theaters, now every portico with its levelled soil. * Many thanks are due to many contributors. I extend gratitude to the American Academy in Rome, whose library stacks helped this project blossom, to my colleagues in the Department of Classical Studies at Richmond who listened to a very early version of this project, to audiences at Feminism and Classics, the SCS, to anonymous readers, and especially to Nandini Pandey and Micah Myers for generous editorial feedback.

Works cited Ackroyd, B. 2000. “The Porticus Gai et Luci. The Porticus Philippi. The Porticus Liviae.” Athenaeum 88: 563–80. Barchiesi, A. 2006. “Women on Top: Livia and Andromache.” In R. Gibson, S. Green & A. Sharrock, eds. The Art of Love: Bimillennial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 96–120. Bassani, M. & F. R. Berno 2019. “The Porticus Liviae in Ovid’s Fasti (6.637-648).” In M. P. Loar, S. Murray & S. Rebeggiani, eds. The Cultural History of Augustan Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 103–25. Benjamin, W. 1999. The Arcades Project. Cambridge, MA (Belknap Press). Boyle, A. J. 2003. Ovid and the Monuments: A Poet’s Rome. Bendigo, Australia (Aureal Publications). Casali, S. 2006. “The Art of Making Oneself Hated: Rethinking (Anti-)Augustanism in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria.” In R. Gibson, S. Green & A. Sharrock, eds. The Art of

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 131 Love: Bimillennial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris, Oxford (Oxford University Press), 216–34. Coarelli, F. 1971-2. “Il complesso pompeiano del Campo Marzio e la sua dec­ orazione sculturea,” RendPontAcc 44: 99–122. Coarelli, F. 2007. Rome and Environs. An Archaeological Guide. Berkeley (University of California Press). Corbeill, A. 2002. “Political Movement: Walking and Ideology in Republican Rome.” In D. Fredrick ed., The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power and the Body. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press), 182–215. Edwards, C. 1996. Writing Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Evans, J. 2009. “Prostitutes in the Portico of Pompey? A Reconsideration.” TAPA 139: 123–45. Favro, D. 1996. The Urban Image of Augustan Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Flory, M. B. 1984. “Sic Exempla Parantur: Livia’s Shrine to Concordia and the Porticus Liviae.” Historia 33: 309–30. Fulkerson, L. & T. Stover 2016. Repeat Performances: Ovidian Repetition and the Metamorphoses. Madison (University of Wisconsin Press). Gibson, R. 2003. Ovid: Ars Amatoria Book 3. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Gleason, K. 1990. “The Garden Portico of Pompey the Great: An Ancient Public Park Preserved in the Layers of Rome.” Expedition 32: 4–13. Gleason, K. 1994. “Porticus Pompeiana: A New Perspective on the First Public Park of Ancient Rome.” Journal of Garden History 14: 13–37. Götz, N. & J. Holmén 2018. “Introduction to Mental maps: geographical and his­ torical perspectives.”Journal of Cultural Geography 35: 157–61. Greene, E. 1998. The Erotics of Domination: Male Desire and the Mistress in Latin Love Poetry. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press). Grosz, E. 1995. “Bodies / Cities.” In Time, Space, and Perversion. Essays on the Politics of Bodies. New York (Routledge). Haselberger, L. & D. Romano 2002. Mapping Augustan Rome. Portsmouth, R.I. (Journal of Roman Archaeology). Henderson, J. 2002. “A Doo-Dah-Doo-Dah-Dey at the Races: Ovid Amores 3.2 and the Personal Politics of the Circus Maximus.” CA 21: 41–65. Hollis, A. 1977. Ovid Ars Amatoria Book I. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Huskey, S. 2006. “Ovid’s (mis)guided Tour of Rome: Some Purposeful Omissions in Tristia 3.1.” CJ 102: 17–39. James, S. 2003. Learned Girls and Male Persuasion. Gender and Reading in Roman Love Elegy. Berkeley (University of California Press). James, S. 2006. “A Courtesan’s Choreography: Female Liberty and Male Anxiety at the Roman Dinner Party.” In C. Faraone & L. McClure, eds. Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World. Madison (University of Wisconsin Press), 224–62. James, S. 2008. “Women Reading Men: The Female Audience of the Ars Amatoria.” CCJ 54: 136–159. Kuttner, A. L. 1999. “Culture and History at Pompey’s Museum.” TAPA 129: 343–73. Labate, M. 1984. L’Arte di farsi amare: modelli culturali e progetto didascalico nell’ elegia ovidiana. Pisa (Bibliotheca di MD).

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Labate, M. 2006. “Erotic Aetiology: Romulus, Augustus, and the Rape of the Sabine Women.” In R. Gibson, S. Green & A. Sharrock eds., The Art of Love: Bimillennial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 193–215. Larmour, D. & D. Spencer eds. 2007. The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Laurence, R. & D. J. Newsome eds. 2011. Rome, Ostia, Pompeii. Movement and Space. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Laurence, R. 2015. “Towards a History of Mobility in Ancient Rome (300 BCE to 100 CE).” In I. Östenberg, S. Malmberg & J. Bjørnebye, eds. The Moving City: Processions, Passages, and Promenades in Ancient Rome. London (Bloomsbury Academic), 175–86. Leach, E. W. 1964. “Georgic Imagery in the Ars Amatoria.” TAPA 95: 142–54. Lefebvre, H. 1991. The Production of Space. Oxford (Blackwell). Lindheim, S. 2010. “Pomona’s pomarium: The ‘Mapping Impulse’ in Metamorphoses 14 (and 9).” TAPA 140: 163–94. Lindheim, S. 2011. “What’s Love Got To Do With It?: Mapping Cynthia in Propertius’ Paired Elegies 1.8A-B and 1.11-12,” AJP 132: 633–65. Lindheim, S. 2021. Latin Elegy and the Space of Empire. Oxford (Oxford University Press). LTUR = Steinby, E., ed. 1993-2000. Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. Rome (Quasar). Macaulay-Lewis, E. 2011. “The City in Motion: walking for Transport and Leisure in the City of Rome.” In R.Laurence & D. J.Newsome, eds. Rome, Ostia, Pompeii. Movement and Space. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 262–89. Miller, P. A. 2004. Subjecint Verses: Latin Love Elegy and the Emergence of the Real. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Miller, P. A. 2007. “‘I get Around.’ Sadism, Desire, and Metonymy on the Streets of Rome with Horace, Ovid, and Juvenal.” In D. Larmour & D. Spencer eds., The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 138–67. Milnor, K. 2005. Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus: Inventing Private Life. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Myerowitz Levine, M. 1981. “The Women of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria: Nature or Culture,” SCI 6: 30–56. Myerowitz, M. 1985. Ovid’s Games of Love. Detroit (Wayne Staye University Press). Newlands, C. 2013. “Architectural Ecphrasis in Roman Poetry.” In T. D. Papanghelis, S. J. Harrison & S. Frangoulidis, eds. Generic Interfaces in Latin Literature: Encounters, Interactions, and Transformations. Boston (De Gruyter), 55–78. O’Gorman, E. 1997. “Love and the Family: Augustus and the Ovidian Legacy,” Arethusa 30: 103–23. O’Sullivan, T. 2011. Walking in Roman Culture. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). O’Sullivan, T. 2015. “Augustan Literary Tours: Walking and Reading the City,” In I. Östenberg, S. Malmberg & J. Bjørnebye, eds. 2015. The Moving City: Processions, Passages, and Promenades in Ancient Rome. London (Bloomsbury Academic), 111–22.

Competing itineraries in the Ars Amatoria 133 Östenberg, I., S. Malmberg & J. Bjørnebye, eds. 2015. The Moving City: Processions, Passages, and Promenades in Ancient Rome. London (Bloomsbury Academic). Pandey, N. 2018. The Poetics of Power in Augustan Rome. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Pichon, R. 1991. Index Verborum Amatorium. Hildesheim (G. Olms). Ramsby, T. & Severy-Hoven, B. 2007. “Gender, Sex, and the Domestication of the Empire in Art of the Augustan Age.” Arethusa 40: 43–71. Richardson, L. R. Jr. 1976. “The Evolution of the Porticus Octaviae.” AJA 80: 57–64. Sauron, G. 1994. Quis deum? L’expression plastique des ideologies politiques et re­ ligieuses a Rome a la fin de la Republique et au debut du principat. Rome (École française de Rome). Severy, B. 2003. Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire. New York (Routledge). Sharrock, A. 1991. “Womanufacture.” JRS 81: 36–49. Sharrock, A. 2006. “Love in Parentheses: Digression and Narrative Hierarchy in Ovid’s Erotodidactic Poems.” In R. Gibson, S. Green & A. Sharrock, eds. The Art of Love: Bimillennial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 23–40. Welch, T. 2005. The Elegiac Cityscape. Propertius and the Meaning of Roman Monuments. Columbus (Ohio State University Press). Wills, J. 1996. Repetition in Latin Poetry: Figures of Allusion. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Woodhull, M. 2003. “Engendering Space: Octavia’s Portico in Rome.” Aurora: The Journal of the History of Art 4: 13–33. Zanker, P. 1987. “Drei Stadtbilder aus dem Augustischen Rom.” In L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire (Ier siècle avant J.-C.-III siècle après J.-C. Rome (École française de Rome), 475–89.

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Statius’ prompempitkon and the geopoetics of Silvae 3.2 Carole E. Newlands

The Roman propemptikon or “sending off poem” flourished in the Augustan period, the product of a new age of travel and expansionist ideology. Our one Flavian example, Silv. 3.2, addressed to the military tribune Maecius Celer leaving for a spell of duty in Syria, provides Statius’ most sustained engagement with the theme of travel and imperial geography in the Silvae. Yet as a literary form, the propemptikon has received short shrift in scholarship apart from serving as a prescriptive paradigm in Francis Cairns’ monograph on genre (1972: 7–16; 231–5; Nisbet & Hubbard 1970: 41–5; Putnam 2017: 83). Robin Nisbet writes of Horace’s Carm. 1.3, a propemptikon for Vergil that was an important model for Statius, that it is “an accomplished piece of versification, but little more.” And he describes Silv. 3.2 as a “facile effusion” (Nisbet & Hubbard 1970: 42 and 44). As I shall argue here, Silv. 3.2 is a richly intertextual and self-reflexive poem that provides an interesting case study of geopoetics, a term that explores the interaction in poetry between geographical movement and ideas of literary artistry.1 Certainly Silv. 3.2 follows quite closely the basic conventions of the propemptikon such as the anxiety of the one left at home, the dangers of the voyage, the anger at the audacity of the first seafarers, and the joy at the safe return.2 Moreover, as discussed in the introduction to this volume, Horace’s Carm. 1.3, an ode that delivers Vergil to a sea voyage to Greece, puts poetics on the agenda of the Roman propemptikon by exploring the metaphorical possibilities of the voyaging ship as the ship of state or as literary composition.3 But Silv. 3.2 is also unusual in that the spaces through which its protagonist is imagined to travel are not fraught with substantial dangers, as was conventional in the propemptikon. The Flavian dynasty, emerging from the civil war of 69–70 CE, promoted an ideology of peace across a world subjected to Roman imperium; the centerpiece of that ideology in Rome was the Emperor Vespasian’s Temple of Peace, filled with sacred plunder from the sack of Jerusalem. The settled Mediterranean basin, with its busy trade routes, posed little threat to Roman travelers; the new dangerous “unknown” was the North Sea, or Oceanus, as Germanicus found in 16 CE when he and his troops were caught in a violent storm there, an episode described in epic style by Tacitus (Ann. 2.23-4).4 In Victoria

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Pagán’s words, the Romans under Germanicus’ command, by venturing into North Sea regions, had grievously transgressed “the boundary between Roman and non-Roman, human and nonhuman, and finally between the known and unknown world” (1999: 312–13). In Silv. 3.2 literary tradition is repurposed for a new Flavian geographical and political reality. Celer, traveling in a post-civil war world by a wellestablished trade route from Naples to Alexandria, has in effect very little to fear, despite the poet’s initial, cautionary posturings (60–89). Unlike the figure of Martial and his poems, the global travelers described by Blake in this volume, Celer is not much of an adventurer. His journey is safely predictable even when he reaches land. He travels first to the Roman province of Egypt and then on to Syria for military duty, where he has previously served (3.2.123-4). Characteristically, it is a gentle breeze, aura (88), that wafts Celer safely to African shores. Silv. 3.2 takes a ludic approach to the propemptikon and, in so doing, closely interrelates interests in imperial geography with the poetics of Silvae, occasional, swiftly composed, and relatively short praise poetry. But the poem has also larger literary aims relating to the poet’s concurrent completion of his epic poem the Thebaid. In Silv. 3.2, Statius constructs a dual poetic journey towards closure, connecting the successful completion of Celer’s projected journey in the colonized East with the successful closure of both propemptikon and epic. Indeed, it is a reference to the Thebaid that seals Silv. 3.2: ast ego devictis dederim quae busta Pelasgis | quaeve laboratas claudat mihi pagina Thebas (“but I will tell of the tombs which I have given the conquered Pelasgi, and of the page that closes my belabored Thebes,” 142–3). In contrast to the abrupt, martial endings of Vergil’s Aeneid and Lucan’s Bellum Civile, the Thebaid will find ritual closure in the proper burial of the dead. This reference to the Thebaid concludes an engagement throughout Silv. 3.2 not only with the earlier tradition of the propemptikon, but also with Roman epic poetry, notably with Vergil’s Aeneid, and, in particular, with Lucan’s Bellum Civile.5 In contrast to the Thebaid with its narrow geographical parameters of Argos and Thebes, and indeed to Silv. 3.2 with its well-traveled tourist routes, Lucan’s historical epic spanned a vast geographical area, including Thessaly (or blood-soaked Haemonia) to the north (Henderson 1987: 152–4), where the battle of Pharsalus takes place, and the Libyan desert with its ferocious sandstorms to the south, site of Cato’s last stand. The epic breaks off in Egypt, now in Silv. 3.2 a prime tourist destination for Celer. As we shall see, the disjunction between Lucan’s and Statius’ Egypt will prove fertile ground for the exploration of geography, history, and literary genre.6 What Victoria Rimell has recently argued of imperial literature, in general, seems to me particularly true for Flavian literature, namely that it reflects the “double-sidedness” of Roman preoccupations with territorial expansion and territorial confinement, with the paradoxical desire for

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limitless imperium and for security within fixed boundaries.7 The geopoetics of Silv. 3.2 express this tension in the stylistic play with shifting scales of greatness and smallness, in the topographical play with distant lands and the safe enclosure of the Bay of Naples, and, in particular, with the surprising critical dialogue with Lucan’s Bellum Civile that emerges prominently in the latter part of Silv. 3.2 (101–141). As Micah Myers comments, “geography and geopolitics are central to Lucan’s portrayal of the civil war” (2011: 399). Lucan’s epic with its far-flung, deeply unstable world provides Statius with the vector through which imperial geopoetics could be rewritten and reexamined in the post-civil-war, contemporary world of the Flavians. In this paper, I shall argue that Silv. 3.2 is a homage to Lucan that, at the same time, invites scrutiny of the viability of both the propemptikon and Lucan’s brand of historical epic in the Flavian age.

Beginnings: Silv. 3.2.1-100 The poem begins and ends in the Bay of Naples, where Statius was born and raised. A site of elite leisure and also of literary production and inspiration, the Bay served as a literary haven for Statius, as for Vergil when he wrote the Georgics and probably also the Eclogues there: illo Vergilium me tempore dulcis alebat | Parthenope (“at that time sweet Parthenope (sc. Naples) nourished me,” G. 4.563–4). Through local patronage, Statius found there a safe reception for his new poetry; the third book of Silvae is dedicated to the villa owner Pollius Felix (3 praef. 6–7): securus itaque tertius hic Silvarum nostrarum liber ad te mittitur (“thus this third book of Silvae is sent to you in safety”).8 However, in the early 90s CE, when Statius was writing this poem, the Bay of Naples was a hub of commercial as well as literary activity, for it was the chief harbor for Roman trade with Africa and the East.9 Silv. 3.2 thus encompasses the ideological tensions within Flavian culture between exploration and withdrawal, between the voyage out and the retreat into ‘learned’ otium.10 The dual character of the Bay is suggested at the poem’s start, which describes a grain ship returning from Alexandria to a safe harbor in the Bay; this very ship will transport Celer to Egypt (1–49). The ship represents Roman imperialism, the trade not only in luxuries but also in the necessities and human cargo that sustain the empire and make possible literary life. As the ship enters the Bay, Mareotic wine is scattered on the waters as a libation to Tyrrhenian Minerva (Tyrrhenae Mareotica vina Minervae, 24), the goddess whose temple on the northern promontory of the Bay of Naples provided a welcome landmark for sailors returning from the Tyrrhenian sea.11 Both Gabriel Laguna (1992 ad loc.) and Michael Putnam (2017: 118–19; 125–6) have argued that the adjective Mareotica echoes the description of Cleopatra’s deranged mind at Horace’s Carm. 1.37.14, mentemque lymphatam Mareotico (“her mind soaked with Mareotic wine”), in a foreshadowing of the Egyptian queen’s appearance later in Silv. 3.2. Putnam

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also suggests that we are reminded here of another journey, Cleopatra’s doomed flight back to Egypt after Actium. There may also be an allusion, given the aqueous context, to Lucan’s depiction of the anguished wish of Pompey’s son after the murder of his father that the body of Alexander and Alexandria itself be sunk in the waters of the Mareotic lake (9.153–4): non ego Pellaeas arces adytisque retectum | corpus Alexandri pigra Mareotide mergam? (“cannot I drown in the sluggish Mareotic lake the Pellaean citadel and the body of Alexander opened from its shrine?”) In Silv. 3.2, however, the sprinkled wine symbolically gives a pleasing patina of the foreign to the imperial setting of the great trading Bay, as seen, for instance, in the Roman taste for Egyptian-themed wall-paintings as decoration for Neapolitan villas. The act of libation on the waters of the Bay of Naples symbolically suggests the acts of exchange and intermingling involved in cultural hybridity and appropriation. Such intermingling is reinforced by the chiastic arrangement of toponyms in line 24; the absorption into Italian waters of the wine associated both with the dangerous queen and with the transgressive Alexander transfers their disruptive political memories smoothly into the multicultural practices of imperial Italy. The curious beginning of the poem with the ship’s return suggests that there is little danger in Celer’s forthcoming journey. If Celer’s ship represents a ship of state, then it sails smoothly across sea routes regulated by Roman rule. The attention of the poem’s first section falls upon the rich semantic possibilities of the image of the voyaging ship, which is laden with significant intertextual freight. For instance, literary and geographical beginnings are interwoven in the poem’s opening lines, which evoke the beginnings of the literary tradition of the propemptikon at Rome, Cinna’s propemptikon for Pollio.12 Celer’s uneventful voyage is particularly rich in allusion to Augustan literary precedents that acknowledges the poet’s belatedness but also innovation within the tradition.13 Putnam shows the intensity of Vergilian allusion in this section of the poem, in particular to the cataclysmic events of the first two books of the Aeneid, such as the initial storm that sends the shipwrecked Trojans to Carthage and the fall of Troy, recast, however, in Statius’ propemptikon as apotropaic fears (2017: 92–102). A strikingly self-referential moment, however, indicates Statius’ involvement with the “journey” of his own epic poem, thus intermingling his two poetic projects. He singles out as special guardians of Celer’s ship two deities who are closely associated with his Thebaid, Ino and Palaemon (39–41): Tu tamen ante omnes diva cum matre, Palaemon, annue, si vestras amor est mihi pandere Thebas, nec cano degeneri Phoebeum Amphiona plectro. But you, Palaemon, with your divine mother, before all acknowledge my prayers, if it is my desire to reveal your Thebes, and I sing of Amphion with a not inferior lyre.

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Here, Statius anticipates the concluding reference to the Thebaid by invoking the special favor of these two deities. Putnam points out the close allusions to the Aeneid here, in particular cano, the programmatic opening verb of Vergil’s epic (2017: 96-9). Juxtaposed with degeneri, a word with strongly negative patrilinear connotations, our poet indicates, however, that his epic poem is not of inferior descent; it is not, pace Putnam, a new Aeneid.14 Indeed, the story of Palaemon and Ino represents the literary hybridity of Statius’ poetics in both epic and Silvae, for it was associated closely with the foundation of the Panhellenic Isthmian games and was very popular in Hellenistic literature. The two deities appear several times in the Silvae, signifiers of the crossover in these poems between both epic and Hellenistic poetic traditions.15 The myth of Ino and Palaemon, who fled from Thebes to Corinth and then to Italy, where they adopted the names of Leucothea and Melicertes and became Roman gods, is particularly apt for Silv. 3.2, for it provides a mythological representation of the poem’s themes of imperial travel, cultural assimilation, and generic interchange.16 Another unusual feature of this propemptikon is the lengthy description of Celer’s travels by land in the latter part of the poem. For example, the travels of Propertius’ Tullus cover only four lines (1.6.31-4); in Am. 2.11 Ovid records only a few generalities of Corinna’s journey (49–52).17 But Celer’s travels are detailed: on his way to Syria he travels through Egypt (101-20), and on his return, he travels through other countries in the Middle East (136–41). His travels create twin inset narratives within the poem. Celer, as is typical of the propemptikon, is of higher social status than Statius, but the poet reverses the power differential by treating Celer as a young man in need of completing his education, which he accomplishes by following the elite Roman tradition of travel to the Hellenized world.18 Once the young man has disembarked in Alexandria, Statius adopts a Callimachean, aetiological mode (Hunter 2004: 50). He tells Celer where to go, what to see, and what questions to ask. Since the foundational work of Nicolet, the link between geographical knowledge and the Roman empire has been widely recognized.19 Let us, therefore, look in some detail at Celer’s educational journey, a journey that tracks, and transforms, the geography of Lucan’s Bellum Civile, Book 10 in particular.

Celer’s travels: Silv. 3.2.101-141 Celer embarks on a grain ship from Pozzuoli that takes him first to Alexandria as a tourist rather than directly to his army camp in Syria.20 His Egyptian itinerary is presented as an aetiological poem in the style of Callimachus. Under the guidance of the Egyptian goddess Isis, Celer is to learn (noscat, 107) the secrets of the Nile (107–10, 115), the nature of the Egyptian gods (112–13, 116), and the marvel of the phoenix (114).21 A series of indirect questions beginning at line 108, with five-fold repetition of cur

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(109, 110, 111, 112, 113), points to Alexandrian-style doctrina with its investigation of obscure causes (107–16):22 te praeside noscat unde paludosi fecunda licentia Nili, cur vada desidant et ripa coerceat undas Cecropio stagnata luto, cur invida Memphis, curve Therapnaei lasciviat ora Canopi, cur servet Pharias Lethaeus ianitor aras, vilia cur magnos aequent animalia divos; quae sibi praesternat vivax altaria phoenix, quos dignetur agros aut quo se gurgite Nili mergat adoratus trepidis pastoribus Apis. Under your guidance let him learn the reason for the fertile abundance of the murky Nile, why the floods abate and the bank packed with Cecropian mud checks the waters, why Memphis is envious, or why the shore of Spartan Canopus is wanton, why the gatekeeper of Lethe guards Egyptian altars, why base animals are equal to the great gods; let him learn the altars on which the immortal phoenix places its nest, which fields Apis graces or in which current of the Nile he bathes, revered by trembling shepherds. The geopoetics of Silv. 3.2 are here wittily displayed; Celer’s movement to Alexandria entails the production of an Alexandrian-style aetiological discourse in which Egyptian and Greek names mingle in the kind of GreekEgyptian fusion frequently found in Callimachus’ poetry. Isis herself is an icon of this cultural hybridity. An Egyptian goddess with Greek mythic origins, as the poet reminds us in his invocation—Isi, Phoroneis olim stabulata sub antris, | nunc regina Phari (“Isis, once stabled in the caves of Argos, now queen of Pharos,” 101–2)—she was also firmly established in Italy by this period. The poet asks her to welcome the ship: excipe multisono puppem Mareotida sistro (“welcome the Mareotic ship with your resonant sistrum,” 102). As Putnam points out, along with the appearance again of the adjective “Mareotic,” we are reminded of an image on the shield of Aeneas showing Cleopatra with the sacred rattle of Isis, patrio … sistro (A. 8.696), which she uses to summon her troops (2017: 118–19). The change in epithet for the rattle from patrio (ancestral, or Egyptian) to multisono (multisounding, resonant) suggests the new status of Isis as a figure of multiple identities, and multiple places of abode in the Graeco-Roman world, as opposed to the fiercely nationalistic Cleopatra of over a 100 years earlier. Specialized epithets contribute to the learned flavor of Celer’s educational list. Therapnaei (111), a Graecism meaning “Spartan,” alludes to the burial of Menelaus’ pilot Canopus in the place in Egypt named after him (Strabo 1.71.1);23 the epithet also creates a paradoxical contrast with

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lasciviat, an apparent reference to the city’s reputation for luxurious pleasures and ecstatic religion (Juv. 15.46; Strabo 1.17.1). Only line 113 points to what Rosati describes as “the most negative stereotype” about Egypt, its animal deities, but Apis, on the other hand, has largely lost his barbarian color, acting as an object of veneration in a quasi-pastoral context, adoratus trepidis pastoribus Apis (“Apis adored by fearful shepherds”).24 Miller, in this volume, points out that Apis is a cult name for Osiris, the castrated god who is the consort of Isis; Silv. 3.2 singles out an Egyptian deity who can pose little threat to the Roman traveler. As Rosati comments, “aetiology explains and normalizes” what is different (2009: 278). Curiously, Celer’s Egyptian itinerary does not include the major attractions such as the pyramids and the Colossus of Memnon, visited for instance by Germanicus in 19 CE.25 The omission contributes to the diminution of distinctive Egyptian history and cultural achievements in the interests of sites that confirm Graeco-Roman domination of Egypt (Adams 2007: 180–1). Celer’s Egyptian itinerary culminates in Alexandria, at the tomb of Alexander the Great and Cleopatra’s palace (117–20). Alexander has been embalmed: duc et ad Emathios manes, ubi belliger Urbis | conditor Hyblaeo perfusus nectare durat (“lead him also to the Emathian dead, where the warrior founder of the city endures, steeped in Hyblaean nectar,” 117–18). The great warrior and explorer, a transgressor of geographical boundaries, survives (durat) thanks to the art of the embalmer and the Roman imperial trade in luxuries that transported to Egypt one of the most precious commodities of the ancient world, Sicilian honey.26 Alexander has met, we might say, a “sticky end,” ironically immobilized and reduced to a precious object to be “collected” on the imperial traveler’s circuit without the power any longer to threaten or transgress. Cleopatra matches Alexander with reference to her death by snake venom (119–20), blando qua mersa veneno | Actias Ausonias fugit Cleopatra catenas (“where Actian Cleopatra, drowned in soothing poison, fled Ausonian chains”). Statius here counters the conventional demonization of Cleopatra, alluding in particular to Horace, for whom Cleopatra was deliberata morte ferocior (“even fiercer once she was determined upon death,” Carm. 1.37.29). Her death is accommodated to Statius’ neoteric poetics. The reference to her fleeing Ausonian chains alludes to the strongly worded ending of Horace’s Ode in which Cleopatra proudly refuses to be paraded in a Roman triumph (30–2); Statius’ poem translates the active woman, in control of her own fate, to the passive fleeing victim. Cleopatra’s courage in handling Horace’s angry snakes and drinking their black poison (25–8) is ignored in Silv. 3.2 by the oxymoronic blando (“soothing”) describing the poison. The wording too is elegant. The Greek epithet for Cleopatra, Actias, is rare and finds striking use in the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes (1.402–4), as an epithet of Apollo, meaning “Apollo of the shore” (from Greek “`ακτή”), that is used in conjunction with a famous acrostic.27 In Vergil, Actias means “of Actium,” but he also plays upon Apollonius

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Rhodius’ use at Aen. 3.280, Actiaque Iliacis celebramus litora ludis. By boldly transferring the epithet Actias to Cleopatra, Statius ends Celer’s Egyptian itinerary with a neoteric flourish that is highly refined and dependent on sharply contrasting effects, including a phonic, short, “-as” ending (Actias) and long “-as” endings (Ausonias … catenas). The juxtaposition of these two adjectives robs Cleopatra of her proud Egyptian identity, absorbing her into a narrative of Italian triumph and conquest. Ptolemaic history and the civil war between Octavian and Mark Antony and Cleopatra that introduced Roman rule are boldly compressed into four lines demonstrative of Hellenistic leptotes. The epithet Actias moreover introduces a Golden Line, thus concluding the Egyptian itinerary with an emphasis on poetic craft, on the neoteric play with scale, and on the encompassing and “taming” of far-flung regions and great historic characters within the confines of a few artistically wrought lines. Poetic craft here models the imperial drive to contain and aestheticize the foreign and the barbarian. And yet this second half of the poem is also shadowed by Lucan’s civil war epic and its disruptive geopoetics. Celer’s travels are directed in such a way that he follows in the footsteps of Lucan’s Julius Caesar who made Egypt the center of his campaign for global hegemony in Book 10 of the Bellum Civile.29 Like Caesar, Celer seeks to know the secrets of the river Nile; he also, like Caesar, visits Alexander’s tomb and Cleopatra’s palace. But when Celer travels to Egypt, he travels through the memories of Roman civil war, at a safe temporal and cultural distance; transgressive, Lucanian geography is artfully contained by Statius’ new “Silvan” aesthetic, just as Celer travels through a landscape that has been totally Hellenized and is now subject to Roman imperial control. Nonetheless, Lucan’s poem creates a kind of third space in the poem where different temporalities and genres confront one another. For example, the expansive discourse of Lucan’s Book 10 describing Caesar’s visit to Alexander’s tomb and Cleopatra’s palace (1–332) is elegantly compressed in Silv. 3.2. Caesar’s desire to know the secrets of the Nile forms a scientific discourse of approximately 150 lines in Lucan’s Book 10 (10.172–331); Statius offers a scaled-down aetiological excursus of six lines (107–10, 115–16). Like Caesar too in Book 10, Celer visits Cleopatra’s palace but he does not stay there, for its luxurious, glittering grandeur, described in detail by Lucan (107–35), has been replaced by a ruin, swarming with snakes, anguiferam (119). Yet Statius follows Lucan who was the first to use “Cleopatra” in Roman poetry after the Augustan taboo on her name. Statius can do so because there is a stark disjunction between past and present; Cleopatra, powerless, is now only a name.30 Celer also follows Caesar in visiting Alexander’s tomb, an episode that Lucan apparently invented at the start of Book 10 of the Bellum Civile (19–52).31 As Jonathan Tracy comments (2014: 90–6), for Lucan, Alexander was the prototype of tyrants, an example of successful

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imperialism that was a potent inspiration to Lucan’s Caesar: non utile mundo | editus exemplum, terras tot posse sub uno | esse viro (“produced as a negative example for the world, that so many lands can be under the control of one man,” Luc. 10.26–8). Statius refers to Alexander with a curious periphrasis (117), Emathios manes (Emathian dead). Emathios manes initially conjures up not the Macedonian Alexander but the Roman civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey and, in particular, the programmatic first line of Lucan’s epic (1.1), bella per Emathios plus quam civilia campos. Statius may also have in mind the lines of Vergil that underlie Lucan’s opening: bis sanguine nostro | Emathiam et latos Haemi pinguescere campos (“twice Emathia and the broad plains of Haemus grow fat with our blood,” G. 1.491–2). The adjective Emathius strictly refers to Macedonia, but, as Paul Roche comments, for the Roman poets, beginning with Vergil, it became an evocative term for Pharsalus, the epitome of civil war (2009: 100). John Henderson goes further: the Emathian battlefields “were only concretely to be identified with the plains of Thessaly where Pompey the Great was defeated in book 7; conceptually, the battle functions as the threshold for the transformation of the Roman world into a new absolutist empire on the model of Alexander the Great” (1987: 125; also 153–4). Like the first words of the Aeneid, arma virumque, Emathios was a code word for Lucan’s epic. In the ascription of “Emathian” to Alexander, Statius follows Lucan’s condemnation of Alexander at the start of Book 10 as the world conqueror who killed the very concept of liberty and provided a catastrophic precedent for Caesar (Luc. 10.20–46). In Silv. 3.2, however, the transgressions of Alexander, Julius Caesar, and Cleopatra are bounded by consummate artistry and transmuted into cultural memories that are no longer the object of Lucanian rage but of educational interest. Through the imagined travels of his protagonist Maecius Celer, in Silv. 3.2 the empire collapses into a “museum,” to use Benedict Anderson’s term, whereby its vast geographical extent is no longer represented as a set of discrete countries but rather as a contained, organized, yet multivalent text to be explored and reproduced.32 And yet, as Diana Spencer has argued, Lucan himself sets the precedent in Book 10 of his epic, where, through Caesar’s visit to Troy and Alexandria, we are presented “with the prospect of a world in which political participation has been redefined as a touristic act of spectating” (2005: 48). This prospective world is the one that Statius’ Celer now inhabits. In a post-civil war world, the monuments to the tempestuous struggles of the Greek and Roman past appear to have been reduced to items to be checked off on a tourist’s list. The second part of Celer’s travels is imagined by Statius as a narrative told on the youth’s return (135–41). Statius provides a special inset narrative consisting of six opulent lines that both compress and embellish Celer’s account. Celer’s travels over some of the most famous regions of the Near East are rendered small and precious (136–41):

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Tu rapidum Euphratem et regia Bactra sacrasque antiquae Babylonis opes et Zeuma, Latinae pacis iter, qua dulce nemus florentis Idumes, quo pretiosa Tyros rubeat, quo purpura suco Sidoniis iterata cadis, ubi germine primum candida felices sudent opobalsama virgae.

You (will tell of) the rapid Euphrates and regal Bactra and the sacred wealth of ancient Babylon and Zeugma, the path of Roman peace, where to find the sweet wood of blooming Idume, the type of liquid with which costly Tyre blushes along with the purple dipped twice in Sidonian vats, where luxuriant branches ooze first from buds shining opobalsamum. In Statius’ representation of Celer’s travel narrative, Celer has returned to Italy not as a military man but as a doctus poeta who, in Hellenistic style, compresses the scope and grandeur of empire into six ornately patterned lines, resonant with exotic place names. The passage ends, like the Egyptian itinerary, with a golden line that here evokes the trade in luxury goods made possible by imperial conquest. The polysyllabic opobalsama (141) is a rare Greek word introduced here into Latin poetry; it refers to the juice of the balsam tree, a plant that flourished in Judaea.33 The juice was notable for its quality and scarcity. Pliny tells us how painstaking and slow was the process of extracting even one drop of the precious balm, which was used for medicinal cures and perfumes (HN 12.116): Sucus e plaga manat quem opobalsamum vocant, suavitatis eximiae, sed tenui gutta; ploratus lanis parva colligitur in cornua ex iis novo fictili conditur, crassiori similis oleo et in musto candidus; rufescit deinde simulque durescit e tralucido. The juice that oozes out of the incision is called opobalsamum; it is very sweet in taste but exudes in tiny drops; the trickle is collected by tufts of wool into small horns and poured out of them to store in a new earthenware vessel; it is like rather thick olive oil and clear when unfermented; eventually it turns from translucent to red and at the same time hardens. As Rosati has argued of Martial’s epigrams describing precious tiny objects such as a bee preserved in amber, Flavian literature “presupposes a familiarity with the culture of luxury and an eye accustomed to looking at and appreciating the material objects with which that culture surrounded itself ” (2017: 121, and passim). But while such precious objects identify an aesthetics of connoisseurship, they also carry imperialist freight. According to

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Pliny, the balsam tree was displayed in the triumph celebrating the conquest of Judaea by Titus and Vespasian in Rome in 70 CE; the price of even the twigs of the balsam tree increased immensely.34 The word opobalsama encapsulates the geopoetics of Silv. 3.2: encased within a golden line, the precious drop of balm is a metonymy for empire, a distillation of the trade in luxury goods in which brutal conquest is occluded; it is also a distillation of a prominent feature of the poetics of Silv. 3.2 in which the wide sweep of imperial travel involving people and goods is encapsulated in a finely wrought, short poem (Squire 2011: 272). However, this second narrative of Celer’s travels also engages with Lucan’s epic geography in a striking way, transforming the threats posed by civil war and its aftermath, imperial domination, into apparent benefits and recompense. Lines 138–40, qua dulce nemus florentis Idumes, | quo pretiosa Tyros rubeat, quo purpura suco | Sidoniis iterata cadis, echo Lucan’s lines in his catalogue of Pompey’s troops that describe the Eastern cities that sent soldiers: et arbusto palmarum dives Idume | et Tyros instabilis pretiosaque murice Sidon (“Idume rich in groves of palms and unstable Tyre and Sidon expensive in purple dye,” 3.216–17). Both poets cite in the same order the three place names of Idume, Tyre, and Sidon. As a noun, Idume occurs in Latin poetry first here in Lucan’s catalogue.35 The palms for which Idume was famous appear on Flavian coins to symbolize the conquest of Judaea in 70 CE.36 But Statius’ epithet dulce emphasizes the fruit of the palms. In Statius’ world, “the sweet grove of Idume” sends to Rome not warriors but dates, symbols of fertility and rebirth; at Domitian’s Saturnalian show in the amphitheater they are a special treat for the people (Silv. 1.6.13). In referring to the luxurious purple dye of Sidon, Statius avoids Lucan’s epithet instabilis, which has been taken to refer to the frequent earthquakes at Tyre. Instability, however, is also a key motif of Lucan’s world (Myers 2011), and is inappropriate to the settled imperial world as represented in the Silvae. At the end of Silv. 3.2 Statius imposes order on Lucan’s chaotic East. He replaces a major epic topos, a catalogue of Eastern cities that provide troops, with a catalogue of these same places that now provide luxury goods. The Flavian global vision of commerce/interaction with the world (commercia mundo, V. Fl. 1.246) that is part of Jupiter’s divine plan in Valerius Flaccus’ epic is rearticulated here in artful, condensed form.37 Statius’ neoteric self-fashioning in Silv. 3.2 thus not only scales down Lucan’s geographically fraught world, it pacifies it and accommodates it to the Flavian vision of a world at peace under Roman rule (Roche 2009: 100–2). The Euphrates appears frequently in Lucan’s poem as a symbol of boundary transgression and civil war.38 But in Silv. 3.2 the river Euphrates and the border-crossing town of Zeugma (136–7) now mark “the path of Roman peace” (Latinae | pacis iter, 136–7). Zeugma appears for the first time in Latin poetry at Lucan 8.237, where the town signifies the erosion of Roman boundaries as the Parthians are invited to sweep over the river-crossing from the East: nunc Parthia ruptis | excedat claustris vetitam per saecula ripam |

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Zeugmaque Pellaeum (“now that the barriers have been broken, let Parthia sweep across the perpetually forbidden bank and Alexander’s Zeugma,” 8.235–7). In Statius’ poem the boundaries are reestablished, the barbarian threat erased. The allusions to Lucan’s epic mark the transformation from a past world collapsing in civil war to the contemporary, stable world of imperial travel and trade. Christiane Reitz has commented that the epic catalogue is a prime site for poetic self-reflection (2013). Statius’ dramatic compression of the geographical sweep of Lucan’s catalogue into six ornately worked lines, contained in one sentence, seems to seal up the memory of Roman civil war. By this bold and playful appropriation of Lucan’s epic geography, Statius emphasizes the pleasure-giving power of his new poetry and its participation in a luxury economy made possible by colonial conquest. At the same time, he seems to seal up elegantly any future for the propemptikon, a literary form that conventionally relies on danger and fear in travel. The end of Celer’s journey and of the propemptikon converge. While the “rapid” river Euphrates (136) is a physical sign of the ease of imperial travel and of the transport of goods from East to West, it also has a metapoetic function as a mark of poetic closure. Callimachus’ placement of the river Euphrates as a metaphor for epic poetry six lines from the end of his Hymn to Apollo (Ἀσσυρίου ποταμοῖο μέγας ῥόος, “the great flood of the Assyrian river,” 2.108), was programmatically followed by Vergil at the end of Georgics I, Georgics IV and Aeneid VIII, and, I would argue, is followed by Statius here, for the Euphrates comes six lines from the end of Celer’s imagined return narrative, bringing closure (unlike Lucan, therefore) to the text of his travels.39 And yet, despite the “pacification” of Lucanian geography, Lucan looms prominently in this poem as a radical figure associated with a turbulent history who still, despite the atrophy overtaking the Republican themes of his epic, has unsettling authority. For there is another aspect to Statius’ poetics that exists in tension here with the exquisite nature of Celer’s inset travel narrative, namely the ambiguous concept of speed. The Euphrates’ epithet “rapid” further emphasizes the poem’s metapoetic dimension in that it exemplifies the swift fluency that is a hallmark of the improvisatory style of the Silvae.40 Speed is a programmatic feature of the Silvae that Statius emphasizes in the preface to Book 1 (13–14): nullum enim ex illis biduo longius tractum, quaedam et in singulis diebus effusa (“none of them was treated for longer than two days and some poured out in a single day”). And celeritas is named as a defining, pleasing feature of the new genre (1 praef. 13; 2 praef. 9).41 But speed also associates Celer with Lucan’s Caesar, “a lightning bolt” who is defined from early on in the Bellum Civile by rapidity of action and thought (1.143–57).42 Celer, I suggest, is an avatar of Statius’ Silvan geopoetics, and a counterpart to Lucan’s Caesar. In Silv. 3.2 he is a rather colorless person otherwise, lacking, for instance, the conventional encomium of his fine

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qualities and deeds that would flesh him out as a character. Outside Statius’ poem and the preface to Book 3 (lines 11–14), we know of Celer only from an attestation in the Acts of the Arval Brethren of a M. Maecius Celer who was suffect consul in 101 CE (Nauta 2002: 213). His name, which means “Speedy,” is certainly convenient for the geopoetics of Silv. 3.2. Celer’s travels are characterized by speed, and the voyage out is also described as fast (78–80). His military service is of little interest in Statius’ poem and is rapidly passed over in eight lines (121-8); pleasure, not transgression, is the main focus of Celer’s activities abroad. The 14-line account of his first set of travels is woven from two sentences giving the impression of rapid movement (107–20); likewise, the narration of his travels on his return constitutes one long sentence without a main verb and with extensive enjambment (136–141). Speed, with its associations of impromptu poetic composition and therefore lack of “the final file,” represents an innovative departure in the Silvae from the Callimachean aesthetic of the perfectly crafted form. Celer’s association with the Hellenistic-style poetics of the Silvae is given an imperial, indeed Lucanian, inflection. But his swift movement across the sea and through foreign lands represents not bold transgression of geographical and political boundaries but the new efficiencies of imperial trade along with the metapoetics of Statius’ new experimental genre of impromptu, rapidly composed but also exquisite poetry. In Silv. 3.2 generic boundaries are transgressed to admit a dynamic, creative tension between rapid composition and craft, between audacity and artistry. Like Lucan’s Caesar, Celer is fast, but he travels for knowledge, not for conquest, and he brings back from the East not goods and soldiers, but preciously wrought words. Yet these words remain imagined by the poet in the subjunctive mood; Statius envisages Celer hurrying past monuments of tragic, historic grandeur and intense emotional value, raising doubt as to whether he will learn much at all. His world of accelerated tourism, moreover, does not admit epic heroes. The travel narrative could seem anodyne were it not that its engagement with Lucan, and the tension introduced by the direct reference to the Thebaid, invite our poet, in search of a new aesthetic, to look beyond the moral and political void that Diana Spencer identifies at the end of Lucan’s epic, when Caesar tramples carelessly on the memories of the past (2005). Let us therefore look more closely at Statius’ construction of Lucan in this poem as a major epic predecessor, an icon of Republican liberty, and an ironic reminder of the cultural losses of a transformed, pacified imperial world.

Statius and Lucan The centrality of Lucan as epic predecessor and historical poet to Statius’ self-reflexive propemptikon is demonstrated in the poem’s plays upon Lucan’s name, encoding it in the very topography of Celer’s voyage. One of

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the dangers that Statius hopes that Celer’s ship will avoid is “the rabid shore of the Lucanian sea,” Lucani rabida ora maris (85). Strangely, the adjective Lucanus, which is rare, occurs only here with reference to a sea; elsewhere Lucanus is used to refer to the southern Italian region of Lucania.43 No ancient author, apart from Statius, talks of a “Lucanian sea.” Of course, Lucani may be a transferred epithet that should modify ora. However, it is possible that Statius here writes Lucan’s name into the poem.44 A precedent is offered by Propertius’ propemptikon, 1.8. The poet prays that the constellation “Vergiliae” be late in coming’ (1.8.10), et sit iners tardis navita Vergiliis. “Vergiliae” is a rare Roman term for the more usual Greek “Pleiades;” in a perfectly pitched Alexandrian key Propertius seems to acknowledge his debt to Horace Carm. 1.3, the propemptikon for Vergil. Statius, I suggest, follows Propertius by writing Lucan’s name into his poem; he thus constructs a genealogy for the propemptikon that, at the same time, acknowledges both the elegiac and epic affiliations of his Silvae. The juxtaposition of the epithet rabida with Lucani neatly identifies the Neronian poet with a central trope of his epic, the sea as both a key vector of civil war, where troops are transported and come into conflict, and also as a central metaphor for the madness and rage that characterize civil war poetics. Julius Caesar reaches stalemate with the sea when, in a fit of hubristic madness, he attempts to cross its raging waters by night in a small boat (Luc. 5.504-677), a sign that the sea, similar in character to the Roman leader, alone is a worthy opponent.45 With the phrase rabida ora Statius also alludes to Vergil’s Sibyl (A. 6.102).46 Even as he confronts and tames Lucanian violence in Silv. 3.2, with the allusion to Vergil’s inspired prophet Statius subtly also acknowledges the vatic power and authority of his Neronian, epic predecessor. The unique phrase “Lucanian sea” identifies the poet with a central metaphor of his geopoetics. Through his critical dialogue with Lucan, Statius contemplates his own double engagement in 3.2 with Silvae and his epic poem the Thebaid and asserts his role as Lucan’s literary successor. Like Statius, Lucan wrote both Silvae and epic poetry (indeed, had Lucan’s Silvae survived, we might well find allusions to these poems here too).47 In Silv. 3.2 Lucan’s particular historical approach to civil war epic is relegated firmly to the past. His radical poem has become an attractive artifact, embalmed, like the transgressive Alexander, in the sweet honey of poetry, and yet ready to be repurposed by Statius as a stimulus to new poetic directions.48 It is not only Vergil whom Statius has to emulate and surpass.49 When Statius’ Celer follows in the footsteps of Lucan’s Caesar, he models literary succession at an ideological and aesthetic distance. Yet, as we have seen, Lucan’s presence stalks this poem, like Vergil’s Furor bound in chains (A. 1.294-6). The persistent allusions to Lucan and his exposition of the brutal cost of empire provide an underlying, ironic disjunction with the imperialist ideology of Silv. 3.2 that also draws attention to the issues of epic succession and epic closure. Silv. 3.2, which seems sealed

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off and contained, closes on an unexpected, open-ended note when, in its final two lines, Statius turns directly to his own epic poem, the Thebaid and to the theme of civil war. He acknowledges the actual difficulty of achieving political or literary closure, of sealing up the memory of civil war: ast ego devictis dederim quae busta Pelasgis | quaeve laboratas claudat mihi pagina Thebas (“but I will tell of the tombs which I have given the conquered Pelasgi and of the page that closes my belabored Thebes,” 142–3).50 This concluding “epigram,” where Statius acknowledges his anxiety about closure, abruptly disturbs the temporal-spatial containment of Lucan. Here Statius tacitly acknowledges the enormous challenge in remaking civil war epic after his Neronian predecessor’s radical experimentation. In particular, he also acknowledges from the margins of the Silvae the difficulty, and importance, of making an end to the ubiquitous threat of martial strife, a closural issue for both Vergil and Lucan, whose epics ended abruptly and angrily in battle. In the poem’s abrupt final couplet, the poetics of Silvae and of civil war epic diverge. The poet draws inwards, compressing the epic world to a small stretch of territory between ancient Argos and Thebes. The Silvae’s poetics of celeritas are contrasted at the poem’s end with the slow rate of composition of the Thebaid, now awaiting only its final page. The phrase laboratas … Thebas (belabored Thebes) is echoed in the final poem of Book 3 where the Thebaid is described as the product of long labor (longi … laboris, Silv. 3.5.35). But “long labor” suggests not only epic monumentality and scope but also the painstaking artistry valued by Callimachus and the Roman elegists, who applied the final file to their work, Horace’s limae labor et mora (Ars P. 291), or “the trouble and time” characteristic of Callimachean techne.51 Here, while acknowledging the influence of Hellenistic tenets of style upon both his poems, Statius nonetheless distinguishes his carefully, slowly wrought Thebaid from the hasty passion of Lucan, and the rapid transit through history of Celer. As Putnam points out, Statius, unlike Vergil and Lucan, brings grief but also moral awareness and honor to the actual ending of the Thebaid in the final burial of the dead, a ritual act that looks back to the ending of the Iliad.52 In planning finality for his epic, Statius reaches far into the deep time of literary tradition to the archetypal story of Thebes. He abandons the main mode of Roman epic from its beginnings, national and historical epic, and instead, despite the antiquity of his theme, innovates with what Denis Feeney describes as a “lavish experimentation with personification and allegory.”53 Moreover, as Alison Keith has argued, the Thebaid transgresses the boundaries of ancient epic further by expanding Vergil’s inscription of gender into this most masculine of genres; it is women who have a close, active affiliation with war as well as with reconciliation and who close the epic by burying the dead (Theb. 12.789-809).54 Statius thus in his epic shows himself a literary imperialist, willing to take risks and to expand the imaginative and symbolic possibilities of an ancient theme; like Lucan, he takes a radical approach to epic, but in his own way. His mythological epic collapses time and space into

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a narrow focus that illuminates the universal themes of desire, loss, and commemoration. But as Eleanor Leach observes in her essay in this volume, the imprint of particularly Roman values and concerns upon a place otherwise remote in time and geography also serves to throw a powerful spotlight upon the socio-political tensions of contemporary Rome. Statius’ generic engagement with Lucan’s epic is thus ambitiously played out through the two poems he was writing simultaneously. At the end of Silv. 3.2 Statius, from the standpoint of the Bay of Naples, abruptly turns his attention to ancient Greece, distant in place and time; he looks backwards but also outwards, moving mentally away from the safe enclosure of the imperial Bay of Naples in his hopes of surpassing his Roman predecessors, Vergil and Lucan, in the act, at the very least, of epic closure.55 Silv. 3.2 has suggested that the present imperial world of touristic travel, in which the monuments of a recent, tragic history have lost their emotional and political value, has little occasion for epic heroes of Lucan’s brand, as it has little occasion for the propemptikon, which Statius here has brought to exquisite, playful, and mortal perfection. Whatever the truth of the matter, the final couplet of Silv. 3.2 marks Statius’ departure from Lucan in directing Roman epic away from the nation’s history towards mythic time and symbolic space. As Malamud remarks of Silv. 2.7, Statius’ birthday poem for Lucan, the text offers “the possibility of another way of writing the past, a different way of remembering the dead” (1995: 21; see note 5 above). Thebes, the incubatory site of civil war themes and tropes, provides a geographically narrow yet semantically rich field for literary and generic experimentation. But although Statius’ final couplet announces his departure from the mainstream tradition of Roman epic, and in particular from Lucan’s historical brand of civil war epic, this couplet also makes concluding homage to the Neronian poet. Putnam (2017: 136–7) notes that its first two words, ast ego (142), are a distinctive phrase that appears twice in the Aeneid (1.46; 7.308), each time with reference to Juno’s anger and frustration at her relative powerlessness. In the context of a poem that is focused upon the Egypt of Lucan’s Caesar and Statius’ Celer, the appearance of the phrase twice in Book 10 of Lucan’s Bellum Civile (197; 262) seems more pertinent. Statius assumes here the voice of Acoreus, the holy priest, scientist and philosopher who responds at length to Caesar’s request to know the location of the source of the Nile (Luc. 10.193-331). With the twice-repeated phrase ast ego, Acoreus expresses his great authority, his wisdom, and his knowledge, providing an aetiological narrative of natural and ethnographic phenomena. He also shows his rhetorical skill in circumventing Caesar’s question without offense. At the start of the Thebaid, and elsewhere in his poetry, Statius acknowledges the pressure Domitian has placed upon him for a contemporary historical epic. In Silv. 4.4.94-100, for example, a poem written in the tranquil environment of the Bay of Naples, the poet describes the task metaphorically as a perilous journey upon the seas, a journey he refuses

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(cf. Theb. 1. 16-33; Ach. 1.14–19). Statius is indebted to Lucan for the figure of Acoreus, who serves as an independent yet circumspect model for the poet of the Flavian age, so different from the transgressive Neronian poet of the turbulent seas, for he demonstrates the authority and skill to elude the emperor’s call in safety.

Statius and Lucan on the Bay of Naples There is another possible aspect to Statius’ engagement with Lucan that I wish to suggest in closing. It concerns Statius’ relationship with his patrons on the Bay of Naples, Pollius Felix and his wife Polla. They are our poem’s primary implied readers; as noted earlier, Book 3 of the Silvae is dedicated to Pollius who made his villa a literary haven for Statius. The Bay of Naples was associated from ancient times with luxury on the part of the elite who lined the shores with expensive villas.56 But, as I have argued elsewhere, in the Silvae Statius provocatively unites the splendors of the contemporary Roman villa with virtuous living (Newlands 2012: 149–53). Pollius Felix and his wife Polla cultivate literary and philosophical interests in their affluent cliff-top villa outside Sorrento, described in Silv. 2.2 and 3.1. Pollius, formerly involved in trade at Pozzuoli (Silv. 2.2.133–7), and his wife were part of a movement among the imperial elite for withdrawal from the globalized, mercantile world to a more private, contemplative place that could, with the help of considerable wealth, be defended against the uncertain currents of economic and political life.57 At their villa Statius found intellectual support, literary criticism, and a safe reception for his poetry (3 praef. 1–7). Pollius leads Statius “into every bay of learning” (in omnes … studiorum sinus, 3 praef. 6); many of the Silvae were swiftly composed in the shelter of his home (in sinu tuo, 3 praef. 3–4). Sinus means “bay,” “protective lap” and thus the more abstract concept of “shelter.” The geographic, literary, and social significance of the Bay of Naples is here intertwined in Statius’ reciprocal relationship with his patrons.58 The wealth of the Bay of Naples, the hub of imperial trade, makes possible the creative leisure of both patrons and poet.59 The allusions to Lucan and to Statius’ ambitious civil war poem in Silv. 3.2 can thus be regarded as a compliment to Statius’ patrons, demonstrating that their cultural investment in Statius is a productive one, that they are fostering an ambitious, innovative poet set with his Thebaid to establish himself as the true successor to Lucan. There is another possible, more poignant reason for the allusions to Lucan. Some years ago Nisbet argued that Pollius’ wife Polla was Lucan’s widow, also called Polla (Nisbet 1995: 36–46). Michael Dewar has emphasized the persuasiveness of this identification (2014: 46–9). He suggests that Polla, now quietly remarried on the Bay of Naples, could have looked out from her new home across the Bay to Piso’s villa near Baiae where the conspiracy against Nero that led to Lucan’s death was first hatched (Tac.

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Ann. 15.56–64). Her villa by Sorrento was therefore a refuge from political trauma. In such circumstances, the emphasis on closure at the end of Silvae 3.2 may well also encompass the end of a tragic chapter in Polla’s life. The past has been reckoned with; Statius can now appropriately present his patrons with an aestheticized tribute to Lucan’s memory, a poem burnished in neoteric style. But whether Polla is Lucan’s widow or not, the wellwrought Silv. 3.2 restores Lucan to them, a Lucan in a safely contained form that acknowledges, nonetheless, his immense literary importance. To sum up, the geopoetics of Silv. 3.2 suggest that the Silvae can be best understood as a mobile, hybrid genre, an innovative, experimental form for an imperial age of travel, and also, paradoxically, of withdrawal. The enameled geopoetics on display in Statius’ propemptikon may on the one hand suggest the exhaustion of the genre, but on the other they reveal the tensions in Flavian poetics and politics between the local and the global, between the celebration of imperial peace found in the Silvae and the awareness of cultural loss and of fading historical memory tracked here in Silv. 3.2 through the engagement with Lucan. Homi Bhabha has observed that the “the meaning and symbols of culture have no primordial unity or fixity; that even the same signs can be appropriated, translated, rehistoricized and read anew” (1994: 55). The encounter with Lucan’s epic geography that deeply informs Celer’s travels demonstrates the imperial appropriation and translation of the monuments and figures of Lucan’s vividly realized history into a touristic checklist, a form of cultural corruption, or improvement, depending on one’s standpoint. In Silv. 3.2, on the eve of publishing his own epic poem, the Thebaid, Statius enters into a critical dialogue with his Neronian predecessor and draws attention to his own renewal of the epic genre in the Flavian Age by rewriting civil war in the narrow geographical and temporal confines of Argos and Thebes. Both playful and seriously engaged with the poetics and politics of its time, Statius’ propemptikon transgresses in its last couplet the neat aesthetic boundaries of Hellenized poetics with a final vision of a small, yet dangerous and emotionally intense world, ostensibly detached from particular Roman history but symbolically involved. The words of George Eliot, referring to her transgressive hero of Middlemarch, Will Laidlaw, seem appropriate here, “He said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the poetic imagination.”60

Notes 1 The term was introduced to literary criticism by White 1992: 172–7; see also Stephens 2004: 170–3 and the introduction to this volume. 2 The propemptika that particularly influenced Silvae 3.2 are Propertius 1.6, Ovid Am. 2.11, and Ars am. 1.177–228. See Hardie 1983: 156-64; Laguna 1992: 197; Hollis 1977: 65.

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3 For example, Hor. Carm. 1.13; 1.14; Ov. Ars am. 1.771-2; Stat. Silv. 4.4.88–9. 4 See also the short fragment from the poem of a probable survivor of the storm, Albinovanus Pedo (Courtney 2003: 315–19; Hollis 2007: 373–81). 5 See Malamud 1995 on Silv. 2.7, in which she shows that allusions to Lucan’s epic are interwoven into the textual celebration of the Neronian poet’s birthday. 6 Putnam 2017 provides a detailed analysis of Silv. 3.2, demonstrating the importance of Vergilian allusion to the poem’s dynamic. But Statius also looks closely to his Neronian, imperial predecessor for defining his concept of Roman epic. 7 Rimell 2015. In this volume, see also Lindheim’s discussion of Catullus’ focus on the setting and transgression of boundaries during the late Republic. 8 See Newlands 2012: 20–36. 9 By the late 1st century CE, Ostia provided a second major harbor for trade with Africa and the East; see Casson 1960: 236–7. 10 See Myers 2005. 11 On the Temple of Tyrrhenian Minerva, see Newlands 2011: 122 on Silv. 2.2.2. The local epithet “Tyrrhenian” distinguishes her from the emperor Domitian’s Minerva, his divine patron. 12 Cf. Silv. 3.2.9-11 with Cinna fr. 2 and 3 in Hollis 2007. On the origins of the propemptikon in Hellenistic poetry and in 1st century BCE Roman poetry, see Fedeli 1980. On Cinna and his particular interest to Flavian poets, see Hollis 2007: 18-28. 13 See Hardie 1983: 156-64. 14 Cf. OLD degener 1 and 2: “of inferior stock or breeding; less admirable than one’s forebears; degenerate.” Thus, Achilles’ son, who commits the sacrilege of killing king Priam of Troy at an altar, is pointedly described in the Aeneid as degeneremque Neoptolemum (2.549). 15 See Newlands 2011: 107 on Silv. 2.1.179-80. 16 On the translocation of Ino and Palaemon to Italy, see Ovid Fast. 6.485–502. 17 See McKeown 1998: 258. 18 See Oliensis 1997. On the links between didactic and travel, see also in this volume Zimmermann Damer on intra-urban itineraries in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. 19 Nicolet 1991. See Laurence 2001: 169: “the need to travel would seem to be part of the experience of the Roman empire.” 20 Grain ships normally transported passengers traveling for business or pleasure. On travel within Roman Egypt, see Adams 2001. 21 We know of an Isis temple at Alexandria, where Celer lands, and at Canopus. See Stephens 1998: 179. 22 Hardie 1983: 164. 23 Cf. Plin. Nat. 5.128, with skeptical ut ferunt (so people say). 24 Rosati 2009: 273. Rosati, pp. 279–87 suggests that the appeasing attitude to the Egyptian cult can be traced to Ovid, in particular the Iphis and Ianthe episode (Met. 9.686–94). 25 Tac. Ann. 2.59-61. On the principal tourist attractions of Egypt, see Adams 2007: 169–78. 26 See Plin. HN 7.35 27 See Stewart 2010. 28 See O’Hara 1990: 372–4. 29 See Romm 1992: 152–5; Tracy 2014. 30 First at Luc. 9.1071. The reference to “Cleopatra” at V. Fl. 4.464 is to a mythological queen.

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31 He was probably influenced by Octavian’s later visit there. See Dio 51.16.5; Berti 2000: 68–9. 32 On the museum as a key aspect of colonialism with political and social ramifications, see Anderson 2006: 178–84. 33 Plin. HN 12.112–23. 34 Plin. HN 12.112; 118. 35 See Kleywegt 2005: 17 on V. Fl. 1.12, versam proles tua pandit Idumen (“your offspring open up vanquished Idume”); cf. Verg. G. 3.12, Idumaeas … palmas, the first occurrence of the adjective in Latin poetry. 36 On the importance of the conquest of Judaea to the Flavians, see Zissos 2008: 87-8. 37 Valerius adapts the phrase commercia mundo from Lucan (9.444), where it is cynically used of the Libyans’ practice of collecting shipwrecked goods from the seashore. See Stover 2012: 54–5. 38 For instance, Crassus, in crossing the Euphrates, is seen to have accelerated civil war. See Cic. Div. 2.24.4; Luc. 8.358. 39 See Scodel &Thomas 1983. 40 Ov. Am. 2.13.9, an invocation to Isis to cure Corinna, may have been an influence with its celer Nilus (9). 41 Statius may also be influenced by Ovid’s exile poetry here in which the key river, the Hister, is frequently frozen, a symbol of his stalled life and poetics (e.g., Tr. 5.101–2). See Pagán 2014: 369–74. 42 The close association between Julius Caesar and Alexander is marked by the comparison of the latter to “a thunderbolt” (Luc. 10.34). 43 See Strabo 6.1.4; Hor. Sat. 2.3.234; Sat. 2.8.6. 44 Roche 2015: 396 suggests an allusion to Lucan’s name at Theb. 8.532-3. See also Augoustakis 2016: 260-1. 45 See Hershkowitz 1998: 198: “there is no end to the madness of this poem;” see also 197–246. 46 My thanks to the editors for pointing out the importance of Lucan’s storm and Vergil’s Sibyl. 47 Newlands 2011: 236. Vacca’s Life of Lucan lists ten books of Silvae. 48 On Statius’ aestheticization of power, see Rosati 2008. 49 On the influence of Vergil’s Aeneid on the Thebaid, see Ganiban 2007. 50 See Zissos 2004 on similar effects in Valerius Flaccus. 51 See Brink 1971: 321. 52 Putnam 2016. 53 Feeney 1991: 285. On Statius’ innovative use of allegory and personification in the Thebaid see Feeney 1991: 364-91. 54 Keith 2000: 95–100. See also Leach in this volume on Atalanta in the Thebaid. 55 For example, Theb.1.33-40; Ach. 1.14–19; Silv. 4.4.94–100. 56 See Dewar 2014: 51-4; Henderson 2004. 57 See Cresswell 2011. 58 See Newlands 2012: 20–36. 59 On this kind of creative, learned leisure, see Myers 2005. 60 Middlemarch, chapter 9, p. 76. I would like to thank, for their helpful comments, Michael Dewar, Joy Littlewood, Gianpiero Rosati, the students and faculty at the Scuola Normale in Pisa, the participants in the Cambridge Literary seminar, and the two editors of this volume, Micah Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer.

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Malamud, M. 1995. “Happy Birthday, Dead Lucan: (P)raising the Dead in Silvae 2.7.” Ramus 24: 1–30. McKeown, J. C., ed. 1998. Ovid Amores: Commentary on Book 2. Leeds (Francis Cairns). Myers, K. S. 2005. “Docta Otia: Garden Ownership and Configurations of Leisure in Statius and Pliny the Younger.” Arethusa 38: 103–29. Myers, M. Y. 2011. “Lucan’s Poetic Geographies: Center and Periphery in Civil War Epic.”’ In P. Asso, ed. Brill’s Companion to Lucan. Leiden (Brill), 399–415. Nauta, R. R. 2002. Poetry for Patrons. Leiden (Brill). Newlands, C. E., ed. 2011. Statius, Silvae Book II. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Newlands, C. E. 2012. Statius, Poet Between Rome and Naples. Bristol (Bristol Classical Press). Nicolet, C. 1991. Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire. Ann Arbor (University of Michigan Press). Nisbet, R. G. M. 1995. “Felicitas at Surrentum (Statius, Silvae II.2).” In S. J. Harrison, ed. R.G.M. Nisbet, Collected Papers on Latin literature. Oxford (Clarendon Press), 29–46. Nisbet, R. G. M. & M. Hubbard, eds. 1970. Horace Odes Book 1. Oxford (Clarendon Press). O’Hara, J. 1990. “Etymological Wordplay in Apollonius of Rhodes, Aeneid 3, and Georgics 1.” Phoenix 44: 370–6. Oliensis, E. 1997. “The Erotics of Amicitia: Readings in Tibullus, Propertius, and Horace.” In J. P. Hallett & M. B. Skinner, eds. Roman Sexualities. Princeton (Princeton University Press), 151–71. Pagán, V. 1999. “Beyond Teutoburg: Transgression and Transformation in Tacitus, Annales 1.61-2.”CPh 94: 302–20. Pagán, V. 2014. “Georgics 2.497 and Thebaid 1.19-20: Allusion and Inspiration.” In W. J. Dominik, C. E. Newlands & K. Gervais, eds. Brill’s Companion to Statius. Leiden (Brill), 362–76. Putnam, M. J. 2016. “The Sense of Two Endings: How Vergil and Statius Conclude.” ICS 41: 85–149. Putnam, M. J. 2017. “Statius Silvae 3.2: Reading Travel,” ICS 42: 83–139. Reitz, C. 2013. “Does Mass Matter?” In G. Manuwald, & A. Voigt, eds. Flavian Interactions. Berlin and Boston (De Gruyter), 229–43. Rimell, V. 2015. The Closure of Space in Roman Poetics: Empire’s Inward Turn. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Roche, P., ed. 2009. Lucan, De Bello Civili Book I. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Roche, P. 2014. “Lucan’s De Bello Civili in the Thebaid.” In W. J. Dominik, C. E. Newlands & K. Gervais, eds. Brill’s Companion to Statius. Leiden (Brill), 393–407. Romm, J. 1992. The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Rosati, G. 2008. “Luxury and Love: The Encomium as Aestheticisation of Power in Flavian Poetry.” In R. R. Nauta, H.-J. Van Dam & J. J. L. Smolenaars, eds. Flavian Poetry. Leiden (Brill), 41–58. Rosati, G. 2009. “Alien Divinities.” In P. Hardie, ed. Paradox and the Marvellous in Roman Culture. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 268–87.

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Rosati, G. 2017. “Et Latet et Lucet: Ovidian Intertextuality and the Aesthetics of Luxury in Martial’s Poetry.” Arethusa 50: 117–42. Scodel, R. & R. F. Thomas 1983. “Virgil and the Euphrates.” AJPh 105: 339. Spencer, D. 2005. “Lucan’s Follies: Memory and Ruin in a Civil-War Landscape.” Greece and Rome 52: 46–69. Squire, M. 2011. The Iliad in a Nutshell: Visualising Epic on the Tabulae Iliacae. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Stephens, S. 1998. “Callimachus at Court.” In A. Harder, R.F. Regtuit & G. C. Wakker, eds. Genre in Hellenistic Poetry. Groningen (Forsten), 167–83. Stephens, S. 2004. “For you, Arsinoe ….” In B. Acosta-Hughes, E. Kosmetatou & M. Baumbach, eds., Labored in Papyrus Leaves. Washington, DC (Center for Hellenic Studies), 161–76. Stewart, S. 2010. “Apollo of the Shore: Apollonius of Rhodes and the Acrostic Phenomenon.” CQ 60.2: 401–5. Stover, T. 2012. Epic and Empire in Vespasianic Rome. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Tracy, J. 2014. Lucan’s Egyptian Civil War. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). White, K. 1992. “Elements of Geopoetics.’ Edinburgh Review 88: 163–81. Zissos, A., ed. 2008. Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica Book I. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Zissos, A. 2004. “L’Ironia Allusiva: Lucan’s Bellum Civile and the Argonautica of Valerius Flaccus.” In P. Esposito & E. M. Ariemma, eds. Lucano e la Tradizione dell’epica Latina. Naples (Guida), 21–38.

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Martial, Spain, and the dancers from Gades: travel and identity in Flavian epigram Sarah H. Blake

Travel and movement are recurring and dynamic themes in Martial’s Epigrams. All kinds of characters are depicted making their daily way around Rome, heading out to the suburbs, traveling up and down Italy, and voyaging to the provinces and back. Not only people, but goods too: raw materials, luxuries, staples, and slaves from around the empire are imported, exported, exchanged, and consumed both at Rome and elsewhere. The cumulative impression is of a Flavian world in motion.1 Martial’s first three epigram books each figure the city of Rome as the magnetic center of the world: in the de Spectaculis, peoples from far-flung regions are drawn to the Flavian amphitheater to be entertained by exotic beasts, while the Xenia and its companion the Apophoreta form a catalogue of hundreds of consumables, including many imports to the city from around Italy and the provinces.2 In Books One through Twelve, however, the movement of people and things is more complex than a centripetal center-periphery model; this is particularly true of the character of the author himself and of his books which circulate along multiple trajectories.3 Martial himself is an immigrant to Rome from Bilbilis (1.49), and his books are exported from Rome to the wider world.4 Book Three sets Martial in Cisalpine Gaul, sending his books to Rome: Romam vade, liber (“go to Rome, book,” 3.4.1). Book Five is sent to wherever Domitian might be (perhaps at one of several Italian locations: his villa at Alba, in Antium, Caieta, Circeii, or Anxur; 5.1.1‐6). In the final epigram books, this world of mobility is resolved into a polarity between Rome and Spain. Book Ten, re-issued after Domitian’s death (10.2), closes with Martial betwixt and between Rome and Spain, contemplating his return journey to Bilbilis (10.103). In the final poem of Book Ten, Martial sends his book on ahead carried by Flavus; the distance between Rome and Bilbilis is long (longum per mare, “across a long sea,” 10.104.2), as is the 34 years he has been away (10.103.6–7), but the journey is imagined to be both easy at sea, since a fair breeze has opened the harbor, and speedy on land (cursu facili, “easy voyage,” 3; citatus, “quick,” 5; aura portum | laxavit melior, “a better breeze has opened the harbor,” 17–18). After a Book Eleven set in the heart of Rome (11.1.9), Book Twelve finds Martial settled back in his hometown. This collection depicts “a confusion as well as a reversal of directions” as

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the poems travel to readers in Rome, while readers travel to Spain, and Martial imagines himself in both places.5 Notably, the final poem of Book Twelve is addressed to the river Baetis, urging it to receive the new governor of Baetica, as he sails from the Tiber (Albula) for the annual transfer of power (12.98); again the travel, this time from river to river, is envisioned as efficient and favorable.6 These epigrams, themselves at the borders of their respective books, work to mark out the distance between Rome and Spain and also to collapse it. Martial’s epigrams continue to circulate after his relocation to Bilbilis, but he famously fears that these poems will be essentially different and potentially less appealing to a wide audience: non Hispaniensem…sed Hispanum (“not only from Spain, but Spanish,” 12.Praef.30). Martial’s relationship to Spain and to his provincial identity has been of interest to many scholars.7 The 1st century CE saw the increased presence of Spanish-born Romans in elite political and cultural positions. Parts of Spain had been under Roman rule since the Second Punic War; by the Flavian period, Spain was highly urbanized and fully integrated into the Roman empire.8 Strabo notes of the peoples in the southern region of Baetica that, “The Turdetani, especially those who dwell about the Baetis, have so entirely adopted the Roman mode of life, as even to have forgotten their own language.”9 Despite this integration or, possibly because of its totality, many of the other imperial authors we know to be from Spain, including Lucan, Seneca the Younger, and Quintilian, do not specifically mention their provincial origin or its significance to their lives and careers in their extant works.10 Martial is distinct, in fact, amongst the many successful Roman writers born in Spain, in his forthright claiming of a Spanish origo.11 Among the many characters on the move in the Epigrams, Martial refers several times to one particular Spanish import: the puellae Gaditanae, the “girls from Gades” (modern Cádiz), a former Phoenician colony in the province of Baetica. The Gaditanae are female dancers known for performing a kinetic, erotic dance (crisare) accompanied by cymbals or castanets, as we see in Apophoreta 203: Puella Gaditana tam tremulam crisat, tam blandum prurit, ut ipsum masturbatorem fecerit Hippolytum. Girl from Gades She grinds her quivering hips, she humps so seductively, she’d make Hippolytus himself masturbate. The puella Gaditana, listed here in a catalogue of slaves that could be given as gifts to rich men, is irresistibly seductive.12 In epigram 11.16, Martial associates his own poetry with the titillating powers of the dancing puella (1–10):

Martial, Spain, and the dancers from Gades qui gravis es nimium, potes hinc iam, lector, abire quo licet: urbanae scripsimus ista togae; iam mea Lampsacio lascivit pagina versu et Tartesiaca concrepat aera manu. o quotiens rigida pulsabis pallia vena, sis gravior Curio Fabricioque licet! tu quoque nequitias nostri lususque libelli uda, puella, leges, sis Patavina licet. erubuit posuitque meum Lucretia librum, sed coram Bruto; Brute, recede: leget.

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If you’re too serious, reader, you can go off now wherever you like. I wrote those poems for the business suit. Now my page gets frisky with Lampsacian verse and strikes the bronze cymbals with Tartesian hand. How often you will push against your toga with a stiff prick, even if you are more serious than Curius and Fabricius. And you, girl, will be wet as you read the naughty games of my little book, even if you’re a Paduan. Lucretia blushed and put down my book, but that was under Brutus’ eyes. Brutus, back off! She will read. Martial’s page (pagina) will strike bronze cymbals with a Tartessian hand (11.16.4), a direct evocation of the puella Gaditana; Tartessos is the Greek name for the territory of the Turdetani in southern Spain (Baetica), which included Gades.13 In an echo of the seduction of Hippolytus in Apophoreta 203, the imagined readers of Book Eleven, both male and female, will not be able to resist arousal when reading, even if they are as chaste as a Lucretia.14 The epigram also hints at a pan-Mediterranean reach, since the Tartessian territory is at the very western edge of the Mediterranean while Priapus is noted here by his origin city, Lampsacus in Asia Minor near Troy, at the eastern end.15 This initial sketch hints at a tempting identification between Martial and the dancers from Gades. The puellae occupy an antithetical social position to Martial the author, as multiple, anonymous, enslaved, and female bodies from the outer edges of the provinces.16 And yet both are Spanish imports to Rome, designed to entertain in a skilled and rhythmic fashion. Like the Epigrams, the Gaditanae are multiple and mobile, exchangeable, and consumable. Here in 11.16, the Gaditanae embody Martial’s own claim for his poetry as irresistibly seductive to all, at Rome and beyond. Furthermore, this is the only occasion on which Martial personifies his poetry as female (Williams 2002: 169). This intriguing parallel between Martial and the Gaditanae alerts us to the elasticity of the idea of Spain and Spanishness in the epigrams, and to the potential for epigram as a genre to move between various and even contradictory identities.

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Play with contradiction and with the concept of mobility is a hallmark of Martial’s poetic corpus. He takes full advantage of epigram’s generic ability to indicate both place and movement, belonging, and dislocation. In poem 1.1, he locates himself ‘right here’ (hic est; an epitaphic phrase activating the genre’s inscriptional origins)17 and also everywhere (toto notus in orbe, “known throughout the world”), since his text is circulated globally. The second poem of the book sets him intimately in motion with his readers on their travels (1.2.1–4): qui tecum cupis esse meos ubicumque libellos et comites longae quaeris habere viae hos eme, quos artat brevibus membrana tabellis: scrinia da magna, me manus una capit. You who wish to have my books with me wherever you go, if you need companions on a long journey, buy these, bound by leather into booklets. Save your bookshelf for tomes; I’m a one-handed read. The poem goes on to locate the books in a specific bookshop to save readers from wandering all over town in search of him like lovesick Didos: erres, urbe vagus tota (“You wander rambling over the whole city,” 1.2.5–6).18 Poem 1.3 again dramatizes the movement of the book as it is “liber”-ated from its master (domini 1.3.9) and is released into the world: aetherias, lascive, cupis volitare per auras:| i, fuge; sed poteras tutior esse domi (“You desire to flit along heavenly breezes, you flirt; go! run for it! but you could have been safer at home,” 1.3.11–12). As an opening trio, these epigrams show the ability of Martial’s poems both to be present authoritatively and also to multiply and disperse, creating new pleasurable reading situations as they travel to and with their readers.19 Martial’s mobile epigrams map out a broad territory. He claims satisfied readers all over Rome and the wider Roman world as well: teritur noster ubique liber (“my books are handled everywhere,” 8.3.4). Everyone has a copy: laudat, amat, cantat nostros mea Roma libellos,| meque sinus omnes, me manus omnis habet (“My Rome praises, loves, recites my books; every pocket has me, every hand,” 6.60.1–2). Having Martial tucked into your pocket as you move throughout the city (haec sunt, singula quae sinu ferebas | per convivia cuncta, per theatra, “these are what you carried in your pocket one at a time, to every party, every show,” 2.6.7-8) allows for “Rome’s bestselling author not just to travel the globe, but to be in multiple places simultaneously” (Rimell 2008: 183). The multiplicity of the books means their location can be almost comically precise within the city of Rome, for example, on a certain bookshelf of a certain shop in the Argiletum (1.2.708; 1.117.13–17), while at the same time imagined as everywhere out there, deeply penetrating into the provinces (7.88.1–4; 11.3.1–5):

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fertur habere meos, si vera est fama, libellos inter delicias pulchra Vienna suas. me legit omnis ibi senior iuvenisque puerque et coram tetrico casta puella viro. If the rumour is true, beautiful Vienne is said to consider my books among its pleasures. Everyone reads me there: old man, youth, and boy, and even the good girl right in front of the stern man. non urbana mea tantum Pipleide gaudent, otia nec vacuis auribus ista damus, sed meus in Geticis ad Martia signa pruinis a rigido teritur centurione liber, dicitur et nostros cantare Britannia versus Not only does city leisure take pleasure in my Pipleis, nor do I give these to empty ears, but my book is fingered by rigid centurions under Mars’ standards in the Getic frosts, and Britain is said to sing my lines. Martial himself is both ‘here’ fully, physically integrated into the authoritative center of the world, and ‘there’, having saturated the wider Roman world. Note that the language describing the export and circulation of his books enacts an eroticized imperialism.20 As providers of pleasure to the reader, the books slide between two positions: they are the irresistible seducers of the casta puella in Vienne, but they are also the passive sex-objects bought and handled by the centurions. These sexual and textual positions might also be charted onto a map of conquest: the Roman poems are active and hold power over some provincial readers, while they service the agents of Roman imperialism, the centurions. At the same time, the texts’ portraits of sexually seduced provincials are designed to titillate readers back at Rome. In the mid-point of Book One of his Epigrams, Martial proclaims that he is from a province in Spain. In a 42-line long epigram addressed to a fellow Celtiberian, the patronus Licinianus, who is about to travel to Spain, Martial describes the countryside of north-eastern Spain as a fantasy-scape of natural pleasures: snowy mountains, pleasant woods, warm lakes, and bracing rivers. He contrasts this with a catalogue of the irritations of urban life: uncomfortable clothing, whiny clients, imperious widows, lack of sleep (1.49.31-36). The central position and length of the poem give it prominence within the book (it is the second-longest poem in all of his corpus), as do its strong echoes with Horace’s Epode 2. The epigram stretches the urbs-rus divide of Epode 2 to set urban Rome against the wild and rugged spaces of Celtiberia; the Spanish region is thus contrasted to Rome but also brought into a relationship with the city.21 Moreover, Martial uses his provincial

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origin to build a positive social relationship that would be active in the social hierarchy at Rome.22 Martial lays claim to his provincial identity in a range of ways, depending on the mood of his epigram. Epigram 1.49 contains a list of about ten named places in northeast Spain that Licinianus would know but that might be unfamiliar to Martial’s many and widespread readers.23 Epigram 4.55, also to Licinianus, lays out a similar list with the comment, “Let us Celts and Iberians not be ashamed to put the harsh names of our lands into pleasant verse” (nos Celtis genitos et ex Hiberis | nostrae nomina duriora terrae | grato non pudeat referre versu, 4.55.8-10), and a provocation to the delicatus lector (27–9) haec tam rustica, delicate lector, rides nomina? rideas licebit, haec tam rustica malo quam Butuntos. Do you scoff at these rustic names, dainty reader? You may laugh; I prefer these rustic names to Butunti.24 The poem, like many in the corpus, performs an awareness of multiple audiences, including the Celtiberian addressee and other anonymous lectores, some part of which are flagged as delicati (urban, effeminate) and derisive. In 10.65, the only epigram in which Martial ascribes any particular physical attributes to his Spanishness, he contrasts his rustic Celtiberian virility with the effeminate Greek Charmenion (10.65.3–9): cur frater tibi dicor, ex Hiberis et Celtis genitus Tagique civis? an vultu similes videmur esse? tu flexa nitidus coma vagaris, Hispanis ego contumax capillis; levis dropace tu cotidiano hirsutis ego cruribus genisque Why I am called “brother,” when I’m born of the Celts and Iberians, a countryman of Tagus? Or do you think we look alike? You stroll about polished with curled hair; mine is unruly and Spanish. You’re smooth with a daily wax; my shins and cheeks are hairy. Martial’s “Spanish” qualities, therefore, only come into relief through contrast with the effeminate Greek.25 In scoptic mode, his Spanishness serves to highlight his virility, but note that in part of Epigram 3.95, another attack on an effeminate man who snubs him, it is not his Spanishness but his

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assimilation and success at Rome, including imperial recognition and increased status, that make him superior (4–10): nam, puto, nec melior, Naevole, nec prior es. praemia laudato tribuit mihi Caesar uterque natorumque dedit iura paterna trium. ore legor multo notumque per oppida nomen non expectato dat mihi fama rogo. est et in hoc aliquid: vidit me Roma tribunum et sedeo qua te suscitat Oceanus.

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I think you’re not better or superior to me, Naevolus. Both Caesars praised me, rewarded me, and gave me the Rights of Three Children. I am recited by many, my name is known throughout the towns: I’m famous without having had to die first. And then there’s this: Rome has seen me tribune, and I sit in the section Ocean [a bouncer at the theatre] kicks you out of. Martial claims to be known both at Rome and also through a wide (unnamed) territory: per oppida (7), a phrase that reflects the geographical concept of territory as an itinerary leading the traveler from town to town.26 There was a range of ways in which Martial could have indicated his nonRoman origin within the terms of contemporary Roman geopolitics. He could claim a home city, for example, Bilbilis, or an ethnicity or language group, for example, Celtiberian, and, as in 4.55, refuse to translate it into other terms. Or, he could use the terminology of the imperial power: the name of the province (Tarraconensis) or the word provincia itself, as he does in the preface of Book Twelve when he complains of his provincialis solitudo (“provincial solitude,” 12.Praef.5).27 The term chosen to identify oneself, therefore, might align and assimilate one with Roman administrative categories, or could represent an indigenous view, or—most likely—could speak variously to various audiences.28 In Epigram 1.49, which is framed as a poem in which the general reader listens in on a conversation between two locals, we see within three lines the shared ethnic association “Celtiberian,” a reference to a home-city, Bilbilis, as well as the term Hispania used for the common patria of Martial and Licinianus (1–3): vir Celtiberis non tacende gentibus nostraeque laus Hispaniae, videbis altam, Liciniane, Bilbilin Licinianius, a man to be boasted of by the Celtiberians, glory of our Spain, you will see high Bilbilis.

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The ethnic term ‘Celtiberian’ referred to a number of peoples in northcentral Spain whose origins were understood to be a combination of Celtic and Iberian. Tarraco and the east coast of Spain was Iberian in the preRoman period; Celtic is a very broad cultural designation that could include many groups. There is slippage, therefore, between the identification of Celtic, Iberian, and Celtiberian within the context of the epigrams. The conflation contributes to the creation of the idea of a single Hispania, in this case as an idyllic fantasy-scape for Roman or imperial audiences for whom ethnic distinctions between Iberians and Celtiberians might be irrelevant (let alone the heterogeneity of cultures within those broad designations).29 The imperial audience that Martial claims for himself is, in a word, total, but specifically included, as we saw, the centurions in Britain, the casta puella of Vienne, and all the viatores imagined in Epigram 1.2. Martial’s Spanishness emerges at select moments to illustrate a point, but in no way affects his readability for the broadest possible imperial audience. In a second poem about Spain in Book One, Martial moves beyond the regional and groups together several prominent authors within the idea of a single Hispania (1.61): Verona docti sillybos amat vatis, Marone felix Mantua est, censetur Aponi Livio suo tellus Stellaque nec Flacco minus, Apollodoro plaudit imbrifer Nilus, Nasone Paeligni sonant duosque Senecas unicumque Lucanum facunda loquitur Corduba, gaudent iocosae Canio suo Gades, Emerita Deciano meo: te, Liciniane, gloriabitur nostra nec me tacebit Bilbilis. Verona loves the titles of its learned poet; Mantua is blessed in Maro; the land of Aponus judges itself by Livy; nor less on Stella and Flaccus; the watering Nile cheers for Apollodorus; the Paeligni roar for Naso; Eloquent Cordoba speaks of the two Senecas and Lucan, the unique; playful Gades takes pleasure in its Canius; Emerita in my Decianus: you, Licinianus, will be boasted of, nor will our Bilbilis be quiet about me.

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All the famous poets listed here are associated positively with their native places outside of Rome. Most writers well-known at Rome were born outside the city; many Augustan poets feature prominently placed references to their Italian birthplaces.30 Here Martial re-writes a familiar poetic geography that, with the exception of the reference to Apollodorus and the Nile, locates famous authors around Italy; Catullus and Vergil are connected to their home cities, but for variation we also see famous bodies of water (Nile, Aponus) and, for Ovid, an Italian ethnicity (Paeligni) used to link writers to non-Roman places.31 The epigram offers an implicit argument, perhaps, that a non-Roman origin need not be a disadvantage in literary success. The second half of the poem’s 12 lines are devoted to Spanish-born poets, whose number deliberately matches the number of famous Italian-Roman authors. Here the idea of ‘Spanish’ includes the cities of Corduba and Gades, both in Baetica, and Emerita, in Lusitania, as well as Bilbilis, named in a line that echoes the opening of 1.49. Even within heavily poeticized contexts (the Horatian intertexts of 1.49 and the subgenre of Dichtergedichte in 1.61),32 these epigrams are nevertheless grounded in a specific geography and a specific provincial identity project for Martial: the shared patria of Hispania, broadly defined. As we see in 1.61.9, Martial’s Hispania of authors includes iocosae Gades, home of the dancers, and characterized as the playful home of Canius Rufus. As Sven Lorenz has shown, Martial’s friend Canius appears in the corpus as a comic character, a writer associated with laughter (3.20), with Pan (1.69), and therefore with the “erotic entertainment and sexual exuberance” characteristic of Gades generally in the Epigrams.33 Elsewhere in the corpus, Gades is marked out as distinct among Spanish places for its deviant sexuality: a revolting pimp is from Gades (de Gadibus improbus magister, 1.41.12);34 an effeminate target of attack sings Gaditanian songs (3.63.5–6). Note that this kind of “Gaditanian behavior” is marked out in female dancers, a pimp, and an effeminate man. The negative associations of Gades are gendered and sexualized. In the figure of Canius Rufus, however, the license of Gades is connected to sexual and comic creativity, a quality Martial also claims for his own poetry. Gades occupies an important but ambiguous place in Roman thought. Located in the most prosperous and most Romanized part of Hispania, Gades was in many ways distinct: traditionally known as the oldest city in Spain, it was a highly urbanized mercantile center located mostly on an island. Facing the Atlantic, for the Romans it was geographically marginal being on the far shore of the peninsula and separated from the Mediterranean by the Pillars of Hercules (freta Gaditana). It had been founded by Phoenicians as an important node in their coastal trade network before the 8th century and was long held by the Turdetani/Tartessi, a famously prosperous people with whom the area appears to have retained some associations over the centuries, as we saw in Epigram 11.16.4.35 From the time of the wars with Carthage, the

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city of Gades was politically and militarily integrated into the Roman world, being granted municipal status by Julius Caesar in 49 BCE. Its legal status, however, was referred to variously in different media.36 The city also retained an imagined identity as a far distant and marginal place. Cicero, called upon in 56 BCE to defend the naturalized Roman citizenship of Cornelius Balbus, born at Gades, describes Rome’s relationship with Gades at length, figuring it as both closely connected to Rome but also literally and litorally the margin of Rome (Balb. 39): “Their ambition, and our ancestors’ wish, has been, that their walls, their temples, their lands, should be the boundaries of the Roman name and Roman empire, as Hercules wished them to be of his journeys and of his labors.”37 Velleius Paterculus, for example, notes that Balbus was non Hispaniensis natus sed Hispanus (“not just born in Spain but an actual Spaniard,” 2.51.3), a phrase that captures something of the complexity of his provincial identity (Woodman 1983: 93). The distinction between “born in Spain” and “Spanish” gestures at the tension between those who might be able to transcend their place of origin and those who are inescapably defined by it. Martial’s use of the same phrase in the introduction to Book Twelve (Praef. 30), as we have seen, reflects the anxiety that, now permanently back in Spain, he will no longer be able to manage his readers’ perception of his provincial origin. The puellae Gaditanae, as their name suggests, are primarily defined by their city of origin. They have no other identity; their value as exotic imports rests wholly on their association with Gades. Martial’s use of the puellae Gaditanae is, as we have seen, complex; he both identifies with their irresistible lure and also scorns them as foreign fleshpots, depending on his epigrammatic mood.38 In 5.78, for example, he excludes them from his modest simple dinner (22–31): parva est cenula—quis potest negare?— sed finges nihil audiesve fictum et vultu placidus tuo recumbes; nec crassum dominus leget volumen, nec de Gadibus improbis puellae vibrabunt sine fine prurientes lascivos docili tremore lumbos; sed quod non grave sit nec infacetum, parvi tibia Condyli sonabit. haec est cenula. Claudiam sequeris. My dinner is modest—who could deny that?— but, you will not invent or hear lies and you can relax with a natural expression: no lord will read from a dull book, nor will the girls from shameless Gades, always up for it, shake their sexy hips

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with trained quiver, on and on. Only the flute of little Condylus will play something light and charming. That’s the little dinner. You’ll sit next to Claudia. Grouped in with falsehoods, hypocrisy, and the thick volume of an insensitive host, the puellae Gaditanae, are invoked for the pleasure of rejecting them in favor of the simplicity and charm of the single flute of Condylus, and to the single girl with the Roman name, Claudia.39 In another epigrammatic mood, however, the dancing girl has the metapoetic power we saw in 11.16 (6.71): edere lascivos ad Baetica crusmata gestus et Gaditanis ludere docta modis, tendere quae tremulum Pelian Hecubaeque maritum posset ad Hectoreos sollicitare rogos, urit et excruciat dominum Telethusa priorem: vendidit ancillam, nunc redimit dominam.

5

She knew how to dance erotically in time with Baetic songs, and tease in Gaditanian rhythms, and she could make shaky Pelias hard, or rouse Hecuba’s husband at Hector’s pyre. Now Telethusa burns and tortures her former master: he sold a slave girl and now he buys back a domina. Like the Gaditana of Apophoreta 203, who could arouse even Hippolytus, Telethusa is irresistibly seductive; a figure for erotic epigram’s ability to overpower tragedy and epic, genres evoked by Hecuba, Pelias, and Priam.40 The dancing Telethusa’s power gives her the power to move up and elevate herself from slavery to a form of mastery, a power Martial envisions for his own epigrams as they are liber-ated (1.3) and sent out to seduce the world. Certainly, the association between Martial and the Gaditanae must be a limited one as they stand on the opposite side of almost every Roman cultural dichotomy. He is a man of status at Rome; they have no status, are female and anonymous. He has words; they have moves. He is from the rugged northeast of Spain, in the wild province of Tarraconensis, source of raw metals to the empire; they are from the ancient, fabled port city in the highly urbanized agricultural south. He is known throughout the world; they are consumable, interchangeable, disposable, replaceable, and nameless. Amongst all these binary dichotomies, however, there is an important parallelism between them that serves to flesh out Martial’s epigrammatic self-portrait as a Romano-Spaniard author who provides pleasure to the empire. References to Hispania, and to Bilbilis in particular, increase and take on a different quality in Martial’s final books.41 As we saw, the tenth book of the Epigrams, published in a revised edition after the death of Domitian and

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subsequent political fallout, lays out Martial’s vision of a return to his home province after 34 years away, and includes poems praising the natural bounty and relaxed lifestyle of the area (10.37, 10.96). In Book Twelve, sent to Rome from Bilbilis, Rome has become the distant, memorialized home both yearned for (12.21.9) and disdained, although perhaps not wholeheartedly so (12.18, 57, 59, 68). As has been often noted, Martial’s poems from Spain in Book Twelve express an uncomfortable sense of displacement, and perform a certain version of the author-in-exile role.42 In the same prefatory letter that expressed his fear of writing a Spanish book, he describes himself as not entirely home again in Bilbilis, and not as Roman as he once was: writing for his local Celtiberian audience is like “pleading a case to a strange court,” videor mihi in alieno foro litigare, (12.Praef.8–9). Despite this, once at Rome, he imagines that this foreign book (peregrine liber) will not be a stranger (hospes) nor a new arrival (advena), but will be recognized as Martial’s own (meum, 12.2). Martial thus lays out a hybrid identity for the books of belonging both here and there, even though he is now relegated to ‘there.’ It should be noted that Martial’s fear, expressed above at 12.Praef.30, that his book is too Spanish, is expressed to Priscus, another RomanoSpaniard, who is to be the judge of the book’s ethnicity. The contrast established between “from Spain” and “Spanish” therefore, is critical only in certain contexts; for these men of status at Rome, their Spanish-ness can be expressed in degrees, negotiated, or even disavowed. Martial the author will still be Roman and acceptably Spanish, although he envisions a more complex ethnic identity for his books as they travel away from him. Once in Rome, these books will play a role like that of the puellae Gaditanae as they are bought, handled, and enjoyed by anonymous readers. We have reviewed some of the complex ways in which Martial performs his identity as a Romano-Spaniard poet on the move. There are many contributing factors to these performances: the fluidity of the epigrammatic author-persona and his ability to operate in various modalities; the relational positionality of the author and his corpus; the spatial poetics of epigram as a literary genre and the ability of the form to indicate both fixed location and distance; Martial’s reinvention of Roman literary tropes of travel and displacement through an epigrammatic lens; the language of identity in the political context of imperial Roman Spain; the gendered quality of these identity performances; and the gendered and eroticized dynamics of the author-book relationship. Rome and Spain emerge in the Epigrams as multiple signifiers, as place-ideas that have both density and elasticity. Martial’s Rome is vibrant, crowded, disjointed, sometimes home and sometimes not. Spain and Spanishness are also amorphous concepts, mutable ideas that can be used to convey a broad range of meaning on their own, and in relation to the city of Rome. The elasticity of Hispania as a geographical and gendered cultural concept allows Martial to use it to engage with a variety of epigrammatic modalities.

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Notes 1 As Richlin demonstrates in this volume, Roman literary engagements with the circulation of people and goods can be traced back at least as far as Plautus. For Flavian contexts, see also Newlands’ discussion of travel in Stat. Silv. 3.2 in this volume. 2 Stroup 2006: 307; Roman 2010: 94–5. Blake 2011a. Within the Xenia, the geographical origin of each item of food or drink is explicitly referenced in 57 of 124 poems (46%) and in the Apophoreta, in 44 of the 221 objects listed (20%). 3 See Pogorzelski 2016 for a discussion of the complexity of any center-periphery model of empire in Flavian authors, and with reference to Martial at 228–9. 4 Bilbilis was granted the status of a municipium and became Augusta Bilbilis under Augustus. 5 Rimell 2008: 190. Lindheim in this volume discusses a comparable blurring of the poet’s home and away in the context of imagined imperial geography in Catullus’ corpus. 6 Albula navigerum per freta pandit iter: | omnibus laetis vestras Instantius oras | intret (“Albula opens a navigable passage across the seas; may Instantius enter your [the river Baetis’] shores with joyful omens,” 12.98.4–6). The direct connection between Tiber and Baetis here suggests that the kind of “river-thinking” in ancient conceptual geography described by Purcell 2012 is an option among Martial’s multiplicity of ways to depict travel and demarcate territory in epigram. See also Newlands, this volume, on the ease and speed of travel as an element of Flavian imperial ideology in the contemporary poetry of Statius. 7 Dolç 1953; Sullivan 1991: 170–84; Salgado 1995; Howell 1998; Citroni 2002; Merli 2006; Rimell 2008: 181–206; Craca 2011. 8 Curchin 1991; Richardson 1996; Kulikowski 2010. 9 Strabo 3.2.15. On Baetica’s socio-economic Romanization in the Flavian period, Haley 2003. 10 Seneca the Elder’s extant writings do make subtle reference to his Spanish-ness. Miriam Griffin has demonstrated the unimportance of any national consciousness to his writing, despite his friendship with many Spanish provincials and his own history of travel back and forth between Rome and Cordoba throughout his lifetime (1972: 17). In a rare direct reference, Seneca the Elder describes his friend Porcius Latro’s speech as “strong, rustic, and Spanish” (fortem et agrestem et Hispanae consuetudinis morem, Controv. 1, Praef. 16–17), which indicates an awareness of the entity Hispana (Griffin 1972: 15), and a sense of a certain “Spanish” style of expression (cf. Seneca’s citation of Cicero, Arch. 26.4, on the over-rich and exotic style of the Cordoban poets, quiddam sonantes atque peregrinum (Suas. 6. 27). Columella, meanwhile, notes that he is from Gades amidst a discussion of lettuce (Rust. 10.1.1.185), but elsewhere identifies himself with a Roman viewpoint (Rust. 1. Praef. 20; Griffin 1972: 17). Batty 2000 has demonstrated the centrality of Spain, and the Phoenician orientation of southern Spain in particular, in Pomponius Mela’s conceptual geography. 11 Spain is referred to around 60 times in the Epigrams. In another 31 epigrams Martial names people we know to be Spanish, although this is not indicated expressly in the poem. He refers to himself as Spanish in 23 epigrams, 18 of which are in Books Ten and Twelve. Citroni 2002: 287–8. 12 Fear 1991; Leary 1996: 270–2. Stat. Silv. 1.6.71; Juv. 11. 163–9; Mart. 5.78; 11.16; 14.203; Carm. Priap. 19 for a direct comparison. 13 Although no instrument is mentioned in Apophoreta 203, the next epigram presents cymbala (cymbals, 14.204.lemma), described as aera (“bronzes,” 14.204.1) and associated with the worshippers of Cybele. In keeping with the structure of the Apophoreta as a whole, which alternates an object suited to a rich person with

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a related object suited to a poor person (14.1.5–6), the cymbala are thus paired with or substituted for the puella Gaditana. Elsewhere, the puellae Gaditanae are described as playing cymbala (Stat., Silv. 1.6.71), likely producing a ringing sound, while in Juvenal, they are vividly described as producing testarum crepitus, a sound like the clattering or clapping of tiles or potsherds; this is more likely a description of castanets (crotalia) which are played for a clicking, percussive sound as they are clapped between the fingers or against the dancer’s body (Alonso Fernández 2016: 312). Other descriptions of female dancers and the worshippers of Cybele pair cymbals with castanets (Copa 2; Carm. Priap. 27.1; Apul. Met. 8.24.10; 9.4.12). Cf. Ovid Am. 2.4.29–32. On Ovid’s association of a puella’s seductive rhythmic movement with his own poetic artistry, see Keith 1994: 35, and Alonso Fernández 2016: 307–8 on the “docta saltatrix” (skilled/learned dancer). I am grateful to Regina Höschele for noting this to me. In this volume cf. Keith on the historical reality of forced mobility and trafficking underlying women’s travels in Latin love elegy and, as noted above, Richlin on the connections between Roman comedy and human trafficking. Note, too, that in 14.203 Martial describes a single puella Gaditana, as part of a series of poems at the end of the Apophoreta, each describing a type of slave that might be given as a Saturnalian gift (e.g., 14.205, Boy (puer); 14.208, Stenographer (notarius); 14.210, Fool (morio); 14.214, Dwarf (pumilus); on this series, see Blake 2011b: 373, 2012: 202–4). Most references to such dancers in Latin literature describe them in the plural, for example, Mart. 5.78.26, “puellae”; Stat. Silv. 1.6.71, in a list of several troupes of dancers of different origin; Plin. Ep. 1.5.3.2, “Gaditanas”; Juv. 11.164, “puellae”. Modern scholarship on the Gaditanae has mostly followed suit, referring to female Gaditane dancers almost exclusively in the plural, and as “girls”, although we have no historical information about the age of these dancers. Although “girls” is certainly a translation of puellae, this particular usage of “girls” seems to me problematically to echo and activate a contemporary sexist use of the term “girls” as slang for sex workers and exotic dancers. Citroni 1975: 14. On epitaphs and travel see Meyer in this volume. uritur infelix Dido, totaque vagatur | urbe furens (Aen. 4.68-9); Citroni 1975: 21. On Martial’s literary topography of Rome, see Rimell 2008: 181–206; Roman 2010; Laurence 2011; Rodríguez Almeida 2014. See Zimmermann Damer, this volume, on Ovidian topography and the poetics of movement in and around Rome. See Höschele 2007: 350–4, on travel and reading in Martial’s Epigrams. See, also, Lindheim, this volume, on the sexual metaphor of penetration as imperial expansion in Catullus 11. Bowditch 2012 traces out a similar dynamic in Roman elegy; see also Parker 2009 on the gender of elegiac travel. The iambic trimeter and dimeter of 1.49 is used elsewhere only three times (3.14, 9.77, 11.59), two of which poems also refer to Spaniards (3.14 and 9.77; Citroni 2002). On the urbs-rus discourse in Martial, see Merli 2006. Sullivan 1991: 170. Sullivan 1991: 175 notes that Licinianus would be one of the few who would appreciate Martial’s allusions and the skill needed to render the Spanish placenames into Latin verse. Modern Bitonto, a town near Bari. Interestingly, for all the effeminate Greeks in Martial’s epigrams, this is the only occasion on which Martial’s specifically Spanish qualities distinguish him. Beltrán Lloris 2011: 75 notes that this rustic virility is comparable to the prisca virtus of the Sabines and to other positive Italian stereotypes.

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26 On hodological conceptualizations of geographical space, see Janni 1984. For the hodological conceptual space of imperial Spain, see Keay & Earl 2007: 305–6. 27 The term only appears again in 12.29, when he describes himself as a struggling eques to an ambitious senator who receives a province to govern while Martial gets a meal (malo famem | quam sit cena mihi, tibi sit provincia merces, | et facimus idem nec mereamur idem, 12.29.14–16). 28 See Le Roux 2011 and Beltrán Lloris 2011 on the language of identity claims related to Roman Spain. 29 Sullivan 1991: 175 notes that it is in Martial’s poetry, and in this poem in particular, that the idea of Spain as a national entity is first propounded. Strabo notes the use of Hispania for the whole peninsula as a Roman administrative category, 3.4.19. 30 Verg. Geo. 3.10-15; Hor. Carm. 3.30.10-14; Prop. 1.22.9–10. 31 Verona and Mantua as the birthplaces of Catullus and Vergil are similarly paired in Epig. 14.195. Ovid is also Paelignian at 2.41.2. Note, too, that line 4 refers to Martial’s friend and patron L. Arruntius Stella, and to a certain Flaccus also from Padua. There is no evidence to support this as a reference to the poet Valerius Flaccus. 32 See Neger 2012: 19–22. 33 Lorenz 2006: 327. Salgado 1995: 176, arguing for a uniformly negative portrayal of Gades in Martial, suggests that this praise is ironic and that Canius Rufus is the target of the attack on a plagiarist in 10.102.3–4: Gaditanus, Avite, dicat istud | qui scribit nihil et tamen poeta est (“Let Gaditanus speak to that, he who writes nothing but is somehow still a poet, Avitus”). 34 Fear 1991: 75 suggests that this pimp is the master of the troupe of dancing girls. 35 Hdt. 1.163, ‘Gadeira’. Dionys. Per. 337. On the vagueness of ethnic identity in the region, García Fernández 2010. Olmos 1991 suggests that the puellae Gaditanae may have had their origin as musically-trained female followers or temple attendants of the Phoenician goddess Astarte in the region. Cf. Fear 1996: 78. 36 Columella 7.2.4: municipium Gaditanum. Curchin 1991: 120 notes the existence of local coins were inscribed col. Aug. Gad., referring perhaps to a colony created near the old city by Cornelius Balbus. 37 quorum moenia, delubra, agros ut Hercules itinerum ac laborum suorum, sic maiores nostri imperi ac nominis populi Romani terminos esse voluerunt. Trans. C. D. Yonge 1891. Cicero refers to the famous temple of Hercules/Melqart at Gades sometimes associated with the Pillars of Hercules (Strabo 3.5.5-6), and in which Caesar is said to have wept before the statue of Alexander the Great (Suet., Div. Jul. 7). Cf. RG 26.2 for Gades as the edge of Augustus’ empire. On the history of Gades and its Punic identity, see Quinn & Vella 2014. 38 Note that in a survey of the foreign women depicted in Martial’s poetry, Posadas 2010 goes so far as to exclude the Gaditanas, speculating that since Gades had been Roman for three centuries, it was probable that women coming from that population were not foreigners (peregrinas). 39 Cf. Plin. Epist. 1.15.3: at tu apud nescio quem ostrea vulvas echinos Gaditanas maluisti (“you prefer to dine with some nobody on oysters, sow’s tripe, seaurchins, girls from Gades”). 40 Grewing 2010: 164–5. The character of Telethusa also raises the intriguing possibility that dancers from anywhere might dance in Gaditanian style and therefore be designated as Gaditanae. 41 See Merli 2006. 42 Sullivan 1991; Woolf 2003: 219; Rimell 2008: 181–200; Craca 2011.

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Works cited Alonso Fernández, Z. 2016. “Docta Saltatrix: Body Knowledge, Culture, and Corporeal Discourse in Female Roman Dance.” Phoenix 69.3–4: 304–33. Batty, R. 2000. “Mela’s Phoenician Geography.” JRS 90: 70–94. Beltrán Lloris, F. 2011. “‘ … Et sola omnium provinciarum vires suas postquam victa est intellexit.’ Una aproximación a hispana como referente identitario en el mundo romano.” In A. Caballos Rufino & S. Lefebvre, eds. Roma: Generadora de identidades. La experiencia hispana. Madrid (Casa de Velázquez and Universidad de Sevilla), 55–77. Blake, S. H. 2011a. “Martial’s Natural History: The Xenia and Apophoreta and Pliny’s Encyclopedia.” Arethusa 44.3: 353–77. Blake, S. H. 2011b. “Saturnalia Clamata: Noise and Speech in Flavian Literary Saturnalias.” Mouseion 11.3: 361–80. Blake, S. H. 2012. “Now you see them: Slaves and Other Objects as Elements of the Roman Master.” Helios 39.2: 197–223. Bowditch, P. L. 2012. “Roman Love Elegy and the Eros of Empire.” In B. Gold, ed. A Companion to Roman Love Elegy. Malden, MA (Wiley Blackwell), 119–33. Citroni, M. 1975. M. Valerii Martialis Epigrammaton Liber Primus. Firenze (La nuova Italia). Citroni, M. 2002.“L’immagine della Spagna e l’autorappresentazione del poeta negli epigrammi di Marziale.” In G. Urso, ed. Hispania terris omnibus felicior: premesse ed esiti di un processo di integrazione: atti del convegno internazionale, Cividale del Friuli, 27–29 settembre 2001. Pisa (ETS), 281–301. Craca, C. 2011. Dalla Spagna: Gli epigrammi 1–33 del XII libro di Marziale. Bari (Edipuglia). Curchin, L. A. 1991. Roman Spain: Conquest and Assimilation. London and New York (Routledge). Dolç, M. 1953. Hispania y Marcial. Barcelona (Escuela de Filología). Fear, A. T. 1991. “The Dancing Girls of Cadiz.” G&R 38.1: 75–79. Fear, A. T. 1996. Rome and Baetica: Urbanization in Southern Spain, c. 50 B.C.–150 A. D. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Fitzgerald, W. 2007. Martial: The World of the Epigram. Chicago (University of Chicago Press). García Fernández, F. J. 2010. “Tartesios, túrdulos, turdetanois. Realidad y ficción de la homogeneidad étnica de la Bética romana.” In J. Santos Yanguas & G. Cruz Andreotti, eds. Romanización, fronteras y etnias en la Roma Antigua: el caso hispano. Vitoria (Universidad del País Vasco), 691–734. Grewing, F. 2010. “Karneval in Rom: Metapoetische Quisquilien in Martials Epigrammen.” WS 123: 131–66. Griffin, M. 1972. “The Elder Seneca and Spain.” JRS 62: 1–19. Haley, E. 2003. Baetica Felix: People and Prosperity in Southern Spain from Caesar to Septimius Severus. Austin (University of Texas Press). Höschele, R. 2007. “The Traveling Reader: Journeys Through Ancient Epigram Books.” TAPA 137: 333–69. Howell, P. 1998. “Martial’s Return to Spain.” In F. Grewing, ed. Toto notus in orbe: Perspektiven der Martial-Interpretation. Stuttgart (Steiner Verlag), 173–86.

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Janni, P. 1984. La mappa e il periplo: cartografía antica e spazio odologico. Rome (Bretschneider). Keay, S. & G. Earl. 2007. “Structuring of the provincial landscape: the towns in central and western Baetica in their geographical context.” in G. Cruz Andreotti, P. Le Roux, & P. Moret, eds., Península Ibérica, II: La época imperial. Madrid (Casa de Velázquez), 305–58. Keith, A. 1994. “Corpus Eroticum: Elegiac Poetics and Elegiac Puellae in Ovid’s Amores.” CW 88.1: 27–40. Kulikowski, M. 2010. Late Roman Spain and Its Cities. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press). Laurence, R. 2011. “Literature and the Spatial Turn: Movement and Space in Martial’s Epigrams.” In R. Laurence & D. J. Newsome, eds., Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 81–99. Le Roux, P. 2011. “Identités civiques, identités provincials dans l’Empire romain.” In A. Caballos Rufino & S. Lefebvre, eds. Roma: Generadora de identidades. La experiencia hispana. Madrid (Casa de Velázquez and Universidad de Sevilla), 7–19. Leary, T. J. 1996. Martial. Book XIV. The Apophoreta. London (Duckworth). Livingstone, N. & G. Nisbet 2010. Epigram. New Surveys in the Classics 38. Greece & Rome 55. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Lorenz, S. 2006. “Martial and the Writer Canius Rufus.” In R. R. Nauta, H.-J. Van Dam & J. J. L. Smolenaars, eds. Flavian Poetry. Leiden (Brill), 315–28. Merli, E. 2006. “Martial between Rome and Bilbilis.” In R. Rosen & I. Sluiter, eds. City, Countryside, and the Spatial Organization of Value in Classical Antiquity. Leiden (Brill), 327–47. Neger, M. 2012. Martials Dichtergedichte: das Epigramm als Medium der poetischen Selbstreflexion. Tübingen (Narr). Olmos, R. 1991. “Puellae Gaditanae: ¿Heteras de Astarté?” Archivo Español de Arqueología 64: 99–109. Parker, G. 2009. “The Gender of Travel: Cynthia and Others.” M&D 61: 85–99. Pogorzelski, R. 2016. “Centers and Peripheries.” In A. Zissos, ed., A Companion to the Flavian Age of Imperial Rome. Malden, MA (Wiley-Blackwell), 223–38. Posadas, J. L. 2010. “Extranjeras en la Roma de Marcial y Juvenal.” Studia Historica, Historia Antigua 28: 75–94. Purcell, N. 2012. “Rivers and the Geography of Power.” Pallas 90: 73–87. Quinn, J. C. & N. C. Vella, eds. 2014. The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Richardson, J. S. 1996. The Romans in Spain. Cambridge, MA (Blackwell). Rimell, V. 2008. Martial’s Rome: Empire and the Ideology of Epigram. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Rodríguez Almeida, E. 2014. Marziale e Roma: un poeta e la sua cittá. Roma (Aracne). Roman, L. 2001. “The Representation of Literary Materiality in Martial’s Epigrams.” JRS 91: 113–45. Roman, L. 2010. “Martial and the City of Rome.” JRS 100: 88–117. Salgado, O. 1995. “Hispanismo y moralidad en Marcial.” AFC 13: 171–7. Stroup, S. C. 2006. “Invaluable Collections: The Illusions of Poetic Presence in Martial’s Xenia and Apophoreta.” In R. R. Nauta, H.-J. Van Dam & J. J. L. Smolenaars, eds. Flavian Poetry. Leiden (Brill), 315–28.

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Sullivan, J. P. 1991. Martial: The Unexpected Classic: A Literary and Historical Study. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Williams, C. A. 2002. ‘Sit nequior omnibus libellis: Text, Poet, and Reader in the Epigrams of Martial.’ Philologus 146.1: 150–71. Woodman, A. J. 1983. Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative (2.41‐93). Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Woolf, G. 2003. “The City of Letters.” In C. Edwards & G. Woolf, eds. Rome the Cosmopolis. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 203–21.

10 Memory spaces of Ausonius and Rutilius Namatianus Grant Parker

Among Latin poetry’s rediscovered treasures Ausonius’ Mosella and Rutilius Namatianus’ De reditu suo loom large, for somewhat different reasons. Rutilius’ poem, an episodic account of his journey from the city of Rome to his native Gaul,1 was written by an illustrious public official in the direct aftermath of the Sack of Rome in 410 CE, and is thus a privileged witness of the demise of the Roman Empire in the West. By contrast the Mosella has commanded strong historic and topographic interest, given its detailed and even glittering account of the Moselle valley, marking that region as a new horizon in the history of Latin poetry. Indeed, Gibbon’s contempt notwithstanding, Ausonius has been considered one of the most skillful and versatile poets of the period.2 Both Ausonius and Rutilius Namatianus were members of the late Roman aristocracy, and their lives tell much about the social dynamics of their times. In more literary terms, they have previously been analyzed in tandem (e.g., Formisano 2017); each sports a recent commentary (Gruber 2013 and Malamud 2016). Of relevance to the current volume, both poems have a strong geographical element, in one case a narrative with much circumstantial detail (Rutilius) and in the other a description of a region that attained enormous importance in the 4th century (Ausonius). My goal in these pages is to compare the poetics of travel in the two poems, and particularly to situate their poetics in relation to collective memory. Now it is axiomatic that memory and locality are closely connected or even mutually constitutive (Schama 1995); the point here is to assess the spatial frameworks of the poems via selective exegesis. This will make it possible to consider aspects of memory manifested in these and other texts related to travel (Section III). Finally, if we may experimentally impose a modern frame on ancient texts, we shall use the foregoing discussion to extrapolate elements of what can provisionally be called travel writing. (Section IV). The goal is to identify criteria by which to make sense of travel and human geography in Latin literary texts. To this end I shall bring the question of memory into an analysis of the relation of geography and literary style. I shall show how different kinds of memory are key to an understanding of the poems in question. The term “memory spaces” evokes

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Aleida Assmann’s “Erinnerungsräume” in underlining both the topographic elements of memory and the media within which memory is constituted (Assmann 2011). In this specific context, “spaces” are meant both literally of the physical landscape traversed in the two journey-poems and of the literary forms involved. By this reckoning, a poem too can be a space in so far as it facilitates or constitutes representation (Pelttari 2014).

I The Moselle between Garonne and Tiber The Mosella opens with an introduction (1–22) that first sees the poet-narrator undertaking a journey from Bingen to Neumagen, at which point the Moselle valley comes into view. The second major segment (23–149) is devoted to the water of the river, including a hymn (23–32), and then to descriptions of its beauty and a substantial quasi-epic catalogue of its fish (85–149). The third segment (150–380) takes a broader view of the Moselle valley landscape, focusing on activities of work and leisure (150–282), villas (283–348), and a catalogue of tributary rivers (349-80). The finale (381–483) is framed by two climactic hymnic greetings (381–88 and 469–83), and the very end announces a greater poetic theme to come, and comparison with the Rhine.3 The poem begins in a starkly narrative fashion: transieram…(“I had passed,” 1). But after the initial 22 lines, it turns to the descriptive mode that prevails until nearly the end, focusing in thematic fashion on a series of joyful vignettes of life in the river valley. Here we encounter vintners and boatmen; satyrs and naiads; leisure activities involving fishing (240–82) or merely messing around in boats (200–39). Such descriptions are in keeping with the rhetorical framework of the poem. Epideictic rhetoric, as outlined by Menander Rhetor in the 3rd century CE, heavily emphasizes the descriptive components of praise. Indeed, the rhetorical character comes to the fore at several points, for example in the hymnic invocation (23–32) that is part of the initial aretalogy and in the catalogue of fish (85–149). The catalogue is consistent with Oppian’s Halieutica from the second or 3rd century CE, representing a belated variant on the catalogue of Troy-bound ships in Homer’s Iliad (2.494-759), just as the catalogue of Actaeon’s dogs in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (3.206-27) represents another variation of Homeric precedent. Another initial point of analysis involves the poet-narrator who is also the traveler, what we might call the Traveling “I”. From the first word (transieram, 1) the narrator involves himself in the narrative, in the context of describing the route from Bingen to Neumagen: Unde iter ingrediens nemorosa per avia solum et nulla humani spectans vestigia cultus

(5–6)

Thence onward I began a lonely journey through pathless forest, nor did my eyes rest on any trace of human inhabitants.

Memory spaces 177 This poet-narrator resurfaces a few times in the course of the poem, but only occasionally, as a guarantor of truth (vidi egomet, 270, and vidi ego, 341), or more generally as a point of perspective. The fact that the sense of sight occurs in both of these instances is not coincidental, as we shall see below. Close to the end the narrating self comes into view again at a climatic point when the peroratio begins: Haec ego, Vivisca ducens ab origine gentem, Belgarum hospitiis non per nova foedera notus, Ausonius, nomen Latium,4 patriaque domoque Gallorum extremos inter celsamque Pyrenen, temperat ingenuos qua laeta Aquitanica mores, audax exigua fide concino.

(438–43)

Such is the theme I compass—I, who am sprung of Viviscan stock, yet by old ties of guest-friendship no stranger to the Belgae; I, Ausonius, Roman in name yet born and bred betwixt the frontiers of Gaul and high Pyrene, where blithe Aquitaine mellows the native temper of her sons: great is my daring though my lute is small. This passage, in which the poet identifies himself by a different part of Gaul, is significant in several ways. The term foedus (“alliance”) carries a rich set of associations for Roman identity, going back to the period of Rome’s ascendancy in Italy (Gladhill 2016). By virtue of its autobiographic content it suggests the sphragis with which Augustan poetry books ended; these seem to have begun as a Hellenistic phenomenon, originating with Callimachus’ Aetia 4 (fr. 112 Pfeiffer).5 Yet here it introduces an extended peroratio, which continues for a further forty lines. Comparison with Vergil’s Georgics and Ovid’s Metamorphoses suggest that sphragides tended to be placed at the very end, even of much lengthier poems. In this instance, the autobiographical moment retains a geographic frame of reference, while turning the poem to the future tense: addam urbes … (454), addam … condita (456), addam … colonos (458). This anaphora is part of Ausonius’ professed agenda for future composition, and in the context of the poem changes the epideictic mode from the present to the future tense by pointing to praiseworthy elements that yet await Ausonius’ verse. In the passage quoted, the standard poetic modesty topos is inflected by geography, mapped to the region between the Garonne and the Pyrenees. Ausonius’ identity as a Roman provincial aristocrat and a poet are presented as a negotiation between language and topography. As his biographers make clear, Ausonius’ identity emerges only obliquely from this poem, but more directly from others (Matthews 1975; Sivan 1993). While the Mosella gives few explicit clues beyond these lines, much emerges from other poems such as the Parentalia and the Professores, where his family members and teachers come into focus.6 In the Mosella Ausonius thus

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effectively identifies himself with and through the extended landscape of the poem. Perhaps the closest literary precedent to this is Ovid’s Tristia 4.10: Sulmo mihi patria est (“Sulmo is my fatherland,” 3). There Ovid’s Italian recollections serve as the pleasant backdrop to the unpleasantness of his exile on the Black Sea coast. How might we characterize the Mosella’s landscape? If the outline of the poem above shows the interplay of the river’s natural and human features, what is their relative significance? To be sure, the main feature of the physical landscape is its pleasant character, its amoenitas. This invites comparison with different parts of the Mediterranean world, including the Bay of Naples (345–48) and the Garonne valley (18–22, 160, 482–83). Rivers, in particular, are subject to comparison. This landscape is populated by social types rather than by specifically named individuals. Vintners, boatmen (150–68), fishermen (240–82), fill the scene, seamlessly combined with mythical satyrs and naiads (169–88). The overall effect is that of a Pompeian wall painting or even the Nile mosaic of Palestrina (Meyboom 1995). There are some telling variations on this pattern: the catalogue of architects (298–317) includes famous names from the mythological and historical past, including Daedalus, Philo of Athens, and Ictinus, architect of the Parthenon. The buildings described by Ausonius are in this league of high cultural achievement: Hos ergo aut horum similes est credere dignum Belgarum in terris scaenas posuisse domorum, molitos celsas fluvii decoramina villas.

(318–20)

These, then, or such as these, we may well believe to have raised these splendid dwellings in the Belgic land, and to have piled these lofty mansions to be the river’s ornament. Alongside the glorification of the Moselle, key passages near the start and end point to the fact that the entire poem brings Ausonius’ native Bordeaux into focus. The introductory sighting of the Moselle valley puts the poetnarrator in mind of Bordeaux: In speciem tum me patriae cultumque nitentis Burdigalae blando pepulerunt omnia visu

(18–19)

The whole gracious prospect made me behold a picture of my own native land, the smiling and well-tended country of Bordeaux. Again, the sense of sight receives emphasis. This is a favorable landscape, replete with river banks, vine-covered hillsides and a sweet sound (20–2)— the very topics which fill the poem itself. Compare the very end:

Memory spaces 179 Te stagnis ego caeruleis magnumque sonoris amnibus, aequoreae te commendabo Garumnae.

(482–3)

The [Moselle] will I praise to the dark meres and deep-voiced tributaries, thee will I praise to sea-like Garonne. These references to Ausonius’ home country have great significance, especially when considered in conjunction, since they reaffirm the presence of the poet-persona within the poem. These are clues that the entire Mosella should be seen from Ausonius’ local perspective, however much other geographical material pervades the poem. Towards the end, when Ausonius reflects on his own career, he looks forward to a time when he will be released from imperial service so he can return to Bordeaux, to which he nostalgically looks forward as the “nest of his old age” (nidum … senectae, 449). These references, though only limited in scope, are part of the narrator’s self-representation, and an explicit perspective from which to consider the poem as a whole. Geography is part of a broader logic of comparison that frames the poem as a whole. For instance, in an almost comical moment, the menacing whale of the Atlantic is contrasted with the gentler but honorable fish of the Moselle (144–9). At other points Ausonius imbues geographical comparisons with a literary dimension: Quod si tibi, dia Mosella Smyrna suum vatem vel Mantua clara dedisset, cederet Iliacis Simois memoratus in oris, nec praeferre suos auderet Thybris honores.

(374–7)

But if to thee, O divine Moselle, Smyrna or famed Mantua had given its own poet [i.e. Homer or Virgil], then would Simoïs, renowned on Ilium’s coasts, yield place, and Tiber would not dare to set his glories above thine. In such high rhetoric, consistent with Menander Rhetor’s instructions on how to praise cities (e.g., Treatise 1.11.14), Ausonius is not only comparing the Moselle with other rivers but his own poetic status with those of the great predecessors, Homer and Virgil. As a landscape, the Moselle valley is also compared to the Bay of Naples (345–48). The focus here is less on the literary precedent involved than on the concept of leisure, so prominent in Statius’ villa poems, notably Silvae 1.3 and 2.2.7 If a stranger were to arrive from Cumae, he would believe that a “miniature copy” (simulacra exilia, 346) had been bestowed on the Moselle valley: “so great is the charm of its refinement and distinction, while its pleasures breed no excess” (tantus cultusque nitorque | adlicit et nullum parit

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oblectatio luxum, 347–8). The virtue of the Moselle is such that it contains only the positive side of otium without succumbing to the dangers of luxuria—in practice the elements of one overlap with those of the other (André 1966). Names (nomina, 79) are a culturally significant part of the catalog of fish. This is signaled again at the start of the much shorter catalog of tributaries (353). In the first of these, there is a case of paronomasia when one kind of fish, the pike (lucius), shares its name with an old Roman praenomen, thereby creating a humorous homonym:8 Hic etiam Latio risus praenomine, cultor stagnorum, querulis vis infestissima ranis, lucius, obscuras ulva caenoque lacunas obsidet.

(120–3)

Here, too, doth he, jestingly known by a Latin proper name—that dweller in the marshes, most deadly enemy to plaintive frogs—Lucius (the Pike), beset pools dim with sedge and ooze. This name is further subject to bathos: among the many fish named this one has low social prestige, and by virtue of its strong odor and taste it is relegated to plebeian eateries rather than elegant dinner tables, in contrast to the distinction supposedly conferred by the name: …hic nullos mensarum lectus ad usus fervet fumosis olido nidore popinis.

(123–4)

[The pike], chosen for no service at banquets, is fried in cook-shops rank with the fumes of his greasy flavor. These references to names resonate with Ausonius’ self-conscious mention of his own name in the peroratio, where he finds it necessary to remind readers that name is a nomen Latium (440). We have already noted that the traveler’s first sighting of the river is dramatized (18–19), and his sense of sight is a guarantee of credibility (270 and 341). A sense of visual encounter pervades the poem as a whole. Again, this is evident from the start of the poem, with conspicor (10) and the clarity of vision made possible by the disappearance of clouds (12–17). There is much at stake with the sense of sight. Firstly, there is the vividness of ekphrasis, in which ostensibly ordinary activities on the Moselle become part of a highly wrought artistic frame. The river demands enargeia, engaging the viewer’s eyes differently depending on whether the wind blows or not. When there is no wind, it is possible to see the contents of the river flitting in and out of sight in unexpected shapes (55-62):

Memory spaces 181 Spectaris vitreo per levia terga profundo, secreti nihil amnis habens: utque almus aperto panditur intuitu liquidis obtutibus aer nec placidi prohibent oculos per inania venti, sic demersa procul durante per intima visu cernimus arcanique patet penetrale profundi, cum vada lene meant liquidarum et lapsus aquarum prodit caerulea dispersas luce figuras

You through your smooth surface show all the treasures of your crystal depths—a river keeping nothing concealed: and as the calm air lies clear and open to our gaze, and the stilled winds do not forbid the sight to travel through the void, so, if our gaze penetrates your gulfs, we behold things submerged far below, and the recesses of your secret depth lie open, while your flood moves softly and your waters limpid-gliding reveal in azure light shapes scattered here and there. Unlike the villas of Statius’ wealthy patrons in the Silvae, the river does not hide its bounty (secreti nihil, 56). There follow several kinds of natural phenomena that come into view. Nonetheless, the river has the ability to obfuscate, or at least the narrator offers a respectfully wide berth to secret knowledge about the activities of Pan and the nymphs: Sed non haec spectata ulli nec cognita visu fas mihi sit pro parte loqui: secreta tegatur et commissa suis lateat reverentia rivis.

(186–8)

But of these things which no man has looked upon and no eye beheld, be it no sin for me to speak in part: let things secret be kept hid, and let reverence dwell unspied upon, in the safe keeping of her native streams.9 For the most part, however, the poem is intensely visual in its attention to details about the river, and with its frequent references to the sense of sight. One striking example is the description of the playful behavior involving boats (spectacula pompas, 200). This becomes the opposite of bathos: the transition from the everyday level to the grandiose, as we move quickly to the naumachiae with which Actium and other naval battles were re-enacted (208–21). Such scenes can be understood as part of the logic of comparison that we have already identified in the poem. The larger effect is integrative, reasserting the extent of the Roman empire well to the north and northwest of the Mediterranean proper.10 Some such scenes connect the Moselle with the Mediterranean via shared attributes, whether villas, viticulture or, most improbably, “whales” (ballenae, 144 and 148). Now it is true that

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the Mediterranean has comparatively few major rivers flowing into it (Cary 1949: 47, 107), but in effect, it is cultural geography that overshadows the physical landscape. Other scenes insert military and historical realities into what is otherwise the pleasance of the river valley. In just 22 opening lines the poem finds its topographical bearings but also quickly touches on several locations that are defined by the military-political conditions of Ausonius’ own times.11 This logic of comparison makes it possible for Ausonius to integrate the Moselle valley, and ultimately his native Garonne valley, into the Mediterranean world. As we shall see below through comparison to Rutilius Namatianus’ De reditu suo, this may be seen as the geography of memory.

II From Rome to Gaul via nostalgia De reditu suo begins with an extended eulogy on the greatness of Rome, unifier of the nations (1.1-164). The initial leg of the journey is from Rome to Ostia, where the travelers wait fifteen days for favorable winds (1.165216). The first stage takes them from Portus Augusti to Centumcellae (Civitavecchia); the second from Centumcellae to Portus Herculis (Porto Ercole). The third takes them to an improvised overnight encampment near the mouth of the Umbro river. The next day brings them to Faleria. In the short fifth stage, they reach Populonia. The next stop is Vada Volaterrana (Volaterra), where they are subject to further delay, which makes possible some more leisure activities. The resumption brings an encounter with an aristocratic convert to Christian asceticism. The seventh stage brings the travelers to Villa Triturrita. Rutilius visits nearby Pisa, where he sees a statue of his father Lachanius, and goes hunting. The incomplete second book starts with a voyage from Portus Pisanus to Luna, and a map-like description of Italy, leading to an invective against Stilicho and an account of the marble quarries at Luna (2.1-68).12 Indeed, the surviving second book has something of the character of a ragbag. Such an outline conceals the rich incidental detail woven into the narrative. More than the Mosella, the poem offers distinct episodes united by a vividly present and active narrator-traveler. Framing all this, the poem contains a number of significant starts and finishes, to the extent we are able to discern in its incomplete form. It is not clear whether the poem was never completed, or whether the latter part of book 2 was lost in transmission, and in that case how much was lost. The poem begins with an address to the reader, lector (1.1), contrasting his speedy and sudden return (velocem…reditum, tam cito, 1.1-2) with the length of time required to relish the glories of Rome (longum repeated, 1.3, 4). In tone these opening couplets are reminiscent more of Ovid (e.g., Amores 1 pref.) than of epic grandeur, especially with their address to the reader. As it is, they lay the groundwork for the eulogy of Rome (1.3-164). Its considerable length is, strictly speaking, out of proportion with the poem as a whole, but it does suggest that Rome itself is the center of the poem’s

Memory spaces 183 gravity, a topic to which we shall return. The first book ends without any strong closural gesture beyond an incidental reference to the night and the stars (1.644). This comes across as merely one episode among many and thus carries no more than a muted suggestion of closure. The start of the second book resumes an Ovidian pose with reference to the reader, though in a particularly self-deprecating way. The poet has divided the work for fear that a single unitary poem would bore the reader (taedia, 2.3).13 He alleviates his “blushing modesty” (trepidum … ruborem, 2.9) by spreading it over two books. The reader is compared to a traveler who looks out for roadside distance-markers (miliaria):14 intervalla viae fessis praestare videtur qui notat inscriptus milia crebra lapis.

(2.7-8)

The stone that by its lettering marks the many miles seems to afford the tired wayfarer some breaks upon the road. This image is all the more striking for the fact that the poet-narrator’s route is by sea because the land route is blocked by a combination of rocks and flooded rivers. What is more, the Goths have beset the via Aurelia along the Etrurian coast, with the result that the sea-route was the only one available (1.37-42). If these are the opening gestures, the closing ones carry significance of their own. The poet ends the eulogy to Rome with a peroratio that dwells on his own prefecture as an act of service to the Roman people (1.157-60). Then comes the coda: Sive datur patriis vitam componere terris, sive oculis umquam restituere meis, fortunatus agam votoque beatior omni, semper digneris si meminisse mei.

(1.161-4)

Whether it is granted to lay my life to rest in ancestral soil or whether thou shalt one day be restored to my eyes, blest shall my life be, lucky beyond aspiration, if thou deign always to remember me. In its focus on the writer’s envisaged memorialization after death, a contemporary travel text offers an unexpected comparison. The Peregrinatio, attributed to the nun Egeria and dating to the early 380s CE, ends its narrative section with an address to the “sisters” (dominae) whom she has apparently addressed all along: at this point she is writing from Constantinople, with the intention of traveling on to Asia Minor and particularly Ephesus, to the site of John the Apostle’s martyrdom (23.10): Si autem et post hoc in corpore fuero, si qua praeterea loca cognoscere potuero, aut ipsa praesens, si Deus fuerit praestare dignatus, vestrae

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affectioni referam aut certe, si aliud animo sederit, scriptis nuntiabo. Vos tantum, dominae, lumen meum, memores mei esse dignamini, sive in corpore sive iam extra corpus fuero. If after that I am still alive, and able to visit further places, I will either tell you about them face to face (if God so wills), or at any rate write to you about them if my plans change. In any case, ladies, light of my heart, whether I am “in the body” or “out of the body,” please do not forget me (trans. Wilkinson 1999). In the case of the Peregrinatio the very different setting of the Christian Holy Land frames the work. Despite their obvious differences, the two texts share a focus on memorialization: in both cases, the work itself is made a medium of commemoration (Assmann 2011: 169–205). Whereas Rutilius rearticulates the centrality of Rome-on-the-Tiber, the point of reference for what follows in the rest of the poem, Egeria in—and by means of—her text is making Palestine and the Levant a new center of a reconceived Christian Roman empire. In this light, the current, premature ending of book 2 has a certain relevance to the poem’s concern with memory. The final three couplets bring the narrative to the marble quarries of Luna, which is named by poetic periphrasis with reference to the Sun (2.64). The last couplet seems innocuous enough: Dives marmoribus tellus, quae luce coloris provocat intactas luxuriosa nives.

(2.67-8)

Rich in marble, it is a land which, reveling in its white light, challenges the virgin snows. Is it a coincidence that the poem ends here? Given the widespread use of marble for commemorative statues in Greco-Roman antiquity, it is not farfetched to see here the poet’s awareness that Luna and its products might have a disproportionately large impact on memory in and around the poem. Towards the end of the first book, the poet-narrator had visited Pisa and there “was shown the statue of [his] revered father, erected by the Pisans in their market-place” (hic oblata mihi sancti genitoris imago, | Pisani proprio quam posuere foro, 1.575-6). The traveler is moved by emotion (1.577-8). This imago could have been made either from bronze or from marble, and even from nearby Luna.15 By this reckoning, marble is a major medium of memory in the poem, whether in statuary form, such as his father’s statue in Pisa, or architectural, as in Rome’s “glittering temples” (delubra micantia, 1.95) or other monumental buildings. But marble is not the only medium of memory. The appeals to historical memory take various forms, including mythological origins, for example where the narrator’s friend Rufius Volusianus is given a

Memory spaces 185 Vergilian pedigree (2.167-70, referring to Aeneid 11.463); or when a series of historical precedents to Rome’s recovery in the face of destruction are listed, including Brennus and Hannibal (1.125-8). Indeed the poem contains a dense texture of historical memory: thus the eulogy to Rome refers to the mythical origins of Roman religion, going back to Venus and Romulus (1.67-78), and contrasts Roman power with the oriental despotism of Assyrians, Medes, Parthians, and Macedonians (1.79-86). The poem also contains several references to the current condition of individual locations visited, or even avoided: he steers clear of the island of Gorgona because of a recent suicide on its cliffs (1.517-18). Beyond its many mythistorical references, the poem contains a complex sense of temporality. Foremost in this regard is a sense of belatedness: the poet-narrator is traveling home to deal with the disasters that have befallen his estates in Gaul, a fact that determines his attitude to the journey. His slow response has exacerbated the situation: nec fas ulterius longas nescire ruinas quas mora suspensae multiplicavit opis

(1.27-8)

It’s wrong to overlook further the tedious tale of disasters that delay of interrupted aid has multiplied. And he can hardly endure a journey that is deferred so late (serum vix toleramus iter, 1.36). By contrast, subsequent uses of the term mora are in contexts of narrative opportunity (1.250 and 1.493): in each case, a slight diversion from the journey proved justified by the pleasure it afforded. Apart from an acute, pained sense of belatedness is a general investment in the past: it is in this light that we should understand not only the many mythistorical references but also the poet’s own career and personal acquaintances. These familiares and relations, not least his own father, help thicken the social texture of the poem by giving it multi-generational time-depth.

III Mapping memory spaces Can we reasonably talk about travel literature in an ancient context? Both poems discussed above are contingent on experiences of travel, but in different ways. One obvious difference is that Ausonius’ journey is ostensibly physical (transieram, 1), yet within its elaborate rhetorical structure that connection is principally imaginative. If we are to consider travel literature as imaginative structures, we may begin with the map, a preeminent medium by which to represent physical space—and, I would argue, following Assmann, memory itself. One of the disparate elements of the surviving second book of De reditu suo is a passage that seems to describe a map of Italy. This is spurred, in a

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seemingly arbitrary fashion, by a reference to the Apennines, which reach the sea north of Pisa. In a passage reminiscent of Pliny (HN 3.43), the poet describes Italy by visualizing its outline: Italiam rerum dominam qui cingere visu et totam pariter cernere mente velit, inveniet quernae similem procedere frondi, artatam laterum conveniente sinu.

(2.17-20)

He who would embrace in his view Italy, the queen of the world, and form at once a mental picture of the whole land, will find that she extends in shape like an oak leaf, contracted by the converging indentation of her sides. The description continues for another twenty lines. The proximate relevance comes from the Apennines as a bulwark (2.33-34). At this point De reditu suo itself acts as a map. The same is true on a larger scale for the Mosella as a whole. That poem’s descriptive approach to geography creates the character of a versified map. Two comparanda may be pointed out from the high and late empire: Dionysius the Periegete’s Periegesis in Greek hexameters, dating to the time of Hadrian, and Avienus’ De ora maritima, a Latin hexameter poem from the 4th century CE. A telling witness to the way in which geography could be visualized, especially in a pedagogic setting, comes from the Panegyrici Latini, from the late 3rd century. Eumenius, the newly appointed head of the rhetorical school at Augustodunum in Gaul (modern Autun), requests permission to rebuild his school, which had fallen into severe disrepair, at his own expense. At the climax of the speech, he tellingly refers to the “world made visual” (orbis depictus): this is clearly more than a verbal representation of the landscape; it is a map with a visual element that would both instruct and inspire the youth attending the school (Talbert 2012: 172). Cicero makes clear the connection to memory when he writes of the geographical knowledge and mnemotechnics that should be part of the orator’s broad training (De oratore 2.354): Itaque iis, qui hanc partem ingenii exercerent, locos esse capiendos et ea, quae memoria tenere vellent, effingenda animo atque in iis locis collocanda; sic fore ut ordinem rerum locorum ordo conservaret, res autem ipsas rerum effigies notaret atque ut locis pro cera simulacris pro litteris uteremur. He inferred that persons desiring to train this faculty must select localities and form mental images of the facts they wish to remember and store those images in the localities, with the result that the arrangement of the

Memory spaces 187 localities will preserve the order of the facts, and the images of the facts will designate the facts themselves, and we shall employ the localities and images respectively as a wax writing tablet and the letters written on it. At the very least there is a strong claim to be made that the visual and rhetorical representations of the Moselle could have coexisted closely. Now that the memorious aspects of geographical description and poetic mapping have become evident, we are in a position to consider the two poems as travel literature, and in the process to parse the very notion of travel literature. Our intention is to analyze the poems in ways that have broader implications.

IV Texts in search of a genre The idea of travel writing presents a problem, but a productive one. On the one hand, experiences of travel are hard-wired into ancient literary tradition starting with the Odyssey and continuing with texts such as Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica and Virgil’s Aeneid in later centuries. At the same time many literary genres, in a more limited sense of that term, take their very form from journeys, such as the epibaterion, syntaktikon, hodoiporikon, prosphonetikon, and soterion (Cairns 2007). Such texts are typically speech acts of departure or arrival, of farewell or welcome: in different ways they negotiate physical distance. By contrast, travel writing is sometimes presented as an enterprise of western modernity: beginning with “stirrings” in the Renaissance;16 coming into its own first in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with writers such as Goethe, Alexander von Humboldt, Thomas Cook, and several others in connection with the Grand Tour; experiencing profusion in the twentieth, especially in light of mass tourism and air travel post-WWII (Hulme and Youngs 2002). At the same time, it is clear that the term genre is pressed into hugely diverse use, from antiquity to modern times. If, then, we face a seemingly unbridgeable disjunction between ancients and moderns, it is nonetheless worthwhile to take a broader view of the travel-related elements manifested in the two poems under discussion. In particular, we can recognize that travel texts may be seen in terms of geography, in terms of the humans involved, and in terms of signs and signification. First and most obviously, the poems under consideration create multiple senses of place and space, to use twin core concepts of human geography (Tuan 1977): in so far as those two are distinctly separate, the first is generally limited, defined by specific human experience, and the second mathematically infinite, defined by human potentiality. Ausonius adds enargeia to his description of the Moselle valley as a distinctive yet charmingly familiar landscape. The few place-names he mentions pale into insignificance in comparison to the quality of the landscape, marked by its amoenitas. It would therefore be fair to say that, as noted above, the

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Mosella is primarily about extending Mediterranean space to the Moselle valley, something that is achieved, as we have seen, via repeated gestures of comparison in the poem. By this reckoning the few glimpses of authorial intervention (transieram, 1) are subordinate to the broader framing of the valley. Rutilius’ journey can, on the other hand, be clearly mapped via specific places, which gain specificity via his experience and impressions of them.17 It can be visualized as a vector. Beyond that, the different places mentioned give a vivid sense of the mood of the times: the sea-route is predetermined by the physical disrepair of the roads and an enhanced sense of danger as a result of military developments (1.21-2 etc).18 What is the role of temporality in this? In the case of the Mosella there is an immediate sense of time linked to the poet-narrator’s journey, but this is modified by the timelessness of the vignettes. Finally, the lengthy coda moves the focus to the future time and Ausonius’ intended praise of Gallic notables. De reditu suo has not only a stronger narrative impulse but also a more strongly marked sense of place, including the metropolitan start of the journey and telos. The Odyssey is an early example of an ancient travel text in which the destination, and the telos of the journey more generally, shapes the work as a whole. In the case of Rutilius, the contrast with Juvenal’s third Satire—another syntaktikon—is instructive, since the focus is solidly on the cityof Rome, but in a dystopian sense, with the intended telos paling in insignificance (Cairns 2007: 47–9). If the Odyssey suggests the importance of the longue durée, it is also true that Roman discourses of space and place were radically transformed in the 4th century CE. The discovery of the True Cross by Constantine’s mother Helena marked the invention of a Christian Holy Land that would have enormous later resonance. At the same time, the cult of the saints would create a new map of the Roman empire, focusing on locations that were institutionally remembered for martyrdoms occurring there.19 It is fair to say that, while Rutilius’ reference to his own father’s statue in Pisa has nothing in common with Christian martyrdom, its significance to readers would surely have been enriched in light of the emerging Christian commemorative traditions in late antiquity. As we have seen, Rutilius also gives a sense of menacing change that has beset the landscape. Second, humans. The Odyssey begins with what seems an evocative summary of the hero’s exploits, suggesting an ability to get inside the minds of people encountered en route: πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω (“Many were the people whose cities he saw and whose mind he learned,” 1.3). In the course of the narrative, this ostensible mind-reading turns out to be much less about cultural anthropology than moderns might have hoped and more about the strategic use of Odysseus’ cunning intelligence, expressed with epithets such polymetis, polymechanos, polytropos.Now the classical ethnographic tradition has a distinct armchair quality, as for example when the elder Pliny in the

Memory spaces 189 ethnographic books (3–6) of his Natural History draws on book learning in preference over his own experience during military service (Parker 2008: 219). All in all, it is worth asking how if at all humans are part of the landscape traversed. Ausonius gives no hint of marked ethnic identity for the people encountered: quite the contrary, any distinguishing features are elided in the picturesque landscape. Rutilius on the other hand does have a sharp eye for cultural and ethnic difference: hence the unscrupulous innkeeper is Jewish, which generates an extended anti-Jewish tirade (1.381-98);20 they encounter a festival of Osiris (1.375-6);21 and the monks they come across on the island of Capraria are presented as strange foreigners (1.439-52). Beyond that, different groups are displaced because of disruptions inflicted by the recent invasions. Even Rome is praised at the start for its political inclusivity (1.11-18), in tones that are broadly reminiscent of the emperor Claudius’ speech of 48 CE on the admission of Gauls to the Senate,22 quite apart from reflecting Rutilius’ own career. Third, the reading of signs imbues both poems and can be understood in different ways. In the most obvious sense, the Traveling “I” is engaged in sign reading, incorporating anything it encounters into pre-existing discursive frames (genres). Rutilius gives an acute example: at the ruined site of Castrum, he encounters a small stone statue, and struggles to read the inscription, which has become worn with time (1.229-36). It is culturally significant because it discloses the place name. At the same time, the narrative of De reditu suo is densely textured with references to historical and contemporary events, so that the poem as a whole may also be read as a kind of historical pageant. On somewhat different lines, Ausonius presents the entire Moselle valley as an artwork worthy of ekphrasis, so that readers receive a strong sense of the poem itself as a sign. With respect to signs, the Alexander Romance is travel writing par excellence: it contains many riddles, such as the name of Serapis (1.33 recensio gamma).23 The black stone statue Alexander encounters at the ancient city of Memphis turns out, upon inquiry, to represent Nectanebo, the former king who is set to return as a youth. The text, if that is the right term for such a complex phenomenon as the Alexander Romance, contains a number of instances of significant names and other signs involving Alexander’s journey. The Alexander Romance purports to be a biographical account of Alexander’s exploits, composed by his own fellowtraveler and historian, Callisthenes: in reality it is a highly tendentious and complex amalgam of legendary material, more a “text network” than a classical text transmitted in the usual way (Selden 2010). While its dating is highly problematic, the earliest forms that survive date from late antiquity. Beyond that two other prose texts deserve mention: Pausanias’ Periegesis from the 2nd century, in which the Greek landscape is discursively encountered via classical Greek mythistory, and with minimal reference to contemporary Roman power (Pretzler 2007); and Egeria’s Peregrinatio, in

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which the Pentateuch, in particular, is the lens of a Christian Traveling ‘I’ (Wilkinson 1999). In their different ways, both of these texts give a spatial dimension to important cultural narratives.

Conclusion What the two poems have in common is that they were composed by members of the provincial aristocracy within the space of a few decades around the start of the 5th century—on either side of the Sack of Rome. They show marked differences, due in part to the fact that one was written before the catastrophe of 410 CE (Mosella) and the other after (De reditu suo). Ausonius certainly shows significant awareness of historical events of his time, as he does of earlier Roman history. Yet his vision is optimistic in two respects: we have seen especially the prominence he gives to his own career and thereby the ascendancy of the provincial elites such as himself. Further, the vivid notion of a future tense remarked above is a vote of confidence in the future prospects of the Roman empire as a whole, and the Belgae in particular. In sum, Ausonius’ memory spaces in essence continue those of Statius in the late 1st century CE and Aelius Aristides, in his speech On Rome in the mid-2nd century CE, with their overwhelming emphasis on a beneficent and peaceful empire, but their location is markedly different. Rutilius’ poem also dwells heavily on his own career successes, as he does on those of named members of his family and friendship circle. Yet his poem has a more strongly retrospective character: the balance of its temporalities leans heavily towards the past, revealing his pointed awareness of both recent disasters and remotely distant greatness. Taken together, the two poems reflect different geographies of a changing empire.

Notes 1 1.20: indigenam … suum Gallica rura vocant, “the fields of Gaul summon their native home.” Translations are based on the Loeb Classical Library editions unless otherwise noted. 2 Ausonius’ popularity, wrote Gibbon dismissively, “condemn[s] the taste of his age” (III.134, notes 1-2, quoted by Matthews 1997: 24). In the same year, Kenney 1984 and Roberts 1984 rehabilitated the Mosella for English-speakers, whereafter Roberts 1993 became a must-cite. By contrast, the study of late antique verse had long flourished in continental Europe. 3 This account of the structure follows Gruber 2013. 4 Latium is an emendation by the humanist, Avantius, for Latius (transmitted in the codices). 5 The pre-eminent examples are Verg. G. 4.559-66; Prop. 1.22; Hor. Carm. 3.30; Ov. Met. 15.871-79. See further Cucchiarelli 2008; Thomas 1988: 239. 6 Note, for example, the Gratiarum actio addressed to the emperor Gratian, his former tutee, at Trier in AD 379: at Grat. act. 36 Ausonius is disarmingly clear in attributing his successful career to his doctrina, in contrast to his humble birth. 7 On Statius’ geopoetics, see Newlands in this volume.

Memory spaces 191 8 Ausonius was not the first to scrutinize the name: it had long been etymologically linked to lux: Varro Ling. 6.5; Paul. Fest. p. 119 Müller. 9 A comparison to consider is here is the digression on the source of the Nile, with which the priest Acoreus regales Julius Caesar (Luc. 10.172-333). Despite the length of the excursus, the source remains undisclosed to humans (esp. 10.295). In Lucan as opposed to here, the key point is that the “hidden head” of the Nile marks the ends of the earth: Barrenechea 2010: 277. On this passage in Lucan see also Newlands in this volume. 10 On the difficulties of delimiting the Mediterranean zone, see Horden and Purcell 2000: 9-25, referring inevitably to the work of Fernand Braudel. 11 For example, 9: arvaque Sauromatum nuper metata colonis, “lands lately parceled out to the Sarmatian settlers.” 12 Malamud 2016. 13 Taedium is seldom used of a reader’s experience so that this impact here might be quite strong: cf. Plin. Ep. 1.8.11. 14 See Meyer in this volume on miliaria and other texts found by the roadside in the Roman world. 15 There is further commemorative connotation when he describes the head of the river delta near Pisa with reference to a pyramid (conum pyramidis, 1.567): the pyramids of Egypt were memorials par excellence. 16 Petrarch’s account of his ascent of Mount Ventoux (1336) is sometimes considered a foundational moment in travel writing in that it suggests a journey undertaken for its own sake. 17 One such map is offered in the edition of Ausonius’ Mosella by Evelyn-White 1919: 222. 18 The notion that narrative place and time are mutually constitutive is developed by Bakhtin under the rubric of “chronotope” (Bakhtin 1981). 19 Egeria 23.10 is one example: see above. On the cult of the saints among both mass and elite sectors of society, see Brown 2015. 20 See the Introduction to this volume on the link between this passage and Horace Sat. 1.5. 21 The cult of Osiris had its origins in Egypt and centered on Abydos, even though, like the related cult of Isis, it would be widely diffused in the Mediterranean. Plutarch’s narrative in his treatise, On Isis and Osiris 12-19, reflects a tradition that goes back in substance to the Late Period of Egyptian antiquity. 22 In this rare instance, the account of Tacitus (Ann. 11.23-24) bears comparison—and indeed contrast—with the bronze tablet transcribing Claudius’ speech, found at Lyon in 1528 (CIL XIII 1668). In making his qualified appeal to the senate, Claudius refers to his own and his family’s links to the region. 23 Of the three or four ancient recensions of the text that survive, gamma comes somewhat later and is less direct than alpha.

Works cited André, J. M. 1966. L’Otium dans la vie morale et intellectuelle romaine, des origins à l’epoque augustéenne. Paris (Presses universitaires). Assmann, A. 2011 [1999]. Cultural Memory and Western Civilization: Arts of Memory. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Bakhtin, M. M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, trans. Caryl Emerson. Austin (University of Texas Press). Barrenechea, F. 2010. “Didactic Aggressions in the Nile Excursus of Lucan’s Bellum Civile.” AJP 131.2: 259–84.

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Brown, P. 2015 [1981]. The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity. 2nd ed. Chicago (University of Chicago Press). Cairns, F. 2007 [1972]. Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry. Revised ed. Ann Arbor (Michigan Classical Press). Cary, M. 1949. The Geographic Background of Greek and Roman History. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Cucchiarelli, A. 2008. “Epiloghi ed inizi da Callimaco a Virgilio (Ait. fr. 112 Pf.; Georg. 4.559-566; Ecl. 10.75-77).” In P. Arduini, ed. Studi Offerti ad Alessandro Perutelli. Vol. 1. Rome (Aracne Editrice), 363–80. Evelyn-White, H. G. 1919. Ausonius: Volume 1. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Formisano, M. 2017. “Displacing Tradition: A New-Allegorical Reading of Ausonius, Claudian and Rutilius Namatianus.” In J. Elsner & J. Hernández Lobato, eds. The Poetics of Late Latin Literature. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 207–35. Gladhill, B. 2016. Rethinking Roman Alliance: A Study in Poetics and Society. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Göttlicher, A. 2013. Ausonius’ Mosella und das antike Seewesen. Gutenberg (Computus). Green, R. P. H., ed. 1991. The Works of Ausonius. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Gruber, J. 2013. D. Magnus Ausonius, Mosella: Kritische Ausgabe, Übersetzung, Kommentar. Berlin (De Gruyter). Hulme, P. & T. Youngs, eds. 2002. The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Kenney, E. J. 1984. The Mosella of Ausonius.” G&R 31: 190–202. Malamud, M. 2016. Rutilius Namatianus’ Going Home: De reditu suo. London (Routledge). Matthews, J. 1975. Western Aristocracies and Imperial Court, AD 364-425. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Matthews, J. 1997. “Gibbon and the Later Roman Empire: Causes and Circumstances.” In R. McKitterick and R. Quinault, eds. Edward Gibbon and Empire. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 12–32. Meyboom, P. G. P. 1995. The Nile Mosaic of Palestrina: Early Evidence of Egyptian Religion in Italy. Leiden (Brill). Parker, G. 2008 The Making of Roman India. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Pelttari, A. 2014. The Space That Remains: Reading Latin Poetry in Late Antiquity. Ithaca (Cornell University Press). Pretzler, M. 2007. Pausanias: Travel Writing in Ancient Greece. London (Duckworth). Roberts, M. 1984. “The Mosella of Ausonius: An Interpretation.” TAPA 114: 343–53. Roberts, M. 1993. The Jeweled Style: Poetry and Poetics in Late Antiquity. Ithaca (Cornell University Press). Russell, D. A. & N. G. Wilson, eds. 1981. Menander Rhetor, Edited with Translation and Commentary. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Schama, S. 1995. Landscape and Memory. New York (A. A. Knopf). Seixo, M. A., ed. 2000. Travel Writing and Cultural Memory. Amsterdam (Rodopi). Selden, D. 2010. “Text networks.” Ancient Narrative 8: 1–23.

Memory spaces 193 Sivan, H. 1993. Ausonius of Bordeaux: Genesis of a Gallic Aristocracy. London (Routledge) Soler, J. 2005. Écritures du voyage: Héritages et inventions dans la littérature latine tardive. Paris (Institut d’Études Augustiniennes). Talbert, R. J. A. 2012. “Urbs Roma to Orbis Romanus: Roman Mapping on the Grand Scale.” In R. J. A. Talbert, ed. Ancient Perspectives: Maps and their Place in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. Chicago (University of Chicago Press), 163–91. Thomas, R. F. 1988. Virgil, Georgics, Volume 2: Books III-IV. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Tuan, Y.-F. 1977. Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis (University of Minnesota Press). Wilkinson, J. 1999. Egeria’s Travels: Newly Translated, with Supporting Documents and Notes. 3rd ed. Warminster (Aris and Phillips).

11 Travelers and texts: reading, writing, and communication on the roads of the Roman West Alexander Meyer

Ancient literature often describes experiences of travel in antiquity. Hesiod even implies that sea travel was common, while also expressing his fear of its unpredictability, around 700 BCE.1 Likewise Roman authors such as Cicero, Horace, Pliny the Younger, and the poets discussed elsewhere in this volume give accounts of travel.2 While each of these sources stresses the discomforts of travel, they also hint at the frequency with which travel was undertaken in the ancient world.3 This is particularly evident in Tibullus’ lamentations in 1.3.35-40: quam bene Saturno vivebant rege, priusquam tellus in longas est patefacta vias! nondum caeruleas pinus contempserat undas, effusum ventis praebueratque sinum, nec vagus ignotis repetens compendia terris presserat externa navita merce ratem. How well they lived when Saturn ruled, before the world was opened to long journeys, not yet had pine defied the blue sea nor had it offered full sails to the winds, and no sailor seeking profit in unknown lands weighed down his deck with foreign goods.4

By suggesting that the world was better before journeys were common, Tibullus’ description of a Golden Age without travel engages the rhetoric of elegiac lovers who refuse to travel when it means separation from their beloved (cf. Tib. 1.1, Prop. 1.6). At the same time the description reflects broader literary and cultural anxieties about travel as an inherently dangerous activity, as a necessity brought about by the rise of trade in a world of scarcity and greed following the end of the Golden Age, and as a reflection of the war and conquest with which travel may be associated.5 Tibullus has the poet-lover report in 1.3 that he fell ill on Corcyra while traveling and was left separated from both Messalla and Delia. Fewer

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than 20 lines later Tibullus goes further when he proposes a text for his own epitaph, should he die before being reunited with his friend and his beloved (1.3.53-6): quod si fatales iam nunc explevimus annos, fac lapis inscriptis stet super ossa notis: HIC IACET IMMITI CONSVMPTVS MORTE TIBVLLVS, MESSALLAM TERRA DVM SEQVITVRQVE MARI. But if I have now lived out my appointed years, let a stone stand over my bones, inscribed with these words: here lies Tibullus, consumed by inexorable death, while he followed Messalla on land and sea. The Tibullan poet-lover’s journey and resulting isolation, rather than his origin, career or death, take center stage in this imagined epitaph. His anxiety about his health further emphasizes the perceived dangers, both mortal and amorous, of travel, and this epitaph, divorced from the rest of the poem, functions, on one level, as a warning for other potential travelers. Indeed, this poem’s inclusion in Book 1 apparently anticipates an audience for whom travel was at least a possibility. In addition, through his imagined epitaph Tibullus implies the possibility of hypothetical internal readers of the inscription whose journeys might bring them past his grave, reflecting that travelers were included in the potential audience for funerary epigraphy. From this perspective, Tibullus’ epitaph reminds us not only that readers in the Roman world had a vast assortment of poetry about travel at their disposal, but that travelers were also readers who moved through spaces that were often rich with inscriptions and other textual objects, including many in verse, like this imagined epitaph. As Teresa Ramsby notes, Tibullus’ epitaph forces its readers “to imagine the desolate shore on which it sits, the rotting corpse thinly covered with foreign soil, and the cause that brought this solitary soldier reluctantly so far from home,” thereby becoming virtual travelers themselves.6 Literary sources like Tibullus, however, reflect only a fraction of the diverse reading experiences of travelers and therefore of the interplay of travel and text. The epigraphic record has preserved several types of texts that were relevant to travelers and can be used to flesh out this interaction. This epigraphic evidence can be roughly categorized into three main and overlapping categories: texts intended to help travelers, messages aimed at travelers, and evidence of travel itself. Each of these types of information allows us to make inferences about the experience of travel in antiquity and its frequency, and each type highlights the importance of travelers as readers and vectors for communication. This chapter will examine examples of each of these three types of evidence in order to provide context for discussions of travel in Latin poetry. It will look at practical epigraphic texts meant to aid

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travelers to help explain some aspects of Horace’s Satires 1.5. It will also highlight inscriptions, especially verse inscriptions, that were written for and displayed on funerary monuments throughout the Roman West that address travelers directly. Finally, it will look at evidence for long-distance travel in the epigraphic record. By doing so, this paper will demonstrate how epigraphy can help our understanding of literary texts and how verse inscriptions function as means of commemoration and disseminators of memory.7 While other papers in this volume focus on how Roman poets and their readers engaged with conceptualizations of travel and geography through poetry, by exploring the inscriptions that Romans read as they traveled, this paper demonstrates that individuals from all walks of life traveled frequently in the Roman world, that poetry about travel addressed—and must have been informed by—an experience shared by much of its audience, and that travelers themselves were consumers of texts.

Texts to aid travelers The ubiquity of travel is, perhaps, most clearly indicated by the mundane details of the practical aspects of travel. Such details about how individuals planned and conducted their travels and what texts they encountered along the way rarely figure in literary accounts of travel. For instance, in Horace’s journey to Brundisium one reads about inns, a riverboat and a waystation but nothing of how they were arranged or engaged.8 Nor is it clear how the travelers found their way except that they followed the via Appia for a portion of the journey (Sat. 1.5.6). Likewise, there is no mention of the many epigraphic texts they would have seen along their way. This may be attributed to the nature and conventions of satire or discounted if one believes that Horace’s account is of a hypothetical or fictional journey rather than one he undertook personally.9 However, the question of how travelers found their way is an issue not only in Satires 1.5, but also in ancient literature more broadly. There are a few literary references to maps that may give us some indication of how ancient wayfarers navigated, but none of these seem to be anything like a modern road map.10 The evidence for maps that could be used for practical navigation is limited to the Peutinger Map.11 It is also very doubtful that cartographic aids like the Peutinger Map were used by ancient travelers. In fact, there is no reference to such a tool in ancient literature. This might lead one to believe that navigation was infrequent and difficult in antiquity. However, texts aimed at travelers and epigraphic aids for travelers make it clear that travelers had many texts to help them on their way and that travel was common and relatively easy, despite the lack of literary evidence for its practicalities.12 The most common of these epigraphic texts were milestones (miliaria). It has been estimated that there were about 210,000 miles (300,000 km) of Roman roads in antiquity13 and one may assume that a milestone marked each Roman mile of at least the largest viae publicae of which there were

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about 67,000 miles (100,000 km). Milestones recorded their distance from the caput viae of the road they marked, which could be a nearby city, a provincial capital or even Rome itself. In some places smaller stones seem to have been erected at shorter intervals between milestones.15 Also, some of these, or stones like them, had specific instructions for travelers. For example, an inscription from Doña Mencía in Baetica informed travelers that the public road veered to the right (CIL II2/5, 343). The large number of milestones and interval stones clearly demonstrate the great effort and expense that was invested in transportation in the Roman world and thereby suggest the frequency of travel and its importance in the Roman economy and in Roman culture.16 They also serve to remind us of how many texts travelers encountered on the roads and the expectation that many travelers could read them. There were also more elaborate, though less common, inscriptions that were clearly intended to assist travelers. The most famous of these is the Elogium from Polla (ILS 23). This monument is nominally a commemoration of the magistrate who built the road from Rhegium to Capua in the 2nd century BCE. However, it also records both the route of the road and the distances between key locations along it, which probably coincided with locations where travelers could expect to find food and lodging. The monument from Polla also mentions that its honoree erected all the bridges, milestones and tabellaria along this stretch of road. The form and function of these tabellaria are not known with any certainty, but the term is often applied to a category of epigraphic texts that resemble the Polla inscription in several respects.17 Like the Elogium from Polla, these texts record distances from their locations to communities in more than one direction. There are at least seven artifacts of this type but each varies slightly in its form and content.18 For instance, the example from Bruère-Allichamps looks like a simple milestone but records the distances from there to Avaricum, Mediolanum and Aquae Neri or Neriomagum.19 The fact that this stone provides information about three separate routes of travel (north, west and southeast, respectively) means that it could be used by travelers moving in any of those directions. Furthermore, it suggests that those in charge of the roads and those who traveled through this area understood the road system as a web rather than a series of linear paths; the crossroads at Bruère-Allichamps served as the nexus of at least two roads and could be used as a marker on any number of journeys. The so-called stadiasmus provinciae Lyciae is in some ways similar to the stone from Bruère-Allichamps, but it is much larger (approx. 1.6 m × 2.35 m × 5.5 m) and records the stages of journeys from Patara to Kaunos, Kibyra and Attaleia to the west, north and east, respectively.20 In their original, complete forms, these monuments would have been invaluable to travelers. Once travelers had identified their location and destination on the stones they could have consulted them for a list of waypoints on their route. They would then only have to follow the road from waypoint

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to waypoint until they reached their destination. While tabellaria would also have helped their readers to formulate a cartographic conception of the world around them, they provided no specific navigational assistances. That is to say, travelers would have required further information to ensure that they remained on the correct road. This could have been accomplished by asking locals for directions, but there is no reason to think that there were not also additional signposts along the route which have not survived to us, presumably because they were made of perishable material.21 In fact, there is some evidence preserved on stone of instructions meant to guide travelers at road junctions and to confirm that they were on the correct road. In the first case, one might point again to the inscription from Doña Mencía that tells travelers to stay right (CIL II2/5 343). In the second, a rather peculiar stone from Patavium (modern Padua) notes that travelers had to travel seven miles over difficult roads to reach Ad Aquas.22 The combination of the large-scale instructions preserved on tabellaria and specific information like these last two examples would have allowed travelers to plan and memorize long segments of their journeys, but their contents were also transferred to more portable media. For example, four silver cups discovered in votive contexts in Vicarello, Italy approximately 20 miles northwest of Rome clearly demonstrate that copies of extensive itineraries were recorded on portable media that could be carried by travelers as they conducted their journeys.23 The Vicarello cups are adorned with detailed itineraries that guided their owners from Cadiz in southern Spain to Rome.24 The journey from Cadiz to Rome was approximately 1,840 Roman miles and is presented in a series of over 100 stages of between 5 and 37 miles. The texts of these artifacts must, however, have been copied or compiled from tabellaria or more extensive lists of stationes and the distances between them, like the Itinerarium Antonini and Itinerarium Burdigalense.25 While texts like those on the Vicarello cups would not have provided specific instruction to eliminate the need for local knowledge, they could provide a framework for journeys as a whole, that could be augmented with more particular guidance such as turnings.26 Furthermore, epigraphic texts like that found at the columbarium of the Vigna Codini and the records of Theophanes, preserved on papyri from Hermopolis Magni in Egypt, indicate that travelers had access to and read itineraries in various media. These itineraries must have had an effect upon the ways travelers conceived of and perceived the world through which they moved. They also highlight the role of text and reading in articulating the practicalities and movements of travel, mirrored in the verse itinerary of Horace Satires 1.5 and in Ausonius’ Mosella and Rutilius Namantianus’ De reditu suo, as Grant Parker discusses in this volume, as well as in ancient Greek poetry, such as Clytemnestra’s tale in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon of the beacon fires that brought the news of Troy’s fall from the coast of Asia all the way to Argos. Ultimately, milestones, interval stones, tabellaria, the Vicarello cups, and the plaque from the columbarium of the Vigna Codini, combined with

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documentary evidence from itineraries and papyri, make it clear that text was frequently used to transmit navigational information to travelers in antiquity. While the scarcity of surviving tabellaria and itineraries makes it impossible to determine the exact relationship between these types of texts, it is clear that epigraphic and documentary texts were common and important tools for ancient travelers. The wealth and variety of resources available to travelers in the Roman world also sheds some light on the accounts of travel in Horace’s Satires 1.5. In one sense, knowledge of the navigational resources available to travelers may explain why Horace provides so little detail about the specifics of his route. In fact, the skeleton of Satires 1.5, with its 17 stages, reads much like an itinerary. Horace, however, replaces most of the distances with narrative episodes and a few geographical notes. The result is a narrative that focuses on the human aspects of travel (health, friendship, food and conversation) rather than the practical. Horace, or at least his poetic persona, is able to omit mundane details about turnings and distances that would have been readily available to his party as they traveled and to his audience. Some details, such as the hospitium (1-2), villula (45), cauponae (51) and hospes (71, likely an innkeeper) also attest to the frequency and familiarity with which this route was traversed. One might even suppose that Horace’s party had hired a guide to take care of such minutiae so that they could focus on the social and bodily concerns of their journey without being distracted by the inconvenience and, perhaps, unsightliness of the world outside Rome.27 One might also read Satires 1.5 as a response to book three of Lucilius, in which Lucilius described a journey he took from Rome to the Straits of Sicily.28 Lucilius’ narrative seems to have been quite long, occupying an entire book, and to have had a great deal of detail in it. In the surviving passages there are, for example, mentions of distances (fr. 106, 120, 121, 140), landmarks (fr. 119, 143–5), and even descriptions of notable sights (fr. 102–5, 146–7).29 In fact, Horace’s brevity may be a direct counterpoint to Lucilius’ lengthy, and Horace might say bland, travel narrative. While Horace includes at least one direct reference to Lucilius’ poems—the town that cannot be named in meter (1.5.87, cf. Lucilius fr. 252–3)—and may play with episodes from Lucilius’ work—compare, for example, the fight between Sarmentus and Messius Cicirrus (1.5.52-70) and Lucilius frags. 115–17—he almost entirely omits references to landscape, landmarks, distances and local customs. Thus Horace’s account is far more compact than Lucilius’ was. Yet, Horace concludes his satire by noting that Brundisium is the end of a long road and a long poem, though both were far shorter than Lucilius’.30 This statement is likely an implicit criticism of Lucilius’ work, as too concerned with the minutiae of the journey. By removing those details, Horace distances his poem further from the utilitarian genres of itineraries and tabellaria than Lucilius did. Thus Horace’s satire might claim to occupy a more lofty perch within the literary hierarchy, while disposing of the mundane details that were easily accessible to any traveler.

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Epigraphy addressing travelers Ancient travelers were also confronted with thousands of texts that were incidental to their journeys, but for which they were the intended audience. The roads outside the cities and towns of the Roman Empire were lined with many thousands of individual graves and columbaria. Many of these tombs were adorned with epigrams, verse inscriptions that were intended to perpetuate the memory of the deceased in the same way Tibullus’ literary epitaph (1.3.55-6) would, hypothetically, have commemorated his life if he had died on Corcyra.31 This objective, however, could only be achieved if the inscriptions were seen and read. The reading of these inscriptions and especially the vocalization of the name of the deceased preserved the memory of the dead. This is a function of what Ramsay MacMullen called “a sense of audience” (1982: 246). The efficacy of the inscriptions as preservers and transmitters of memory and the reason for their very existence is predicated upon the assumption that there was an audience that read and remembered them. The importance of remembrance is highlighted by the use of verse in many epitaphs in order to demonstrate the sophistication of the honoree or author and to make their message more memorable.32 This tradition in Latin epigraphy dates as far back as the early 3rd century BCE elogia of the Scipiones and much further back in the Greek tradition.33 Inscriptions within columbaria and in other private settings were meant primarily for members of the family or community responsible for their erection, but epitaphs posted in public view were meant to be read by anyone and everyone who saw them, including travelers. For this reason, it was important they were posted in high-traffic areas. The importance of their location along roads leading in and out of cities and towns and even along roads in the countryside is highlighted by a remarkable hexameter inscription from Baesucci in Hispania Citerior:34 [D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum)] Cassius Crescens h(ic) s(itus) e(st) [— tu qui] praeteriens nostro remora[re sepulcro] [ia]m festinato lumine pauca l[ege.] [Cre]scens hic ego sum fueram [spes magna parentum] quod non adcrevi nome[n inane fuit.] 5 [O]mnis amor patriae populi m[e voce secutus] hunc mors praecipuum testi[ficata meast.] [N]obilis ingenii virtus virtuti [loquelae] cum pietate pudor non tem[eratus erat.] [Has l]audes tumulo nostro pa[ter ipse notavit] 10 [i]udice quo solo mors m[ea morte caret.] [Qu]od via finitimast mul[tis haec scripta legentur] [tu] me praeterens ne [violare velis] [—]minis e numeris [—] [iam q]uia legisti dic d[—].

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A dedication to the immortal shades. Cassius Crescens lies here. You, who are passing, linger at my tomb and quickly read (this) with a swift eye. I, Crescens, am here. I had been the great hope of my parents. Because I did not grow, my name was worthless. All the love of the people of my country follows me with its voice. My death has demonstrated this excellence. The noble virtue of my nature has not been polluted by the power of speaking nor my modesty by piety. My father wrote these praises on my tomb, by which judge alone my death is without death. Since the road is near, these lines will be read by many people. You, passing by me, do not violate (this tomb)… spirits and members(?)…since you have read (this) say… This inscription begins with a rather charming request for the passerby (praeteriens) to pause briefly to read the inscription. It then, in the first person, notes the hopes Crescens’ parents had for him before he died prematurely, and asks that no one violate the tomb, but rather, probably, that they make a sacrifice and say a prayer. Most remarkably, the author of these verses, Crescens’ father, acknowledges that the position of the inscription near the road means that many people would read it. Whether the family acquired this plot by chance or design it was important that the inscription was erected in a visible location beside the road and the generally accepted restoration emphasizes that this was so because of the audience this location provided for Crescens’ memorial. The people responsible for these inscriptions certainly expected to have a local audience, but many so-called “speaking inscriptions” make it clear that the intended audience for these epitaphs was much wider. There are over 200 “speaking inscriptions” that address a viator or viatores. Likewise, there are over 100 that address a praeteriens or praeterientes and 70 that address a hospes or hospites.35 While estimates of the literacy rate in the Roman Empire are as low as 10% (Harris 1989: 259, 272), the audience for these inscriptions was large enough to legitimize their creation, at least in the minds of their sponsors (Ling 2007: 88). This suggests that travelers, literate and illiterate, engaged with these monuments. Even those who were not fully literate may have been able to recognize when they were looking at the metrical shape and form of a verse inscription. They, in turn, could not help but be affected by what they read or saw. While few of these inscriptions identify their intended audience any more precisely than by these general terms, an elegiac inscription from Monterotondo, 12 miles north of Rome, makes it clear that the hospites, praeterientes and viatores mentioned in these inscriptions were not exclusively local or metaphorical travelers:36

[Praeteriens tendis] quocumque ex urbe sepulcrum [fleto parva mor]ast tu quoque flendus eris [hic iacet ingressus qui v]ix dum limina vitae

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Alexander Meyer [dum superest mater p]ertulit ante mori [immaturus abit pri]maevo flore sub umbras [non dilecta magis qu]o mihi vita fuit [patre bonisque puer cu]nctis bonus indole dignus [in vita mirum] ni renoasst aos [sed tibi praeripuit cas]us tot praemia laudum [et semper miserae iam m]ihi flendus eris [ultima donavi tamen h]aec pia munera mater [aeterna et iunget me tibi] nate quies

Passerby, from whatever city you travel, lament this tomb. It is a short delay and you should be lamented also. Here lies one who just barely crossed the threshold of life. While his mother survives, he died before the customary time. Immature he goes away under the shadows in the flower of youth. On account of which, life was no longer dear to me. A good boy by nature, worthy of his father and all good things. In life it was no wonder that he was the revival of his ancestors. But death snatched away from you such rewards of praise and now you should always be mourned by miserable me. Nevertheless, I, your faithful mother, have given these final gifts and eternal peace will join me to you, son. The first couplet of this inscription demonstrates that significant numbers of long-distance travelers, together with locals, were expected to see and read roadside inscriptions and to transmit their messages.37 Here again we may see travelers as readers. Texts that address travelers directly also range from the simple to the sophisticated and the time readers devoted to interacting with these texts varied accordingly. The simplest of the inscriptions that address travelers directly include only a greeting. For example, an inscription from Dacia begins ave viator.38 Slightly more elaborate tombstones of this type, both verse and prose, ask travelers to pause for a moment or wish them well. For example, an inscription from Avra in Syria Palaestina asks passersby to approach and acknowledge the tomb of a soldier of Legio III Cyrenaica.39 However, even more complicated examples ask the travelers to read inscriptions (which of course they were already doing) and, in some cases, to perform an act of mourning or to say something.40 For example, an inscription from Tarraco (modern Tarragona) in Hispania Citerior, asks viewers to spread flowers on the tomb.41 Even relatively simple inscriptions, however, can demand significant interaction from their audiences. At Castrum Novum in Etruria a woman named Flavia Ianuaria erected a monument for her husband Olympus which included an exhortation to travelers to stop and read a short account of her husband, their happy marriage and premature separation:42

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D(is) M(anibus) Resiste, viator, et lege: non dignus morti, abreptus sum iuvenis annorum XXVIII cui nec bonitas nec forma defuit. Flavia Ianuaria fecit Olympo coniugi bene merenti cum quo vixi(t) a prima puaeritie (sic) sine iniuria, fatis iniquis nati, qui tan (sic) cito disiuncti sumus, sit tibi terra levis To the immortal shades. Stop, traveler, and read. Not worthy of death, I was snatched away as a youth of twenty-eight years, in whom neither excellence nor beauty was lacking. Flavia Ianuaria made this for her welldeserving husband, Olympus, with whom she lived from her first youth without injustice. We are born with an unfavorable fate, who have been separated so soon. Thus may the earth be light upon you. This inscription, like the one from Monterotondo and many others that address passersby directly, demands that the reader interact with the stone in some way to affix further the content of the inscription in the reader’s mind. The tombstone Flavia Ianuaria dedicated is also particularly interesting, though not unique, because it is written in part in the voice of the deceased, who uses imperatives aimed at the reader/viator. The final sentence, and its shift into the first person plural also provokes the sympathy of the reader. Each of these elements enhances the inscription’s engagement with the reader and ultimately communicates a personal message to the audience to provoke an emotional response. It thereby reinforces the reader’s memory of it and hopes to make its readers more effective disseminators of Olympus’ and Ianuaria’s legacy. This final point is fundamental to this type of inscription. These messages were engineered to stick in the minds of those who read them. They focus on viatores, praeterientes, and hospites and use direct address to attract the attention of casual readers in order to facilitate the preservation of their honorees’ memory. Those readers were then sometimes asked to perform some task in order to fix their interaction with the stone in their minds.43 Finally, they were sent on their way, with new knowledge of the deceased to spread their memory. The choice to compose epitaphs in meter also demonstrated the learning of the epitaphs’ authors and associated that learning with the deceased,

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whether or not he or she was also the author. This is most dramatically illustrated on the tombstone of Crescens quoted above (CLE 1196). In this case, the father of the deceased is identified as the author of the inscription, and thereby the verse. Thus, the monument serves not only as a homage to the infant Crescens, but also to his father’s intellectual and artistic prowess. Furthermore, the use of meter made them more memorable to their audiences, thus facilitating the preservation of the deceased’s legacy and encouraging the transmission of their message. This desire to perpetuate memories and messages is explicit in several speaking epitaphs. For example, an inscription with metrical features from Capidava (modern Crucea) in Moesia Inferior demonstrates the close relationship between reading and remembrance: Tunc vixi bene vixi sine nu//lla crimina vix(i) resta viator Acril(la) Trygitiani vixit convirginio ann(os) XII et moritur ann(orum) XXXV et demisit natos III Aur(elius) Gai(u)s posuit mem/oria coniugi su(a)e resta viator l/ege titl(m)44 When I lived, I lived well. I lived without any fault. Stay here, traveler. Acrilla, the daughter (?) of Trygitianus lived as a maiden for twelve years and died at thirty-five and buried three children. Aurelius Gaius set up this memorial to his wife. Remain, traveler. Read this inscription. The epitaph seems to have been composed specifically to be memorable. The proximity of memoria, resta, and lege makes it clear that the viewer is intended to read the inscription, consider it, and preserve Acrilla’s memory. Furthermore, the author repeats forms of vivere four times in the first two lines and follows them with the verbs moritur and demisit in the fourth and fifth lines. Thus, five of the first six verbs in the epitaph are verbs of life and death. Similarly, resta viator appears in the first line and is repeated in the last. The imperatives resta and lege demand the reader to interact with the text, further encouraging remembrance. Among the verbs, only posuit does not highlight Acrilla’s life and death or address the reader directly, but even that is intimately involved with memory and commemorations since its direct object is memoria. Each of these elements is intended to encourage the spread of Acrilla’s memory and fama. Even the repetition of resta seems to invite the reader-traveler to take a moment to consider Acrilla’s life and to enjoy their own life while they are able. Likewise, CLE 84 reads: P(ublius) Raius F(…) fac(iendum) cur(avit) lege nunc viator nomen in titulo meum memoriam habeto esse hanc mortalem domum

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valete ad superos vivitis vitam optmam [si me sequimini: vix]si [eg]o dum volui bene. Publius Raius F… oversaw this work. Read now traveler my name in this inscription. Remember that this is a mortal house. Be well among the living. You are living the best life if you follow me: while I lived, I wished well. The message, the heart of which is three lines of iambic senarii, is in some ways less personal than that associated with Acrilla. Raius asks simply that travelers read his name, not a record of his life. But, at the same time, he instills in them a lesson which they are to take with them. This lesson is a simple one; enjoy life and be generous. This concern with spreading the messages of these inscriptions through travelers is further highlighted by an inscription, composed in dactylic hexameter, from Salona (modern Solin) in Dalmatia.45 Following a brief biography of the deceased, this inscription, which is somewhat poorly preserved, reads: ego Antonius umbra tenus {h}ave tib[i] dic[o], meator. quam vis festinanti gradu [c]arpas [it]er, resiste paulum et lege casu(m). sic ego V[…]AM M[… fam]am(?) [re]tinere(?) cupisco. spiritu[s(?) …]MC[…]M[… r]eliquit malignusque casus MA[…] corpori toto 5 post cuius exitium […]que funeris terr(a)e datas decubui pro[pe …]PO[.]I […]noctesque diesque iam trahor in tenebras, ducorq(ue) amplectere fratr(em) hoc fatali casu datum est pergam nunc Tartaradivo reliquiasque meas cu[rent …]C or[b]ati parentes. 10 iam casum cognosti meum: feliciter perge viator decepti [s]enes testemur funera natuum [et pi]etas titulo deplorat [fata parentum] I, Antonius, although a shadow, say ‘hail’ to you, traveler. Although you pursue your journey with a swift step, stay for a moment and read about my misfortune. Thus I wish to preserve my reputation… Breath left me…and unkind fortune...in [?] the whole body after his [?] death...and.... [offerings?] of the funeral were given to the land, I lay near… for days and nights and now I am dragged into the darkness, I am led to embrace my brother. This has been given to me by this fatal event. I will go now to the infernal god. May my childless parents...tend to my remains. Now you know of my death. Go forth happily, traveler. We, their old parents, having been cheated, bear witness to the fortunes of our sons. And piety laments the fates of parents in this inscription.

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Although this inscription is not complete, it is clear that the deceased, if that is whose voice it captures, relates the sad tale of his death to the reader and dismisses him with the wish that he should be happy, but also with improved knowledge of his own mortality and the story of Antonius. In effect, the reader becomes a messenger of Antonius’ story and lesson. The shared intentions of all these epitaphs are clear. They are meant to preserve the memory of those whom they commemorate and to spread their memory and fame through the travelers who read them. Ovid’s imagined epitaph in Tristia 3.3, an elegy that alludes to Tibullus 1.3, offers a literary reflection of this practice of engaging travelers as readers and perpetuators of memory (Tr. 3.3.71-6):46 quosque legat versus oculo properante viator, grandibus in tumuli marmore caede notis: HIC · EGO · QVI · IACEO · TENERORVM · LVSOR · AMORVM INGENIO · PERII · NASO · POETA · MEO AT · TIBI · QVI · TRANSIS · NE · SIT · GRAVE · QVISQVIS AMASTI DICERE · NASONIS · MOLLITER · OSSA · CVBENT47 Carve these verses in great letters on the marble of the tomb and let the traveler read them with hurried eye: I who lay here, Naso the poet, a playful writer of tender loves, have been undone by my talent, but, as for you, whoever you are who passes, let it not be a burden, if you have loved, to say “May the bones of Naso lie lightly.” Here the hypothetical passerby is presented with the briefest of biographies of the deceased before being asked to say a short prayer. In effect, the passerby is enjoined to read a few words about Ovid and thereby preserve and spread his memory even before being asked to pray for him. Ovid recognizes, however, that the immortality provided by this (hypothetical) commemoration is imperfect. In the lines that follow this mock epitaph he stresses that his books of poetry (libelli) will provide a greater and more enduring monument to him (3.3.77-80). Ovid’s contention is undoubtedly driven by his assessment of the importance of poetry, but may also be seen as a function of the proliferation and mobility of copies of his work as well as, perhaps, its ability to be transmitted orally to wider audiences.48 Ovid’s literary epitaph, like Tibullus’ before it, transforms the traditional epitaph on stone, which is a single immobile memorial, into an infinitely duplicatable and mobile cognate. By doing this Ovid also substitutes travel with reading and the reader for the traveler.49 Rather than the traveler-reader going to the memorial, the memorial comes to the reader-traveler. At the same time, this formulation also recognizes the role of the traveler as reader and highlights the expectation that travelers read elegiac verse while traversing the roads of the empire.50 It is also clear that these epitaphs are not the only inscriptions that contain explicit or implicit messages that are intended to be communicated to

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and by travelers. As in the case of the famous inscription from Saepinum (CIL IX 2438), in which the praetorian prefects Bassaeus Rufus and Macrinius Vindex (169-72 CE) sought to protect shepherds who drove their flocks through the territory of Saepinum and Bovianum, many official inscriptions were posted in locations that were chosen for their visibility to passersby. In addition to the Saepinum inscription, which was posted on a city gate, one could think of the Senatus Consultum de Gnaio Pisone Patre, which was intended to be posted prominently: item hoc s(enatus) c(onsultum) in cuiusque provinciae celeberruma{e} urbe eiusque i urbis ipsius celeberrimo loco in aere incisum figeretur, itemq(ue) hoc s(enatus) c(onsultum) in hibernis cuiusq(ue) legionis at signa figeretur. Let this senatus consultum be inscribed on bronze and posted in the most important city of each province and in the busiest place in the city itself, and let this senatus consultum be posted at the winter quarters of each legion near the standards.51 The decision to display this text in the busiest parts of the major cities of the provinces, rather than in one of the many temples where other documents were deposited, confirms that it was meant to be seen and its content to spread among the population. However, the fact that this senatus consultum was only to be displayed in the most important city of each province and at legionary fortresses, implies that its content was expected to be relayed to other communities and their inhabitants in order to maximize its impact. This was partially achieved, at least in Baetica, by duplication of the text, perhaps by the governor, and further publication, though this may have been exceptional; no copies survive from any other province.52 Regardless of the extent of its publication, the content of the senatus consultum was meant to be disseminated further by word of mouth—that is by travelers of various types—since the text could not be posted everywhere. Furthermore, those travelers must have been numerous enough and an attentive enough audience to make this a reasonably efficient method of spreading the contents of this senatus consultum and countless other decrees and pieces of legislation. Travelers also acted as recipients and conveyers of much subtler messages. For example, Louise Revell (2013) has argued for the importance of epigraphic material from fora as a means by which to express the status and ambitions of communities to their own inhabitants and to travelers. Similarly, Plancia Magna’s gate at Perge on the coast of Pamphylia is decorated with a Latin inscription on its outward side to greet visitors as they approached the city and identify the city and Plancia as a part of the empire and a Greek inscription on the inside to express Plancia’s civic pride and individuality as they left.53

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Each of these examples highlights the importance of audience to the effectiveness of epigraphic communication. Furthermore, they demonstrate that travelers, both local and long-distance, were considered to be a significant portion of this audience. Metrical epitaphs and non-metrical epitaphs addressed travelers specifically to exploit them as perpetuators and disseminators of information (in this case, memories of the deceased), just as legal documents posted in public places did. The content of these texts and their placement in locations where they were likely to be seen by travelers also presuppose that travelers read these texts as part of the broader epigraphic experience of travel.

Epigraphy recording travel Much of the poetry discussed elsewhere in this volume as well as a wide variety of other literature demonstrate that elites traveled regularly for various purposes and that their journeys ranged from quite short ones to extremely long ones. Yet the frequency with which the broader population of the Roman world traveled and thereby what proportion of the population was exposed to epigraphy related to travel is difficult to determine.54 Nevertheless, seemingly mundane inscriptions such as nundinal calendars can give us unexpected indications of the ubiquity of travel. For example, the so-called Latium parapegma records that markets were held in a weekly cycle at Aquinum, in vico, at Interamna, at Minturnae, at Rome, at Capua, at Casinum, and at Fabrateria.55 Each of these eight locations represents the location of a market on one of the eight days of the nundinal week. This schedule is predicated upon the assumption that vendors and/or customers could be expected to attend more than one of these markets in a given cycle. With the exceptions of Rome and Capua, these settlements are between 12 and 18 miles apart. These distances could be traversed easily in less than a day by cart or by wagon. This implies that merchants regularly traveled these distances as part of market circuits.56 Furthermore, the inclusion of Capua and Rome suggest that the scheduling of the markets in those cities affected the schedules of merchants involved in this local pattern. Rome was, however, 60 miles from its nearest neighbor on this list, Fabrateria. Likewise, Capua was approximately 28 miles from Minturnae. These distances are also minimums as they represent travel as the crow flies and ancient travelers would have had to stick to the roads, which would have required them to travel significantly further. Thus the evidence from this single inscription suggests that merchants, and possibly customers, at these markets regularly traveled ten to 20 miles and occasionally went 30 or 60 miles. This travel would have provided regular communication between these settlements and those that surrounded them. The Latium parapegma is also not unique in recording this type of information. The Suessula nundinal list records the names of seven settlements

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in Campania that were within a radius of about 15 miles. Likewise, the first column of the Allifae nundinal list records the names of seven places (an eighth is lost) all of which are also within a radius of about 15 miles. The second column of the Allifae list, however, ranges over 50 miles in Campania from Sinuessa to Nuceria and extends to Luceria in Apulia, over 60 miles from its nearest neighbor on the list. It is commonly accepted that each of these lists represents a schedule of markets to be held in the settlements that appear in their texts. Further, it seems that these schedules were created in order to avoid conflicting markets on a regular circuit of markets attended by the same merchants and tradesmen. Otherwise the cycle would serve little purpose. Therefore, one may infer from these schedules that merchants and tradesmen regularly made journeys of 15 to 30 miles in order to attend the markets. Moreover, the inclusion of Rome, Capua and Luceria also seems to imply that journeys of over 50 miles were not uncommon. Both of these observations are made more significant when one considers the relatively slow rate of travel one could expect in antiquity. If one could travel between 20 and 30 miles a day, these markets required between half a day and two days of travel at least. While none of these distances are particularly remarkable, the fluidity and frequency with which these merchants and traders and the news that traveled with them moved around central Italy is significant and a potent reminder of the ubiquity of regional travel in the Roman world and the impact of these travelers as conduits for communication of all types (epistolary, personal, political, cultural, etc.). It is also clear that regional markets and market cycles of the type recorded in these inscriptions were not unique to Campania. An inscription from Casae in Africa Proconsularis records the Roman Senate’s permission to a local aristocrat to establish a market on his estate.58 This market was to take place twice a month beginning in November of 139 CE. The decree of the senate also stipulated that vicini and advenae were to be permitted to attend the market for the purpose of trade only and as long as they neither harmed nor inconvenienced anyone. The first of these terms clearly refers to people living near the estate where the market was to take place, but the latter term suggests visitors from farther afield, perhaps even foreigners. Furthermore, these visitors were clearly merchants, farmers, and tradesmen rather than elites. It also seems that this market was one in a series that included a market in nearby Casae (hence the need for permission from the senate) and that followed a semi-monthly schedule. While the details of this market cycle are obscure to us, the inscription from Casae and the nundinal inscriptions from Italy demonstrate that merchants, farmers and tradesmen regularly traveled around areas spanning many miles with little or no hesitation. Significant travel was a regular part of life for this segment of the population. The ubiquity of travel in the rural and agricultural population of Italy is also apparent in the inscription from the gate of Saepinum discussed above (CIL IX 2438). This inscription is remarkable for at least three reasons: its

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mention of the shepherds themselves, who were numerous enough to attract the attention of the highest magistrates in Italy; the appearance of the stationarii, who were charged with guarding the roads against those who would threaten the safety of travelers; and the location of the inscription itself. The shepherds may be counted among those who traveled regularly along the roads of the ancient world as they moved sheep from pasturage to pasturage. Thus we may see additional regular regional travel. The expense of maintaining stationarii and the need for them further highlight the frequency and importance of travel throughout the empire.59 Such a widespread system of security and administration is indicative of the extent and importance of travel along these roads. Finally, the placement of this inscription on the city wall outside the north gate of Saepinum indicates that this was considered a high traffic area and therefore a suitable location at which to communicate with a large number of people and to spread the message related by the prefects. Thus we may conclude that travelers passed these gates very frequently. The nundinal market cycles and the Saepinum inscription give some indication that travel was not uncommon in Roman society as a whole. However, they do little to illuminate the geographical extent of travel. The nundinal inscriptions and the Saepinum inscription are primarily indicative of travel within about 100 miles, or a few days’ journey. There are, however, innumerable inscriptions that record individuals of all social statuses who traveled hundreds or even thousands of miles, including merchants, soldiers, and slaves. Perhaps the most striking of these is an inscription from Arbeia (modern South Shields, England) that was erected by Barates, a Palmyrene, for his wife Regina, a native Catuvallauna.60 Barates’ Palmyrene origin is explicit in the text but is also highlighted by the inclusion of a parallel text in Palmyrene on the stone itself. Palmyra is at the very opposite extreme of the empire. Furthermore, Barates seems to have undertaken the journey to Britannia of his own accord; he is neither associated with the army nor identified as a slave or freedman. Likewise, an inscription from Emerita (modern Merida, Spain) commemorates Julia, the wife of Glyco, who was born in Nicomedia.61 One might also track the movements of more itinerant travelers (as opposed to migrants) by using more peculiar epitaphs such as one recovered from Lugdunum Convenarum (modern Valcabrere, France). This stone records the murder of two travelers, one of whom is identified as a Spaniard (Hispanus) from Carthago Nova (modern Cartagena).62 The two men commemorated on this stone were killed by highwaymen (latrones) and provide a powerful warning about the dangers of travel in antiquity and the need for the stationarii mentioned on the inscription from Saepinum. These are, of course, just two examples out of hundreds in which individuals are identified as natives of lands far from where they are recorded epigraphically. Nevertheless, they demonstrate the extent and ease with which people traveled around the Roman world.

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Conclusion Travelers in the Roman world constantly interacted with commemorative, legal, practical and even poetic inscriptions. The great number of travelers who could have read these inscriptions is apparent in the effort invested in texts meant to assist travelers. Travelers were a significant audience for many epigraphic texts. The texts themselves were familiar enough to audiences that they could be manipulated by poets like Lucilius, Horace, Tibullus, and Ovid. Indeed, about 60 percent of all inscriptions are sepulchral and they tended to be placed along the roads outside settlements of every kind. Furthermore, over two thousand metrical inscriptions were included in Carmina Latina Epigraphica in 1930 and there are now between four and eight thousand in total, making up between two and three percent of all Latin inscriptions (Schmidt 2015: 764). The role of travelers as audiences and subsequently as communicators of the messages they received is also visible in speaking inscriptions that address them directly and in the legal texts that were presented to them on city walls and in well-traveled locations. Each of these sources offers a unique perspective on travel and its role in the Roman world, but they all combine to demonstrate very clearly that travel was common in all social strata throughout the empire. The epigraphic evidence also speaks to the sort of poetry that is the subject of this volume: as the epitaphs that appear in works such as Tibullus 1.3 and Ovid Tristia 3.3 demonstrate, the textual environment through which travelers moved influenced poetic representations of travel and geography, and elite literature anticipated an audience experienced with travel. At the same time, the inscriptions that travelers would have encountered evolved in dialogue with literary traditions, as evidenced by the use of meter, by the frequent quotations of poets, and by the evolution of the epigram as both an inscriptional and literary form.63

Notes 1 The ubiquity of travel in Hesiod’s time is demonstrated in his casual mention of a rudder (πηδάλιον, Op. 45), and in his characterization of sea travel as an integral part of the toils associated with life in the age of iron (Op. 236–237). One can also see familiarity with sea travel and wariness of it in Hesiod’s guide to sailors and his account of his (or his poetic persona’s) journey to Euboea (Op. 618–693). 2 For Cicero see especially Att. 5.12 and 6.8. The satirical nature of Horace’s account of his journey to Brundisium (Sat. 1.5) requires a skeptical reading but nonetheless reflects, I believe, common attitudes about travel. On Sat. 1.5 see the Introduction to the present volume. The hardships of Pliny’s journey to BithyniaPontus are recorded in Ep. 10.15-17. 3 The archaeological record also has much to contribute to our estimation of the frequency and hardships of travel in the form of roads, ports and, especially, shipwrecks, but these topics cannot be addressed here. 4 This text follows Postgate’s OCT. All translations are those of the author.

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5 On Tibullus’ representations of travel and geography in relation to the Golden Age see Miller in this volume. On elegiac travel see also the chapters by Keith and Zimmermann Damer. 6 Ramsby 2007: 82. For more discussion of this poem and the epitaph it includes see Ramsby 2007: 77–81. 7 For links between travel and memory, see also Parker in this volume. 8 Inns may be found in lines 2 (hospitium) and 51 (cauponae), a riverboat (lenter) on line 20, and a way-station (villula) on line 45. 9 For a lucid discussion of the literary aspects and veracity of Horace’s journey see Gowers 1993. See also the Introduction to this volume. 10 For brief discussions of the surviving evidence for maps see Brodersen 2001 and Talbert 2010, 2012. For a more detailed treatment of this material, see Dilke 1985. 11 For the most recent and most detailed treatment of the Peutinger Map, see Talbert 2010. 12 The ubiquity of travel in the comedies of Plautus, as discussed by Richlin in this volume, also gives a sense that travel and travelers of all kinds, including traders, actors, soldiers, and slaves, were common enough to have coalesced into theatrical mainstays by the 2nd century BCE. 13 First estimated by Forbes 1965: 151. 14 Kolb 2015: 650. Kolb estimates that between 7,000 and 8,000 milestones have been discovered to date. 15 Plutarch Vit. C. Gracch. 7.2 notes that Gracchus had such stones along roads that he constructed. 16 This point is highlighted in Miller’s interpretation of Tibullus 1.7 in this volume. 17 For further discussion of tabellaria see Cary 1936; Deman 1975; Bracco 1985; Salway 2001: 48–53; Kolb 2013: 118. Oxé 1926 argues that the tabellaria mentioned in the Elogium from Polla were similar to these “intermediate” or “stadestones” noted above. 18 The seven extant inscriptions of this type are: CIL XIII 2681a, b, c = XVII/2 490a-c from Autun, CIL XIII 9158 = XVII.2 675 = ILS 5839 from Tongeren, CIL XIII 4085 = XVII/2 676 from Junglinster, CIL XIII 8922 = XVII/2 489 = ILS 5837 from Bruère-Allichamps, CIL VIII 10118 = 22247 = ILS 5836 from Fedj-Souïoud, CIL II 6239 = II2/14, 38 from Valentia, and SEG 44 {1994}, 1205 from Patara. For further discussion of each of these monuments see Salway 2001: 54–8. 19 This stone was erected during the reign of Maximinus Thrax in the 3rd century CE. 20 SEG 44 {1994}, 1205. This monument includes a dedication that dates it to 45 CE. 21 Salway 2001: 54. For further discussion of epigraphy on perishable media see Eck 1998 and the discussion of street signs below. 22 CIL V 2866 = CIL I 2172 = AE 2003, 29. The meaning of Ad Aquas here is unclear. It may refer to a settlement of that name, a feature of the landscape, or perhaps most likely a spa along the road. If it was originally erected at Tivoli, where it is first reported to have been seen by Antoine Morillon, it may refer to Aqua Albulae to the west. 23 For the Vicarello cups see CIL XI 3281-3284. Similarly portable ‘itineraries’ include several that list stationes on Hadrian’s Wall, discovered at Rudge Coppice (RIB II/2, 2415.53) and Ilam (AE 2004, 857) in the UK, and at Amiens (AE 1950, 56) (for further discussion see Breeze 2012), and the so-called Dura Shield from Dura-Europas (Cumont 1926). 24 For a useful description of the circumstances of the deposition and discovery see Gasperini 2008. While the Vicarello cups themselves may have been souvenirs of a completed journey, as suggested as far back as Henzen and repeated by many

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26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

45 46 47 48

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others, there is no reason to suppose that they were not in the possession of travelers during their journey. In fact, Henzen and others have argued that they were brought to Rome by a Spaniard (Henzen 1854: 30; Künzel & Koeppel 2002: 19). For a brief synopsis of the communis opinio regarding the Vicarello Cups see Schmidt 2011: 77–8. For the implicit assumption that travelers carried itineraries copied from tabellaria see Salway 2001: 32–8, 59. Remarkably, the Vicarello cups vary with respect to the distances between locations, the names of locations, and what locations are included on them. This suggests that the cups depend on two or more lost texts. As luxury products testifying to travel between Cadiz and Rome, the Vicarello cups are comparable to Martial’s girls of Gades, analyzed in Blake’s essay in this volume. Itineraries like these provided only one-dimensional guidance on a linear route with no indications of turns or cardinal directions and only a few mentions of intersections. See Salway 2001: 27–8. This significance of the eye disease Horace reports to have suffered during this journey and the ocular challenges of others in the narrative has been discussed admirably in Gowers 1993. Porph. ad Hor. Sat. 1.5.1. See discussion in Fiske 1920: 306-16; Sallmann 1974; Freudenburg 1993: 201–2, and the Introduction to the present volume. Citations follow Warmington 1967. See also the discussion of the end of Sat. 1.5 in the Introduction to this volume. See Carroll 2007/2008: 37–40. For discussion of the authorship of metrical inscriptions, see Carroll 2007/ 2008: 47–9. See Ramsby 2007: 21, 27. CLE 1196 = CIL II 3256 = AE 2009, 626. This text follows del Hoyo 2009. These figures are the result of searches conducted by the author on the Epigraphik‐Datenbank Clauss / Slaby (http://db.edcs.eu/). CLE 1214 = CIL XIV 3940. Text adapted from Buecheler in CLE. We do not present the text with indented pentameters, because the remaining text is all oriented flush along the breakage in the stone, and the first portion of most verses is hypothetical reconstruction. Although one might contest Buecheler’s restoration of the first line, any alteration of it will hardly change the meaning of the couplet. CIL III 7987. Cf. examples like CIL III 7553 that end with vale viator and have no other reference to their reader. AE 1936, 131 = AE 1972, 671. For requests of vocal responses to inscriptions see, for example, CIL II 3296 and 5907 from Castulo in Hispania, CIL III 3171 from Dalmatia, and CIL VIII 4502 from Numidia. CIL II 4314 = CIL II2/14.3 1281 = ILS 5299. AE 1973, 231. See nn. 38-40 above for examples. CLEMoes 37 = IScM V 43. This transcription is adapted from Conrad 2004 and Zarker 1958: no. 147. Zarker also provides the somewhat enigmatic note that “Line one is a good hexameter line; the first words of line two and the final line are irregular but seem intended to be verse.” CIL III 14850 = CLE 1950. For allusions to Tib. 1.3 in Tr. 3.3 see Huskey 2005. Text follows Owen's OCT. For further discussion of poetic epitaphs and their significance see Houghton 2013: esp. 357-61.

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49 One might see here an analogy with the relationship between theater and travel and Plautus’ substitution of a ship for a stage as noted by Richlin in this volume. 50 For a useful summary of evidence of travelers’ possession and access to literature of various types see Myers 2018: 231–5. 51 Potter & Damon 1999: 40, lines 170–2. 52 For the most extensive available discussion of this inscription and its context see Damon & Takács 1999. For the distribution of the text see p. 3. 53 IK 54, no. 86 = Mansel, Arch. Anz. 71 (1956) p. 118/9, no. 83. For further discussion of this gate and its context see Boatwright 1991 and 1993. 54 As Richlin points out elsewhere in this volume, soldiers, merchants, and slaves were particularly prone to travel, though their mobility is nearly impossible to quantify. 55 CIL VI 32505 = Iscr. It. XIII.s. 49. 56 See also Richlin in this volume on theatrical troupes performing at “market fairs” on nundinae and representations of traveling merchants and merchandise (human and otherwise) that was sold at such markets in comedy. 57 CIL I2 6709, 30 = Inscr. It. XIII.2 51. Cf. Lehoux 2007: 198–9. 58 CIL VIII 270 = 11451 = 23246. 59 For stationarii see Petraccia Lucernoni 2001; Fuhrmann 2012: 249-52. Stationarii must, however, be differentiated from those more closely associated with military units in the provinces. 60 RIB 1065. 61 AE 1993, 907. One ought to note the strong possibility that Julia was a freedwoman, though this has little impact on the significance of the inscription. 62 CIL XIII 259. 63 On epigram, see Blake in this volume.

Works cited AE = L’Année Épigraphique. 1888–. Paris (Presses Universitaires de France). Boatwright, M. T. 1991. “Plancia Magna of Perge: Women’s Roles and Status in Roman Asia Minor.” In S. B. Pomeroy, ed. Women’s History and Ancient History. Chapel Hill (University of North Carolina Press), 249–72. Boatwright, M. T. 1993. “The City Gate of Plancia Magna in Perge.” In E. D’Ambra, ed. Roman Art in Context: An Anthology. Englewood Cliffs (Prentice Hall), 189–207. Bracco, V. 1985. “Il Tabellarius di Polla.” Epigraphica 48: 93–97. Breeze, D. J., ed. 2012. The First Souvenirs: Enamelled Vessels from Hadrian’s Wall. Kendal (Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society). Brodersen, K. 2001. “The Presentation of Geographical Knowledge for Travel and Transport in the Roman World: Itineraria non tantum adnotata sed etiam picta.” In C. Adams & R. Laurence, eds. Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire. London (Routledge), 7–21. Carroll, M. 2007/2008. “‘Vox tua nempe mea est:’ Dialogues with the Dead in Roman Funerary Commemoration.” ARP 11: 37–80. Cary, M. 1936. “Direction Posts on Roman Roads?” CR 50: 166–7. CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. 1863-. Berlin (de Gruyter). Clauss / Slaby = Clauss, M. et al., eds. 2007-. Epigraphik-Datenbank Clauss / Slaby. http://db.edcs.eu/. CLE = F. Bücheler & E. Lommatzsch, eds. 1895-1926. Carmina Latina Epigraphica. Leipzig (Teubner).

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CLEMoes. = Cugusi, P. & M. T. S. Cugusi, eds. 2008. Carmina latina epigraphica Moesica. Bologna (Pàtron). Conrad, S. 2004. Die Grabstelen aus Moesia inferior: Untersuchungen zu Chronologie, Typologie und Ikonografie. Leipzig (Casa Libri). Cumont, F. 1926. Fouilles de Dura-Europos. Paris (P. Geuthner). Damon, C. & S. Takács, eds. 1999. The Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre. AJP 120. Baltimore (Johns Hopkins University Press). del Hoyo Calleja, J. 2009. “Revisión y nueva lectura de tres inscripciones de la provincia de Jaén.” In Espacios, usos y formas de la epigrafía Hispana en épocas Antigua y Tardoantigua: homenaje al Dr. Armin U. Stylow. Merida (Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas Instituto de Arqueología de Mérida), 177–86. Deman, M. 1975. “Sens de tabelarios dans I.L.S. 23.” RBPhil 53: 660. Dilke, O. A. W. 1985. Greek and Roman Maps. Ithaca (Cornell University Press). Eck, W. 1998. “Inschriften auf Holz: Ein unterschätztes Phänomen der epigraphischen Kultur Roms.” In P. Kneissl & V. Losemann, eds. Imperium Romanum: Studien zu Geschichte und Rezeption, Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 75. Stuttgart (F. Steiner Verlag), 203–17. Fiske, G. C. 1920. Lucilius and Horace. Madison (University of Wisconsin Press). Forbes, R. J. 1965. Studies in Ancient Technology. 2nd ed. Vol. 2. Leiden (Brill). Freudenburg, K. 1993. The Walking Muse: Horace on the Theory of Satire. Princeton (Princeton University Press). Fuhrmann, C. J. 2012. Policing the Roman Empire: Soldiers, Administration, and Public Order. Oxford (Oxford University Press). Gasperini, L. 2008. “El tesoro de Vicarello: un gran descubrimiento arqueológico del siglo XIX.” Gerión 26.2: 91–102. Gowers, E. 1993. “Horace, Satires 1.5: An Inconsequential Journey.” PCPS 39: 48–66. Harris, W. V. 1989. Ancient Literacy. Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Henzen, W. 1854. “Alterhümer von Vicarello. ” RhM 9: 20–36. Houghton, L. B. T. 2013. “Epitome and Eternity: Some Epitaphs and Votive Inscriptions in the Latin Love Elegists.” In P. Liddel & P. Low, eds. Inscriptions and Their Uses of Greek and Latin Literature Oxford (Oxford University Press), 349–64. Huskey, S. 2005. “In Memory of Tibullus: Ovid’s Remembrance of Tibullus 1.3 in Amores 3.9 and Tristia 3.3." Arethusa 38: 367–86. ILS = Dessau, H., ed. 1892-1916. Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae. Berlin (Weidmannsche). Inscr. It. = Inscriptiones Italiae. 1931-. Rome (La Libreria dello stato). IScM = Pippidi, D. M. et al., eds. 1980-99. Inscriptiones Scythiae Minoris Graecae et Latinae. Bucharest (Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste România). IK = Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien. 1972-. Kolb, A. 2013. “Erfassung und Vermessung der Welt bei den Römern.” In M. Rathmann & K. Geuss, eds. Vermessung der Oikumene. Berlin (De Gruyter), 107–18. Kolb, A. 2015. “Communications and Mobility in the Roman Empire.” in C. Bruun & J. Edmondson, eds. The Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 649–70. Künzel, E. & G. Koeppel 2002. Souvenirs und Devotionalien: Zeugnisse des geschäftlichen, religiösen und kulturellen Tourismus im antiken Römerreich, Sonderbände der Antike Welt. München (von Zabern).

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Lehoux, D. 2007. Astronomy, Weather, and Calendars in the Ancient World: Parapegmata and Related Texts in Classical and Near Eastern Societies. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Ling, R. 2007. “Inscriptions on Romano-British Mosaics and Wall Paintings.” Britannia 38: 63–91. MacMullen, R. 1982. “The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire.” AJP 103.3: 233–46. Myers, M. Y. 2018. “Import/Export: Empire and Appropriation in the Gallus Papyrus from Qasr Ibrim.” In M. Loar, C. MacDonald & D. Padilla Peralta, eds. Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press), 214–36. Oxé, A. 1926. “Die römische Meile, eine griechische Schöpfung.” BJb 131: 213–44. Petraccia Lucernoni, M. F. 2001. Gli stationarii in età imperiale, Serta Antiqua et Mediaevalia. Roma (G. Bretschneider). Potter, D. S. & C. Damon 1999. “The Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre.” AJP 120.1: 13–41. Ramsby, T. R. 2007. Textual Permanence: Roman Elegists and the Epigraphic Tradition. London (Duckworth). Revell, L. 2013. “The Written City: Political Inscriptions from Roman Baetica.” In P. Keegan, G. Sears & R. Laurence, eds. Written Space in the Latin West, 200 BC to AD 300. London (Bloomsbury Academic), 231–46. RIB = Collingwood, R. G., Wright, R. P. et al., eds. 1965-. The Roman Inscriptions of Britain. Oxford (Clarendon Press). Sallmann, K. 1974. “Die seltsame Reise nach Brundisium: Aufbau und Deutung der Horaz-Satire 1.5.” In U. Reinhardt & K. Sallmann, eds. Musa Iocosa: Arbeiten ueber Humor und Witz Komik und Komoedie der Antike. Hildesheim (Olms Verlag), 179–206. Salway, B. 2001. “Travel, itineraria and tabellaria.” In C. Adams & R. Laurence, eds. Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire. London (Routledge), 22–66. Schmidt, M. G. 2011. “A Gadibus Romam: Myth and Reality of an Ancient Route.” BICS 54.2: 71–86. Schmidt, M. G. 2015. “Carmina Latina Epigraphica.” In C. Bruun & J. Edmondson, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy. Oxford (Oxford University Press), 764–82. SEG = Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. 1923-71. Talbert, R. J. A. 2010. Rome’s World: The Peutinger Map Reconsidered. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Talbert, R. J. A. 2012. “Urbs Roma to Orbis Romanus.” In R. J. A. Talbert, ed. Ancient Perspectives: Maps and Their Place in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece and Rome. Chicago (University of Chicago Press), 163–91. Warmington, E. H. 1967. Remains of Old Latin. Vol. 3 Cambridge, MA (Harvard University Press). Zarker, J. 1958. Studies in the Carmina Latina Epigraphica. Ph.D. diss., Princeton Univ.

Index

Page numbers followed by “n” indicate notes. Page numbers in italics indicate figures.

Abydos (city in Egypt), 191n21 Accademia Letteraria Italiana, 62 actors 11, 25–33, 37 Acts of the Arval Brethren 146 Adonis 116 Aelius Aristides 190 Aeneas 15, 64–7, 139 Aeschylus: Agamemnon 60n52, 198; Septem 75–6 Agathias 95n32 agriculture 33, 39, 63, 72, 99–101, 104–7, 121, 167; and viticulture 176, 178; see also farmers Agrippa 57, 121, 122–3 Alban Hills 79n14, 157 Albinovanus Pedo 152n4 Alexander Romance 189 Alexander the Great 100–2, 137, 141–2, 145, 153n42, 171n37, 189; see also Alexander Romance; Alexandria: tomb of Alexander the Great Alexandria 35, 135, 136–42, 146; Cleopatra’s palace in 140–1; tomb of Alexander the Great in 137, 140–1 Amphiaraus 76 animals 29, 39, 72, 73, 121; bears 70, 77; bees 143; boars 73, 75; bulls 100; dogs 70, 73, 88; donkeys 33, 39; fish 179–80; frogs 180; goats 39; horses 75, 100; oxen 39, 66; phoenixes 138–9; sheep 25, 39, 71, 72, 78n7, 100; snakes 140–1; tigers 76; whales 179, 181; wolves 68–70 Apis see Osiris Apollo 4, 71, 83–4, 123, 140;

see also temples: Temple of Palatine Apollo Apollodorus 164–5 Apollonius of Rhodes: Argonautica 140–1, 187 Aponus (thermal site near Padua) 164–5 Apuleius 90–1 Apulia (Puglia) 2, 38, 209 Aquae Neri (town in France) 197 Aquinum (Aquino, city in Italy) 208 Arabia 29–31, 49–50 Arbeia (South Shields, fort in England) 210 Arcadia 9, 62–4, 69–72, 75–6, 81; and music 63–4, 70–2; as primitive landscape 11–2, 63, 64–70, 72–5, 76–8; and Rome’s origins 64–9, 78 Arcas 70, 79n15 Arethusa 94n19 Argos 135, 139, 148, 151, 198 Ariadne 51 Aristotle 78n12 Arrian 100–1 Asia Minor 47, 54, 183, 198; Lydia 81; see also Attaleia; Ephesus; Kaunos; Kibrya; Lampsacus; Patara; Perge; Troy Asinius Pollio 71, 137 Assyria 145, 185 Atalanta 73–7 Athens 26, 37–8, 82, 124; Parthenon 178 Attaleia (town in Asia Minor) 197 Attica 1–2 Augustodunum (Autun, town in France) 186

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Index

Augustus 47, 52, 72, 81, 93, 98, 102, 105, 118; and built environment of Rome 13, 47, 69, 114–5, 117–9, 122, 123, 125–7; and Roman civil war 102, 123, 130n37, 141; family of 118, 119, 121, 122–3; pax Augusta of 102; see also Battle of Actium; Rome: Domus Augusta Ausonius 9; Gratiarum actio 190n5; Mosella 13–4, 175–82, 186–90, 198; Parentalia 177; Professores 177; provincial identity of 177–9, 182, 190 Avaricum (town in France) 197 Avienus 186 Avra (town in Judaea) 202 Babylon 31, 143 Bacchus 37, 92, 100–2, 106–8 Bactra 143 Baesucci (town in Spain) 200 Baiae (town in Italy) 84–5, 150 balsam 128n16, 144 bankers 31, 34 Battle of Actium 99, 102, 105, 123, 137, 181 Battle of Naulochus 130n37 Battle of Pharsalus 135, 142 Beauvoir, Simone de: The Second Sex 108 Belides see Danaids Benjamin, Walter 115, 119 Bilbilis (city in Spain) 157–8, 163–5, 167–8 bilingualism 32–3 Bingen (town in Germany) 176 Bithynia 48, 52–3, 211n2 boatmen 176, 178 books 13, 55, 157–61, 166, 168; bookrolls 6; and bookshops 160; and libraries 55, 118 Bordeaux 178 Brennus 185 Britannia 47, 49, 50, 161, 164; see also Arbeia; Hadrian’s Wall; Ilam; Rudge Coppice Bruère–Allichamps (town in France) 197 Brundisium (Brindisi, city in Italy) 5, 196, 199 Brutus 159 Caesar see Julius Caesar Callimachus 10, 48–9, 52, 138–9, 148; Aetia 4, 81, 83, 177; Hymn to Apollo 2, 145–6

Callisthenes 189 Callisto 70, 77 Calydon (city in Greece) 28, 32, 37 Campania 209 Canius Rufus 164–5 Canopus (city in Egypt) 139 Capidava (Crucea, city in Moesia Interior) 204 Capraria (island in Italy) 189 Capua (city in Italy) 38, 41n8, 197, 208 Carmenta (mother of Evander) 67–8 cartography, mental 12–3, 114, 115–17, 119, 121–7 Carthage 25, 27, 32–3, 137, 165 Carthago Nova (town in Spain) 210 Casae (city in Africa Proconsularis) 209 Casinum (town in Italy) 208 Cassius Dio 130n37 Castor and Pollux 28 castration 51, 98–9, 101, 106–7, 109 Castrum Novum (town in Italy) 189, 202 Cato the Younger 135 Catullus 9, 11, 12, 25, 47, 52, 164–5; domus in 54–8; gender in 50–4, 58; poem 9: 48; poem 10: 48, 52–4, 93; poem 11: 49–51; poem 12: 48; poem 16: 59n30; poem 21: 59n30; poem 22: 48; poem 28: 48, 52–4; poem 29: 49; poem 31: 48; poem 37: 59n30; poem 39: 48; poem 41: 49; poem 55: 117; poem 57: 49; poem 63: 51; poem 64: 51; poem 65: 54; poem 68: 54–7; poem 69: 120; poem 84: 48–9; poem 85: 46–8; poem 95: 49; poem 101: 54; poem 115: 49; on Roman imperial expansion 46–52, 54, 57–8 Catulus, Q. Lutatius 124 caves and caverns 74–5, 77 Celer, Maecius 13, 134–49, 151 centaurs 74, 77 Centumcellae (Civitavecchia) 182 Ceres 91–2 Christianity and Christians 182, 183–4, 188–90 Christina, Queen of Sweden 62 Cicero 28–9, 52–3; De divinatione 153n38, De officiis 40; De oratore 124, 186–7; De provinciis consularibus 58n4; Epistulae ad Atticum 124, 194, 211n2; Epistulae ad familiares 17n20; Philippics 78n13, 79n17; Pro Balbo 166 Cilicia 101, 105

Index 219 Cinna (Helvius Cinna) 53; Propemptikon Pollionis 137; Zmyrna 49 Claudius 189, 191n22 Cleopatra 102, 136–7, 139–42 clerks 91 Clytemnestra 198 Columella: De re rustica 169n10 Constantine 188 Constantinople 183 Corcyra (Corfu, city in Greece) 81, 99, 194 Cordoba 164–5 Corinna 88–91, 138 Corinth 138 Cornelius Balbus 166, 171n36 Corydon 70–1, 72 Countryside (rus) 48, 89, 140, 209–10; fantasy of 12, 62, 65–6, 72–3, 99–100, 104; urbs–rus discourse 81, 86, 100, 105, 161–2, 167 Crassus, L. Licinius 124, 153n38 Cumae 179 Cybele 51, 170–1n13 Cynthia 40, 82–8, 91, 119 Cyprus 1–2, 49 Cyrene (city in Libya) 36, 37 Dacia 202 Daedalus 178 Damon 70–1 Danaids 123–4; see also porticoes: Porticus of the Danaids Daphnis 71–2 Delia 40, 86, 89–91, 98, 103–5, 194 Diana 70, 75–7, 87 Dionysus see Bacchus Dionysius of Halicarnassus 64, 78n6, 78n8, 78n9, 78n10 Dionysius the Periegete 186 Domitian, Emperor 144, 149, 157, 167 domus 32, 54–8, 103–4, 150; boundaries of 54, 56, 99–100, 104–5, 106–7 Doña Mencía (city in Spain) 197–8 Dura–Europas (town in Syria) 212n23 effeminacy 50, 102, 119, 162, 165 Egeria 183–4, 189–90, Egypt 37, 38, 49, 81, 139, 149; and Roman civil war 102, 136–7, 141; Colossus of Memnon in 140; gods of 98–9, 101–2, 105–7, 122, 123, 138–40, (see also individual gods); papyrus from 16n5, 17n20, 199; pyramids of

140, 191n15; as tourist destination 116, 135, 138–42, 146; see also Abydos; Alexandria; Canopus; Memphis elegy 4, 14, 82–3, 147, 148, 201–2, 206; and Arcadia 72–3, 74, 79n21, 81; and the built environment of Rome 119–21, 123; and the countryside 81, 86, 89, 92, 100, 104, 105; and the Golden Age 99–105, 194; and imperialism 82, 83, 85, 89, 90–3, 104, 170n20; and urbanity 81, 83, 86, 89–91, 100, 105, 115; and women’s mobility 9–10, 12, 82–93 Eliot, George 151 Emerita (city in Spain) 164–5, 210 Ephesus 37, 183 epic 6, 8, 15, 75, 76, 82–5, 89, 167, 182; and imperialism 13, 83, 135–49, 151; and Roman civil war 135–6, 137, 141–2, 144–51; and sea voyages 2, 15, 54, 83, 134, 136–8, 146–7, 149–50 Epidamnus (Durrës, city in Illyria) 27, 36 Epidaurus (city in Greece) 35 epigraphy 15, 47, 90–3, 189; milestone markers (miliaria) 14, 183, 196–7, 198; Senatus Consultum de Gnaio Pisone Patre 207; tabellaria 197–9; and travelers 4, 10, 12, 14, 195–211; see also epitaphs epitaphs 10, 14, 92, 195–6, 200–8, 211 Eretria (town in Greece) 38 Euboea (region of Greece) 211n1 Evander 63–8, 76, 77 exile 65–7, 70, 76, 77, 78n8, 178; authors in 4, 153n41, 168 exoticism 86; and goods 31, 32–3, 117, 125, 157; and people 10, 31, 33, 40, 157, 166; and places and place names 37, 50, 85, 143; see also imperialism; luxury goods Fabrateria (city in Italy) 208 Falerii (city in Italy) 82 farmers 86, 108, 209 fauns 65–6 Fates 108 festivals 6, 11, 28, 67, 189; of Bona Dea 89; Dionysia 35–6; Isthmian games 138; ludi 11, 26, 32–3, 35–7, 86, 125; Lupercalia 64, 68–9 fishermen 34–5, 178

220

Index

Flavian dynasty 134–6, 144, 151, 157–8; literature of 13, 63, 135, 143, 146, 150–1 fora 31, 114, 207; Forum of Augustus 117; Forum of Caesar (Julian Forum) 116, 126; Forum Romanum 38, 118–9, 123 forests 51, 65–7, 69, 71–3, 76, 161, 176 Formiae (Formia, city in Italy) 49 freedmen and freedwomen 5, 12, 27, 32, 40, 82, 90–1, 93, 210, 214n61 Freud, Sigmund 107, 109 Gades (Cádiz, city in Spain) 13, 158–9, 164–6, 198; see also puellae Gaditanae Gallus, C. Cornelius 12, 71–5, 77, 81–5, 88–9 gardens 117, 118, 124–6 Garonne valley 178, 182 Gaul 47, 49, 88, 101, 157, 175, 177, 185; Aquitaine in 82, 98, 101–2, 105, 108, 177; see also Autun; Avaricum; Bordeaux; Bruère–Allichamps; Lugdunum Convenarum; Moselle valley Germanicus 134–5, 140 Germany 47, 49; see also Moselle valley Gibbon, Edward 175 gladiators 88, 121 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 62, 187 Golden Age 11–2, 66, 99–105, 107, 109, 194 Gorgona (island in Italy) 185 Goths 14, 183 Gracchus, Tiberius 212n15 Grand Tour 187 Gratian 190n5 Greece 5, 8, 82, 108, 116, 134, 142, 162; and Egyptian–Greek cultural hybridity 139–40; and Greeks in Rome 90–1, 93; and Greek travelers 8, 15, 51; literature of 26, 29, 35, 38, 186, 189–90, 198, 200; Roman cultural appropriation of 2, 9, 11–3, 40, 64, 117–8, 124, 139, 143, 149; see also Arcadia; Athens; Calydon; Euboea; Smyrna; Thebes; Thessaly Hades 76 Hadrian’s Wall 212n23 Hannibal 185 Haydn, Joseph 62

Hebe 56–7 Hector 167 Hecuba 167 Helen 1–2 Helena (mother of Constantine) 188 Heliodorus 5 Hercules 28, 56–7, 65, 78n7, 84, 108, 166; see also temples: Temple of Hercules Magnus Custos Hesiod 2; Theogony 81; Works and Days 194 highwaymen (latrones) 210 Hippolytus 159, 167 Hispania see Spain Holy Land 184, 188 Homer 179; Iliad 148, 176; Odyssey, 2, 6, 54, 187, 188 Horace 14, 40; Ars poetica 148; Carmen Saeculare 134, 136, 140, 147, 190n5; Epodes 161; Odes 1.3: 1–3, 15, 140; Odes 1.22: 95n41; Odes 2.4.1: 91, 95n32; Odes 3.6: 40; Satires 1.5: 4–6, 15, 194–6, 198–9, 211n2; Satires 1.6: 7; Satires 1.9: 4, 7–8; Satires 2.3: 153n42 Hylaeus (centaur) 74 Ictinus (architect) 178 Idume 143–4 Ilam (town in England) 212n23 Illyria 27, 71, 82–4, 86; see also Epidamnus Illyrian War, First 27 immigrants and immigration 64–6, 69, 157 imperialism 8–11; and conceptual geography 2–4, 8–9, 47, 121, 134–6, 141–6, 151, 163–4, 181; and roads 102–3, 105; and Rome as imperial center 115–16, 134; and trade 9, 27, 143–4, 150, 161; and women’s mobility 82, 85, 90–3; see also maps and mapping; roads India 38, 49, 50–1, 91, 100 inns and taverns 5, 87–8, 189, 196, 199 Ino (Leucothea) 137–8 Interamna (city in Italy) 208 Isis 98, 106, 138–40, 191n21; see also temples: Temple of Isis itineraries 6, 12–3, 81, 114–27, 139–43, 163, 198–9; see also Vicarello cups

Index 221 Janus 66–7, 104 Jerusalem 134 John the Apostle 183 Judaism and Jews 116, 189 Judaea 143–4; see also Avra; Holy Land; Jerusalem Julius Caesar 47, 49, 81, 141–2, 145–7, 149, 166, 171n37, 191n9 Juno 57, 70, 87–8, 149; see also temples: Temple of Juno Regina Jupiter 27, 57, 65, 68, 69–70, 102, 116, 144; see also temples: Temple of Jupiter Stator Juvenal: 140, 169n12, 170n13, 170n16, 188 Kaunos (town in Asia Minor) 197 Kibyra (town in Asia Minor) 197 Lacan, Jacques 9, 46, 47–8, 98–9, 101, 106–7 Lampsacus (city in Asia Minor) 159 Lanuvium (city in Italy) 87 Laodamia 56–7 Lesbia 50–1, 57, 58 Leuctra 95n32 Libya 135 literacy 201–2, 211 Livia Drusilla 116, 118, 121–2, 124; see also porticoes: Porticus of Livia Livy 33, 41n12, 64, 78n11, 79n14, 164 love 81–2, 109, 114–17, 119–27, 194–5; in Arcadia 71–5, 77; and fidelity 50–1, 55–7; in the Golden Age 99–101, 103–5, 194; and women’s mobility 10, 12, 82–90, 93 Lucan 150–1, 158, 164; Bellum Civile 13, 135–8, 141–2, 144–50 Luceria (city in Italy) 209 Lucilius (Gaius Lucilius): 6, 199 Lucretia 159 Lugdunum Convenarum (Valcabrere, town in France) 210 Luna (city in Italy) 182, 184 luxury goods 57, 103–4, 117, 125, 136, 140, 143–5, 157; and gender 53, 89, 91–2; at the marketplace 29, 31 Lycaon (king of Arcadia) 69–70 Lycoris (Cytheris) 72, 83–4, 88 Lyon 191n22 Macedonia 48, 95n32, 142, 185; see also Pella Maecenas 5, 16–17n12

Mamurra 49, 52 Menalcas 71 Manilius 70 Mantua 164, 179 maps and mapping 8, 15, 196; and imperialism 57; Tabula Peutingeriana (Peutinger Map) 196; and texts as maps 14, 50, 182, 185–90, 196–9; see also cartography, mental; itineraries marble 116, 118, 125, 182, 184, 206; see also statuary Mark Antony 68, 72, 102, 141 markets 26, 37, 38–9, 208–10; theatrical performances at 25–6, 28, 33, 36–3, 40; see also nundinal lists Mars 68, 75; see also temples: Temple of Mars Ultor Martial 9, 10, 135, 143; Apophoreta 157, 158, 159, 167; de Spectaculis 157; Epigrams 40, 157–8; Epigrams Book One 94n12, 157, 160–5, 167; Epigrams Book Two 160, 166; Epigrams Book Three 157, 162–3, 165; Epigrams Book Four 162; Epigrams Book Five 157, 166–7, 170n16; Epigrams Book Six 160; Epigrams Book Seven 160–1; Epigrams Book Eight 160; Epigrams Book Ten 157, 162, 167–8; Epigrams Book Eleven 157, 158–9, 165, 167; Epigrams Book Twelve 157–8, 163, 166, 168; Spanish identity of 13–4, 158–9, 161–8; Xenia 157 Medes 185 Mediolanum (Milan) 197 Megara 37 Meleager 75, 95n32 memory: and epitaphs 196, 200–8; historical 145, 148, 151, 184–5, 190; in travel writing, 14, 175–6, 183–7, 190 Memphis 139, 189 Menalcas 71 Menander 38; Epitrepontes 35; Misoumenos 29 Menander Rhetor 176, 179 Mercenary War 27 merchants and traders 11, 25–40, 104, 209–10 Mercury 27–8, 39 Messalla 12, 81, 98–109, 194–5 Milanion 73–5, 77 Minturnae (Minturno, city in Italy) 208 Misenum (Miseno, village in Italy) 84

222

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mobility turn 7–8 Monterotondo (town in Italy) 201 mosaics 178 Mosella (Moselle) river 11, 176, 178–82, 187 Moselle valley 175–6, 178–9, 182, 187–9 mountains 56, 63, 71, 75, 77, 161; Alps 72, 83, 88; Apennines 185–6; Mt. Helicon 81; Mt. Lycaeus 64, 69, 71, 76, 81; Mt. Maenalus 64, 69, 71, 73, 76–7, 81; Mt. Taurus 105; Mt. Ventoux 191n16; Pyrenees 177 Muses 81 music 11, 31, 63–4, 70–2, 100, 106, 166–7 naiads see nymphs Naples 135; Bay of Naples 136–7, 149–50, 178–9 Nectanebo (pharaoh of Egypt) 189 Nemesis 89, 91–2 Nemi 87 Neriomagus see Aquae Neri Nero 150 Neumagen (town in Germany) 176 Nicolet, Claude 46–7 Nile river 12, 50, 98, 108–9, 164–5, 178; as Father Nile 106–7; secrets of 105–6, 138–9, 141, 149, 151, 191n9 Nuceria (city in Italy) 209 nundinal lists 14, 208–10; Latium parapegma 208 nymphs 66, 68, 72, 73, 176, 178, 181 Octavia 117–8, 121, 124; see also porticoes: Porticus of Octavia Octavian see Augustus Odysseus 6, 15, 54, 99, 188 Oppian: Halieutica 176 Orphic mysteries 107 Osiris 12, 98–9, 100–2, 104–9, 140, 189 Ostia (port in Italy) 152n9, 182 Ovid 9, 164–5; Amores 81, 88–91, 123, 138, 151n2, 153n40, 170n14, 182–3; Ars Amatoria 1 81, 95n33, 114–21, 122–4, 126–7, 151n2, 152n3; Ars Amatoria 2 74–5, 95n33, 127n3, 128n4; Ars Amatoria 3 12–3, 95n33, 114–5, 118–24, 126–7; Epistulae ex Ponto 4, 95n32, 126; Fasti 63, 64, 66–9; Metamorphoses 40, 63, 69–70, 152n24, 176, 177, 190n5; Remedia Amoris 95n32; Tristia 119, 123, 125–6, 153n41, 178, 206, 211

Paeligni 164–5, 171n31 paintings 32, 116, 118; wall paintings 137, 178 Palaemon (Melicertes) 137–8 Palestrina (city in Italy) 178 Palmyra 210 Pan 64, 68, 70–1, 165, 181 Panegyrici Latini 186 papyrus 6, 16n5, 17n20, 72, 198 Parthenius 75 Parthenopaeus 63, 75–7 Parthia 49, 73, 144–5, 185 Patara (town in Asia Minor) 197 Patavium (Padua, city in Italy) 159, 198 Pausanias 64, 189–90 Pelias 167 Pella (city in Macedonia) 37 Pellio, T. Publilius 25–6 Pentateuch 190 Perge (city in Asia Minor) 207 Persia 29–30, 37, 116 Petrarch 191n16 Petronius Satyricon 35 Phaethon 70 Philemon 26 Philo of Athens 178 Phoenicia 158, 165, 169n10 pilgrimage 2, 36–7, 183–4, 190 Pillars of Hercules 165 pimps 28–32, 36–9, 165 Pindar 2, 98 pirates and piracy 25, 27, 28, 30, 32 Pisa 182, 184, 186, 188 Piso, Calpurnius 150 Plancia Magna 207 Plautus 9, 11, 12; Amphitruo 27–8, 31, 33–4, 37–8; Asinaria 33–4, 37, 39; Aulularia 38–9; Bacchides 26, 31, 37, 39; Captivi 31, 33, 36, 38–9; Casina 31, 39–40; Cistellaria 35, 39; Curculio 31, 35–8, 39; Epidicus 29, 31, 35, 37, 38–9; Menaechmi 25–6, 28, 31, 36–7, 38–9; Mercator 25, 26, 30, 31, 35, 37, 38–9; Miles Gloriosus 25, 31–2, 38–40; Mostellaria 37, 38–9; Persa 29–30, 34, 37, 38–9; Poenulus 28–9, 31–3, 36–7, 38–9; Pseudolus 31, 39; Rudens 15, 34–7, 38–9; Stichus 26, 31, 37, 39; Trinummus 31, 37–8; Truculentus 31, 39 Pliny the Elder 47, 118, 129n34, 144, 152n23, 186, 188–9 Pliny the Younger 170n16, 171n39, 191n13, 194, 211n2

Index 223 Plotius Tucca 5 Plutarch: On Isis and Osiris 191n21; Life of C. Gracchus 212n15 Polla (city in Italy) 197 Polla (wife of Pollius Felix) 150–1 Pollius Felix 13, 136, 150 Polybius 27, 63, 64–5, 71, 75, 77 Pompey (Gn. Pompeius Magnus) 47, 49, 52, 57, 118, 137, 142, 144; see also porticoes: Porticus of Pompey Pomponius Mela 169n10 Pontus 49 Populonia (town in Italy) 182 Porcius Latro 169n10 porticoes: Porticus of the Danaids 118, 123–4, 126; Porticus of Livia 116, 118, 124, 126, 127; Porticus of Octavia 117–8, 126; Porticus of Octavius 117–8, 121, 124; Porticus of Pompey 116–9, 121, 124, 126, 127; Porticus Philippi 117; as spaces for walking 115, 120, 124–6 Portus Herculis (Porto Ercole, town in Italy) 182 Pozzuoli (city in Italy or Naples) 138, 150 Praeneste (city in Italy) 38, 87 Priam 152n14, 167 Priapus 159 Priscus 168 Prometheus 2 Propertius: elegy 1.1: 73–5; elegy 1.4: 82; elegy 1.6: 81–2, 86, 93, 138, 151n2, 194; elegy 1.7: 82; elegy 1.8: 81, 82–4, 89, 147; elegy 1.9: 91; elegy 1.11: 84–5; elegy 1.12: 85; elegy 1.22: 171n30, 190; elegy 2.5: 86; elegy 2.6: 86; elegy 2.16: 83, 86, 88; elegy 2.19: 86; elegy 2.22: 95n33; elegy 2.31: 123; elegy 2.32: 87, 117, 129n18; elegy 3.22: 82; elegy 4.3: 94n19; elegy 4.5: 90; elegy 4.8: 87–8, 119; love in 74–5, 81–90, 93, 194; and Roman architecture 119, 123; and women’s mobility 82–90, 93, 194 prophets 67, 147 prostitutes 25, 28–9, 31–2, 37, 39 Protesilaus 56–7 provincial identity 13–4, 158–9, 161–8, 177–9, 182, 189–90 puellae Gaditanae 13, 158–9, 165–7 Punic War, First 16n5, 33; Second 158

Quintilian 158 rape 26, 35, 78n7 Remus 68, 79n14 Rhegium (city in Italy) 197 Rhodes 34, 37, 38 rivers 3, 10–1, 107–8, 176; Aganippe 81; Arar (Saône) 105; Atax (Aude) 105, 108; Baetis 158; Cydnus 105; Garunna (Garonne) 105, 177, 179; Euphrates 143–5; Hister (Danube) 153n41; Hypanis 85; Liger (Loire) 105; Mincio 71; Permessus 81; Padus (Po) 49, 85; Rhine 50, 83, 176; Rhodanus (Rhône) 105; Satrachus 49; Simoïs 179; Umbro 182; see also Mosella river; Nile river; Tiber river roads 3, 9–10, 15, 98–100, 196–8; Argiletum, 160; and imperialism 12, 15, 102–5, 108–9; Via Appia 87–8, 196; Via Aurelia 183; Via Garibaldi 62; Via Latina 38, 101, 102, 109 Rome 5–6, 7, 12–3, 26, 38, 47–9, 55, 81–2, 84–7, 89–91, 160, 168, 182, 184–5, 208; Aqua Virgo 121; Campus Martius 116–7, 121–3, 125–6, 189; Capitoline Hill 65, 102; Circus Flaminius 116, 117; Circus Maximus 114, 116, 121, 123, 125–6, 127; Columbaria of Vigna Codini 198; mythic prehistory of 65–9; as dangerous 90; Domus Augusta 115, 119, 122, 123; Esquiline Hill 116, 118; gendered space in 117, 119–23, 125–7; as imperial capital 50, 57–8, 83, 90–3, 98, 115–6, 121, 157, 163; Janiculum 62, 67; Palatine 64, 65, 68, 114, 116, 118–9, 121–4; Saepta Julia 121, 123, 124, 127; see also Sack of Rome Romulus 65, 68, 185 Rudge Coppice (town in England) 212n23 Rufius Volusianus 184–5 Rutilius Namatianus 6, 9; De reditu suo 13–4, 175, 182–6, 188–90, 198 Sabines 41n10, 170n25 Sack of Rome 14, 175, 190 Saepinum (town in Italy) 207, 209–10 sailors 1–2, 5, 33, 40, 100, 136, 194 Salona (Solin, town in Dalmatia) 205 Saturn 12, 65–6, 99–100, 194

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satyrs 66, 176, 178 seas and oceans 1–2, 49; Adriatic Sea 1–2, 36; Atlantic Ocean 165, 179; Black Sea 85, 178; North Sea 134–5; Mediterranean Sea 165, 181–2; Tyrrhenian Sea 136 Secundus of Tarentum 95n32 Senate, Roman 189, 209 Seneca the Elder 164, 169n10 Seneca the Younger 158, 164 Servius: 64, 67, 72–3, 83 Seth (Egyptian god) 106, 109 shepherds 71–3, 77, 139–40, 207, 210 ships 65, 67, 176, 194; and dangers of travel 1–2, 27, 31, 82–3, 134, 137, 147; and imperialism 134, 136–9; in plays 25–6, 28, 34–5 shrines 36, 86, 87, 137 Sicily 37, 72–3, 140, 199; see also Syracuse Sicyon (city in Greece) 35 Sidon 143–4 sightseeing see tourism Silvanus 71 Sinuessa (city in Italy) 209 Sirius (Dog Star) 105–6 slavery 2, 25–7, 29–38, 40, 74, 82, 157, 158–9, 165–7, 210; and enslaved actors 27, 29; and mobility 5, 9, 11, 89–93; North American 29; and sex trafficking 12, 28, 31, 35–40 Smyrna (city in Greece) 179 Soja, Edward 16n4 soldiers 72, 99, 195; centurions 161, 164; in plays 11, 25, 29, 31–2, 38, 40; epitaphs for 202 Sorrento 151 Sothis see Sirius souvenirs 37, 212n24; trafficked humans as 32, 36 Spain 47, 48, 49, 157–9; Baesucci 200; Baetica 158–9, 164–5; and Celtiberian identity 161–4, 168; Lusitania 165; and Spanish–born Romans 13–4, 158; see also Bilbilis; Carthago Nova; Cordoba; Doña Mencía; Gades; Martial: Spanish identity of; Tarragona spatial turn 7–8, 16n4, 115, 128n11 Statius 9, 136; Achilleid 150; Silvae 138, 145, 181, 190; Silvae 1.3: 179; Silvae 1.6: 169n12, 170n16; Silvae 2.2: 150, 179; Silvae 2.7: 149; Silvae 3.1: 150;

Silvae 3.2: 13, 134–51; Silvae 4.4: 151n3; Thebaid 11, 13, 63, 75–7, 135, 137–8, 146–8, 150–1 statuary 117–8, 123, 171n37, 182, 184, 188, 189 Stella, L. Arruntius 164, 171n31 Stilicho 182 Stoicism 124 Strabo 118, 126, 139–40, 158, 171n37 Strato 95n32 Suetonius: Augustus 125, 129n34; Divus Julius 171n37; Tiberius 82 Sulmo (Sulmona, city in Italy) 82, 178 Syracuse (city in Sicily) 36 Syria 31, 49, 105, 116, 134–5, 138, 202 Tacitus 134–5, 150–1, 191n22 Tarentum 36, 38–9 Tarraco (Tarragona, town in Spain) 164, 202 temples 38, 69, 81, 89, 117, 122, 125–6, 166, 184, 207; Temple of Hercules Magnus Custos 117; Temple of Isis 114, 116, 121, 123, 126, 127; Temple of Juno Regina 129n21; Temple of Jupiter Stator 129n21; Temple of Mars Ultor 117; Temple of Palatine Apollo 114, 118, 121–3; Temple of Peace 134; Temple of the Tyrrhenian Minerva 136; Temple of Venus (Calydon) 28, 38 Terence 32 Terentius Lucanus 32 Teuta (Queen) 27 theater 63; at religious festivals 26, 28, 33, 35–7; and sex trafficking 28–31, 35–7, 38–40; and trade 11, 25–40; see also slavery: enslaved actors theaters and amphitheaters 47, 116, 121–2, 127, 144, 163; amphitheater of Statilius Taurus 127; theater of Marcellus 117–18, 126 Theban War 75 Thebes 29, 135, 148, 151 Theocritus 71–2 Theophanes of Hermopolis 198 Theseus 51 Thesprotus 84 Thessaly 135, 142 Tiber river 65, 68, 121, 158, 179, 184 Tiberius, Emperor 118 Tibullus 91, 95n32; elegy 1.1: 99, 102–4, 194; elegy 1.2: 82; elegy 1.3: 81–2, 93,

Index 225 99–100, 102, 194–5, 200, 206, 211; elegy 1.5: 86, 89, 105; elegy 1.6: 89–90, 98; elegy 1.7: 9, 12, 82, 98–102, 105–9; elegy 1.8: 120; elegy 1.9: 95n32, 95n33; elegy 2.3: 81, 89, 91–2, 104; elegy 2.6: 90 Tibur (Tivoli, town in Italy) 87 Titus, Emperor 144 tourism 2, 146, 187; in Rome 115–27; sex tourism 32, 40 trade see imperialism; merchants and traders; theater trade fairs see markets travel writing 13–4, 175, 185, 187; and ethnography 188–9; and imagined journeys 185–7; see also cartography, mental; itineraries triumphs 47, 89, 115, 118, 128n16, 140, 143–4; of Messalla 101–3, 105–6 Trivicium (city in Italy) 5 Troy 51, 54–6, 58, 142, 179; and Rome’s origins 54–5, 56; and Trojan War 54, 56, 137, 176, 198; see also Homer Tullus (Volcacius Tullus) 81–2, 138 Turdetani/Tartessi 158–9, 165 Tusculum (Frascati, city in Italy) 87, 124 Tydeus 67, 76 Tyre 91–2, 105, 143–4 urbanity: and gender 89–91, 114, 119, 121–7; and identity 9, 12–3, 48, 52, 57; and urbanization 158, 165, 167; and urbs–rus discourse 81, 86, 100, 105, 161–2, 167

Vada Volaterrana 182 Valerius Flaccus 144 Varius (L. Varius Rufus) 5 Varro: 64; De lingua Latina 42n21, 190n8 Velleius Paterculus 166 Venus 28, 36, 87–8, 104, 185; see also temples: Temple of Venus (Calydon) Venusia (Venosa, city in Italy) 6 Vergil 11, 147, 164–5, 179; Aeneid 2, 8, 63, 64–6, 135, 137–41, 145, 147–9, 184, 187; Eclogues 11, 63, 70, 136; Eclogue 2: 72; Eclogue 4: 64, 70; Eclogue 5: 72; Eclogue 6: 81; Eclogue 7: 71; Eclogue 8: 71; Eclogue 10: 71–5, 77, 81, 83–4, 93; Georgics 136, 142, 145, 153n35, 177, 190n5; in Horace 1–2, 5, 134 Verona 47, 55, 58, 164, 171n31 Vespasian 134, 144 Vicarello cups 198, 212n24, 213n25 Vienne (city in France) 161, 164 villas 124, 137, 150–1, 176, 178–9, 181, 182; of Domitian 157; and patronage 136, 150; rural 81, 89 Vitruvius 78n9, 128n14 walking 7, 12–3, 114–15; erotic aspects of 91–2, 120–1; gendered aspects of 114, 119–22, 125; and social position 122, 124–5 wilderness 63–76, 161, 167 Zeugma 143–5