Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire (Pierides) 1527538117, 9781527538115

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Illustrations
Contributors
Abbreviations
Preface
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Bibliography
Index Locorum
General Index
Index of Greek Words

Citation preview

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

Pierides Studies in Greek and Latin Literature Series Editors: Philip Hardie, Stratis Kyriakidis, Antonis K. Petrides Volume I Stratis Kyriakidis Catalogues of Proper Names in Latin Epic Poetry: Lucretius – Virgil – Ovid Volume II Antonis K. Petrides and Sophia Papaioannou (eds) New Perspectives on Postclassical Comedy Volume III Myrto Garani and David Konstan (eds) The Philosophizing Muse: The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry Volume IV Sophia Papaioannou (ed.) Terence and Interpretation Volume V Stephen Harrison (ed.) Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses Nine Studies Volume VI Stratis Kyriakidis (ed.) Libera Fama: An Endless Journey Volume VII Vayos Liapis, Maria Pavlou, Antonis K. Petrides (eds) Debating with the Eumenides: Aspects of the Reception of Greek Tragedy in Modern Greece

Pierides Studies in Greek and Latin Literature

Volume VIII

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire Edited by

Consuelo Ruiz-Montero

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire Series: Pierides Edited by Consuelo Ruiz-Montero This book first published 2019 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2019 by Consuelo Ruiz-Montero and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-5275-3811-7 ISBN (13): 978-1-5275-3811-5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Illustrations ............................................................................................... vii Contributors ............................................................................................. viii Abbreviations ........................................................................................... xii Preface ...................................................................................................... xv Introduction ................................................................................................ 1 Consuelo Ruiz-Montero Chapter One .............................................................................................. 32 The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period Angelos Chaniotis Chapter Two ............................................................................................. 49 Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire Ewen Bowie Chapter Three ........................................................................................... 81 Writing, Orality and Paideia in Plutarch’s The Banquet of the Seven Sages José-Antonio Fernández Delgado Chapter Four ........................................................................................... 100 Plutarch and the Novel: Register and Embedded Narratives in the De Jenio Socratis and in Achilles Tatius Harold Tarrant Chapter Five ........................................................................................... 124 Oral Tales and Greek Fictional Narrative in Roman Imperial Prose Consuelo RuizMontero

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Table of Contents

Chapter Six ............................................................................................. 152 Embedded Orality in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Florida Loreto Núñez Chapter Seven......................................................................................... 185 The Spoken Word, or the Prestige of Orality in Lucian Francesca Mestre Chapter Eight .......................................................................................... 204 ‘Comic Books’ in Greco-Roman Antiquity Antonio Stramaglia Chapter Nine........................................................................................... 219 Jokes between Orality and Writing: The Case of the Philogelos Mario Andreassi Chapter Ten ............................................................................................ 240 Oral and Material Aspects of Sanctuaries in Roman Greece: Delphi, Plutarch and Pausanias Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis Chapter Eleven ....................................................................................... 263 Egyptian Literature and Orality in the Roman Period Jacqueline E. Jay Chapter Twelve ...................................................................................... 281 The Island that was a Fish: An Ancient Folktale in the Alexander Romance and in Other Texts of Late Antiquity Ioannis M. Konstantakos Bibliography ........................................................................................... 302 Index Locorum ....................................................................................... 350 General Index ......................................................................................... 367 Index of Greek Words ............................................................................ 387

ILLUSTRATIONS

1. P.Oxy. XXII 2331 ............................................................................ 216 2a. P.Köln IV 179: Parodic contrast between Hercules and a gryllos ... 217 2b. P.Köln IV 179 (detail, digitally reworked): Hercules struggling with the Cretan bull ................................................................................. 218 3. Photograph of a view of the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. Author’s photograph ....................................................................................... 243 4. Plan of the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi, end of the 2nd century A.D. EfA/ D. Laroche .............................................................................. 244 223 Treasury of the Athenians 422 Temple of Apollo 605 Cnidian Lesche; see J.-Fr. Bommelaer, Guide de Delphes, Le site, (1991) pl. V for full key to numbered monuments. 5. Photograph of the remains of the Treasury of the Athenians. Author’s photograph ....................................................................................... 251 6. Photograph of the remains of the temple of Apollo. Author’s photograph ....................................................................................... 254 7. Reconstruction drawing of the East elevation of the temple of Apollo. EfA/ E. Hansen ................................................................................ 255 8. Reconstruction drawing of the West elevation of the temple of Apollo. EfA/ E. Hansen ................................................................................ 255

CONTRIBUTORS

Mario Andreassi (1969) graduate in Greek and Latin Grammar (1993) and Doctor of Philosophy in Greek and Latin Philology (1998), is currently Associate Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the “Dipartimento di Studi Umanistici”, University “Aldo Moro” (Bari), where he teaches courses on Greek literature (“Cultura Letteraria della Grecia Antica”) and grammar (“Grammatica Greca”). His published research ranges across many fields of Greek literature: humorous literature (Philogelos), epigram (Meleager), popular mime (Moicheutria and Charition), fictitious biography (Vita Aesopi), epistolography (Alciphron), Imperial rhetoric (Himerius). Ewen Bowie, now an Emeritus Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, was Praelector in Classics there from 1965 to 2007, and successively University Lecturer, Reader, and Professor of Classical Languages and Literature in Oxford University. He has published on early Greek elegiac, iambic and lyric poetry, Aristophanes, Hellenistic poetry, and many aspects of Imperial Greek literature and culture. He recently completed a commentary on Longus, Daphnis and Chloe (CUP) and edited a collection entitled Herodotus. Narrator, scientist, historian (de Gruyter 2018). He has co-edited collections of papers on Philostratus (CUP 2009) and Archaic and Classical Choral Song (de Gruyter 2011). Angelos Chaniotis is Professor of Ancient History and Classics at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. His current research on the social and cultural history of the Hellenistic World and the Roman East focuses on memory, emotion, and identity. He is editor of the Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum and of the inscriptions of Aphrodisias. His books include War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History (2005) and Age of Conquests: The Greek World from Alexander to Hadrian (2018). José Antonio Fernández Delgado has been Professor of Greek Philology at the University of Salamanca (1991-2017) and at the University of Extremadura (1987-1991). He has made research at Birkbeck College (London), Christ Church College (Oxford), Freie Universität Berlin, Harvard University, Fondation Hardt, and Humboldt Universität Berlin, with grants from the British Academy, Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung

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and the Spanish Ministry of Education and Science; he has directed many projects of research and has participated in international conferences in many European universities; he has published ten books and more than one hundred fifty papers in prestigious international journals and volumes. Jacqueline E. Jay (Ph.D. 2008, University of Chicago) is Associate Professor of History at Eastern Kentucky University. She is the author of Orality and Literacy in the Demotic Tales (Brill, 2016). In addition to her work on ancient Egyptian literature, her current research projects focus on the publication of Demotic ostraca and graffiti. Ioannis M. Konstantakos studied classical philology at the universities of Athens and Cambridge and is now Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. His scholarly interests include ancient comedy, ancient narrative, fiction, folklore, and the relations between Greek and Near-Eastern literatures and cultures. He has published four books and numerous articles on these topics. He has also given many lectures, conference papers and seminars in Greek and European higher institutions. He has received scholarships from the Greek State Scholarships Foundation and the “Alexander S. Onassis” Public Benefit Foundation. In 2009 he was awarded the prize of the Academy of Athens for the best classical monograph published within the previous five years. In 2012 he was a finalist for the Greek state prize for critical essay. Francesca Mestre is Professor of Greek Philology at the University of Barcelona. In 1991 she published her PhD thesis (defended in 1985) on essay as a literary genre in Greek literature of the Imperial period (L’assaig a la literatura grega d'època imperial, Barcelona 1991). Her main field of research is the literature and culture of the hellenophone part of the Roman Empire. She works on authors like Dio Chrysostom and Philostratus (she has also published translations of these in Catalan and Spanish), and Lucian, the editing and translating of whose complete works she has been working on since 2000. She has published several articles and chapters of collective books, and coordinates the work of the “Graecia Capta” research group at the University of Barcelona. She published (as co-editor with P. Gómez), Lucian of Samosata. Greek Writer and Roman Citizen (2010), and Three Centuries of Greek Culture under the Roman Empire (2014). Loreto Núñez studied Classical Philology, Hispanic and comparative literature and has a PhD in comparative literature. She was visiting researcher at Kyknos, Research Centre for Ancient Narrative Literature at the University of Wales-Swansea, the Swiss Institute in Rome and the

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Contributors

Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. Currently, she is deputy assistant professor in comparative literature at the University of Lausanne. She has published mainly on the ancient novel and the Second Sophistic; in 2013, she published Voix inouïes. Étude comparative de l’enchâssement dans Leucippé et Clitophon d’Achille Tatius et les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Saarbrücken, 2 vols. She also worked on the reception of the ancient novel in 16th and 17th century Spanish and French literature, the (re)writing of Greco-Roman myths, fairy tales, and translating for children. Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis researches on the cultural history of space and objects in ancient Greece; her work evokes intimate cultural histories, often of marginalised groups. She also writes about Classical reception of material culture in Europe c.1760-1830. She is the author of Truly beyond Wonders: Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asklepios (OUP, 2010), and ten chapters and articles. She is currently co-editing two volumes on the reception of Greek vases; she is also working on two longer term projects, on Greek votives, and on the experience of the marvellous. She studied Classics at Oxford (MA 1991) and History of Art at The Courtauld Institute of Art (MA 1995 and PhD 2001). She is currently Lecturer in Classics at the University of St Andrews; previously she has held a Leverhulme Special Research Fellowship, and has worked at Corpus Christi College, Oxford and King’s College London. Consuelo Ruiz-Montero studied Classical Philology at the Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, and holds a PhD from the Universidad de Salamanca (1979). She is currently Professor of Greek Philology at the Universidad de Murcia. Her research interests include Greek rhetoric (mainly Greek theories on style), koine Greek, and mainly the Greek novel, on which she has published two books (La estructura de la novela griega. Análisis funcional, Salamanca 1988; La novela griega, Madrid 2006), and many chapters and articles on the different aspects of the genre. Currently she is especially focused on the study of the papyri of the Greek novel. Antonio Stramaglia (1967) is Professor of Latin at the University of Bari. He has worked on Greek and Latin fiction (Apuleius, papyrus fragments…); the supernatural in classical literature; ancient paradoxography; “comics” and other forms of interaction between text and image in Greece and Rome; school in antiquity, with special emphasis on declamation; Roman satire (Juvenal); Galen; Terence. Among his books: Res inauditae, incredulae. Storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco-latino (Bari 1999); Giovenale, Satire 1, 7, 12, 16. Storia di un poeta (Bologna 2008, corr. repr. 2017); Phlegon Trallianus. Opuscula De rebus mirabilibus et De longaevis (Berlin – New

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York 2011, Bibliotheca Teubneriana); commentaries to five of [Quintilian]’s Major Declamations (Cassino 1999-2017). He is currently preparing a new critical edition of the Major Declamations for the Loeb Classical Library; and of Apuleius’s Operum deperditorum reliquiae for the Oxford Classical Texts. Harold Tarrant studied at Cambridge and Durham UK, and taught Classics for thirty-eight years in Australian universities. After retiring to live in the UK from 2012 he remains Professor Emeritus at the University of Newcastle Australia. Recent publications include Proclus: Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, vols 6, Cambridge 2017; François Renaud and Harold Tarrant, The Platonic Alcibiades I: the Dialogue and its Ancient Reception, Cambridge 2015; and (edited with D. A. Layne, D. Baltzly, and F. Renaud) Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Plato in Antiquity, Leiden 2018.

ABBREVIATIONS

BCH BGU

Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique, Athens 1877Aegyptische Urkunden aus den königlichen Museen zu Berlin, Griechische Urkunden, Berlin 1895-1976. CGL G. Goetz (ed.), Corpus Glossariorum Latinorum, 7 vols, Leipzig 1888-1923. CIG Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum, 4 vols, Berlin 1828-1877. CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin 1863-. Corinth B. D. Meritt, Corinth, VIII.1, Greek Inscriptions, 1896-1926, Cambridge Mass. 1931. Cos D. Bosnakis and K. Hallof (eds), IG XII 4.2. Inscriptiones Coi Insulae, Berlin – ȃew York 2012. Epet. Het. Ster. Mel. ǼʌİIJȘȡȓȢ ǼIJĮȚȡİȓĮȢ ȈIJİȡİȠİȜȜĮįȚțȫȞ ȂİȜİIJȫȞ, Athens 1968FD Bourguet et alii, Fouilles de Delphes, III, 1-6, Paris 1929-1985. FGrH F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 15 vols, Berlin 1923-1958. GVI W. Peek, Griechische Vers-Inschriften, Berlin 1955. I.Aphr. C. Roueché, J. Reynolds and G. Bodard, Inscriptions of Aphrodisias, London 2007. (http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph /2007/html). I.Beroea L. Gounaropoulou and M. B. Hatzopoulos, ‫ݑ‬ʌȚȖȡĮij‫ޡ‬Ȣ ȀȐIJȦ ȂĮțİįȠȞȓĮȢ (ȝİIJĮȟީ IJȠࠎ ǺİȡȝȓȠȣ ‫ށ‬ȡȠȣȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠࠎ ݃ȟȚȠࠎ ȆȠIJĮȝȠࠎ). ȉİࠎȤȠȢ ǹ࢝. ‫ݑ‬ʌȚȖȡĮij‫ޡ‬Ȣ ǺİȡȠȓĮȢ, Athens 1998. IC M. Guarducci, Inscriptiones Creticae I-IV, Rome 1935-1950. ID F. Durrbach, P. Roussel, P. Launey and J. Coupry, Les inscriptions de Délos, 6 vols, Paris 1926-1972. I.Didyma A. Rehm and R. Harder, Didyma, II, Die Inschriften, Berlin 1958. I.Ephesos H. Wankel, R. Merkelbach et alii, Die Inschriften von Ephesos I-VII. Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 11-17, Bonn 1979-1981. IG Inscriptiones Graecae, Berlin 1873-. IGRR Inscriptiones Graecae ad Res Romanas pertinentes, Paris 19111927. IGUR Luigi Moretti, Inscriptiones Graecae Vrbis Romae, Rome 19681990.

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xiii

I.Herakleia L. Jonnes, The Inscriptions of Heraclea Pontica, with a Prosopographia Heracleotica by W. Ameling (IGSK Band 47), Bonn 1994. IK Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, Bonn 1972-. ILS H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, 3 vols, Berlin 18921916. I.Napoli E. Miranda, Iscrizioni greche d’Italia: Napoli, 2 vols, Rome 1990 and 1995. I.Oropos B. C. Petrakos, O‫݋ ݨ‬ʌȚȖȡĮij‫ޡ‬Ȣ IJȠࠎ ‫ޗ‬ȡȦʌȠࠎ, Athens 1997. IOSPE I2 V. Latyshev, Inscriptiones antiquae orae septentrionalis Ponti Euxini Graecae. vol. I. 2nd ed.: Inscriptiones Tyrae Olbiae Chersonesi Tauricae Aliorum Locorum a Danubio usque ad regnum Bosporanum, St. Petersburg 1916. I.Pergamon M. Fraenkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, I-II, Berlin 1890-1895. I.Priene F. Hiller von Gaertringen, Inschriften von Priene, Berlin 1906. I.Side J. Nollé, Side im Altertum. Geschichte und Zeugnisse I: Geographie, Geschichte, Testimonia, griechische und lateinische Inschriften. Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 43, Bonn 1993. I.Smyrna G. Petzl, Die Inschriften von Smyrna I-II. Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 23-24, 3 vols, Bonn 1982-1990. I.Thespiae P. Roesch, Les inscriptions de Thespies, édition électronique mise en forme par G. Argoud, A. Schachter, et G. Vottéro, Lyon 2007 [20092] Laographia ȁĮȠȖȡĮijȓĮ: ǻİȜIJȓȠȞ IJñȢ ‫ݒ‬ȜȜȘȞȚțñȢ ȁĮȠȖȡĮijȚțñȢ ‫ݒ‬IJĮȚȡİȓĮȢ, ਝșોȞĮȚ 1909LDAB Leuven Database of Ancient Books (http://www.trismegistos.org/ldab/). LIMC Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Zurich – Munich (later: Düsseldorf) 1981-1999. LS C. T. Lewis and C. Short, A Latin Dictionary; founded on Andrews’ Edition of Freund´s Latin Dictionary; revised, enlarged, and in great part rewritten, Oxford 1879. H. G. Liddell, R. Scott and H. S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, LSJ9 Oxford 1940, with revised supplement ed. by P. G. W. Glare, Oxford 1996. MAMA VIII W. M. Calder and J. M. R. Cormack, Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua VIII. Monuments from Lycaonia, the PisidoPhrygian Borderland, Aphrodisias, Manchester 1962.

xiv

Abbreviations

O. Bodl. II J. G. Tait and C. Préaux, Greek Ostraka in the Bodleian. Library at Oxford and other various collections, II, London 1955. OLD P. G. W. Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, Oxford 1968-1982. P. Berol.W. Schubart, Papyri Graecae Berolinenses, Bonn 1911. PG J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca, Paris 1857-1963. P.Köln Kölner Papyri, 1976-. P.Lips. L. Mitteis, Griechische Urkunden der Papyrussammlung zu Leipzig, Leipzig 1906 (Milano 1970). P.Lit. London H. J. M. Milne, Catalogue of the Literary Papyri in the British Museum, London 1927 (Milano 1977). P.Oxy. B. P. Grenfell, A. S. Hunt, et alii, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, London 1898PSI G. Vitelli, M. Norsa et alii, Papyri greci e latini (Pubblicazioni della Società Italiana per la ricerca dei papyri greci e latini in Egitto), Firenze 1912RE A. Pauly, G. Wissowa and W. Kroll, Real Encyclopädie d. klassischen Altertumswissenschaft, Stuttgart 1893-1980 SEG Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, Leiden 1923TAM Tituli Asiae Minoris, Wien 1901TLL Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, Leipzig 1900-. ViP U. Horak, Verzeichnis illuminierter edierter Papyri, Pergamente, Papiere und Ostraka (ViP), in ead., Illuminierte Papyri, Pergamente und Papiere, I, Wien 1992, 227-261.

PREFACE

Orality in the Roman Empire – an age of sophisticated literature and widespread literacy – is a topic that deserves greater attention and further research. The purpose of this book is to expand our knowledge of how Greek texts circulated in the Roman Empire. We are interested in the study of three main aspects of orality: orality of origin (the production of the text), orality of representation (the enunciation of the text), and orality of dissemination (the spread of the text). We will examine orality as the ‘product’ of literary creation, which is different from the orality that led to the written texts of the archaic period. The papers presented here analyse both Greek literary works and contemporary inscriptions, the ways they were disseminated and their contact with material culture, together with Egyptian and Latin literary works. For this reason, the interdisciplinary character of the volume may prove of interest to a wider audience than that of ancient Greek scholarship. The starting point for this book was an international conference held at the Roman theatre in Cartagena (Murcia) on the 29-31 May 2014 on the topic of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire. Funding for the conference was provided by the University of Murcia and the Región de Murcia’s “Fundación Séneca”, and the “Dirección General de Investigación Científica y Técnica del Ministerio de Economía, Industria y Competitividad”. I am grateful for the participation of all those who attended, especially of those scholars who came and delivered papers. Most of these papers are published here. José Antonio Artés Hernández and José Antonio Molina Gómez helped me in organising the conference. I should also like to express my gratitude to the Director of the Cartagena Theatre, Elena Ruiz Valderas, for her generosity in allowing us to use this magnificent venue. I would also like to extend our thanks to my colleague Lawrence Kim from Trinity University at Texas for his collaboration in the preparation of this volume. Fundamental to my research have been the stays at the Institut für Klassische Philologie of the University of Munich, the Kommission für Alte Geschichte und Epigraphik of the Deutsches Archäelogisches Institut (Munich), and as a Visiting Professor at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. My deep gratitude to Professors Ernst Vogt (†), Johannes Nollé, and Ewen Bowie for making these stays possible and for their constant support. I would also like to mention here my friends Bettina, Bonnie and Lee, who

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Preface

made my stay at Oxford in the latter stages of preparing this volume such an enjoyable one. The anonymous reader has offered us invaluable suggestions, and encouragement, for which we are so grateful. Last but not least, my most sincere thanks to the editors of the Pierides series, Professors P. Hardie, S. Kyriakidis and A. Petrides, for their continuous support and academic assistance. I do not wish to conclude without expressing my most heartfelt thanks to Eleni Peraki-Kyriakidou for her generous and efficacious help.

INTRODUCTION CONSUELO RUIZ-MONTERO

1. Orality: The Concept and its Beginnings in Greece Orality was the backbone of ancient Greek culture throughout its various periods 1 complemented and interpenetrated by the ‘visual’. 2 Both are evident in what has been called a ‘performative culture’, which admits various forms, both public and private. 3 In the Archaic age pan-Hellenism was expressed through religious festivals that included songs with dances 1

Orality is still relevant today and is a characteristic trait of Mediterranean culture. To give an example, I would like to refer to ‘trovos’, that is, improvised verses typical for Murcia, see Flores Arroyuelo (1977). Evans [(1991) 99, 121] mentions some African comparanda, albeit not without reservations (p. 267). Thomas [(1992) 114, n. 36] reported that long messages are still transmitted in verse in ‘Somali nomads’. Hunter and Rutherford [(2009) 14-16] give some non-Greek parallels on travelling singers and poets. On orality and literacy in the ancient world the proceedings of a biennial series of international conferences have been published, starting with the volume edited by Worthington (1996). Unfortunately, I was unable to see the last volume, N. W. Slater (ed.) (2017) Voice and Voices in Antiquity, Leiden. It is not my intention here to discuss this controversial topic, nor the relations between orality and writing, questions I shall deal with in passing. 2 Cf. schol. vet. in Hes. Theog.: ‫ݸ‬ȡࠛȞIJİȢ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șĮȣȝ‫ޠ‬ȗȠȞIJİȢ ʌȡȠijİȡިȝİșĮ ȜިȖȠȣȢ (266a2) T. 3 See the introduction by Beard (1991), Thomas [(1992) 120] for types of songs, public festivals and private symposia. Evans [(1991) 130] refers to the presence of logioi in Ionian or Dorian ‘panegyreis’ before they appear in ‘pan-Hellenic festivals’. ‘Travelling poets’ were a very significant group, as were the ‘travelling historians’, the ‘intellectuals’ and the ‘performers’: see the introduction in Hunter and Rutherford [(eds) (2009)], where the papers included are focused mainly on the Archaic, Classical and Hellenistic periods, yet, according to the editors, the “travelling poets, and honorific decrees for them, continue to be well attested in the Roman Empire” (p. 8). On p. 22 they note the importance of this phenomenon for the Greek world, mostly overlooked, and add that “it would have looked very different to those who were actually there”. Petrides [(2014) 106-107] insists on the ‘theatrical mentality’ of Hellenistic life, which appears from 4th century B.C. onwards.

2

Introduction

and music, epideictic speeches, processions and rituals, all of which constituted ‘performances’ to be seen and heard: in other words, one attended a ‘spectacle’, a theatron, a habit which was kept alive even, and especially, during the Empire. Both orality and visuality functioned together, as can be detected in literature: Archaic epic, which is the major literary representation of oral culture, made its narration visual with vivid descriptions, 4 and the lyric poets compared them with the plastic arts. This becomes a topos that Horace brilliantly describes as ut pictura poesis (Ars 361). Along with this, the importance of visualisation in historiographical descriptions is also well-known, as is the fact that it continued later. 5 ‘Orality’ is a heterogeneous and polysemic concept, whether it is employed to characterise a certain society or to classify certain uses of spoken or written language as media. ‘Orality’ is usually understood or defined in regard to various procedures for writing a text, which leads to a differentiation of styles and genres. 6 Obviously, however, the term ‘oral’ presupposes its opposite, and in this sense, as Bakker observes, 7 this term “cannot be separated from our own literate perspective”. The Homeric epic is traditionally cited as the prime example of ‘orality’ in all its aspects, namely that of 1) origin, 2) medium, and 3) destination. The first category concerns the production of the text and affects both the author and what we call the ‘matter’, i.e., the literary content. The second category deals with both the performance of the text (and so is related to its transmission, as well) and the way in which the text is represented or enunciated, determining whether we call it ‘real’ or ‘fictitious’ orality. Finally, the third category is solely concerned with the transmission and /or reception of the text. The orality of the Homeric epic has been labelled as total or ‘primary’ orality, because it comprehends all three aspects, i.e. oral production, transmission, and reception or

4

The description of Achilles’ shield at Il. 18.478-608 has served as a model for later rhetoricians in terms of enargeia and evidentia. For Pindar and Simonides see Beard (1991); Thomas (1992) 114-115. 5 On the enargeia of Ctesias see Demetr. De eloc. 212-216. Polybius (2.56.6-12) criticises the excesses in Phylarchus’ historical account, striking in this way the difference between historical and tragical narration. On the relationship between history and oral performance, see below, section 2. 6 See Gnilka (1990); Blänsdorf (1996); Fruyt (1996) who prefer the terms ‘oralité’/ ‘scripturalité’ or even better ‘littérarité’, the latter including the meaning of ‘literacy’. On orality and its types see also Bakker (1999) 29-30. He distinguishes a ‘medial’ use of the term ‘oral’ as opposed to ‘written’ discourse, from a ‘conceptional’ use of ‘oral’ as opposed to ‘literate’ discourse. 7 Bakker (1999) 33.

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

3

destination. 8 Yet these categories can be combined, and some of them are indeed intertwined in Greek literature. Homer stands at the peak of ‘orality’, although the role that writing played in the composition of such extensive and complex works as the Iliad and the Odyssey is debatable. The GrecoRoman literature of the Empire would thus constitute the opposite case, the opposite pole of orality. In this instance, orality entails mainly the presentation /enunciation and the reception of the text. But such an opposition is only apparent, and it would be misleading to see the ‘oral’ and the ‘literate’ aspect of Greek literature as antagonistic, rather than regarding them as complementary, with different relationships according to ages and genres. 9 This is why some scholars suggest the term ‘secondary’ orality, and ignore the possible oral composition of a work, prioritising instead factors like enunciation, performance and reception or destination. Such scholars prefer the terms ‘aurality’ and ‘aural’, given that Greek texts were meant to be read or performed aloud as verbal art for the ears, either in public or in private. 10 For this purpose, euphony and certain stylistic devices and repetitions were used, in addition to rhetorical devices such as ekphrasis and digression. 11 From this point of view the performance of poetry, drama, and oratory was both oral and aural. Moreover, this hypothesis has also been suggested in regard to Plato’s dialogues, which imitate storytelling and heroic tales in an intellectual context of banquets and show the formal marks of oral composition described above, these being presented as oral ‘enunciations’. 12

8

Rossi (1993). See Bakker (1999) 30-31: they “can be seen as the two poles or extremes of a continuum, with numerous gradations in between … In practice, most discourses will display both oral and literate features in varying ratios ...”; p. 36: “In the Greek archaic period writing must have been so different from our notion of writing, so ‘oral’ in fact, that the simple dichotomy between ‘orality’ and literacy breaks down”. He proposes to label Homer’s poetry as ‘special speech’, to replace Parry and Lord’s ‘oral poetry’. 10 J. Russo (1978); Rossi (1993); see further above n. 6 and the discussion by Parker (2009) 186-229: Talking about Latin 145 poetry he argues that ‘aural’ does not make poetry ‘oral’. 11 Trenkner (1960) 74-78; Wheeler (1999) 115; Núñez (2006); Mestre (this volume). For ‘ring compositions’ in other ‘non-literate’ cultures see Evans (1991) 104. 12 On Plato see Tarrant (1996). On Plato’s reception in the Imperial age see Trapp (1990); Tarrant (1999); on Apuleius, De Jong (2001); Hunter (2006), and Graverini (2010): below, n. 91. 9

4

Introduction

In the Imperial age, the ‘Second Sophistic’ movement was “another typically Greek manifestation of orality” 13 that consciously continued to use both the oratorical and dramatic practices of the past. Poetry remained linked to oral performance in the Hellenistic and later periods, 14 yet the oral representation was also preferred in later fictitious presentations of prose works such as Greek novels and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, 15 and was one of the most used methods in Imperial literature, whose taste for narrative should be emphasised and is a characteristic shared with epitaphs. 16 This kind of literary practice at the diegetic level created an extraordinary complexity. Indeed, the Incredible things beyond Thule by Antonius Diogenes is a prime example of the interplay between oral and written communication, although the device itself was not without antecedents. 17 Such cases are examples of mimetic orality which are consistent with rhetorical theory and practice. In the following pages, we offer a diachronic overview of oral performance and Greek prose literature.

2. Oral Performances in the Classical and Hellenistic Period The practice of epideixis, ‘display’, seems to date back to the speech On Concord delivered by Gorgias in Olympia, a declamation labelled as ‘reading’ (anagnosis) by Plutarch (Mor. 144B), like Lysias’ speech, also delivered in Olympia (Vit. decem orat., Mor. 836D). As Del Corso has observed, however, both authors belonged to an oral-aural society and gave their speeches without using texts. 18 According to Diogenes Laertius (9.54), among the books that Protagoras read publicly was that On Gods, as sophists and philosophers used to do in the past, a practice which constituted a complement to religious activity based on orality. It is well-known that Gorgias attempted to make speeches in prose similar to poetry, and to do so he used stylistic devices, such as formulas 13

Thomas (1992) 123; Hunter and Rutherford (2006) above, n. 1. See Chaniotis (2009a). On the way in which Ovid’s Metamorphoses followed the conventions and devices of oral communication in ancient epic see Wheeler (1999), esp. pp. 48-60. 15 On Greek novels see Núñez (2006) and the studies edited by Rimell (2007). On the possibility that Apuleius’ Metamorphoses was performed orally, see May (2007) with further references, Keulen (2007b) and Núñez (this volume). On public recitations of Ovid see Wheeler (1999) 36-37, and below, n. 65. 16 The phenomenon has also been observed in decrees starting from the 4th century B.C.: Chaniotis (2010). 17 For Diogenes see Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming). 18 Del Corso [(2005) 63-94] is fundamental for our topic; esp. p. 69. 14

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

5

and repetitions at all linguistic levels. 19 This conscious union of the formal functions and methods of poetry and prose continued to be used in subsequent periods and should be taken note of when studying the oral performances of the Imperial period. On the other hand, although from the 5th century B.C. there were already archives in Athens, oral transmission continued alongside the existence of written texts. 20 This was true both in public speaking and in oral discourse concerning the narration of historical events. Herodotus begins his work with a reference to his historías apódeixis, an expression meaning “oral performance of his ‘research’ either recited from memory (though not necessarily repeated word for word), or read from a written text”. 21 This double practice can be also observed in the different types of informants – of exceptional memory – and in the Egyptian sources quoted by Herodotus (2.77, 100, 125). Furthermore, some common points have been detected between Herodotus and Xenophon in terms of the way they both blend authentic storytelling with an already ‘mimetic’ oral presentation of the scene. 22 Traditions also existed of public readings of a speech by Democritus of Abdera. 23 Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Isoc. 2 and 13) admits that the speeches of Isocrates, due to their style, are more suited to reading than to the representation or declamation observed in Demosthenes (Dem. 19

Plato superbly imitates the style in Agathon’s speech in Symp.194e4-197e8. See Thomas (1992); Woolf (2013) 13; Martínez and Senseney (2013) 407. On Pisistratus’ library, alleged by some ancient sources to have been the first one in Athens, see Woolf (2013) 10 (‘a myth’); Jacob (2013) 78-80; Handis (2013) 368. Perilli [(2007) esp. 50-51] underlined the importance of archives in sanctuaries as repositories of certain books on philosophy, technical sciences and medicine, and the role of these sanctuaries for the transmission of knowledge and teaching. In the same vein, focusing on written documents in Classical and later periods, De Martino [(2013) 112, n. 6] is very useful for sources on paideia and readers (not only women). I thank Antonio Stramaglia for calling my attention to this article. 21 Evans (1991) 94; see also pp. 98-111 on oral and written Herodotus’ sources; Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella (2007) 8: “exposition of the enquiries”; 72-73: “publication (oral?)” or “performance”. The Spanish lexicon Diccionario Griego Español II, quotes IC 3.4.9.93 (Itanos, 2nd century B.C.): (ʌȠȚȘ)IJࠛȞ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡȚȠȖȡȐijȦȞ ܻʌȠįİȓȟİȚȢ. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Dem. 22.26) refers to the hypokrisis of Demosthenes using the verb apodeiknumi. See Del Corso [(2005) 14] for apodeixis as a synonym of epideixis: also below, n. 33. On Herodotus and oral performance see also Zelnick-Abramovitz (2014) 176, quoting Lucian Herodotus or Aëtion 1-3; 177, n. 6, referring to Dio Chrys. 37.7. 22 Beard (1991) 161. Gray (1989) thinks of private readings aloud of Xenophon’s works and concludes that his Hellenica was meant for learned circles that were, however, less demanding than Socratic ones; see also Kelly (1996). 23 See the information provided by Del Corso (2005) 68-70. 20

6

Introduction

22.6). Moreover, Isocrates himself quotes in his Philippos (5.25-26) that there are speeches ‘which are spoken’ (legomenoi), and these are real, and then there are other fictitious ‘which are read’ (anagignoskomenoi). Isocrates distinguishes between different modes of reading. The Philippos constitutes an early testimony of the spread of the practice of ‘recited reading’ in the Greek world, which is so well documented in late Republican and Imperial Rome. In Panath. 12.246 Isocrates also makes a distinction between ‘casual’ readers (IJȠ߿Ȣ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ࠍߠșުȝȦȢ ܻȞĮȖȚȖȞެıțȠȣıȚȞ) and ‘accurate’ readers (IJȠ߿Ȣ įߩ ܻțȡȚȕࠛȢ įȚİȟȚȠࠎıȚȞ), who are his target audience (136). In Antid. 15.136, he opposes public rhetors and speakers who excel at private gatherings, idioi syllogoi. 24 Plutarch (Mor. 840D) refers to the fact that Aeschines read his Against Ctesiphon publicly in Rhodes long after the trial itself was held. Plutarch again called this a declamatory reading (anegno ... epideiknumenos). 25 In philosophical tradition, the practice of reading is also accepted as a mimesis of an oral context, and Xenophon (Memor. 1.6.14) and Plato refer to private readings and discussions of both poetry and prose in small groups. 26 Thus, oral teaching coexisted with teaching in writing. This ‘dynamic tension’ between orality and literacy referred to by Havelock lasted throughout Antiquity. 27 The reading of dramatic works seems to have already existed in the 4th century B.C. Aristotle (Rhet. 1413b12-14), when dealing with the types of lexis (‘style’) mentions among the anagnostikoi Chaeremon and Licymnius as poets suitable to be read. 28 In the same vein Demetrius (De elocut. 193), 24

Del Corso (2005) 86-87, 89; Beard (1991) 140; Gagarin (1996). Del Corso [(2005) 65, n. 10] argues that this reading would be impossible without the help of a book. Cicero (Brut. 191): Antimachus of Colophon read (legeret) his Thebaid convocatis auditoribus, Plato among them; Diod. Sic. 15.6: Dionysius the Elder of Syracuse read verses to his guests, among them Philoxenus: see Pennacini (1989). On post-delivery publication of forensic oratory see Hubbard (2008): “speeches as orators’ attempts … not of what they actually said ... but rather what they would like to be remembered as saying” (Introd. 3). See Slater (2008) on Augustus’ Res Gestae, a work “originally designed to induce repeated re-performance of a first-person narrative…” 26 Puchner (2010) stressed Plato’s relationship with dramatical genres. On the performance of Plato’s dialogues see below, nn. 90, 91. 27 Havelock cited by Cambron-Goulet (2012) 212-216. 28 ȕĮıIJ‫ޠ‬ȗȠȞIJĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬Ƞ‫ܻ ݨ‬ȞĮȖȞȦıIJȚțȠަ, Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ ȋĮȚȡ‫ޤ‬ȝȦȞ (ܻțȡȚȕ‫ޣ‬Ȣ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ ȜȠȖȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ), țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȁȚțުȝȞȚȠȢ IJࠛȞ įȚșȣȡĮȝȕȠʌȠȚࠛȞ. Del Corso (2005) 108, n. 44. It has already been observed that Aristotle (Po. 1450b18-19) also favoured this type of performance where mythos is more significant than opsis: see Rossi (1993) 104; Charalabopoulos (2012) 135, n. 57, and the interesting discussion by Petrides (2014) 102-110. 25

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

7

in referring to the use of conjunctions states that because of the way Menander uses them, his work “is staged”, whereas Philemon (361-262 B.C.) “is read”. 29 Accordingly, what Apuleius reports (Flor. 16.6-10) that Philemon interrupted his recitatio at the theatre because of the rain, should not necessarily be taken as an anachronism. 30 Inscriptions from Delos and Delphi dating from the third to the 1st century B.C. attest to almost daily public akroaseis (‘recitations’) and anagnoseis (‘readings’) and not always in the context of poetic agones. In other inscriptions deixeis are used as synonyms for akroaseis and anagnoseis, probably poetic in nature; akroaseis, however, are also attested in Delphi in relation to prose writers in general, historians, philosophers, rhetoricians and grammarians, and in Haliartus in relation to physicians. 31 Among other performances, Chaniotis cites itinerant historians (‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡȚȠȖȡȐijȠȚ) of ancient or contemporary events attested in honorific decrees, among which a ʌȠȜİȝoȖȡȐijȠȢ Į‫ރ‬įȐ, that is, “the written accounts of war”, besides narrations of miracles, foundational legends, local myths and stories about the sanctuary and the city. 32 There are also testimonies regarding proekdoseis at the Peripatetic school and Epicurus’ public readings, epideixeis and the possible deixeis of Theophrastus, who refers to two types of readings, the panegyreis, which were read at solemn official celebrations, and those addressed to a restricted synedrion, in which ‘corrections’ of a text, epanorthoseis, 33 were possible, and whose roots, according to Diogenes Laertius (3.35-37), go back to the 29

Ȃ‫ޢ‬ȞĮȞįȡȠȞ ‫ބ‬ʌȠțȡަȞȠȞIJĮȚ, ȜİȜȣȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJȠ߿Ȣ ʌȜİަıIJȠȚȢ, ĭȚȜ‫ޤ‬ȝȠȞĮ į‫ܻ ޡ‬ȞĮȖȚȞެıțȠȣıȚȞ: see Rh.1413b19-32 on the use of asyndeton. This opinion is accepted by Chiron, the French editor of Demetrius (1993) 122, n. 258. 30 As Hunink (2001a) presupposes in his commentary ad loc. Apuleius says that Philemon fabulas ... in scaenam dictavit (Flor. 16.6), and insists on his reading: recitabat partem fabulae ... relicum tamen … deincipiti die perlecturum (Flor. 16.10-11). Both Philemon and Menander were praised by Quint. 10.1.71-72. May [(2006) 59-63] argues that Apuleius is here a witness of contemporary discussions on comedy, which seems more likely. 31 See Del Corso (2005) 75-76. Pennacini [(1989) 254] has a number of references to sources on recitationes in Rome in the 3rd and 2nd century B.C. regarding Livius Andronicus and Ennius (praelegebant). 32 See Chaniotis [(2009a) 259-262] with a very useful terminological study. For the special meaning of some words in inscriptions see below Ruiz-Montero (ch. 5, n.78). Zelnick-Abramovitz (2014) documents that reading historical works in public was a continuous practice and that under Roman rule the number of decrees issued in honour of the travelling historians declined, although it increased again in the times of the Antonines, in the context of the Second Sophistic (p. 181). 33 Del Corso (2005) 76-83. Theophrastus is quoted by Diogenes Laertius 5.37.

8

Introduction

Socratic schools and to orators, such as Isocrates, a matter to which we have already referred. Vitruvius describes intense activity at the Museum in Alexandria at an annual festival in honour of the Muses. 34 On the other hand, the presence of public anagnostai is well documented in inscriptions from Smyrna, Cos and Priene from the second and first century B.C. Furthermore, we learn of the existence in other cities of public clerks, of an apparently low social status, corresponding to that of grammateus. 35 It is also worth remembering that Alexander was called ‘lover of reading’ (ijȚȜĮȞĮȖȞެıIJȘȢ), and that he was accompanied by readers and historians, who would read their own works to him. This laid down a precedent for the literary-minded courts of Alexander’s successors, where there were still philosophers and poets. Here we cannot go into depth in the matter, but one can at least keep in mind the public readings or proekdoseis of the Alexandrian poets. 36 Although reading aloud was the dominant form of reading in the ancient world, silent reading is also attested from the 5th century B.C. 37 and that it began to gain ground in the 3rd century B.C., to become the prevailing mode of reading from the 2nd century A.D. This meant the triumph of the ‘culture of the book’, whose dissemination is further proven by the frequency with which books appear in iconography, and which is one of the strongest signs of the transformation in cultural practices from the Classical age onwards, in both the public and private spheres. 38 Nevertheless, reading in groups did not disappear, and, as W.A. Johnson observes concerning Aulus Gellius’ circle of learned readers, this kind of reading is more common. 39 Parker 40 stresses the importance of silent reading, which occurred even in the presence of other people. Groups of readers and scholars did include women, although they were in a minority. Women also figure in the 34

Del Corso (2005) 71, nn. 30, 31. On p. 72 he comments ID 1506 on literary akroaseis by a young man in ekklesiasterion and in theatre: these are public readings of eulogistic hymns he composed, labelled anagnóseis. Cf. above, n.21. 35 Del Corso (2005) 87-93. In Priene public and private grammateis are mentioned along with an antigrapheus: p. 88, n. 97. 36 Plutarch Alex. 8.2; Mor. 328D. Athenaeus (Deipn. 537d) mentions that after the performance of actors at a banquet, Alexander himself performed apomnemoneusas an episode of Euripides’ Andromeda. More data in Del Corso (2005) 90-91. 37 Aristophanes (Ran. 52-54) is usually cited as the first testimony to silent reading, but see the commentary by Dover (1993). On silent reading see W. A. Johnson (2000). 38 Del Corso (2005) 99-113. 39 W.A. Johnson (2009) 323. 40 Parker (2009) 195-198. See also Ach. Tat. 1.6.6.

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

9

iconography and in Hellenistic epitaphs; however, their presence in literature and culture in general grew later. 41 The akroaseis were held in rooms called akroaterion, akousterion, odeion, deikterion, or in the gymnasia, the bouleuterion or the ekklesiasterion. 42 ‘Audible readings’ were also performed during the deipnon, the main meal, and during the symposion. 43 As we shall see, it was a common and characteristic practice among the elite in the Imperial period, and reading was performed during or after these events.

3. The Imperial Age The practice of public reading reached its peak in the Imperial era and was one of the main characteristics of the literary culture of the period, that is, the culture of the Second Sophistic. At Rome, where the culture was “very

41 See Del Corso [(2005) 110, n. 50] for an instance of a female teacher (such cases are more frequently attested during the Empire). Diogenes Laertius (3.46) refers to two female disciples of Plato, and Epictetus to the female audience interested in the study of his Republic. Moreover, the fact that in the novels of Chariton and Achilles Tatius the heroines frequently appear reading letters, a young girl reading a book, apparently in silence, can be seen in Lucian (Im. 9.2). The culture of Charicleia is also emphasised in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (2.33.5). Isidora, Antonius Diogenes’ sister, to whom he dedicates his novel, is also a philomathes (Phot. Bibl. 166.111a24) but the level of the cultural background and the narrative complexity of his work prevent us from considering this datum as a proof of a mass of women reading novels. The level of literacy in the Empire is a complex and much discussed topic, but the figures provided by Harris [(1989) 259] on literate individuals in Rome, “in the tens of thousands” (400.000 in the 2nd century, 10% educated readers, ca. 40.000 or more readers) do not seem to be very far from reality and are accepted by Dix and Houston [(2006) 709], although the ‘transversal reading’ proposed by Cavallo (1989), which is more optimistic, cannot be ruled out entirely. See also Thomas (1992) 150-157. Valette-Cagnat [(1997) 17-19] accepts Harris’ figures too, but saves us from simplistic conclusions; nor Zelnick-Abramovitz [(2014) 193, n. 54] is optimistic. 42 Del Corso (2005) 66. See above, n. 33 for the deikterion in relation to Theophrastus. 43 Del Corso (2005) 114-125. Particularly interesting among the data he cites are certain symposium anthologies found in Elephantine and Tebtunis papyri, aimed at an Egyptian middle or upper middle class audience, which include ‘paraliterary’ poetry and texts that are of a licentious nature; he links them to literary texts like Theocr. 14 and AP 5.138 (pp. 117-121).

10

Introduction

bookish” (Salles, p. 96), 44 the practice of public reading was widespread. The book was at the epicentre of the culture of this age, an age in which literacy peaked, in whatever way we define this. Orality, however, and the book were not opposed, since “oral performance is a sine qua non of selfrepresentation in this period”, based on the paideia (p. 98). Furthermore, rhetorical performance was a fundamental aspect of social life. The ‘orality’ of the Second Sophistic was clearly based on ‘literacy’. “Literacy does not in any way preclude oral performance, but grounds it ... Oratory’s oral performance is fully informed by reading and writing” (p. 98). Literary culture and orality were the two sides of the same coin during this period. This phenomenon has been particularly studied in relation to Latin literature, where declamatio and recitatio were common and essential practices. 45 We will therefore include Roman data in our discussion. However, from what we have seen so far and what we shall see, these practices also characterised the Greek literary culture of the Empire.

3.1 Public Performances The performative character of the Greek culture under the Empire was not a new phenomenon, as we have seen, but its manifestations were much more varied and extensive than before. 46 Inscriptions document several types of contests, agones, sporting, musical, and literary, for poetry and for prose. 47 Many such contests are attested throughout the cities of the Empire, but the 44

Salles [(1992) 184] mentions “la bibliomanie effrénée des Romains”. Goldhill (2009) underlines the interest in “anecdotal form” of the Second Sophistic, and defines “anecdote” as “the muthos of literate culture ... where the literate and the oral meet” (p. 111). See Johnson [(2010) 110-114] on the “centrality of literary texts” for the educated Roman society of the 2nd century A.D. 45 The subject is very broad; for its origins, development and main traits see Quinn (1982); Pennacini (1989); Fedeli (1989); Salles (1992); Valette-Cagnat (1997); Parker (2009); W.A. Johnson (2009). See, however, the reservations of Parker (2009), who reacts against the idea that Roman poets wrote primarily for performance. Although his study is focused on poetry, he admits that prose does not differ from it (p. 215, n. 121). Parker is right in considering that one cannot speak of Imperial Roman society as an ‘oral society’ comparable to ancient Greece: see above, n. 9. Nevertheless, as we wrote earlier, ‘oral society’ should be seen as complementary to the ‘textual society’, both spheres being interdependent. Yet Parker's data are highly valuable for our discussion here. 46 Already Plato (Tim. 21b) mentions traditional contests with prizes for recitation (rhapsodias) for young people, referring to Solon’s poetry. 47 See Wörrle (1988); Roueché (1993); Manieri (2009); Petrovic (2009); Aneziri (2009); Chaniotis (2009a) and this volume; Nervegna (2013) 80-118.

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

11

demand for local peculiarities is another trait of the age. 48 The presence of șİ‫ޠ‬ȝĮIJĮ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȡȠ‫ޠ‬ȝĮIJĮ /ܻțȠުıȝĮIJĮ spectacles and hearing performances, was typical in these contests which included among their prose oral performances encomia and historical and mythical narratives. 49 There are further references to poiemata, a poet of a New Tragedy, an actor in a New Tragedy, a poet of a New Comedy, an actor in a New Comedy, comic performers (comoedoi), tragic performers (tragoedoi), a satyr-playwright, a rhapsode, a tragic chorus, and homeristai. 50 The mention in inscriptions of dramatic performances of mimes and pantomimes, which enjoyed the greatest success, is particularly interesting. 51 Pantomimes, biologoi, and homeristai are attested in papyri and inscriptions, and these performers acted at private symposia too. 52 Although the literary genres alluded to in inscriptions 53 cannot always be clearly identified, these performances, given their public and official 48

See below, n. 121 for coins. The expression șİ‫ޠ‬ȝĮIJĮ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȡȠ‫ޠ‬ȝĮIJĮ is already found at Xenophon (Symp. 2.1); and Lucian (De salt. 68). For a Roman testimony see Cicero (Arch. 20). See the data first provided by inscriptions of Aphrodisias in Roueché [(1993) 1-30; esp. pp. 1521] for ܻȡȤĮȚȠȜȩȖȠȚ, probably mime actors specialising in old stories. Rutherford [(2013) 271] dealing with the pan-hellenic festival in honour of Artemis Leucopriene (207 B.C.) at Magnesia on the Meander, mentions the possibility that theoroi carried with them a small library and even that they performed the poetic texts for the benefit of their audience. 50 See Chaniotis and Bowie in this volume. 51 Moreover Roueché (1993) 15-30; on pantomime see Hall and Wyles (2008) with an anthology of sources in an appendix (pp. 379-419) and a comprehensive bibliography. The following studies are also indispensable: Lada-Richards (2007); Webb (2008); the collective volume edited by Easterling and Hall (2002). Lucian's treatise De saltatione is the most important ancient document on the subject. For collective studies on Imperial mime see Beacham (1991); Csapo and Slater (1994); Webb (2013). See also below n. 81. 52 Nervegna (2013) 187, n. 190: festival in honour of Cronos; n. 193: on ethologoi (“caricaturists”). On inscriptions about homeristai see Merkelbach and Stauber (vol. 2, 2001) 323-324. On p. 242 they list a total of ten actors and mimes. 53 An inscription from Cos published by Bosnakis (2004) and dated to the 1st century A.D is interesting, since it refers to a ʌȠȚ‫ޤ‬IJȡȚĮ țȦ[ȝȦįȓĮȢ] ܻȡȤĮަĮȢ who has won several public games, and who may be a writer of comedy, although we cannot know for certain (see Bowie in this volume, p. 75, n. 25). If she is indeed the author, she would be the only known author of this dramatic genre. Bosnakis notes that in the inscriptions the technical expression ܻȡȤĮަĮ țȦȝ࠙įަĮ does not appear to designate Aristophanic comedy, but that ʌĮȜĮȚ‫ ޟ‬țȦȝ࠙įަĮ refers to both the ‘Old’ and the ‘New’. Rutherford [(2009) 243] refers to this poetess along with other late poetesses 49

12

Introduction

nature, were an important way of orally circulating texts and, to a significant extent, of transmitting literary heritage, as we shall see. The dramatic performances were often reworkings of pieces from Classical times, although we must not exclude original works, and there was no shortage of contemporary genres, as can be seen from the treatment of certain novels that were reworked and adapted for mimes and pantomimes. Lucian (De salt. 54; Pseudol. 25) mentions the names of the protagonists of the novels Ninus and Metiochus and Parthenope, Aesop is a mime character, and the props of a mime called Leucippe are preserved. This very important fact clearly indicates that the novel was part of the ‘official’ culture of the time. 54 In turn, novels occasionally alluded to these dramatic spectacles: Achilles Tatius introduces theatrical episodes (3.15-22) citing Homerists in his plot (3.20.4), Longus refers to a mimic dance (2.23), and the Life of Aesop (rec.

and sees her as a “poetess probably specialising in ancient comedy”. De Martino [(2011) 166-167] also considers the possibility that she is an ‘adattatrice’, and adds: “naturalmente non dobbiamo pensare ad una collega di Aristofane o Menandro, ma più semplicemente ad un’ autrice di canovacci di mimo, ed ‘arcaica’ potrebbe avere un valore generico, non tecnico”. Pliny (Ep. 6.21) does not mention any works written by women, but says that Vergilius Romanus had written a comedy in the ‘Old’ style, and, before this, other comedies in imitation of Menander: cf. Csapo and Slater (1994) 37-38; May (2006) 14; Nervegna (2013) 100-117. See Bowie [(2007) 50, n.1] on the opposition of Aelius Aristides to the introduction of an ‘Old’ type of comedy in the Dionysia of Smyrna, and this volume, n. 25. In Ruiz-Montero (2013) types of comedies are discussed in connection with Antonius Diogenes, who calls himself an author of a țȦȝ࠙įަĮ ʌĮȜĮȚ‫ޠ‬. According to Bosnakis [(2004) 102], an inscription from Aphrodisias listing prizes in a talent contest (CIG nº 2759) mentions a țĮȚȞ‫ ޣ‬țȦȝ࠙įަĮ a “nova fabula, non iterata”, compared to a ܻȡȤĮަĮ țȦȝ࠙įަĮ which is translated as repetita fabula, but “non antiqua, qualis est Aristophanea”. In the same inscription there is a țĮȚȞ‫ ޣ‬IJȡĮȖ࠙įަĮ, which should be similarly interpreted. The ܻȡȤĮަĮ in this inscription can thus encompass three types of comedy. The inscription is published in Roueché (1993), 173-174, nº 53. See also the discussion by Nervegna (2013) 100-117. When dealing with the topic of new versions of plays, on p. 97 she thinks that the diaskeuaí in D. Chrys. 32.94 are new versions of contemporary comedies, works presented initially as “new plays and later revised to be performed again as new plays”. 54 On the connections between novels and mime and pantomime: Mignogna (1996) and (1997); Andreassi (2001) and (2002). For a comparison between Lucian’s On Dance and the Greek novels see Ruiz-Montero (2014a). The greater part of the pantomime contents mentioned by Lucian belong to traditional mythology. As for mimes, they derive mainly from comedy and Euripidean tragedy.

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G 23) alludes to the movements of the hands in pantomime. 55 Although no pantomime libretto has been preserved, they must have existed, albeit perhaps written for each performance. Moreover, given the contents of pantomimes and the technical skills required, the authors of such scripts must have been of a certain educational level, as were the audience, who recognised the stories told through dance. This is a further proof of the oral circulation of these contents and of the existence of a ‘gestural grammar’ with which the audience was also well acquainted. 56 Parker rejects the idea of an ‘oral circulation’ of literature, on the grounds that a text is known to have been performed later for others. He gives two examples in which the original texts have been altered and concludes that they are presented, but not circulated orally. Dio’s works, however, provide some useful information: he mentions that some of his speeches will be delivered again in the future before other audiences (11.46; cf. 57.11); that he is repeating a written speech (30.6-8); and that his speeches are disseminated and changed (42.4-5). These changes in texts are proof enough of their oral circulation, although they do not preclude the existence of a previous written text, or the possibility that they were written down after a performance, no matter what the genre involved was: Libanius (Or. 1.113) informs us that ten copyists (bibliographoi) wrote down his speech, so that it could reach the main cities of the Empire, and that one of the scribes was bribed to alter the text. Likewise, some of Lucian´s observations (How should one write history 5, 7, 10, 51) seem to support the view that oral performance of historiographical works was still considered the best way of dissemination and that historians achieved praise and honour through their readings. 57 In the 4th century A.D., Libanius is very proud still of the fact that the prologues to his speeches are sung everywhere and that his audience is able to memorise his speeches after hearing them only once (Or. 1.55). He even states that his students could reconstruct their teacher´s entire speech from the small passages each one

55

On mime at rhetorical school see Webb (2008) 96 ff. Parker [(2009) 213-214] states that we read nothing about mimes because it was “a score for public or private performance” [in Kenney’s words (1982) 12], except for literary mimes. 56 The influence of pantomime on high literature has been described by Zanobi (2014) for Senecan theatre, and by May (2006) and Kirichenko (2010) for Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. 57 These are the conclusions of Zelnick-Abramovitz (2014) 183; see p. 184 for historiography as a performative genre, no less than poetry or drama, and her observations on the process of writing down oral local traditions, which are then broadcast again in oral presentations.

14

Introduction

of them could remember (Or. 3.17). Parker is right, however, when he asserts that a public reading does not indicate a lack of private reading. 58 We will not spend long here on the nature of the oral performance typical of the orators of the Second Sophistic, whether or not such performances involved previously prepared speeches or were simply improvised. In any case improvisation presupposes many previous readings. 59 The success enjoyed by recitatio or ‘public reading’ at Rome is well-known, as was the success of another type of performance, the declamatio. 60 Recitation, however, was omnipresent and was regarded as a kind of entertainment that competed with other forms to which we have previously referred, as they often shared certain performance venues, such as the theatre. 61 Valette-Cagnat even considers it likely that certain recitationes in Rome were ‘dubbed’ by a pantomime to facilitate comprehension, similar to how the songs of Nero were ‘mimed’ by a hypocrita. 62 In Petronius’ Satyrica the poet Eumolpus recites (recitantem) the verses that he had previously probably invented and composed, in – among other places – a theatre (90.5) and in baths (91.3). Interestingly, besides epic

58

See Parker [(2009) 195-198] with many references; he does not believe that a book could reach ultimos Britannos by means of wandering poets, a mime adaptation, or other people who could memorise a “distant recitatio”, but only “in the form of a written text” (pp. 214-215). Zelnick-Abramowitz [(2014) 193] also admits that the performance of historical works was not intended as a substitute for written texts. 59 Theon [Prog. praef. 60, Spengel; also ch. 13-14 (Kennedy)] underlines the importance of anagnosis and akroasis (cf. Cic. Arch. 18: dicere ex tempore): Kennedy (2003). See also Bowie and Mestre in this volume. 60 declamatio and recitatio constitute a very broad subject, but for their origins, development and main features, see Funaioli (1914); Quinn (1982) 168-175; Pennacini (1989); Fedeli (1989); Salles (1992); Valette-Cagnat (1997); Parker (2009); White (2009); W. A. Johnson (2009). 61 See the data in Korenjak (2000) 36, 41-65. Valette-Cagnat [(1997) 163-164] links the recitatio with Pliny’s dictating to his secretary of what he had previously prepared in his head (Ep. 9.36.7), a procedure that Valette-Cagnat calls ‘oral writing’. Dictatio would be followed by scriptum, recitatio, and rescriptum, novum, that is, the work already finished and presented to readers. She labels the phenomenon ‘littérature de la voix’ in Rome (167), with osmosis between the written and the spoken word. 62 Valette-Cagnat (1997) 119. On pp. 160-161 she distinguishes between recitatio, which is serious, and the Greek akroama, whose function was merely the entertainment of dinner guests, although she states that both categories were not strictly maintained, according to Roman satirist’s complaints. When dealing with the performance of poetry, Parker [(2009) 203-206] also mentions Martial’s insistent refusal to perform at banquets.

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poems, Eumolpus includes Milesiae 63 in his oral performances and in Satyr. 53.13 he has bought a troupe of comoedi. 64 Virgil took four days to recite the Georgics at readings attended by Maecenas and the future princeps, while the Roman poet later read several books of the Aeneid at court. 65 Ovid when writing his Tristia 4.10 in exile had already listened to recitationes of several poets (4.43-50). Pliny (Ep. 4.27.1) heard the poet Sentius Augurinus reciting his verses over three days, and Pliny himself (Ep. 8.21.4) read his own poetry in a two-day recitation. The Panegyric to Trajan was first read in the Senate, before Pliny took it, ‘après redaction’, for performance in an auditorium over a period of three days. Pliny expressed his surprise when he realised that the effect of the performance in the second environment was not the same as in the Senate. 66 Apuleius (Flor. 16. 6-25) reports that, after two days, his own reading was interrupted by rain and had to be continued next day. 67 In the Greek world the public orators also enjoyed success with the public actively participating. 68 Readings were held in various places, in the theatre, where assemblies were also held, in the odeion or bouleuterion, a venue with a capacity that could exceed 500 attendants, 69 and in akroateria (auditoria); the latter venue was supposed to be for small, select 63

N. W. Slater (2012) 255. Nervegna (2013) 178-179. See below, p. 19. 65 Fedeli (1989) 350-351. On public recitationes of Ovid’s work see Lefèvre (1990) 11-12, and above, n. 15. On the reading of Virgil’s Eclogae at the theatre, and of Ennius’ Annales, heard by Gellius at Pozuoli (anagnostem legere ad populum in theatro, 18.5), see Pennacini (1989) with further references to ancient texts. On Gellius see also Parker (2009) 210-211. Ennius was also read aloud at a public holiday, according to Gellius 16.10.1 (ibid. 211, n. 98). 66 Pliny Ep. 3.18.6-7: see Valette-Cagnat (1997) 123-124; She remarks on the closed structure of the recitatio, which is the opposite of the oral performance of a rhapsode. 67 Valette-Cagnat (1997) 124. Apuleius seems to deal with a topos; similarly Philostratus (VS 537) refers to the interruption of Philemon’s speech, and Libanius (Or. 1.111-112) mentions the same topic. 68 Valette-Cagnat (1997) 130-139; Schmitz (1997) 60-96; Korenjak (2000) 41-65; Ruiz-Montero [(2014b) 64] provides data from the Life of Aesop (rec. G). I also stress these points in Chariton´s novel, which is presented as a theatron, in RuizMontero (2017); there I also draw attention to these matters. 69 The odeion at Aphrodisias had a capacity of ca. 2000 people, that is, “much bigger than any boule needed to have”, as Bert Smith points out to me. In his Autobiography Libanius frequently refers to his performances in the bouleuterion (Or. 1.72, 111112), to his classes there (Or. 1.37, 237), in the temples (Or. 1.72, 102: as a place for sophistic schools), in baths (1.55: the entire city is a mouseion) and to private readings (Or. 1.223, 281: at home). I am very grateful to Antonio Melero for references to Libanius. 64

16

Introduction

audiences. 70 Readings also took place in temples, in the baths (thermae), taverns, and the agora. 71 Young people were the main target of Sophist teachings and practices, 72 and, according to some sources, women could attend these performances too. 73

3.2 Private Performances Banquets were a major element in the social habits of the Empire, and the literary banquets were a commonplace of the era. Readings at banquets, both public and private, are well documented in the texts of the age. According to Suetonius (Aug. 89), Augustus listened to carmina et historias sed et orationes et dialogos. The practice of performing dramatic excerpts derives from Athenian symposia of the Classical age. Comic sources, Theophrastus and other writers offer evidence of the extent of these practices, which reached their peak under the Roman Empire. 74 That we are well acquainted with these practices is due especially to Pliny the Younger,

70 See the data in Korenjak (2000) 27-33; Burrell (2009), and above, p. 9 with n. 42. Salles [(1992) 97] refers to stationes in Rome, small rooms that were rented by those writers who did not have an auditorium at home. She adds that Pliny realises the importance of readings of literary works for his own verses (pp.100-103) and that there was no day without recitatio according to his Ep. 1.13.1 (p. 107). Philosophical dialexeis were performed for small, learned audiences: see Luc. Domo 10.3; D. Chrys. 32.9. Paus. (6.23.7) refers to recitals (akroaseis) of improvised speeches and of various kinds of written works in the gymnasium at Elis. 71 See below for libraries, pp. 21-23. 72 Korenjak (2000) 41-65, and 170-194. See also Ruiz-Montero [(2014b) 63-64], with data from Philostratus, Life of Sophists, and Life of Aesop (rec.G); Chaniotis (this volume). See also Ps.-Luc. Amores 6. Dubious intentions on the part of some sophists towards young boys gave rise to a literary motif that is sometimes alluded in the texts: Petr. Satyr. 110, 6-8; Xen. Ephes. 3.2.8; Luc. Pseudol. 5-9, 19; 24-29. Lucian (De salt. 2.5) refers to people of all ages, including women, among the attendees at pantomime. In ch. 79 Lucian mentions that the aristocratic young ladies could dance. 73 They are alluded to by D. Chrys. 37.33 (hearing Favorinus). On women who listen to pepaideumenoi paid by women themselves at home see Luc. Merc. cond. 36, cited by De Martino (2013) 123. Chariton (8.7.1) reports their presence at the meeting of the assembly at the theatre at Syracuse to hear Chaereas’ tale. See below, n. 85. 74 Nervegna (2013) 169-171.

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Plutarch, and Gellius. 75 Learned women could also attend these banquets. 76 According to some sources, books were available to guests at banquets, and were also brought in by those who could recite, sing, or read dramatic excerpts as well. 77 Sources refer to the comoedi and tragoedi of emperors and other rich men, and we know of Pliny’s versatile slave, C. Plinius Zosimus, who could perform, play the cithara, and read speeches, history, and poetry. 78 Lectores, lectrices, or anagnostai are well attested at banquets. Pliny (Ep. 5.3) adds: comoedias audio et specto mimos. Comoedi staged plays, according to Plutarch (Mor. 673B), 79 who seems to refer to full performances of New and Old Comedy (711E-712E), a piece of information confirmed by archaeological findings. 80 In Quaestiones convivales Plutarch, while discussing the best forms of dinner entertainment (akroamata), states that he prefers Menander and New Comedy to Old Comedy and Aristophanes, because of their language, their edifying morality and the fact they are easy to perform (Mor. 711F-712D). 81 75

For the overall data see W.A. Johnson (2000) and (2009); Parker (2009); Nervegna (2013) 120-169. 76 Salles (1992) 123-124; Dunbabin (2003) 63-68. Cf. Plut. Mor. 712E. Criticism of erudite women at banquets: Juv. 6.434-445 are telling. A woman listening to two men who recite rhetorical exercises every day is mentioned at P. Oxy. LXXI 4811, 6-10, corresponding to Panionis novel: Parsons (2010). One should also mention the active role of the protagonist, Parthenope, at a banquet where there is learned discussion on love in P. Berol. 21179, corresponding to Parthenope novel. 77 W. A. Parker (2009) 206; W. A. Johnson (2009) 321-323; Nervegna (2013) 169188. She refers to Gellius reading comedies, not reciting them, as was the most frequent at banquets (p. 172). 78 Plin. Ep. 5.19.3: Nervegna (2013) 178-179. See below, pp. 24-25 with notes, for mosaics on comedies. 79 Nervegna (2013) 182-184. On p. 188 she comments that the Roman symposium was “a procession (pompe) where the drama of wealth is brought on” and “a theatron to perform”. On pp. 172-173 she refers to an unpublished ostracon of Aves from Upper Egypt which may have circulated in dining rooms. The information is relevant to other literary ostraca we have, such as that mentioning the names of Metiochus and Parthenope (O.Bodl. II 2175, 1st century A.D.). I wonder whether the novel circulated in this manner. The ostracon may also have circulated in a school or schools. See Parsons (2010) 43-49. 80 On the matter see Dunbabin (2003) 43-46, and passim. Dunbabin (2006) also traces five acts. On p. 185 she observes that in Late Antiquity the triclinium gave way to the curved sigma couch to allow more space for entertainment and serving. 81 See Hunter´s comments (2000). Plutarch dismisses entertainments that disturb the mind, and so, despite being a spectator of such pieces, he rejects tragedy, tragic

18

Introduction

Afterwards, Plutarch mentions two types of ‘mime’, mimes called hypotheseis, and those termed paignia, and states that, in his view, neither kind is suitable for a dinner party. In the first case it is because they are too long and their performance is difficult and in the second it is because their plots and language are indecent (712E-F). 82 In Mor. 1107F he refers to reading aloud on a philosophical topic while other philosophers listen, following Plato’s practice.83 Pliny (Ep. 9.36.1) reports that, during dinner, he and his friends share the reading of a book, and after dinner they enjoy a comedy.84 We also know from Pliny (Ep. 3.7.5; 5.3.7-8; 7.17.3), that entire tragedies or historical works were recited, while Gellius (2.22.1-2) refers to historia as one of the subjects read at dinner either in Greek or in Latin.85 Moreover, although Plutarch does not mention that books are consulted at the banquet, Gellius (2.23.1) says that he and his friends often read Roman comedies, comparing them with their Greek models,86 and in 19.10 he describes the discussion concerning a word (praeterpropter) conducted by a group of learned persons, who consult books on the subject at a private house.87 Performance extended to nearly all literary genres in the Empire. Earlier we referred to novels as a source for material for mimes and pantomimes. Plato and his dialogues also played a significant role in terms Pyladic dance [a type of pantomime: Teodorsson (vol. 3, 1996)] and wordless musical performances accompanied by lyre or flute. Plutarch respects the songs of Sappho and Anacreon. 82 On the interpretation of these mimes, see Teodorsson (vol. 3, 1996) ad loc. 83 W. A. Johnson (2000); below, n. 90. 84 See also Plin. Ep. 3.1.9; more data in W. A. Johnson (2000); Parker (2009) 203206; Johnson (2010) 2-62. 85 Fedeli (1989); Parker (2009) 203-206, also 217, n. 133 on readings of drama. 86 Parker [(2009) 169-172], rather than believing that deep and direct knowledge was gained from the texts themselves, thinks that anthologies were used and notes that Gellius mentions ‘reading’ excerpts, instead of ‘reciting’ excerpts from memory, as was customary at banquets (172). We recall that Athenaeus (1f-2a) begins his work with a summary of books dealing with dinners and banquets. 87 W. A. Johnson (2009) 321-322. See also Gell. 11.13. W. A. Johnson [(2009) 326] also cites Gell. 3.1 on Favorinus in Rome walking through the baths and reading Catilina aloud: it was followed by a learned and antiquarian discussion on a certain word, with the intervention of an old man who refers to what he heard from a grammatikos. On p. 329 he quotes Gell. 13.20 on the reading of a biographical history. Consequently, Johnson posited the existence of a ‘subgroup’ formed by grammarians and philologists; on Gellius add W.A. Johnson (2010) 98-136. Plutarch (Luc. 42) mentions them in library porticoes: White (2009), 283, n. 46; see also 275, n. 20. On philologa at banquets see Parker (2009) 204, n. 68, and Ruiz-Montero (2014b) 71-73 on the Life of Aesop (rec. G). See also below, p. 21 with n. 103.

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of dramatisation, although this practice is not entirely new. Plutarch (Mor. 711B-C), Dio Chrysostom (36; 27; 26.69), Athenaeus (376c-383f) and apparently others document the staging of scenes from Plato’s dialogues and even entire works. In the discussion by Plutarch just mentioned (Mor. 711B-C), we read, for the first time in extant ancient sources, that he distinguishes between Plato’s diegematikoi logoi and dramatikoi logoi, and reports that the easiest (elaphrotatoi) of his dramatikoi dialogues, memorised by slaves, were performed at banquets in Rome. 88 Below we refer to a mosaic depicting a non-theatrical scene that would seem to illustrate the Phaedo. 89 There were apparently also competitions involving new works in prose or in verse at Plotinus’ school to celebrate Plato’s birthday, a practice that probably goes back to a previous age. 90 We have already mentioned that Plato imitated storytelling practices, and that it is well known that storytelling was one of the roles played by orality. We have also seen Plato’s own attraction to the theatre. Charalabopoulos furnishes a large volume of evidence to support his claim that a large part of Plato’s dialogues can be considered as performance texts that could be recited by children or dramatised during public competitions in the Hellenistic period, as well as in private symposia of the Imperial era. 91 Fantham underlines the highly literate and literary Roman society of the Empire, and remarks on the presence of improvised declamation besides improvised poetry at the dinner table, habits current until the 1st century A.D. 92 Concerning the circulation of literary texts, she quotes the words of Pliny (Ep. 4.7): “Regulus at first recited this composition, then had it multiplied in a thousand copies and circulated to the cities of Italy and the provinces with instructions that it be read aloud”. 93 The role of performance /recitatio for the production of the text seems obvious, but its importance for the circulation of literary texts is debatable: 88 Further sources in the commentary by Teodorsson (vol. 3, 1996). On “Narrative and Speech Presentation in Platonic Dialogue” see Laird (1999) 76-78. 89 Below, n. 115. 90 Charalabopoulos (2012) 225-226 and n. 156. There were apparently performances at the Academy during Plato’s life, and Tarrant [(1996)143-146] has suggested a possible ‘performance’ of his works under the direction of the philosopher himself. See above, nn. 26 and 83. 91 Charalabopoulos (2012) 113-157; see esp. “The dinner theatre” (pp. 197-222). On p. 90 he mentions Laws as written but also as oral literature to be memorised and recited in schools, and as a text that invited (re)performance. See also W.A. Johnson (2000) 617. The theatrokratia, attributed by Plato to his own age (Leg. 658c-d; 700701b) could equally well be applied to the Empire in this sense. 92 Fantham (1999). 93 In the same vein Plin. Ep. 3.13: Fantham (1999) 227 and n. 16.

20

Introduction

Valette-Cagnat thinks that the performance /recitatio was indispensable, yet Parker states that “it had a limited role in the circulation of literary texts”. 94 Both authors highlight the point that recitation is the culmination of a long process, whose four steps are summarised by Valette-Cagnat as follows: 1) the initial dispatch of the text to a friend in order to read it and make corrections, which might change the text considerably; 2) a recitatio of the corrected text before a larger circle of friends only; 3) production of copies of the text for a dedicatee and then for more friends; and 4) the granting of permission by author whereby friends may make copies of these copies, this time for a larger audience of strangers. 95 The first two steps are already a blend of both production and transmission of the text, while the last two involve its reception and diffusion or publication. Dinner parties could also promote innovation and creativity, as can be seen from papyri, with altered versions of Menander’s and Aristophanes’ lines written for a nonprofessional performer. 96 There were also public places, triclinia, at Rome intended for dinners in sanctuaries and porticoes supported by benefactors, including women. 97 Dinners held in such places involved self-display on the part of the elites more documented in literature than in art, according to Dunbabin. 98 At these public banquets the participants were entertained by spectacles, as in a theatre, while entire works were performed, including pantomimes. 99 This assimilation of the public to the private sphere in the Empire accounts for the fact that some dramatic competitions were held privately. 100 Indeed, the main difference between drama over dinner and drama on a public stage could lie solely in the nature of the audience. If oral performances were fundamental for the diffusion of books, such a practice was not without risks for authors. Diodorus Siculus (40. 8) complains that some of his books appeared in clandestine editions before the work could circulate in its entirety, and there were other examples of 94

Valette-Cagnat (1997) 116-139; Parker (2009) 213. Parker is right when he states that the recitatio is a part of the process of production of Roman poetry, not a substitute for the publication of the written text. On p. 204 he makes no distinction between poetry and prose literature. 95 Valette-Cagnat (1997) 145-146; on p. 158 she refers to two ‘forms’ of the recitatio: legere (orally or silently, for a dedicatee or not), and cantare (with or without music, accompanied by mimetic representation). Parker [(2009) 208] mentions Martial’s and Pliny’s examples as well. 96 Nervegna (2013) 172; see also p. 83. 97 Dunbabin (2003) 50ff.; 72-79. 98 Dunbabin (2003) 72-79. 99 Jones (1991) 185: “dinner theatre”, and p. 193: “theatre-dinner”. 100 Nervegna [(2013) 187] refers to prices at both public and private performances.

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pirated copies and plagiarism of works that spread before final and corrected versions could, to the benefit of the librarians on some occasions. 101

3.3 Other Places for Performances In addition to private houses and theatres, there were, as we have already mentioned, other locations employed for recitations and declamations. It is worth noting the contexts in which Menander Rhetor refers on five occasions to mouseia: at 2.431.3-7 mouseia are juxtaposed to panegyreis, theatra and agones; at 2.392.15-18 they are related to agones logon at Athens; at 2.396.26-30 with theatra logon; at 2.426.26-31 with logoi, and at 2.398.7 Menander cites the ݀ȝȚȜȜĮȚ ȜިȖȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ ȝȠȣıİަȦȞ (“scholarly discussions at the mouseia”). As Zadorojnyi concludes, these mouseia seem to be connected more with sophistic performances than with written texts. 102 The role of libraries with respect to performances is also important. Scholars have variously argued whether recitations took place in them or not. The presence of grammatikoi in Rome is attested both in public libraries as organisers, and at bookshops, as experts, as we mentioned above, 103 and, although they seem not to be documented in recitationes, Plutarch (Luc. 42.1-2) is quite keen to mention philologoi at the libraries and porticoes. 104 W.A. Johnson also establishes an “essential link between libraries and the construction of elite circles and exclusivity”, and stresses their connection with antiquarian texts, although he adds that in Rome “recitations, in contradistinction to Greek habits, seem to have taken place almost always in domestic circumstances (… there is no solid evidence for recitations in public libraries)”. 105 Zadorojnyi notes the paradox that in this highly bookish world (or polyphonos age, we could add, to quote Lucian´s words [hist. conscr. 4]), libraries are rarely mentioned in sources of the Second Sophistic: Plutarch barely refers to contemporary libraries, although in his Life of Lucullus 42 “the books remain the background”, and the omissions by Aristides on this

101

Fedeli (1989); White [(2009) 282] who observes that there are no data on Greek literati, grammarians, or booksellers, in recitations. 102 Zadorojnyi [(2013) 381] quotes Plut. Mor.705E, where the term is used in parallel with theatra, and adds that manuscripts read mousika (p. 380, n. 24). 103 See n. 87. White [(2009) 283-285] on hyperliteracy at bookshops, quoting Galen and Gellius. 104 Plut. Luc. 42.2: ʌȠȜȜ‫ޠ‬țȚȢ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȞİıȤިȜĮȗİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ ‫݋‬ȝȕ‫ޠ‬ȜȜȦȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJȠީȢ ʌİȡȚʌ‫ޠ‬IJȠȣȢ IJȠ߿Ȣ ijȚȜȠȜިȖȠȚȢ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ʌȠȜȚIJȚțȠ߿Ȣ ıȣȞ‫ޢ‬ʌȡĮIJIJİȞ ‫ݼ‬IJȠȣ į‫ޢ‬ȠȚȞIJȠ. 105 W. A. Johnson (2013) 363.

22

Introduction

topic are also striking. 106 Conversely, Galen refers to them frequently when he deals with his own research there. In fact, we know that there were some Greek libraries before the Alexandrian Museum, and that their number increased in the Roman Empire, as is evident from the very useful papers on the subject, edited by König, Oikonomopoulou and Woolf (2013). While Seneca and Dio Chrysostom criticised the excesses of book-collecting at libraries, Martial seems to praise libraries: he refers to them next to theatra in 12 praef. 107 In the volume just mentioned, Bowie focuses on libraries in Rome, built in or adjacent to temples, and suggests that recitations and declamations took place “either in the temple itself or the libraries – presumably the latter”, and in Pollio’s Atrium Libertatis. 108 He also reminds us that Hadrian of Tyre, the Imperial professor of Greek rhetoric in Rome, performed at ‘the Athenaeum’, founded ca. A.D. 135 by Hadrian. 109 Moreover, when dealing with Galen and his consideration of the Templum Pacis in Rome, Nicholls underlines the pivotal role of this centre of Roman intellectual life and notes “the close conjunction of libraries and lecture halls”. 110 He deduces that “a set-piece medical disputation … took place in one of the auditoria” of the temple, and suggests that the Hadrianic library at Athens had the same purpose, so that there were “lecture rooms as well as spaces suitable for meeting, reading, or discussion”. He concludes that the same kind of buildings could have existed in the provinces of the Empire, possessing similar spaces in which “large numbers of people could gather for events such as debates and recitations ... increasing their potential ‘usership’ to non-specialist and even illiterate visitors”. 111 The silence of the sources as regards the presence of libraries is paralleled by other omissions typical of this antiquarian movement that 106

Zadorojnyi [(2013) 389] quoting White [(2009) 283]. He observes that even Pausanias (1.18.9) designates Hadrian’s library at Athens, somewhat obliquely, as “the building ... where books are kept”. On Galen see also Tucci (2013); W. A. Johnson (2013) 354. See also Dix and Houston (2006) 710: no library is even depicted on any coin. 107 Zadorojnyi (2013) 379, with further references. 108 Bowie (2013b) 241. 109 Bowie (2013b) 244. The ‘Athenaeum’ was called ludus ingenuarum artium, or the “school of liberal arts”. 110 Nicholls (2013) 275-276. 111 Compare with the conclusions drawn by Cavallo [(1989) 338-340] on ‘letteratura di consumo’ in smaller libraries and its ‘circulazione transversale’ for a ‘pubblico disomogeneo’. He prefers to speak of a ‘literary audience’, instead of ‘readers’. See also the papers by Stramaglia and Andreassi in this volume and their conclusions on the social reception of some types of books.

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

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preferred to look at the past, rather than to engage with the real world; as a matter of fact it tried to shape this reality from a position in the past. On the other hand, the function of libraries was different from that of their modern counterparts, and it is quite likely that certain library visitors are never mentioned, as may be the case, for instance, with women. Reality may then have been somewhat different from what is alleged in the evidence.112 From all these data, we can detect the existence of a rich variety of performances in terms of types of works and genres, duration, venues, and addressees, either large groups or learned and minority ones. ‘Oral’ was a vehicle both for popular and learned content. While transmitting the literary tradition, orality extended Greek identity to an audience numerically greater than that formed by the elites. Thus, recitationes, in their various forms, were an essential means of circulating literary texts among a broader and less learned audience, which they did in a fashion similar to other entertaining spectacles, and both of these helped to produce and spread texts.

3.4. Other Forms of the Dissemination of Texts We turn now to look at other forms of orality connected with social or /and material manifestations that constitute a proof of both a ‘multimedia’ transmission of the same story and a multifaceted oral transmission of literature. Iconography constitutes a fundamental material manifestation of oral and visual culture and is another form of text circulation. Here, we confine ourselves to making a few references to mosaics and coins. The names ‘Ninus’, ‘Metiochus’ and ‘Parthenope’, representing characters of ancient novels, appear in some mosaics at Antioch (ca. A.D. 200), the figures themselves being without masks. 113 In Mytilene in the ‘House of Menander’ there is a series of eleven mosaics (3rd / 4th century A.D.) depicting scenes from Menander, the most performed playwright of the period, and the best documented at the school of rhetor. 114 In this series in the same ‘House’ a mosaic (A.D. 350-375) depicts Socrates, Simmias and Cebes in a non-theatrical scene that seems to illustrate the Phaedo. 115 112

Martínez and Senseney (2013) 408. An upper-class woman funds a library (p. 378). 113 Quet (1992). 114 Cribiore (1996a) 512; Nervegna (2013) 201-251. 115 See Dunbabin (2006) and Charalabopoulos [(2012) 158 and 238] quoted in RuizMontero (below, ch. 5, n. 72) in this volume. For the Tabula Cebetis, see Squire and

24

Introduction

This juxtaposition suggests an intentional contrast between two types of dramatic literature. The staging of Plato’s dialogues at banquets has already been mentioned. In the pavement of a villa at Daphne near Antioch, dating from the end of the 3rd century A.D., a mosaic is preserved in which Menander appears to the right, Glycera in the centre, and the personification of COMO(I)DIA to the left, in a room perhaps used for forms of entertainment, that is, mime or other scenic performances related to Menander.116 It has been suggested that, in this type of room, ethopoiiai related to New Comedy could have been performed for a restricted public, such as the letter of Glycera to Menander by Alciphron (4.19.1-2). 117 There were also chronicles and sacred legends related to votive offerings at sanctuaries, attested in inscriptions of certain temples, and referred to by Pausanias frequently. 118 Their local exegetai or interpreters are also mentioned in texts such as De Pythiae oraculis by Plutarch, the Tabula Cebetis, and Greek erotic novels: Achilles Tatius and Longus use them as narrative devices to introduce their plot at its beginning, while in the Amores attributed to Lucian, local stories are embedded in the plot. In some way, the novels by Chariton of Aphrodisias and Xenophon of Ephesus are also presented as local legends similar to those narrated by Pausanias and attested in some public agones. 119 Dio Chrysostom (20.10) observes people at the hippodrome indulging in various activities and mentions singing, reading poetry or relating stories

Grethlein (2014) and Ruiz-Montero (below, ch. 5 n. 22), where reference to other graphaí. See also Lancha (1997) and Dunbabin (1999). For scenes of Bacchantes in knobs (225-275 A.D.) in a context of festival see Dunbabin (2006). 116 This is the interpretation of Huskinson (2002-2003). The villa is rich in mosaics. When dealing with the ‘House of Menander’ at Daphne he mentions (p. 154) a mosaic of Cupid and Psyche (see n. 97, for the possibility that it was taken from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses). He supposes that stories from the novels were recited or enacted in triclinia. The same suggestion is made at p. 157 on Ninus and Metiochus and Parthenope in the ‘House of the Man of letters’. Gutzwiller and Çelik (2012) refer to other mosaics related to Menander at Antioch. On these mosaics see also Petrides [(2014) 96-97] who thinks of a ‘readerly provenance’ of them. 117 Vox (2013) 251-255. He adduces testimonies from 4th century A.D. for learned private letters read at “letture pubbliche organizzate ex professo nei ș‫ޢ‬ĮIJȡĮ /auditoria destinati alle declamazioni”. 118 The ambiance of these sanctuaries is recreated by Petsalis-Diomidis [(2005), and in this volume]. See also Neudecker (2013). 119 See Ruiz-Montero (this volume). Fernández Delgado (this volume) suggests that the narrator of the Banquet of the Seven Sages presents his work as a diegema.

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and myths (ȝࠎșȠȞ ‫ݨ ݙ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȞ įȚȘȖȠުȝİȞȠȞ). 120 The oral circulation of myths is also documented through local coins. 121 It is a phenomenon which belongs to the archaiotes, typical of the Second Sophistic: the cities are connected by means of their mythic kinship, syngeneia, in such a way that the ‘foreign’ becomes part of the local. The narration of myths by Sophists in civic festivities and the dissemination of ta patria is a sign of this archaiotes. 122 The stories of Atis, Antiope, Antinoe, Auge, Daphne, Ariadne, Callirhoe, Cephalus, Coresus and Callisto, all of them mentioned by Pausanias, appear on local coins (LIMC). 123 Moreover, love stories dating from the Hellenistic period, such as those of Pyramus and Thisbe, and Hero and Leander, appear on coins from Cilicia and from Sestos and Abydos respectively. 124

This Volume In today’s multimedia world, people often feel the need to look back and investigate the paths that have led to this boom in communication. Questions regarding the role that orality has played in the shaping of modern civilisation or how word is disseminated through written speech and the way the written speech, in its turn, produces orality, are completely legitimate. In the present volume we hope to offer an opportunity to broaden awareness of this issue and we would feel justified in our endeavours, if it stimulates further research into the fascinating world of the orality of the past. The studies included in this volume focus on different and distinct aspects of the phenomenon from both a literary and a sociocultural point of view, illuminating the interconnections between literary and social practices.

120

See also Apuleius (Flor. 18.2). Emphasis is given on some common points between Xenophon of Ephesus and Pausanias in Ruiz-Montero (2003). 121 On coins as symbols of identity see Howgego (2005); J. Nollé (2014), with further references. 122 See Polemon, in Phil. VS 1.25; Lindner (1994) 43. On patria see also Strubbe (1984-1986); Chaniotis (1988); Scheer (1993); Weiss (1995); Yildirim (2004); J. Nollé (2014). They all emphasise ‘the culture of myth’, which is still working in the Imperial age. 123 Ruiz-Montero (2003) n. 49. 124 The first one being dated to the reign of Marcus Aurelius, with a variant of the legend that has not survived in literary texts, the latter belonging to the late 2nd century A.D.: Ruiz-Montero (2003), nn. 52 and 53. Ninus, the founding hero of Aphrodisias, appears on coins in Anineta in the period of Antoninus Pius, and the statue of Semiramis stands with other mythical heroes at the temple of Hierapolis: Ruiz-Montero (2003) n. 50.

26

Introduction

It is obvious that the first and most essential step towards the study of orality is the study of memory. This is a major issue, to which Angelos Chaniotis turns his attention in his contribution under the title “The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period” (ch. 1). It is concerned with “the oral transmission of memory that took place on ‘marked occasions’, that is, on occasions with special significance: formal and planned events, such as festivals, meetings of the assembly, formal meetings between envoys of cities and representatives of the Roman administration, religious celebrations, and social rituals”. Chaniotis refers both to the collective memory, that is, remembrance of events people have experienced together, and to cultural memory, namely the commemoration of traditions concerning the more or less remote past. His piece focuses on: 1) oral presentations of history to Roman audiences, 2) oral history in festivals, such as encomia for emperors or gods performed in the context of a festival, 3) oral commemoration of individuals, exemplified by orations and honorific decrees, including contemporary individuals, whose history was written and read aloud. Chaniotis underlines the importance and length of the narration which inscriptions contain, a point shared with contemporary narrative literature, and authors such as Plutarch, Apuleius, and Lucian, while the Greek love novelists also show many examples of extensive narration. A number of the papers that follow Chaniotis’ contribution are also devoted to the study of the works of these authors and genre. Ewen Bowie in his contribution “Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire” (ch. 2) concentrates on the discussion of prose and poetic performances in the ‘musical competitions’ (ܻȖࠛȞİȢ ȝȠȣıȚțȠަ). As with Chaniotis, he dwells on epigraphic material (offering translation and commentary) from 1) the Mouseia at Thespiae, 2) the Sebasta at Naples, and 3) poetic performances outside competitions. Among other matters, he brings into discussion the issue of the written texts that might have supported some oral performances and that of the survival of these texts. For both Chaniotis and Bowie, the epigraphic material is at the epicentre of their research. Complementing the epigraphic material, however, literature abounds in manifestations of orality. Plutarch offers much material. José Antonio Fernández Delgado (“Writing, Orality and Paideia in Plutarch: the Banquet of the Seven Sages”, ch. 3) studies Plutarch’s Banquet of the Seven Sages and the relationship therein between orality and the didactic character of his work. Among the frequent indicators of orality concerning enunciation, Delgado emphasises Plutarch’s use of progymnasmata, a well-attested type of school exercise, as a way of creating

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27

an atmosphere of orality in his imaginary depiction of a scene from the past. Plutarch thus exploits school practices, while also addressing pepaideumenoi, like himself. A major conclusion arising from this paper is the realisation that the narrative of the Banquet of the Seven Sages should, generically speaking, be considered a diegema. Albeit from an entirely different perspective, Plutarch is also the object of the interest of Harold Tarrant (“Plutarch and the Novel: Register Change and Embedded Narratives in the De Jenio Socratis and in Achilles Tatius”, ch. 4). Tarrant starts from the fact that changes in register within written texts are not found uniformly across all authors and he looks primarily at works with strong dramatic and dialogic elements. His method is based on ‘Principal Component Analysis’ and ‘Cluster Analysis’ of recurrent vocabulary, regardless of the subject matter. In this manner Tarrant analyses the vocabulary of one of the most dramatic dialogues of Plutarch, the De genio Socratis, which he shows to be highly novelistic. He also examines Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe and Clitophon, concentrating on the first five books of the novel, before the narrative pace speeds up in the Melite complex. In his conclusions, Tarrant states that the appearance of one type of embedded narrative, namely type of myth, differs between Plutarch and Achilles Tatius, while certain other myths and ekphraseis also function differently. Novel proves to be a fertile ground for the study of orality. Consuelo Ruiz-Montero (“Oral Tales and Greek Fictional Narrative in Roman Imperial Prose”, ch. 5) applies a multi-genre approach to ‘old wives’ tales’ in Xenophon of Ephesus (3.9.4-5) and then proceeds to the analysis of other tales delivered orally by aged narrators, such as the old man in the Tabula Cebetis, and the zacoros in Chariton and Ps.-Lucian Amores. Ruiz-Montero observes that this type of tale forms a model which is either subverted by the autobiographical story narrated by the young Clitophon in Achilles Tatius or changed into an account by an interpreter in Longus’ praefatio. Ruiz-Montero establishes differences both in main features of these tales and their function in the plot and she compares these tales with contemporary epigraphic and literary evidence on the one hand, and with the Odyssey, Ctesias, and Plato as main hypotexts on the other. She reviews the Milesian tradition and compares the beginnings of several of Plato’s dialogues with those of Achilles Tatius’ novel, the Ass, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, and the Amores. The discussion leads to an exploration of the relation between Plato and Aristides’ Milesiae. For Ruiz-Montero the world of the Empire is a performative and ‘theatrocratic’ world and in such a context the novel could not remain untouched by the oral dissemination documented for other types of ‘high’

28

Introduction

literature of the age and which underlies the works of such sophisticated authors as Apuleius and Lucian. Following the same direction, Loreto Núñez (“Embedded Orality in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Florida”, ch. 6) shows that the entanglement of orality and scripturality produces the ‘dialectical’ relationship between Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Florida. Employing the method of ‘differential comparison’, Núñez studies embedded narratives and ‘parallel stories’. The passages of the Metamorphoses are treated in three sections: 1) discussion of the prologue, 2) “‘Mimetic’ Orality between Characters”, 3) “The Auctor-Narrator to his ‘Readers’”. Embedded orality in the Florida is also treated in two sections: 1) “Fragmentary Frames of Rhetorical Speeches”, 2) “the Orator as Improviser and Writer”. The comparison between both works reveals differences in the handling of embedded narrative, as the voice of the narrator Lucius is fictive and written, whereas speeches in the Florida are enacted as given or are meant to be given orally and before a real audience. Núñez analyses the tension between improvisation and writing from the perspective of rhetorical theory, and this is a main point in the paper by Francesca Mestre (“The Spoken Word or the Prestige of Orality in Lucian”, ch. 7). Mestre stresses the point that training in written composition was thought to be the best preparation for both oral production and improvisation, an almost indispensable quality in a good speaker. For Mestre, every written text needs to be ‘oralised’, since the oral word was the most prestigious and representative means for self-presentation of the elites. The relevance of orality to Lucian’s production is focused on three issues which show that orality is for Lucian the main purpose of his works. These issues are: 1) the incorporation of oral tales within his narratives, 2) Lucian’s obsession with hypercorrect speech, especially when speech is publicly performed, which means that language is being delivered out loud and, lastly, 3) oral performances, such as dialogues, as a fundamental way in which elite pepaideumenoi can interact in cultural (i.e. literary) terms. Mestre observes that in oral interactions between speaker and audience the peak is reached when the relationship between active-transmitter and passive-receiver is paradoxically inverted, a point which invites us to inhabit the role and levels of the audience. The connection between written and oral traditions and the various levels of members of the audience as envisaged by the speaker are the focus of the papers by Antonio Stramaglia and Mario Andreassi. Stramaglia (“‘Comic Books’ in Greco-Roman Antiquity”, ch. 8) offers an answer to the question of how far ancient Greeks and Romans were familiar with ‘comics’. Starting from figurative arts, and in particular a type of burlesque painting, Gryllos, “the type-character of certain representations of a grotesque kind” (below, p. 20), Stramaglia

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29

discusses two papyrus fragments, P.Oxy. XXII 2331 and P.Köln IV, whose contents, consisting of a burlesque presentation of Hercules’ labours, would seem to belong to the world of illustrated books. Whereas the parallels are precise in terms of contents, Stramaglia observes various bibliological ‘external’ differences and concludes that these papyri are clearly two different copies of the same illustrated text. As regards the target audience of the book, Stramaglia suggests that it consisted of a wealthy audience, albeit one “of limited education” (below, p. 21), who needed some guidance in their approach to the written word and he concludes that “it was a genre closer to modern ‘comic books’ than anything that classical antiquity has handed down to us”, and that, “just like modern comics, these ancient books were ‘letteratura di consumo’ targeting a motley audience: such an audience certainly enjoyed much of that ‘sub-literature’ through the lively channels of orality, but it also included readers with a variegated – and not necessarily high – culture. It was precisely those ‘common readers’ who made up the bulk of the literate in Greco-Roman society in the first centuries of our era”. Philogelos was also a kind of ‘letteratura di consumo’ and this is the subject of the next contribution by Mario Andreassi (“Jokes between Orality and Writing: the Case of the Philogelos”, ch. 9), who observes that an antiintellectual tendency underlies the Philogelos, a book whose main target is the derision of the scholastikoi and the grammatikoi. Andreassi demonstrates that in the genesis of the book, that is, “in its transition from a mainly oral tradition to a written form, the compiler’s social and cultural provenance played a crucial role” (p. 22). Andreassi stresses that, on the basis of the two main manuscripts (A and M), it would be possible to ascribe the writing of the text to a specific cultural context, that of the pepaideumenoi, the world of school and official culture. Andreassi studies the role of the grammatikos and his relation to the jokes in the Empire from four perspectives: [a] “the school in the Philogelos”, [b] “chreia and joke”, [c] “character typification”, [d] the “derision of the scholastikos (and the grammatikos)”. Andreassi concludes with his chapter “Umorismo autodelatorio” on the part of the author, who, being aware that he himself is a part of traditional culture, chooses to confront the little tradition, the unofficial, popular culture. In so doing, the Philogelos compiler plays an active role within the humoristic tradition that had long chosen him as a target. Stramaglia’s and Andreassi’s contributions on books lead the discussion to the material culture and its relation to the mental world. This is the area to which Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis directs our attention (“Oral and Material Aspects of Sanctuaries in Roman Greece: Delphi, Plutarch and

30

Introduction

Pausanias”, ch. 10). Indeed, A. Petsalis-Diomidis highlights the constrictions implicit in the study in isolation of the material and literary facets of antiquity. Her contribution deals with the connection between orality and material and visual culture in archaeological remains and texts related to Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi in the Roman period, in particular Plutarch’s De Pythiae Oraculis and Pausanias’ Description of Greece 10.1.1-10.32.7. Petsalis-Diomidis argues that the oral dimension was a central and currently under-explored feature of the experience of pilgrimage in establishing and reinforcing the meanings for the visitor of the physical sanctuary. PetsalisDiomidis’ interest is concentrated on oral aspects of the experience of visiting the sanctuary of Delphi during the Imperial period. This included straightforward oral events at the sanctuary, such as ritual performances, guided tours, discussions among pilgrims, including the oral evocation of myths in viewing buildings and votives, oral engagements, and the monumentalisation of these events. It also included the reading aloud of votive and oracular inscriptions in acts of secondary orality. Petsalis-Diomidis advocates dialogue among different areas of Greek literature and civilisation. Part of broadening our perspective involves undertaking the challenge of examining the transmission of Greek tales and their interaction with neighbouring cultures. This is the topic of the papers offered by Jacqueline Jay and Ioannis Konstantakos. Jay (“Egyptian Literature of the Roman Period”, ch. 11) focuses her attention on reviewing issues of orality, literacy, and multiculturalism in Roman Egypt and argues that the evidence, rather than suggesting any separation between textual material produced in temple libraries and the popular oral tradition that must have existed in the surrounding village society, in fact implies the existence of mutual influence operating between the two spheres. At the same time, a mixture of Egyptian and Greek traditions is to be expected, given the multicultural nature of Egypt at this time. Jay studies three quite different groups of texts: 1) “Animal Fables”, 2) “the Inaros Cycle”, and 3) “the Sesonchosis novel”. She concludes that all these tales played an important role in the popular oral tradition of the Roman period and that the oral performances of these tales took place before a culturally and socially blended audience, reflecting living practices that were very much in line with long-standing local traditions. Ioannis Konstantakos (“The Island that was a Fish: An Ancient Folktale in the Alexander Romance and in Other Texts of Late Antiquity”, ch. 12) is a study of ancient stories, their migrations, and transformations, a research that he terms ‘folktale archaeology’. His essay examines the fishisland tale, one of the marvellous stories included in the earliest extant version of the Alexander Romance. Konstantakos investigates this narrative

Aspects of Orality and Greek Literature in the Roman Empire

31

and its variations in the Alexander Romance as well as in other texts. He states that “this kind of dynamic interplay between literary composition and influences from oral lore conditions the peculiar character of the travelogue tales in the Alexander Romance” (below, p. 28). He makes an extensive comparison of the tale with other versions from contemporary Greek sources, from narrative compositions of the ancient Near East, and from further east. Konstantakos also discusses the origins of the story, and its dissemination, while comparing related types of tales and mentioning some of its transformations in modern times. ****** We have collected here some case studies of Greek epigraphical and literary texts in their relationship to orality from diverse perspectives, such as rhetoric, language and speech, performance and aurality, narrativerepresentation, audience, material culture, transmission, and interaction with other cultures. We are aware that we have not covered by any means all the possible issues regarding orality, which is by nature an apeiron field. In any case, in approaching this subject from different perspectives and manifestations we hope to help readers gain a better understanding of such a fundamental, and, indeed, overwhelming topic.

CHAPTER ONE THE ORAL TRANSMISSION OF MEMORY IN THE GREEK CITIES OF THE IMPERIAL PERIOD ANGELOS CHANIOTIS

Introduction Sometime during Domitian’s reign (ca. A.D. 90) a civil basilica was constructed in Aphrodisias in Asia Minor. It was decorated with reliefs connected with well-known myths. 1 An educated viewer would easily recognise Leda, the young Hercule, and the Corybantes. He would also know that a winged horse is Pegasus and would infer that the young man standing next to it must be Bellerophon. But would an ancient viewer be in a position to name the figures that lack specific attributes? A stranger would probably have to ask a native informant. But how many people would he have to ask in order to get an answer? And how many different answers would he get? It is probably because of uncertainties such as these that around the mid-third century A.D. the authorities decided to have labels added identifying the figures as Ninus, Semiramis, Gordis, Bellerophontes, Apollo, and Pegasus. Interestingly, labels were added only next to figures that had some significance for local history: Bellerophon was the legendary founder of the city. Ninus, according to the local historian Apollonios, was the founder of Ninoe, Aphrodisias’ early name. Semiramis was Ninus’ wife. And Gordi(u)s was the eponymous ktistes of the neighbouring city Gordiou Teichos (“the fort/wall of Gordius”), which was incorporated into Aphrodisias. 2 It is only thanks to these late inscriptions that we know that the man with a cuirass is Gordius and that the woman is Semiramis. And if we have no idea who the soldier standing next to Gordius is, it is because he lacks a label. Perhaps already in the 3rd century A.D. no one knew with 1 On the basilica and its date, see Yildirim (2008). On the sculptural decoration, see Yildirim (2004); Linant de Bellefonds (2011). 2 On the foundation legends see Yildirim (2004); Chaniotis (2009b). On the early history of Aphrodisias see Chaniotis (2010b).

The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period

33

certainty who he was. The very fact that labels became necessary shows that five generations after the inauguration of the building many people had difficulties in understanding the images. People asked questions; they received different answers; they made comments. The adding of labels presupposes debates, decisions, and assignments. The inscriptions are the visible result of such oral deliberations. The subject of these different kinds of oral communication was the past: the foundation legends of this city. Oral transmission of knowledge concerning the past is the background not only of monuments and images but also of inscriptions. Let us look at an example, again from Aphrodisias. This time, we are not dealing with the foundation legends of a city but with the history of a family. In the late 1st century A.D., a certain Callicrates undertook to restore old statues connected with the history of his most famous ancestor, the homonymous general and benefactor Callicrates, who had lived in the late 1st century B.C. We know of the activities of the younger Callicrates II thanks to two inscriptions. The first is written on the base of a statue that represented Callicrates I. 3 A long honorary decree narrates his military exploits and other services. Callicrates I had preserved the common interest in the most difficult times; he had served in the highest offices; he had fought against enemies, killing sixty of them. After this honorary decree, a short inscription explains: ȀĮȜȜȚțȡ‫ޠ‬IJȘȢ ȂȠȜȠııȠࠎ ‫ݨ‬İȡİީȢ ȂȘȞާȢ ݃ıțĮȚȞȠࠎ țĮ‫ݒ ޥ‬ȡȝȠࠎ ݃ȖȠȡĮަȠȣ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ IJࠛȞ ʌȡȠʌĮIJިȡȦȞ IJȚȝ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ʌȚıțİȣ‫ޠ‬ıĮȢ ܻʌȠțĮș‫ޢ‬ıIJȘıİȞ (“Callicrates son of Molossus, priest of Men Ascaenus and Hermes Agoraius, repaired and restored the honorific statues of the founders of his family”). The younger Callicrates also signed another monument: a statue of Victory. 4 The original statue of Victory and a lion must have stood next to a statue of Octavian. The original dedication was probably made by Callicrates I in the late 1st century B.C. At some point, possibly during an earthquake, both the honorific statue of Callicrates I and the statues that he had dedicated were damaged. Callicrates II, aware of the family traditions, restored and rededicated them. His activity had a strong oral background: the stories narrated in the family about the old Callicrates, his military achievements, his benefactions, and his relationship with Augustus. 5 Every time that the author of an honorific inscription of the Imperial period uses the stereotypical phrase įȚ‫ ޟ‬ʌȡȠȖȩȞȦȞ (“following the ancestral tradition”), he refers to discussions about the achievements of an 3

I.Aphr. 12.103. I.Aphr. 12.402. 5 On the importance of statues for the preservation of family memories see Heller (2011). 4

34

Chapter One

individual’s ancestors; such phrases reflect discussions of local history. The short statement in an inscription from Amastris (A.D. 98) that the statue of Iulia Aquillina was placed ‫݋‬Ȟ IJࠜ ʌȡȠȖȠȞȚțࠜ șİ‫ޠ‬IJȡ࠙, the theater that her ancestors had built, presupposes a debate in the assembly and knowledge of her family’s contribution to the construction of the theatre. 6 During their leisurely walks in an ancient city, people asked questions, made comments, and listened to explanations concerning statues and paintings, monuments and trophies, inscriptions and relics. Some inquisitive and educated travellers might also be interested in myths and stories narrated about rivers, mountains, groves, and caves. Literary narratives of the Imperial period – the periegetic work of Pausanias, the works of Lucian, the orations of Dio of Prusa, and novels – provide abundant information about curious visitors, oral enquiries, and oral responses to all kinds of mnemeia (‘memorials’) and hypomnemata (‘stimuli of memory’). Also during their everyday exchanges, in the market, during a funeral, during a dinner party, or in the assembly, people orally communicated with others addressing subjects that in one way or another were connected with the past: with the history of an individual, a family, and a city, less commonly with the history of a region, the Greek world, or the Roman Empire. The epigram composed by Euarestus, sponsor of an agonistic festival at Oenoanda, and inscribed on the base of his statue, envisages future oral comments about his service: 7 “Now, give up your carping criticism, all you who are in thrall to dread envy, and gaze at my statue with eyes of imitation.” Euarestus knew that in the future people would be standing in front of his statue and do what people did in Greek cities: talk about the individual who was represented, try to remember his historical role, and make comments about him. Such comments directly concern the transmission of memory. It may not be the historical memory that modern historians usually study; but it is memory that mattered: memory about families, local heroes, local personalities who were respected or envied, who served as models or were hated. Such oral communication about the past was casual and unplanned; its content was usually short and not necessarily accurate. It is not that kind of oral communication that I will be treating in this study. But before we now turn our attention to oral communication about the past that is planned, detailed, and authoritative, it is helpful to remember that oral exchanges about myth and history were very common and diverse. My study is concerned with the oral transmission of memory that took place on ‘marked occasions’, that is, on occasions with special significance: formal and planned events, such as festivals, meetings of the assembly, 6 7

I.Herakleia 72. SEG 44.1182 B; Dickey (2003).

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35

formal meetings between envoys of cities and representatives of the Roman administration, religious celebrations, and social rituals. The memory that I will be referring to is both collective memory, that is, remembrance of events that people have jointly experienced, and cultural memory, that is, the commemoration of traditions concerning the more or less remote past. 8 My main aim is to draw attention to the abundance and diversity of the relevant material. This is why I will not discuss the usual suspects, such as the historical and mythological accounts provided by exegetai and local informants in large sanctuaries – often mentioned by Pausanias –, or the orations of Dio of Prusa and Aelius Aristides, in which historical and mythological references abound, or the fictitious “Gelehrtenmahl” of an Athenaeus, that reflects intellectual discussions during banquets. I will draw attention to the information provided by the epigraphic material.

1. Oral Presentations of History to Roman Audiences There were many ‘marked’ occasions for the presentation of history. Such an occasion was provided by the negotiations between Greek cities and Roman authorities, especially negotiations with the emperor. References to the past in interstate contacts is as old as diplomacy. Myths and history were exploited in order to create a favourable atmosphere for negotiations or in order to provide justifications for privileges and requests. 9 This practice acquired a new quality, when the Greeks had to deal with representatives of Rome, that is, with people who shared neither the same diplomatic culture nor the same cultural memory. The negotiations no longer took place between Greek polis communities but between Greek poleis and a superior power. This political asymmetry degraded the Greek communities to petitioners. How shocking this new experience was is shown by a decree of Abdera (167 B.C.), which praises envoys to Rome for enduring ȥȣȤȚț‫ޣ‬Ȟ ț[Į]țȠʌĮșަĮȞ (“psychological hardship”). 10 A relatively early text, from the mid-first century A.D., is very instructive. It is a decree of Maroneia concerning future embassies to the emperor. 11 The author summarises an oration recently held by the city’s envoys in front of Emperor Claudius:

8

On this distinction see Chaniotis (2009a) 255-259 with further bibliography. E.g. Bowie (1974); Elwyn (1993); Scheer (1993); Curty (1994); Bremmer (1997); Jones (1999); Gottlieb (2000); Curty (2005); Chaniotis (2008); Steinbock (2013); Chaniotis (2016). 10 Loukopoulou, Parissaki, Psoma and Zournatzi (2005), E5 lines 19-26. Discussed by Chaniotis (2015) 101-103. 11 SEG 53.659 (with bibliography). 9

36

Chapter One “We sent an embassy to Tiberius Claudius, Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the most manifest god of the world and the founder of new good things for all humans, and explained the attitude of our city towards the Roman people and the fate that the people of Maroneia suffered in the past because of its friendship towards the Romans; our people became their friend and ally as soon as their leading position had been established, and, after that, we endured to see the complete destruction of our city, which had a perimeter of sixty stadia, the loss of children, plundering, captivity, and all the other individual sufferings, only in order not to break any of the legal obligations towards the Romans; for all this, the senate, through its decisions, found our people worthy of being an ally and a friend, partner in treaty and treaty oaths; and it received freedom together with the other privileges, which are explained by the senate through its decisions and by the emperors through their answers. The emperor responded that such a city is worthy of being adorned with eternal favour; it should lose none of the privileges that it requests; and for this reason he restored the city to its ancient legal status and confirmed its freedom ...”

The subject of the envoys’ speech was the history of Maroneia’s relations with Rome. Did they also refer to the city’s myths and early history? This we cannot tell based on this summary, but it is quite possible that they did not. According to an anecdote in Plutarch, when the besieged Athenians negotiated their surrender to Sulla and tried to achieve favourable conditions by referring to their wars against the Amazons, the Thracians, and the Persians, the response of the Roman general was that he had not come to Athens to learn history but to subdue rebels. 12 The Greeks learned their lesson. In their negotiations with Rome they focused on pragmatic arguments and highlighted loyalty and good services. 13 This text allows us to make four observations. First, we observe that in the context of embassies – and more generally, in ceremonial contexts – the oral transmission of memory is selective. It serves a purpose; we are dealing with a particular aspect of ‘intentional history’. 14 What the envoys presented to Claudius consisted of selected highlights of two centuries of history: the treaty with Rome, the service of the Maronitans as trustworthy allies, the destruction of their city, and the privileges that they were given by the senate and the emperors. Secondly, we observe exaggerations and inaccuracies. According to the text, the Maronitans “became a friend and ally of the Romans as soon as their leading position had been established”. But the treaty of alliance with Rome is dated to shortly after 167 B.C., that 12

Plutarch Sulla 13, discussed by Chaniotis (2015) 87-89. Chaniotis (2015). 14 On ‘intentional history’ see Gehrke (2001), (2010), and (2014); Foxhall and Luraghi (2010). 13

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is, sixty years after the first amicitia-treaties between Rome and a series of Greek cities in the Adriatic Sea (Epidamnus, Corcyra, and Apollonia, 229 B.C.), 15 fifty years after the alliance between Rome and Aetolia (212 B.C.), 16 and thirty years after the Romans had defeated Philip V (197 B.C.) and had established themselves as a major power in the Greek world. Admittedly, Maroneia was one of the first Greek cities that concluded a foedus aequum, 17 and it did so after the establishment of Roman hegemony in that region, but the claim that it joined Rome in the first years of the Roman hegemony in general is unfounded. The second inaccuracy concerns the destruction of Maroneia. Reading the text, we get the impression that it occurred shortly after the treaty of alliance. But it probably occurred 80 years later, during the first Mithridatic War (88 B.C.). 18 Of course, these are not great fallacies; they are the small inaccuracies that one expects in oral treatments of the past. The third observation concerns the emotional arousal aimed at by the historical lecture of the envoys. The description of Maroneia’s destruction follows a pattern that we observe in historiography from the Hellenistic period onwards, and has become famous through Polybius’ criticism on Phylarchus: 19 “Eager to arouse the pity of his readers and to create empathy toward what was being said, he introduces scenes of women clinging to one another, tearing their hair and baring their breasts, and in addition he describes the tears and lamentations of men and women as they are led away in captivity together with their children and aged parents.”

In the case of Maroneia, the dramatic description of the city’s destruction aimed at arousing the pity and gratitude of the emperor and thus at triggering a sense of responsibility. As the emperor is described as a divine being, the request resembles a prayer. The oral historical narrative plays the part of the narratio in prayers, that is, the part in which the worshipper reminds the god of his past services. 20 Finally, the fourth observation concerns the relation between orator and audience; in this case the orator and the audience belong to two different communities; their status is different; their relation is reciprocal but asymmetrical. This relation 15 Gruen

(1984) vol. I, 55-56. (1984) vol. I, 17-21. 17 SEG 35.823; Loukopoulou, Parissaki, Psoma and Zournatzi (2005) E168. Cf. Clinton (2003) 408-410 and 417. 18 Clinton (2003) 385-389. 19 Polybius 2.56.6-8. Recent discussion: Thornton (2013). On emotional arousal in Hellenistic historiography see Chaniotis (2013). 20 Pulleyn (1997) 16-37. 16 Gruen

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Chapter One

determines which material will be selected and in which form it will be presented. Presentations such as those of the envoys of Maroneia in Rome are in a sense authoritative. The version of the past presented by the envoys is the ‘official’ version of local history. To judge from parallels from the Hellenistic period, an embassy required careful preparation: the election of the envoys – who often were men of letters; the selection of those aspects of earlier history that should be highlighted; the selection of the accompanying documentation (documents and literary texts). 21 Sometimes, the preparation of an embassy presented an opportunity to systematically revisit existing versions of mythical or historical narratives and compose a coherent account. 22 The inscription from Maroneia permits a better understanding of other documents concerning embassies from Greek cities to Roman authorities. I limit myself to one example, a letter of Emperor Hadrian to the Locrian city of Naryx, shortly before his death (A.D. 138). 23 Hadrian responded to an embassy from that city. Usually, the response of the recipient of an embassy summarises the content of the speeches delivered by the ambassadors. 24 Taking this widespread practice into consideration, it is almost certain that the letter of Hadrian summarises the presentation made by the Narycian envoys: “I do not think that anyone will doubt that you have a polis and the rights of a polis; hence you contribute to the league of the Amphictyones and the league of the Boeotians; you appoint a Boeotarches; you elect a member of the Panhellenion and send a priest (theekolos); you have a council, magistrates, and priests, Greek tribes and Opuntian laws; and you pay the tribute together with the Achaeans. Also some of the most renowned Roman and Greek poets have made references to you as Narycians; they also name some heroes mentioning that they originate in your city.”

The text makes allusions to ǹ‫ݫ‬ĮȢ ȁȠțȡިȢ, who is mentioned by Callimachus and Ovid. 25 Although we cannot exclude the possibility that the literary references were added by Hadrian, it is more likely that they were part of the documentation presented by the ambassadors, in order to demonstrate the city’s antiquity and status. 21

Chaniotis (2009a) 262-265. This seems to be the case in the embassy of Magnesia on the Maeander concerning the recognition of the local festival Leucophryena in 208 B.C. See Chaniotis (1988) 34-37. 23 SEG 51.64. Edition and discussion: Knoepfler (2006). 24 Chaniotis (1999) and (2015) 90-91. 25 Callimachus Aetia fr. 35, Pf.; Ovid Met. 8.312 and 14.468. 22

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2. Oral History in Festivals Speeches with mythological or historical content were necessary in most embassies, since myth and history played an important part both in a community’s self-representation and in the justification of rights and privileges. They were equally important in the context of festivals. In some cases, a historical presentation was part of the festival’s programme. This obviously happened during commemorative anniversaries – for instance, the commemorative anniversaries for the Persian Wars. 26 For the ancient Greeks every religious festival was in a sense a commemorative anniversary; every religious celebration was explained by an aetiological myth, and the fact that authors of the Imperial period, especially Plutarch and Pausanias, often refer to such aetiological myths implies that mythological narratives played a part in the celebration. Hymns and orations narrated myths and historical events or alluded to them. From the 1st century B.C. on, encomiastic orations were part of the agonistic programme of many festivals. 27 For instance, the programme of the Mouseia at Thespiae included orations and poems for various emperors and empresses, the Muses, benefactors (such as the deified benefactor Taurus), Eros, and the Romans. 28 Myths and historical memory were certainly treated in such encomia. We may wonder what the subject of an enkomion eis Erota kai Rhomaious may have been. Eros is the son of Aphrodite and, therefore, a half-brother of Aeneas; and an imaginative

26

Orations in historical anniversaries and commemorative festivals: N. Robertson (1986); Chaniotis (1988) 70-74; (1991) 130-131; (2009a) 268. 27 Examples of contests in ‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ in festivals of the Imperial period: Athens, Antinoeia en astei: IG II2 2087, 2119; Germanikeia: IG II2 2024. Isthmus, Isthmia: Corinth VIII.1.14. Thespiae, Mouseia: I.Thespiae 174 (‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ̙‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȈİȕĮıIJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݯ‬ȠȣȜަĮȞ ȂȞȘȝȠıުȞȘȞ ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȉĮࠎȡȠȞ ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȂȠުıĮȢ ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȂİııĮȜİ߿ȞȠȞ), 175 (‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ‫ݕ‬ȡȦIJĮ țĮ‫ࠔ ޥ‬ȦȝĮަȠȣȢ), 178, 179 (‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJȠțȡ‫ޠ‬IJȠȡĮ ‫݋‬ȞțެȝȚȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȂȠުıĮȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ‫ޣ‬Ȣ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJȠțȡ‫ޠ‬IJȠȡĮ ʌȠަȘȝĮ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ȂȠުıĮȢ). Oropus, Amphiareia: I.Oropos 521, 524, 528 (‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ șİȩȞ ‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚțȩȞ ‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ țĮIJĮȜȠȖȐįȘȞ). Miletus, Megala Didymeia: I.Didyma 182 (‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ). Ephesus, Artemisia: I.Ephesos 1104A. Aphrodisias, Lysimacheia: MAMA VIII 420 (‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ). Neapolis, Sebasta: I.Napoli I 63 (‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ). Kos, an undetermined festival (Kaisareia?): IG XII.4.936-937 and 941 (‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚȠȞ IJާ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ǹ‫ރ‬IJȠțȡȐIJȠȡĮ ȀĮȓıĮȡĮ ĬİȠࠎ ȣ‫ާݨ‬Ȟ ȈİȕĮıIJȩȞ). Cf. IG XII.4.939, which mentions a victor in encomiastic orations for emperors and local gods in many festivals in Asia and Kos. 28 See n. 27. On the identity of Taurus see Thériault (2009) and Marchand (2013). On the musical festivals of Thespiae see Manieri (2009) 313-433.

Chapter One

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orator may have made a word-play with Amor – when read backwards, Amor turns into Roma. 29 Contests in encomiastic orations were very widespread. An orator from Cos won victories in enkomion in the most important cities of Asia Minor. His speeches were written for Augustus, Tiberius, and Germanicus, the members of the Imperial family, and the local gods of the cities where the festivals took place. 30 Encomia for gods certainly treated their myths and epiphanies, and possibly also their special relation to a polis. Aelius Aristides’ prose hymn on Sarapis belongs to this genre, as well as an aretalogy for Isis from Maroneia, a long text in rhythmical prose from the early 1st century B.C. 31 A prose enkomion for a hero survives in an Attic inscription. It records a speech delivered by P. Aelius Isochrysus, the archon of the ephebes, during the celebration of the Theseia in A.D. 184/185. 32 Isochrysus reminded the ephebes of the deeds of Theseus, possibly comparing him with Hadrian, and urged the ephebes to follow his example. The first part of the inscription is very fragmentary, but from the preserved words we infer that the orator referred to Theseus’ deeds. In addition, the rest of the text is not entirely preserved. The restorations are questionable, hence my translation is very tentative: “Remember also this: how Theseus, still an ephebe, accomplished the greatest deeds. He (killed?) Sinis in our land, and put an end to the violence of his father, Periphetes, and expelled Corynetes and the bandits who were in Megaris, and Procroustes along with Sciron. While he was an ephebe he led those fourteen boys to Crete, sailing out against the Minotaur, liberating the fatherland from that shameful tribute, thus bringing the greatest benefit to the citizens and the ephebes. Who would not like to approach such deeds? Who among the ephebes would not like to imitate such deeds, having heard about them being so powerful and beautiful? But for us, our fight for virtue is not against a beast, as his fight was; it is not a fight against Cerberus. We compete with each other, in a

29 Rigsby

(1994) 192-193. Robert (1937) 22-23: [ȞȚț]‫ޠ‬ıĮȞIJĮ ‫[݋‬Ȗ]țȦȝަȠȚȢ [‫݋‬Ȟ] IJĮ߿Ȣ ‫݋‬ʌȚıĮȝȠIJ‫ޠ‬IJĮȚȢ ߢȢ ݃ıĮȢ ʌިȜİıȚ ‫ݏ‬Ȣ IJİ IJާȞ țIJަıIJĮȞ IJߢȢ ʌިȜȚȠ[Ȣ] ȈİȕĮıIJާȞ ȀĮަıĮȡĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ [İ]‫ރ‬İȡȖ‫ޢ‬IJĮȢ ȉİȕ‫ޢ‬ȡ̙[ȚȠ]Ȟ ȀĮަıĮȡĮ ț[Į‫ ]ޥ‬īİȡȝĮȞȚțާȞ ȀĮަıĮȡĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ‫ݼ‬ȜȠȞ Ƞ‫ݭ‬țȠȞ Į‫ރ‬IJ[ࠛ]Ȟ țĮ̙[‫݋ ]ޥ‬Ȣ IJ[ާȢ ܿȜ]ȜȠȢ IJާȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫[݌‬ț‫ޠ‬ıIJĮȚȢ IJĮ߿Ȣ ʌިȜİ]ıȚ. The text is now published in IG XII.4.939 31 Loukopoulou, Parissaki, Psoma and Zournatzi (2005) E205; see the analysis of its stylistic features by Papanikolaou (2009). 32 SEG 54.201. Follet and Peppas Delmousou (2000). Cf. Chaniotis (1988) 70-72 T17 (on the basis of an incomplete edition). 30

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manner worthy of Theseus; we rush to noble competition; and we wish to imitate our kosmetes [?]”.

First, we observe that the orator did not narrate any event of Theseus’ life; he only alluded to events such as the killing of the Minotaur; the orator presupposed that his audience had some basic knowledge of the ‘facts’; the Athenian ephebes had certainly acquired such knowledge in the gymnasium. Secondly, references to the life of Theseus are selective. The orator highlights only those aspects to which an audience consisting of ephebes could relate; Theseus is represented as the archetypical ephebe, as the model that the ephebes should follow. Thirdly, the aim of the text is not to transmit knowledge but to arouse emotions. There is a direct reference to hope (elpis), and the ephebes are urged to show zeal in a noble competition for virtue. The evidence concerning enkomia during festivals probably provides the context for a proper understanding of an inscription from Ephesus, which has puzzled scholars. 33 The text ȝİȜȠʌȠȚȠࠎ țĮ‫ࠍ ޥ‬Įȥ[࠙įȠࠎ Ĭİ]Ƞࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ șİȠȜȩȖȠȣ ȞĮࠛȞ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ Ȇ[İȡȖȐȝȦȚ] describes the activities of the poet Publius Aelius Pompeianus Paeon, who is also praised in an inscription from Side as “the new Homer”. 34 According to L. Robert, 35 Paeon composed lyric and Homeric poems and recited them for Hadrian. Simon Follet connected the genitive șİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ with șİȠȜȩȖȠȣ ȞĮࠛȞ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȆİȡȖȐȝȦȚ and not with ࠍĮȥ࠙įȠࠎ. In this reading, Paeon had three capacities: he was a melic poet; he participated as rhapsode in a musical contest, possibly the Pythia of Ephesus; 36 and he was a theologos for Emperor Hadrian, participating in the Imperial cult in Pergamum. 37 Finally, Martin West suspected that Paeon “composed hexameters in some quantities, though not necessarily at epic length: perhaps encomia which, in his guise as ‘rhapsode’, he also recited. His poetic victories had no doubt been won in more prestigious arenas than Boeotian local festivals. His talents as a ȝİȜȠʌȠȚȩȢ and declaimer of poetry had evidently received official recognition from Hadrian.” 38 The widespread practice of praising

33

I.Ephesos 22. I.Side 70: ȞȑȠȣ ‫ݾ‬ȝȒȡȠȣ. 35 Robert (1980). 36 Rhapsodic contests are not attested in Ephesus. For attestations of competitions among rhapsodes see Gangloff (2010), West (2010) and Tsagalis (2018) 156-179. 37 Apud Gangloff (2010). Also Gangloff assumes that Paeon’s activity was connected with the Imperial cult. Cf. the comments of H. Wankel in I.Ephesos XI.1, p. 138: “Komponist und Rhapsode (im Kult) des vergöttlichten Hadrian”. 38 West (2010) 11-12. 34

42

Chapter One

the emperors in prose and verse, that is, with encomia and hymns, 39 makes a different interpretation more plausible. By analogy with expressions such as ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įȠ‫ ޥ‬șİȠࠎ ȈİȕĮıIJȠࠎ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șİߢȢ ࠔȫȝȘȢ ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įާȢ ĬİȠࠎ ǹ‫ރ‬ȖȠȪıIJȠȣ and ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įާȢ ĬİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ, 40 we should read ȝİȜȠʌȠȚާȢ țĮ੿ ࠍĮȥ࠙įާȢ ĬİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ and separate this function from that of a theologos serving in the temple of the Imperial cult in Pergamum. As a ȝİȜȠʌȠȚާȢ țĮ‫ࠍ ޥ‬Įȥ࠙įާȢ ĬİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ, Paeon composed melic and epic poems that had the deified Hadrian as their subject – not poems to be recited to Hadrian. Hadrian’s hunting exploits, 41 and possibly also his relationship to the deified Antinous, which could easily be assimilated to that of the epic heroes Achilles and Patroclus, offered suitable subject matter for such poems, with which Paeon could have earned the designation ‘New Homer’. Paeon’s activity as a rhapsode of Hadrian is comparable to that of ʌȠȚȘIJĮ‫ ޥ‬İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJȠțȡȐIJȠȡĮ in Thespiae. 42 The composition of poems and enkomia for the Roman emperors and for Antinous was part of the training of Athenian ephebes. A list of ephebes from Athens mentions winners in the disciplines of enkomion and poiema (poetic composition) at the festival for Antinous in Athens. 43 Finally, as a theologos in Pergamum, Paeon probably composed and recited encomia for the emperors that were performed during the festival of the Imperial cult in Pergamum. 44 Such poetic compositions contributed to the commemoration of an emperor’s reign. 39 See e.g. the ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įȠ‫݃ ޥ‬ıȓĮȢ, who sang hymns for the emperors in the Imperial cult of Asia: Price (1984) 70, 88, 90, 105, 118, 209, 247; Halfmann (1990). Cf. the ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įȠ‫ ޥ‬șİȠࠎ ȈİȕĮıIJȠࠎ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șİߢȢ ࠔȫȝȘȢ in Pergamum (I.Pergamon II 374) and the ıİȕĮıIJȠȜȩȖȠȢ in Miletus (I.Didyma 148). 40 I.Pergamon II 374, 523; I.Smyrna 109. Cf. I.Ephesos 921: ‫ބ‬ȝȞȦįާȢ ĬİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ ȞĮȠࠎ; I.Ephesos 1745: ‫ބ‬ȝȞȦįާȢ ȞĮȠࠎ ĬİȠࠎ ݄įȡȚĮȞȠࠎ; TAM V.2.955: ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įȠ‫ ޥ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȂȘIJȡާȢ IJࠛȞ ĬİࠛȞ. 41 Hadrian himself composed a poem referring to his achievements in hunting: see IG VII 1828; Goukowsky (2002). 42 I.Thespiae 178 and 179. My interpretation is accepted by Tsagalis [(2018) 185189], who had access to this study. An inscription from Thessalonike (IG X.2.1.181 lines 5-6) may also refer to the ‘rhapsodic’ praise of emperors. Nigdelis [(1996) 133134, n. 4] confirms the reading ࠍ‫ޠ‬ȥĮȞIJĮ įȚ‫ ޟ‬ȕަȠȣ IJȠ߿Ȣ Į‫ރ‬IJȠțȡ‫ޠ‬IJȠȡıȚȞ; this expression refers to a literary activity. 43 IG II2 2087 lines 30-33: ‫݋‬ıIJİijĮȞެșȘ ǹ‫ރ‬ȡ ǻȘȝȠıș‫ޢ‬ȞȘȢ ݃ȞIJȚȞިİȚĮ IJ‫݋ ޟ‬Ȟ ܿıIJİȚ ‫݋‬ȖțެȝȚȠȞ; line 44: Ǽ‫އ‬țĮȡʌȠȢ ʌȠަȘȝĮ ݃ȞIJȚȞިİȚĮ. 44 For the meaning of theologos cf. the term aretalogos, i.e., the one who speaks of a god’s arete (miraculous power) and ıİȕĮıIJȠȜȩȖȠȢ, i.e., the one who delivers orations in praise of the emperor (I.Didyma 148). The sanctuary of Artemis in Ephesus employed theologoi and hymnodoi of Artemis (e.g. I.Ephesos 212), who formed a board: I.Ephesos 645: [IJ]ާ ʌȡȠıijȚȜ‫[ޢ‬ıIJ]ĮIJȠȞ IJ[߲] ܼȖȚȦIJ‫ޠ‬IJ߯ [ș]İࠜ ݃ȡIJ‫ޢ‬ȝȚįȚ

The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period

43

Oral performances with mythical or historical themes during festivals usually presuppose that the audience shared some basic knowledge of the subject matter. But sometimes, when an orator presented a new or different version of the past, he had to provide some details. A very interesting text in this regard is an oration contained in an inscription from Sidyma in Lycia, in the late 2nd century. 45 A certain Hieron of Tlos approached the council, the magistrates, and the assembly of Sidyma, presenting a new genealogy of the local heroes of Lycia. This genealogy established the kinship that exists between Sidyma, Tlos, and Pinara. Additionally, Hieron demonstrated the relation between Sidyma and Pinara by referring to miracles that occurred simultaneously in the two cities. In Pinara, there was an epiphany of Artemis, in Sidyma an epiphany of Apollo. 46 “The earth that has given birth to gods brought forth two stone images that look like the twins of Leto, the two heavenly stars who were born in Araxa, Artemis and Apollo. In Pinara, above Cragus, the mountain that was shaken by earthquakes (…), a woman saw the bathing Artemis (…), who in the meantime, when she is approached with reverence addresses those who seek propitiation. As for Sidyma, a foundation of Sidymus, son of Tlous and Chelidon, the daughter of Cragus, (the earth brought forth) Apollo in a place near the sea, at Lopta, in a secret cavern, hard to approach, having a small opening on the top which lets some light inside. Here, some woman who tried to spy on the god from above, unexpectedly and without making a noise, fell and now she lies there as a fallen stone, ıȣȞ‫ޢ‬įȡȚȠȞ [IJ]ࠛȞ ‫ބ‬ȝȞ࠙įࠛȞ [ț]Į‫ ޥ‬șİȠȜިȖȦȞ [ț]Į‫ ޥ‬șİıȝ࠙įࠛȞ. That the theologoi were connected with the Imperial cult in Asia is certain; see I.Smyrna 697 lines 38-39. The same individual could be hymnodos and theologos: e.g. I.Smyrna 500. For the possibly poetic form of the works of theologoi cf. IG II2 3816: șİȚȠȜިȖȠȣ ȁĮަIJȠȚȠ ȝİIJ‫ޠ‬ȡıȚȠȞ ‫ވ‬ȝȞȠȞ. 45 TAM II 174; Chaniotis (1988) 75-85; cf. the revised edition by Merkelbach (2000). I present the text of SEG 50.1356 lines 38-56: ܻȞĮijȣȠުıȘȢ IJ߱Ȣ șİ̙[Ƞ]IJިțȠȣ Ȗ߱Ȣ ȜĮȧȞ‫ޢ‬Ƞȣ ȝȠȡij‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫ݸ‬ȝȠȚȠIJȣʌİ߿Ȣ IJ߱Ȣ ȁȘIJȠࠎȢ įȚįުȝȠȚȢ ijȦıIJ߱ȡıȚȞ ‫݋‬ʌȠȣȡĮȞަȠȚȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ ݃ȡ̙[‫]ޠ‬ȟȠȚȢ țȣȘșİ߿ıȚȞ ̙݇ȡIJİȝަȞ IJİ țĮ‫݃ ޥ‬ʌިȜȜȦȞĮ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ [Ȇ]ȚȞ‫ޠ‬ȡȠȚȢ ‫ބ‬ʌİȡ‫ޠ‬ȞȦ [IJȠ]ࠎ IJİ ıİıĮ[Ȝİȣȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣ Ȁȡ‫ޠ‬ȖȠȣ IJࠛ]Ȟ̙ IJ̙İ̙ ț̙[ȡȠ]IJ‫ޠ‬ij[ȦȞ įȚĮȞİ࠙Ȗȝ]‫ޢ‬ȞȦȞ ȖȣȞĮȚțާȢ ‫[̙ݧ‬įȠުıȘȢ IJȚ]Ȟ̙ާȢ̙ ̙ ‫ބ‬ʌާ ʌȣ‫ޢ‬ȜȠ[ȣ] ȜȠȣȠȝ̙[‫ޢ‬ȞȘȞ ݇ȡIJ]İ̙ȝȚȞ IJާ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ȝ̙[‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ?] İ̙‫ݧ‬Ȣ ‫ވ‬ȥȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țަȞįȣȞȠȞ ܻȡ[Įȝ‫]ޢ‬ȞȘȢ ‫ݜ‬IJȚȢ IJ‫ ޟ‬ȝİIJĮȟީ ıİȕĮȗ̙Ƞȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȘ ܻȝİަȕİIJĮȚ IJȠީȢ İ‫ݨ‬ȜĮ̙ıțȠȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ į‫ ޡ‬ȈȚįުȝȠȚȢ țIJަıȝĮIJȚ ȈȚįުȝȠȣ ȣ‫ݨ‬Ƞࠎ ȉȜެȠȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȋİȜİȚįިȞȠȢ IJ߱Ȣ Ȁȡ‫ޠ‬ȖȠȣ ݃ʌިȜȜȦȞĮ IJިʌ࠙ ʌȡާȢ șĮȜ‫ޠ‬ıı߯ ȁިʌIJȠȚȢ ıʌȘȜĮަ࠙ ܻʌȠțȡުij࠙ įȣıİȚıިį࠙ ‫݋‬ț țȠȡȣij߱Ȣ į‫ ޡ‬ijȦIJȠࠎȜțȠȞ ܿȞȠȚȖȝĮ ȝİȚțȡ̙ާȞ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȞIJȚ ȝ‫ޢ‬ıȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ‫ ݺ‬țĮșȠʌIJİࠎıĮȚ șİȜ‫ޤ‬ıĮı‫ ޠ‬IJȚȢ ܿijȞȦȢ ܻȥȠijȘIJ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ șİާȞ țĮIJȘȞ‫ޢ‬ȤșȘ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȜަșȠȢ țİ߿IJĮȚ ʌIJࠛȝĮ ijިȕȠȣ įİ߿ȖȝĮ țĮIJĮıțȠʌࠛȞǜ įȚާ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țȡȠIJİ߿Ȟ ܻıʌ‫ޠ‬ıȝĮIJȚ ‘ȤĮ߿ȡİ ݇ʌȠȜȜȠȞ {‫݋ }ݸ‬Ȗ ȁިʌIJȦȞ’, İ‫ݧ‬ıİȡȤިȝİȞȠȚ ijȦȞȠࠎȝİȞ. I prefer ܿijȞȦȢ and țĮIJĮıțȠʌࠛȞ to Merkelbach’s ܻijȞȦȢ and țĮIJĮıțȩʌȦȞ. 46 Chaniotis (1988) 75-85; Merkelbach (2000); cf. Curty (1995) 195-200 (with partial edition of the text); Jones (1999) 114f. and 144; Heller (2006b) 66-68.

44

Chapter One as evidence that one should be afraid to look inside. For this reason, when we enter the cave we make noise in our greeting (Apollo), shouting ‘hail, Apollo, the one from Lopta’”.

Finally, the orator presented a further argument for the relation between Tlos and Sidyma: in both cities girls were elected to serve as priestesses of Artemis. This oration was not delivered in the context of a festival, but its content, especially the interest in mythical genealogies, foundation legends, divine epiphanies, and local customs, corresponds to the usual content of speeches delivered during celebrations. Hieron’s mythological and historical enquiries were ‘intentional history’ (see n. 14), in the sense that he selected material that could prove the kinship between Lycian cities. By assimilating the relation between Sidyma and Tlos to that between children and parents, Hieron, a citizen of Tlos, probably wanted to highlight Tlos’ seniority. Such an oration fits well into the context of the conflicts between cities in Asia Minor for the establishment of seniority and the acquisition of the title of the metropolis. This subject – very important for the oral transmission of memory – has often been treated in connection with orations of the Second Sophistic. 47 Such conflicts are the background of many inscriptions and coins that refer to the concord between cities; 48 the resolution of the conflicts was connected with orations in which the past was extensively treated. Hieron probably delivered his oration in Sidyma on his own initiative. In this regard, his activity is akin to an important cultural phenomenon of the Hellenistic and Imperial periods: the akroaseis or public lectures of historians and literati who treated historical subjects. 49 An example is provided by an honorific decree of Halicarnassus for the tragic poet Caius Iulius Longianus, in the early 2nd century A.D. The relevant passage reads: 50 47 Robert (1967) and (1977a); Jones (1978) 72-94; Merkelbach (1978); CollasHeddeland (1995); Heller (2006a). 48 Nollé and Nollé (1994); Kienast (1995); Kampmann (1996). 49 Chaniotis (1988) 365-382; cf. Chaniotis (2009a). 50 I.Aphr.12.27: ʌȠȚȘȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ ʌĮȞIJȠįĮʌࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİަȟİȚȢ ʌȠȚțަȜĮȢ ‫݋‬ʌȠȚ‫ޤ‬ıĮIJȠ įȚ¶ ‫ޖ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ޥ‬ IJȠީȢ ʌȡİıȕȣIJ‫ޢ‬ȡȠȣȢ İ‫އ‬ijȡĮȞİȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠީȢ ȞİȦIJ‫ޢ‬ȡȠȣȢ ‫ޏ‬ij‫ޢ‬ȜȘıİȞǜ ‫݋‬ʌަ IJİ IJȠުIJȠȚȢ ݀ʌĮıȚȞ ‫ݘ‬ıșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬į߱ȝȠȢ IJİȚȝ‫ޟ‬Ȣ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ ʌȡȠı‫ޢ‬IJĮȟİ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ʌȡȠıȘțȠުıĮȢ ȥȘijަıĮıșĮȚǜ įİįިȤșĮȚ ī‫ޠ‬ȧȠȞ ‫ݯ‬Ƞ[ު]ȜȚȠȞ ȁȠȖȖȚĮȞާȞ ʌȡȠ߿țĮ ʌİʌȠȜİȚIJİࠎıșĮȚ ʌĮȡ¶ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ ‫ݻ‬ȞIJĮ țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȞįȡĮ ܻȖĮșާȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌȠȚȘIJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ IJާȞ ܿȡȚıIJȠȞ IJࠛȞ țĮș¶ ‫ݘ‬ȝߢȢǜ IJĮ߿Ȣ IJİ ܿȜȜĮȚȢ ʌȠȜİȚIJİަĮȚȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJİȚȝĮ߿Ȣ IJİIJİȚȝ߱ıșĮȚ IJĮ߿Ȣ ‫݋‬ț IJࠛȞ ȞިȝȦȞ ȝİȖަıIJĮȚȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬İ‫ݧ‬țިıȚȞ ȤĮȜțĮ߿Ȣ ܾȢ ‫ݏ‬Ȟ IJİ IJȠ߿Ȣ ܿȜȜȠȚȢ ܻȞĮıIJĮș߱ȞĮȚ IJȠ߿Ȣ ‫݋‬ʌȚıȘȝȠIJ‫ޠ‬IJȠȚȢ IJ߱Ȣ ʌިȜİȦȢ ȤȦȡަȠȚȢ țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȟ IJࠜ IJࠛȞ ȂȠ[ȣ]ıࠛȞ IJİȝ‫ޢ‬ȞİȚ țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȟ IJࠜ ȖȣȝȞĮıަ࠙ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ij‫ޤ‬ȕȦȞ ʌĮȡ‫ ޟ‬IJާȞ ʌĮȜĮȚާȞ ‫ݠ‬ȡިįȠIJȠȞǜ ‫݋‬ȥȘijަıșĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ

The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period

45

“He made various presentations of all sorts of poems, with which he pleased the elderly and benefited the younger. Having been pleased for all these reasons the people urged to decree the appropriate honours for him. May it be resolved to give our citizenship to Caius Iulius Longianus for free, because he is a virtuous man and the best poet of our times; and let him be honoured with all the other political privileges, with the greatest honours provided by the law, and with bronze statues, which should be erected in the other most prominent places of the city, in the sacred precinct of the Muses, and in the gymnasium of the ephebes, near the (statue of) the old Herodotus. May it also be resolved that his books are publicly dedicated in the libraries in our city, so that with these books our young men are educated in the same way they are educated through the writings of the old authors”.

Although Longianus was a tragic poet, his poetic readings cannot have been readings of dramas but of poems. The fact that his statue was erected next to that of Herodotus leaves little doubt that his poems had some historical content, in addition to their educational value. Also, when the authorities of Halicarnassus designated Aphrodisias as a ‘kin’ (syngenes), they had very specific foundation legends in mind, most probably the foundation of both cities by Bellerophon. 51 This may have been a subject treated by the poet.

3. Oral Commemoration of Individuals: Funeral Orations and Honorific Decrees In the context of the Greek cities, the commemoration of the past was closely connected with the commemoration of the deeds of individuals, not only mythical heroes and founders but also contemporary personalities: great warriors, benefactors, and statesmen. The oral commemoration of individuals of the most recent past was of great significance for the transmission of the memory of recent events. The two main media of such commemoration were the funeral oration and the proposal of honours in the assembly. Funeral orations (epitaphioi logoi) for the war-dead are better ȕȣȕȜަȠȚȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ įȘȝȠıަĮȞ ܻȞ‫ޠ‬șİıȚȞ ‫ݏ‬Ȟ IJİ ȕȣȕȜȚȠș‫ޤ‬țĮȚ[Ȣ] IJĮ߿Ȣ ʌĮȡ¶ ‫ݘ‬ȝİ߿Ȟ ‫ݬ‬ȞĮ țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȟ IJȠުIJȠȚȢ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬Ȟ‫ޢ‬ȠȚ ʌĮȚįİުȦȞIJĮȚ IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ IJȡިʌȠȞ ‫ݺ‬Ȟ țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȟ IJȠ߿Ȣ IJࠛȞ ʌĮȜĮȚࠛȞ ıȣ[Ȟ]Ȗȡ‫ޠ‬ȝȝĮıȚȞ. See also Bowie in this volume, n. 21 and Appendix. 51 On the evidence for Bellerophon as founder of Aphrodisias and Halicarnassus see Linant de Bellefonds (2011) 37-39. For Aphrodisias see also Jones (1999) 127-128; Yildirim (2004). The Halicarnassian inscription is also discussed by Curty (1995) 180-181, however, without knowledge of the inscriptions that attest Bellerophon as founder of the two cities; these inscriptions were published later: SEG 48.1330 lines 24-26 (Halicarnassus) and SEG 53.1194.

Chapter One

46

represented in the literary tradition than funeral orations for individuals; but the latter were not uncommon; Lucian’s satirical work on excessive mourning presupposes their existence. When such orations concerned the life of an important public figure, they were a medium for the commemoration of the past. One of the few surviving specimens of such rhetorical work from the Roman East is an inscription from Pantikapaeum, too long to be presented here and too fragmentary to be translated. 52 The text refers extensively to the military exploits of a general of Sauromates II, king of the Bosporan Kingdom (late 2nd century A.D.). The anonymous general is designated a hero (‫ ݸ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ȝȑȖĮȢ ‫ݜ‬ȡȦȢ, line 20); his relation to the king is compared with that of the Centaur Chiron to Achilles ([ȋİȓ]|ȡȦȞ ‫ ݸ‬ȀȑȞIJĮȣȡȠȢ IJާȞ ݃ȤȚȜȜȑĮ ȂǼīǹ[-----]|ȌǹȂǼȃȅȈ IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ Ƞ‫ݭ‬ȝĮȚ IJȡȩʌ[ȠȞ], lines 22-24). For its contemporary audience this speech was a survey of contemporary history. Of course, such oral treatment of history was very ephemeral; but when an oration was inscribed and read (aloud), it became an important medium for the transmission of memory. The same applies to proposals of honorific decrees in the assembly. The proposals always included a narratio, that is, an account of the honorand’s achievements. In some cases, such narrationes are long and detailed historical narratives and mini-biographies of individuals. 53 For instance, the narratio of the honorific decree for Diophantus, a general of Mithridates VI, is a detailed account of his campaigns: 54 “Upon the king’s request he took upon him the war against the Scythians; after arriving at our city, he crossed over with manly spirit together with all the troops to the opposite coast. When Palacus, the king of the Scythians, suddenly launched an attack, he drew up his men in battle-order while in distress; and after putting the Scythians, who were believed to be irresistible, to flight, he let king Mithridates Eupator set up a first trophy from their defeat. After he had subdued the neighbouring Taurians and united the population in a city which he founded at that site, he proceeded to the areas of Bosporus and, after accomplishing many and great deeds in a short time, he returned to our areas, took with him the adult citizens 52 SEG

55.862. See the discussion by Bowersock and Jones (2006). For this phenomenon see Chaniotis (1987); Rosen (1987); Chaniotis (2005) 226227 and 242; Culasso Gastaldi (2007); Luraghi (2010) 252-260. Good examples are the decrees for Callias of Sphettus in Athens: T. L. Shear Jr. (1978); SEG 28.60; Diophantus in Chersonesus in Tauris: see below; Protogenes in Olbia: IOSPE I2 32; Niceratus in Olbia: IOSPE I2 34; Polemaius and Menippus in Colophon: Robert and Robert (1989); SEG 39.1243-1244; Pyrrhacus in Alabanda: Holleaux (1898); Moschion in Priene: I.Priene 108. For a comprehensive study of honorific decrees with biographical elements see Forster (2018). 54 IOSPE I2 352; Chaniotis (1987) and (2005) 226-227, 242. 53

The Oral Transmission of Memory in the Greek Cities of the Imperial Period

47

and marched into the interior of Scythia. When the Scythians handed over to him the royal dwellings Chabaei and Nea Polis, it occurred that almost all (of them) subdued themselves to king Mithridates Eupator. In gratitude for these deeds the people honoured him with the appropriate honours, as if already relieved from the dominance of the barbarians ... The Scythians demonstrated the faithlessness which is inherent in their nature, revolting from the king and bringing the affairs to a change. For these reasons king Mithridates Eupator again sent Diophantus with troops, and although the season was closing in and winter was approaching, Diophantus took his own men and the most able among the citizens and marched against the very capitals of the Scythians. As he was hindered because of stormy weather, he returned to the coastal areas, seizing Cercinitis and the ‘Walls’ and starting to besiege those who inhabit Calos Limen. When Palacus thought that the weather was giving him an advantage and had gathered all his troops, inviting in addition to them also the tribe of the Rheuxinali, the Virgin, patron of the Chersonesians on all occasions, who then was present next to Diophantus, foretold the deed which was about to be accomplished through the signs which occurred in her sanctuary, filling the entire troops with bravery and daring courage. Diophantus prudently drew up his troops in battle-order and so it occurred that a fair victory, worthy of memory for all time, was won for king Mithridates Eupator. For hardly any of the infantry (of the enemy) was saved, and of the riders only a few escaped.”

The inscribed versions of these decrees give us an impression of how recent history was treated in debates in the assembly. In a few cases, we know that the decrees were periodically re-read. For instance, in Iulia Gordus, the honorific decree for a certain Theophilus was read aloud during his funeral (A.D. 75). 55 And in Beroea, the honorary decree for Harpalus (1st century B.C.) was read every year in the electoral assembly, thus reminding the citizens of his services and serving as an exemplum for others. 56

4. Conclusions This brief survey of evidence for oral communication concerning the past focused on orality on ‘marked occasions’, that is, in ceremonies, festivals, rituals, and formal meetings. Although most of the evidence concerns orations, this phenomenon is broader than ancient oratory. It comprises 55 TAM V.1.687: ‫ݸ‬ȝȠȓȦȢ įİįȩȤșĮȚ ĬİȩijȚȜȠȞ ʌȡȠʌİȞijș߱ȞĮȚ ܿȤȡȚ IJȠࠎ IJȐ̙[ijȠȣ] ܻȞĮȖȞȦıș߱ȞĮȓ IJİ IJȠࠎIJȠ IJާ ȥȒijȚıȝ[Į] ‫ݬ‬ȞĮ ʌȐȞIJİȢ İ‫ݧ‬įࠛıȚȞ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬IJȠȚĮࠎIJȠȞ ܻıțȒıĮȞIJİȢ ȕȓȠȞ ‫ބ‬ʌ‫ޡ‬ȡ IJ߱Ȣ ʌĮIJȡȓįȠȢ IJȠȚĮȪIJȘȢ IJȣȞȤȐȞȠȣıȚ ȝĮȡIJȣȡȓĮȢ. 56 I.Beroea 2: ܻȞĮȖȚȞȫıțİıșĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ȥȒijȚıȝĮ țĮș¶ ‫ݏ‬IJȠȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJĮ߿Ȣ ܻȡȤĮȚȡİıȓĮȚȢ.

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phenomena such as the performance of tragedies with mythological themes, the singing of hymns, the recitation of poems for historical personalities, and the public reading of historiographical texts. The audience for the oral presentation of myth and history was diverse, but a large part of the evidence concerns the education of the ephebes. Allusions to myths and historical events are more common than detailed narratives, but the latter also existed when relatively unknown events were explained or new versions of the past were presented. The oral presentation of the past in ceremonial contexts is part of the more general phenomenon of ‘intentional history’. The mythological and historical material was carefully selected and presented in a suitable manner for the support of claims, the justification of rights, or the promotion of patriotic feelings. What was the impact of such oral presentations? Perhaps we can get an answer by looking at parallels. Thucydides criticised his fellow Athenians for believing that Harmodius and Aristogeiton were responsible for the overthrow of tyranny. He provides strong arguments against this view. Harmodius and Aristogeiton did not kill the tyrant but his brother; this murder did not overthrow tyranny – a Spartan invasion of Attica did. 57 His statement in a historiographical text competed with diverse media of oral communication: the song (skolion) that the Athenians sung to honour the tyrannicides; the family tradition of their descendants who were invited to the banquet at the prytaneion; the talk during the celebration of the Panathenaic festival, which was not only Athena’s birthday but also the commemorative anniversary of their deed; 58 the comments of those who viewed their statues; the instruction of young Athenians in the gymnasium. Against such oral transmission of memory, Thucydides did not have a chance.

57 Thuc.

6.54-59. On the commemoration of the tyrannicides see Taylor (1992); cf. Azoulay (2014). 58 J. L. Shear (2012); cf. Chaniotis (2011) 15.

CHAPTER TWO POETIC AND PROSE ORAL PERFORMANCE IN THE GREEK WORLD OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE EWEN BOWIE

The aspects of the Greek culture of the Roman Empire that I and most other historians have studied are dominated by the circulation and creation of written texts, whether literary (both high-literary and sub-literary) or documentary. Many of these texts were of course read out to audiences of various sorts, or in a few cases sung. Many were, like the epideictic orations of sophists (to take one of several possible examples), composed with a view both to their aural impact on a listening audience – often a gathering of connoisseurs – and to their continued existence as written texts to be mulled over lovingly by fans, by pupils and, some authors dreamed, by future generations. It might well be futile to try to generalise as to whether in any one genre it was the first oral performance or the later life as a text to be read that was more important in the eyes either of its composer or of Imperial Greek culture as a whole. It is clear that such productions have only a precarious claim to be oral, but this phenomenon foregrounds the problem that scholarship necessarily confronts when it attempts to investigate an ancient culture’s oral components and the nature of their orality – the problem that, setting aside the interesting but often ambiguous contribution of representations in visual media, our only evidence for oral performance ends up necessarily being some form of written text, and in some cases the very existence of that written text may prejudice the claim of the object of investigation to be an ‘oral performance’. Trying to reconstitute a pattern of oral performances that excluded anything that might at any stage in its creation or during its afterlife have been written would therefore be a frustrating and limiting task, and in the material I discuss briefly in this paper there are many cases where either it is certain, or at least it could be claimed as probable, that some sort of written text existed. But I do exclude from my discussion the epideictic

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performances of sophists, despite the considerable contribution made to understanding the cultural context of these performances by epigraphy, 1 because it seems clear that sophists’ performances that claimed to be impromptu and not to have any textual basis, i.e. fully-fledged oral performances, were only part of a wider range of rhetorical activities where the creation of a written text was central. What I discuss, then, are above all prose and poetic performances in the ‘musical competitions’ (ܻȖࠛȞİȢ ȝȠȣıȚțȠަ) that already flourished in the Hellenistic period and that greatly increased in number (alongside ‘athletic competitions’, ܻȖࠛȞİȢ ȖȣȝȞȚțȠަ) in the first two and a half centuries of the Roman Empire. 2 A small sample of records of such performances will form the main part of this paper. But I shall conclude with two cases of extraagonistic performances, performances which are much less well documented but which may have been just as important in the cultural life of a Greek city in this period: after all an ܻȖެȞ (‘competition’) might happen yearly, or once every two years, sometimes only once every four years, whereas performers of various sorts might visit on a number of occasions in any one year.

1. The Mouseia at Thespiae One of the best illustrations of performances that seem to straddle the elusive boundary between the oral and the written are those recorded in a series of victor lists relating to the Mouseia at Thespiae, a series that begins in the late 3rd century B.C. and continues until the early 3rd century A.D. 3 The earliest text, printed below, belongs to the last decade of the 3rd century B.C and thus precedes the Imperial period, but I present five of its entries partly to draw attention to the continuity that seems to underly the festival’s structure, partly to throw into relief the later expansion of this section of the competition.

1

Well collected and analysed by Puech (2002). For the professional competitors in these agones see Stefanis (1988), Le Guen (2001), Aneziri (2003). 3 Schachter (1981-1994) remains fundamental. For the late-hellenistic development of the sanctuary of the Muses and the Mouseia at Thespiae see Robinson (2012). 2

Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire ʌȠȘIJ੽Ȣ ਥʌ૵Ȟ ਺ȜȚંįȦȡȠȢ ਺ȜȚȠįઆȡȠȣ ਝȞIJȚȠȤİ઄Ȣ Į੝ȜȘIJ੽Ȣ ਝȡȚıIJȠțȜોȢ ਝȡȚıIJȠțȜ੼ȠȣȢ ǺȠȚઆIJȚȠȢ Į੝ȜȦȚįઁȢ ਝȖĮș઀ĮȢ ਞȡȝȠį઀Ƞȣ ੗ʌȠ઄ȞIJȚȠȢ țȚșĮȡȚıIJ੽Ȣ [ĭȚȜ]ંȟİȞȠȢ Ȅ੼ȞȦȞȠȢ ǺȠȚઆIJȚȠȢ, țȚș[Į]ȡȦȚįઁȢ ਫʌȚțȡ੺IJȘȢ Ǽ੝țȡ੺IJȠȣ ǺȠȚઆIJȚȠȢ. vacat Roesch, I.Thesp. 161, 210-203 B.C. 4

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epic poet Heliodorus son of Heliodorus of Antioch 10 aulos-player Aristocles son of Aristocles of Boeotia singer to the aulos Agathias son of Harmodius of Opus kithara-player 15 [Phil]oxenus son of Xenon of Boeotia singer to the kithara Epicrates son of Eucrates of Boeotia

Of the five victors in this extract two are competing in purely instrumental competitions and can be disregarded here. But we can debate the nature of the poem performed by the epic poet and of the songs sung by the aulode and the kitharode. At least some scraps of hexameter poetry that might be the work of poets who entered international competitions have survived, but perhaps no aulodic songs at all from the Hellenistic and Roman periods, and of kitharodic songs only those of the Hadrianic superstar of kitharoedia, Mesomedes. Did each of these three victors have a written text which they memorised and performed? Did such a text survive for a few years in the possession of its composer or of his friends or family? We may compare T. Aelius Aurelius Theodotus, another aulos-player who performed both solo and with a chorXs accompanying him (his technical description is ʌުșȚȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țުțȜȚȠȢ Į‫ރ‬ȜȘIJ‫ޤ‬Ȣ, ‘Pythian and cyclic pipe-player’), and who at some date after A.D. 138 was honoured at Delphi by his city Nicomedeia. The text of the inscription relating to his honorific statue lists many victories in Italy and notes that his teacher and the composer of his

4

= BCH 19 (1895) 332 no.6, cf. SEG 32.434, 36.470, 46.540.

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tunes was his own father, Rufus son of Philadelphus: 5 did that father use writing to teach his son the words, and did he use written notation to teach him the tunes? And to return briefly to the Mouseia of the year to which my first text relates, somewhere between 210 and 203 B.C: did any member of the panel of judges or of the audience ask to have written texts of the poetic or prose compositions that the competitors had delivered orally? So far as I know neither literary nor epigraphic texts help us to answer these questions. I move on to our earliest Imperial text from Thespiae, from the period A.D. 14 to 29. >ıĮȜʌȚıIJ੽Ȣ@ — — — — —੼ҕȠȣȢ ĬȘȕĮ૙Ƞҕ>Ȣ@, >ț@ોҕȡȣȟ — — — — —ȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ਥʌ૵Ȟ {ʌȠȚIJ੽Ȣ} ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ — — — — —ȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ >ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ@੺ijȠȢ İҕੁȢ ȈİȕĮıIJ੽Ȟ ੉ȠȣȜ઀ĮȞ ȂȞȘȝȠı઄ȞȘȞ [— —] ਺ȡĮțȜİ઀IJȠȣ ਝȜİȟĮȞįȡİ઄Ȣ ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ ȉĮ૨ȡȠȞ [— —] ȂȠȣıĮ૙ȠȢ ࠣ—ࠤ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ, ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ — — —İҕȚҕIJҕȠȢ ਺ȡĮțȜİ!઀IJȠȣ ਝȜİȟĮȞįȡİ઄Ȣ >ਥȞțȦ@ȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ ȂİııĮȜİ૙ȞȠȞ

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Roesch, I.Thesp. 174, A.D. 14-29. 6 [trumpeter] [...........son of .............]es of Thebes [h]erald [ ...........son of ..] of Thespiae epic {pot} poet 5 [ ...........son of ..] of Thespiae writer [of the encomium] to Iulia Augusta Mnemosyne [Heraclitus] son of Heraclitus of Alexandria writer [of the encomium] to Taurus [ ...............] Musaeus ࠣ—ࠤ of Athens writer of the encomium to the Muses

10

5 FD 3. 6.143.17-18 = TAM IV 1 34.17-18 ijȚȜȠʌȠȞ‫ޤ‬ıĮȞIJĮ ‫ބ‬ʌާ įȚįĮıț‫ޠ‬Ȝ࠙ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ȝİȜȠʌȠȚࠜ IJࠜ ‫ݧ‬įަ࠙ ʌĮIJȡ‫ࠔ ޥ‬Ƞުij࠙ ĭȚȜĮį‫ޢ‬ȜijȠȣ. 6 = BCH 98 (1974) 649 no. 3, cf. Roesch (1982) 181 no. 2, SEG 31.514, 36.478; AE 1973.494. For Taurus at Thespiae see Marchand (2013).

Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire

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[Heracl]itus son of Heraclitus of Alexandria writer of encomium to Messalinus

On the basis of this text we know that (as well as doubtless numerous performances that did not win a prize in their category) the audience at the Mouseia heard a victorious prose encomium delivered by Heraclitus son of Heraclitus from Alexandria on Iulia Sebaste, i.e. the widow of Augustus and mother of Tiberius, Livia Augusta, identified with Mnemosyne, Memory, the mother of the Muses in whose honour the agones were being held, and alongside whom she was also honoured in a sculptural complex at Thespiae, with statues below which were inscribed elegiac epigrams by the poet Honestus, very probably from Corinth. 7 They also heard Heraclitus deliver a victorious prose encomium on a Messalinus, and heard a prose encomium on Statilius Taurus, delivered by an Athenian, whose Greek onoma was Musaeus and who seems also to have had a Roman nomen: this competition was perhaps introduced to the programme when Statilius Taurus was governor of Macedonia. They also heard a hexameter poem by a poet from Thespiae whose name is lost. One might insist that the repeated use of the term ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ, ‘encomium writer’, demonstrates that a written text was assumed to exist, but Heraclitus of Alexandria, who won two of the competitions and may also have won the last – we do not know if he did, since the victor’s name is not preserved – was probably skilled enough to produce a plausible encomium with minimal preparation and little or no reliance on a written text. So too, very probably, was Musaeus, whose name strongly suggests he was a professional. Finally, what of the keryx, ‘herald’? This competition, always, like that of trumpeters, standing at the head of our surviving lists, was one in which it seems the competitors performed a ringing delivery of the formulae which opened the agon. Did these ‘heralds’ have, or did they need, a text of these much-used formulae? Our next document cannot be dated more precisely than some time in the 1st century A.D:

7

The sculptural display has been reconstituted by Greek and French archaeologists in the archaeological museum at Thebes. For the texts of the inscriptions see Roesch I.Thesp. 289-298 and Gow-Page (1968).

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ਕȖĮș੽ IJ઄ȤȘ ਙҕ>ȡȤȠȞIJȠȢ — — — — — —] ਕȖȦȞȠșİIJȠ૨ȞIJҕ>ȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ ਫȡȦIJȚį੾ȦȞ" @ țĮ੿ ȀĮȚıĮȡ੾ȦȞ ȈİȕĮı>IJ੾ȦȞ ȂȠȣıİ઀ȦȞ@ īંȡȖȠȣ IJȠ૨ ȋȡȣıȠȖંȞȠҕȣҕ, >ੂİȡĮȡ@ȤȠ૨ȞIJȠȢ ȋȡȣıȠȖંȞȠȣ IJȠ૨ īҕંҕ>ȡȖȠȣ@ ੂİȡĮIJİ઄ȠȞIJȠȢ >ĭȚ@Ȝİ઀ȞȠȣ IJȠ૨ ਝijȡȠįȚıҕ઀ҕȠȣ vvvv Ƞ੆įİ >ਥ@Ȟ઀țȦȞ IJઁȞ șȣȝİȜȚțંȞǜ ıĮȜʌȚ>ı@IJ੽Ȣ [8-10 letters] ਺țȡĮȜ઀įȠȣ ǹ੅ȞȚȠȢǜ v țોȡȣȟ ਝȡ>઀ıIJ@ȦҕȞҕ >Ȉ@ʌҕ>઀@ȞșȘȡȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣǜ v ਥȞțȦȝ>ȚȠȖ@ȡҕ੺>ҕ ij@ȠȞ İੁȢ ਯȡȦIJĮ țĮ੿ ૮ȦȝĮ઀ȠȣȢ v Ǿȡҕါါါါ Ǻҕ>Ț@ંIJIJȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣǜ v ȂҕȠ>઄@ıҕ>Į@Ȣ ါါါǼȇǿȅȈါါါȃȅȈ ȀĮȜ઄ȝȞȚȠȢǜ v Į੝>ȜȘIJ੽Ȣ . . . . . . . . .] Ȃ੺ȡțȚȠȢ ȈȚȜĮȞ઀ȦȞǜ v [ . . . . . . . . . . . . Ƞ@ȣ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣǜ [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . țȚș@ĮȡȚıIJ੹Ȣ [ါါ] [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ] ੊ıȝȘȞȠįઆȡȠȣ >਺ȡĮ@țȜİઆ>IJȘȢ ਥȞ į੻ IJ૵Ț Ȗȣȝ@ȞȚț૶ IJોȢ Ȟİ>Ȧ@-

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Roesch, I.Thesp. 175, from the 1st cent. A.D. 8 (May) fortune (be) good. In the archonship of [. . . . . . . . .], when the agonothete of [the Erotidia?] and the CaesareLa Sebasteia Mouseia was Gorgus son of Chrysogonus, and the ritual celebrant was Chrysogonus son of Gorgus, and the priest was Philinus son of Aphrodisius the following won in the theatre-games: trumpeter [8-10 letters]son of Hecralides of Aenus herald Ariston son of Spinther of Thespiae writer of the encomium to Eros and the Romans Her[ . . . ..]son of Biottus of Thespiaeto the Muses [ . . . .]erius [. . .]nus of Calymnus aulos-[player . . . . . ] Marcius Silanion [ . . . . .son of ...]us of Thespiae [. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nith]ara player [ . . . . .] [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . son of ] Ismenodorus [of Hera]clea and in the athl]etic contest

The following lines, not printed here, record victors in the ȖȣȝȞȚțާȢ ܻȖެȞ. Here the vocal competitions are (setting aside that of the heralds) a prose encomium to Eros and the Romans (perhaps calculated to allow

8

Epet. Het. Ster. Mel. 4 (1973) 355-356; cf. SEG 29.452, 36.475.

Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire

55

developing the Roma / Amor trope?), won by a Thespian, 9 and a prose encomium to the Muses, won by an entrant from CalymnXs. By A.D. 150-160 the competition is more grandiloquently called the Traianeia Hadrianeia Sebasteia Mouseia (a name it must have acquired no later than A.D. 138) and the list of its events has mushroomed: ਕȖĮșૌ IJ઄Ȥૉǜ ਥʌ੿ ਙȡȤȠȞIJȠȢ ਝȕȚį઀Ƞȣ ǻȘȝȘIJȡ઀Ƞȣ țĮ੿ ȝȘȞ੿ ǻĮȝĮIJȡ઀૳ ਕȖȦȞȠșİIJȠ૨ȞIJȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ ȝİȖ੺ȜȦȞ ȉȡĮȚĮȞ੾ȦȞ ਞįȡȚĮȞ੾ȦȞ ȈİȕĮıIJ੾ȦȞ ȂȠȣı੾Ȧ>Ȟ@ ȉ઀IJȠȣ ĭȜĮȕ઀Ƞȣ ਝȡ઀ıIJȦȞȠȢ ʌȣȡijȠȡȠ૨ȞIJȠȢ ĭȜĮȕ઀Ƞȣ ǼੁıȚįઆȡȠȣ ȖȡĮȞȝĮIJİ઄ȠȞIJȠȢ ȋĮȡȚțȜ੼ȠȣȢ IJȠ૨ ȈȦıȚțȜ੼ȠȣȢ vv ਥȞİ઀țȦȞ vac. 5 letters Ƞ੆įİǜ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ ʌȡȠıȠį઀Ƞȣ Ǽ੝ȝ੺ȡȦȞ ਝȜİȟ੺ȞįȡȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ țોȡȣȟ īȞĮ૙ȠȢ ȆȠȞʌ੾ȚȠȢ ȈઆıȚȝȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ ੒ țĮ੿ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ıĮȜʌȚțIJ੽Ȣ ǽઆıȚȝȠȢ ਫʌȚțIJ੾IJȠȣ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ਝȞIJઆȞȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝȠȢ ȃİȠțĮȚıĮȡİ઄Ȣ vvv ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ v Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ਝȞIJઆȞȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝȠȢ ȃİȠțĮȚıĮȡİ઄Ȣ ʌȠȘIJ੽Ȣ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮ Ĭȡ੼ʌIJȠȢ ੒ țĮ੿ ȃİȚț੺ȞȦȡ Ȁ૶ȠȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ İੁȢ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ >ǽઆ@ıȚȝȠȢ ȉȡ઄ijȦȞȠȢ ਝȡȖİҕ૙ȠȢ [ါါ@ȝȠij੺ȞȘȢ ǺȡȠ>ȝ઀@Ƞȣ Ĭҕİҕ>ı@ʌȚİ઄Ȣ >૧Įȥ૳į@ઁȢ [— — — — —]ȞҕȠȣ ੥ʌĮIJĮ૙ȠȢ >ʌȣșĮ@઄ҕȜȘȢ [— — — — — —@ȠȤȚĮȞંȢ țȚșĮȡȚıIJ੽Ȣ [ါ] ȀҕĮıIJȡȚĮȞઁȢ ȀĮıIJȡȚĮȞȠ૨ ȋİ૙ȠȢ țҕȦȝ૳įઁȢ ʌĮȜĮȚ઼Ȣ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ

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9 For a fuller discussion of this and other possible themes of these encomia see Chaniotis in this volume pp. 40-41 with nn. 27-29.

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ȀȜĮ઄įȚȠȢ ਝʌȠȜȜઆȞȚȠȢ ȂİȚȜ੾ıȚȠȢ IJȡĮȖ૳įઁȢ ʌĮȜĮȚ઼Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ȂȘIJȡંȕȚȠȢ ȂȘIJȡȠȕ઀Ƞȣ ੒ țĮ੿ ĭȚȜ੾ȝȦȞ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ ȁȠ઄țȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȡȚȠȢ ਝȞIJ઀ȠȤȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ 40 ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ ĭȜ੺ȕȚȠȢ ਯȞȞȣȤȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ ਝʌȠȜȜઆȞȚȠȢ ਝʌȠȜȜȦȞ઀Ƞȣ ਝıʌ੼ȞįȚȠȢ, ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ 45 ȁȠ઄țȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȡȚȠȢ ਝȞIJ઀ȠȤȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ țȚșĮȡ૳įઁȢ Ȃ੼ȝȝȚȠȢ ȁ੼ȦȞ ȁĮȡȚıĮ૙ȠȢ ȤȠȡĮ઄ȜȘȢҕ 50 Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ਡȞIJȚȠȢ ਝȡIJİȝ઀įȦȡȠȢ ਝȜİȟĮȞįȡİ઄Ȣ v ıĮIJȣȡȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ ȁȠ઄țȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȡȚȠȢ ਝȞIJ઀ȠȤȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ įȚ੹ ʌ੺ȞIJȦȞ ȀȜĮ઄įȚȠȢ ਝʌȠȜȜઆȞȚȠȢ ȂİȚȜ੾ıȚȠȢ vacat Roesch, I.Thesp. 177, from ca. A.D. 150-160 10 (May) fortune (be) good In the archonship of Avidius Demetrius and the month Damatrios, when the agonothete of the Great Traianeia Hadrianeia Sebasteia Mouseia was T. Flavius Ariston, and the Fire-bearer was Flavius Isidorus, and the Secretary was Charicles son of Sosiclesthe following won: poet of the prosodion Eumaron son of Alexander of Thespiae herald Gnaeus Pompeius Sosimus of Corinth and also of Thespiae trumpeter Zosimus son of Epictetus of Thebes writer of the encomium to the emperor M. Antonius Maximus of NeocaesareLa writer of the encomium 10

5

10

15

20

= BCH 19 (1895) 341, no.16; 373, no.24, with Laographia 7 (1923) 177,1.

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to the Muses M. Antonius Ma ximus of NeocaesareLa composer of the poem to the emperor Threptus, also called Nicanor, of Cos 25 composer of the poem to the Muses Zosimus son of Tryphon from Argos and [..]mophanes son of Bromius of Thespiae rhapsode [ . . . . . . . . . . . son of . . . . . . .]nus of Hypata 30 unaccompanied aulos-player [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . ] of [ . . . ]ochia kithara-player Castrianus son of Castrianus of Chios comic performer of an old comedy 35 Cl(audius) Apollonius of Miletus tragic performer of an old tragedy Metrobius son of Metrobius, also called Philemon, of Athens poet of a new comedy L(ucius) Marius Antiochus of Corinth 40 actor in a new comedy Fl(avius) Ennychus of Thespiae poet of a new tragedy Apollonius (son of Apollonius) of Aspendus actor in a new tragedy 45 L(ucius) Marius Antiochus of Corinth singer to the kithara Memmius Leon of Larisa aulos-player accompanied by a chorus M(arcus) Antius Artemidorus of Ale50 xandriasatyrplaywriter L(ucius) Marius Antiochus of Corinth overall victor Cl(audius) Apollonius of Miletus

Alongside the previously attested prose encomium to the Muses there is now a competition for an encomium to the emperor: both events were won by M. Antonius Maximus of Neocaesarea in Pontus. These prose encomia were duplicated by poetic competitions, one for a poem in honour of the Muses, won by Zosimus son of Tryphon from Argos, and another for a poem in honour of the emperor, won by Threptus, also called Nicanor, from Cos. The list is headed by a quite new competition, for a prosodion, presumably the song to which the competitors processed as they inaugurated the festival before even the competitive performances of herald and trumpeter which opened most agones: this was won by the local Thespian

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Eumaron son of Alexander. Late in the sequence comes what may well have been the star attraction, a kitharodic competition, won by Memmius Leon from Larissa. We know from Plutarch how intense fans’ reactions (ıʌȠȣįĮަ) could be in the kitharodic agon in the Mouseia. 11 Some of these performances will have involved delivery of a composition of which there may indeed have been a text, but a text that few if any expected to have a life after the competitive event. Different, and not in the same degree oral, will have been what was heard in several other events where competitors worked from existing or in some cases newly created texts – rhapsodes, performers in Old Tragedy and Old Comedy, poets of New Tragedy and New Comedy, actors in New Tragedy and New Comedy and the writers of satyr-plays. Much the same list of events, and indeed several of the same victors, reappear in a victor-list that must be very close in time to the previous one, Roesch 177: — — — —ȃǼǿǻǼǿǻ— — — — ਕȖĮșૌ IJ઄Ȥૉǜ ਥȞİ઀țȦȞ ਥʌ੿ ĭȜĮȠȣ૘૳ ȆĮȣȜİ઀Ȟ૳ ਕȖȦȞȠșİIJȠ૨ȞIJȚ ȂȠȣı૵Ȟ ਥȞ ਙȡȤȠȞIJȚ ȂȘIJȡȠįઆȡ૳ IJ૶ ੗5 ȞȘıȚijંȡȠȣǜ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ ʌȡȠıȠį઀Ƞȣ Ǽ੝ȝ੺ȡȦȞ ਝȜİȟ੺ȞįȡȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİઃȢ țĮ੿ ਝȞIJȚij૵Ȟ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ țોȡȣȟ ȆȠȞʌ੾ȧȠȢ ǽȦı઀ȝȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ıĮȜʌȚțIJ੹Ȣ ǽઆıȚȝȠȢ ਫʌȚțIJȠ૨ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJ10 >Ƞ@ȡĮ ȆȠ઄ʌȜȚȠȢ ਝȞIJઆȞȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝȠȢ ȃİȠțȠȡİ઀IJȘȢ ਥȞțઆȝȚȠȞ İੁȢ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ ȆȠ઄ʌȜȚȠȢ ਝȞIJઆȞȚȠȢ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝȠȢ ȃİȠțȠȡİ઀IJȘȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮ ǹੁȝ઀ȜȚȠȢ ਫʌ઀țIJȘIJȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀Ȟ15 șȚȠȢ ʌȠ઀ȘȝĮ İੁȢ IJ੹Ȣ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ ǻĮȝંȞİȚțȠȢ ǻ੺ȝȦȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ૧Įȥ૳įઁȢ Ǽ੝IJȣȤȚĮȞઁȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ ʌȣșĮ઄ȜĮȢ ĭȜ੺ȕȚȠȢ ਝțIJȚĮțઁȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ țȚșĮȡȚıIJ੹Ȣ ĬİંįȦȡȠȢ ĬİȠįંIJȠȣ ȃİȚțȠȝȘįİ઄Ȣ >ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ@੽Ȣ ʌĮȜĮȚ઼Ȣ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢǜ [................... Ĭİı@- 20 ʌȚİ઄Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳įઁ^ઃ`Ȣ ʌĮȜĮȚ઼Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ਝʌȠȜȜઆȞȚȠȢ ਝʌȠȜȜȦȞ઀Ƞȣ ਝıʌ੼ȞįȚȠȢ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ ਝȞIJȚij૵Ȟ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ੾Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ ਝȞIJȚij૵Ȟ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ʌȠȚ੾ıİȦȢ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ^ǹȡIJȝȚȦȞ` ਝȡIJ੼ȝȦȞ ਝȡIJ੼25 ȝȦȞȠȢ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳11 Plut. Amatorius 2 (= Mor. 749C). For the immense popularity of kitharoedia see Power (2010).

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į઀ĮȢ ਝȖĮș੾ȝİȡȠȢ ȆȣșȠțȜ੼ȠȣȢ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ȤȠȡĮ઄ȜȘȢ ੜıȚȠȢ ȆİȡȖĮȝȘȞંȢ țȚșĮȡ૳įȠઃȢ ǹ੣ȜȠȢ ȀȜઆįȚȠȢ ਝȤȚȜȜİઃȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ ıĮIJȣȡȠȖȡ੺ijȠȢ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹੁȝ઀ȜȚȠȢ ੥ȝȘIJIJંȢ įȚ੹ ʌ੺ȞIJȦȞ Ǽ੝ȝ੺ȡȦȞ ਝȜİ30 ȟ੺ȞįȡȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ. vacat Roesch, I.Thesp. 178, from the 2nd half of the 2nd cent. A.D. 12 (May) fortune (be) good The victors when Flavius Paulinus was agonothete for the Muses, in the archonship of Metrodorus son of 5 Onesiphorus, poet of the prosodion Eumaron son of Alexander of Thespiae and Antiphon of Athens, herald Pompeius son of Zosimus of Thespiae, trumpeter Zosimus son of Epictas of Thebes, writer 10 of the encomium to the emperor Publius Antonius Maximus of Neocoria, of the encomium to the Muses Publius Antonius Maximus of Neocoria, composer of poem to the emperor Aemilius Epictetus of 15 Corinth, the poem to the Muses Damonicus son of Damon of Thespiae rhapsode Eutychianus of Corinth, unaccompanied aulos-player Fla(vius) Actiacus of Corinth, kithara-player Theodorus son of Theodotus of Nicomedeia, actor in an old comedy [ . . . . .of Thes]20 piae, performer in an old tragedy Apollonius son of Apollonius of Aspendus, poet of a new comedy Antiphon of Athens, actor in a new comedy Antiphon of Athens, poet of a new tragedy {Artmion} Artemon son of A25 rtemon of Athens, actor in a new tragedy Agathemerus son of Pythocles of Athens, aulos-player accompanied by chorus Hosius of Pergamum, singer to the kithara A. Clodius Achilles of Corinth, satyr-play writer M. Aemilius Hymettus, overall victor Eumaron 30 son of Alexander of Thespiae.

In this competition the local Thespian Eumaron now shares the prize for the prosodion with Antiphon of Athens. An Antonius Maximus again wins both the encomium to the emperor and that to the Muses: his 12

= IG VII 1773 cf. Roesch (1982) 181 no. 3, SEG 26.616, 45.536, 54.522.

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praenomen in this text, Publius, may simply be a mistake (in Roesch 177 the victor had the praenomen Marcus), just as his origo has been misabbreviated as Neokoreites, or we may be dealing with two brothers. Different victors are registered for the poem to the emperor – Aemilius Epictetus of Corinth – and to the Muses – the Thespian Damon, son of Damonicus. The kitharodic victor is another Corinthian, A. Clodius Achilleus. My next text also belongs to the same time, though it has a larger proportion of competitors who are local or from nearby cities: [— — — ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJİ઄ȠȞIJȠȢ@ >ȋĮȡȚ@țҕȜҕ੼ҕȠҕȣҕȢҕ IJҕȠҕ>૨ Ȉ@ȦıȚҕțҕȜҕ੼ҕȠȣȢ Ƞ੆įİ ʌȡȠıંįȚȠȞ ǺȚȥ੺ȞȚȠȢ ĭȚȜંȟİȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ țĮ੿ ȀĮȜȜȚIJȣȤ઀įȘȢ ĭȦț઀ȦȞȠȢ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ 5 ıĮȜʌȚțIJ੽Ȣ ȀȜĮ઄įȚȠȢ ȉ੼ȡIJȚȠȢ ȋĮȜțȚįİ઄Ȣ țોȡȣȟ ૮ȠȣIJ઀ȜȚȠȢ ȆĮȞIJ੺ȖĮșȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ਥȞțઆȝȚȠȞ İੁȢ IJȠઃȢ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮȢ ȀĮȜȜȚIJȣȤ઀įȘȢ ĭȦț઀ȦȞȠȢ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ țĮ੿ ਝȡ઀ıIJȦȞ ǽȦı઀ȝȠȣ ȉĮȞĮȖȡĮ૙ȠȢ 10 ਥȞțઆȝȚȠȞ İੁȢ IJ੹Ȣ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ ǺȚȥ੺ȞȚȠȢ ĭȚҕȜҕ>ંȟİȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ@ ʌȠ઀ȘȝĮҕ >İੁȢ IJȠઃȢ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮȢ@ ǺȚȥ੺Ȟ>ȚȠȢ ĭȚȜંȟİȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ@ ʌҕȠҕ>઀ȘȝĮ İੁȢ IJ੹Ȣ ȂȠ઄ıĮȢ@ 15 ȀĮȜȜȚ>IJȣȤ઀įȘȢ ĭȦț઀ȦȞȠȢ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ@ țȚșĮȡȚıIJ੽Ȣ ȋȡȣı੺ȦȞ ĭȚȜİij੾ȕȠȣ ੉Įıİ઄Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳įઁȢ Ǽ੝įĮ઀ȝȦȞ ਝIJIJȚțȠ૨ ĬȘȕĮ૙ȠȢ ʌȣșĮ઄ȜȘȢ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ਝijȡȠįİȚı઀Ƞȣ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ 20 ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ȆંʌȜȚȠȢ ǹ੅ȜȚȠȢ ਝȝijȚȤ੺ȡȘȢ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ ਫ਼ʌȠțȡȚIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ IJȡĮȖ૳į઀ĮȢ ĭȚȜİ૙ȞȠȢ ਫʌĮijȡ઀ȦȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ țĮȚȞોȢ țȦȝ૳į઀ĮȢ 25 ȆંʌȜȚȠȢ >ǹ੅ȜȚ@ȠȢ ਝȝij>ȚȤ@੺ȡȘȢ ਝș>Ș@Ȟ>Į૙ȠȢ@ Roesch I.Thesp 179, 2nd half 2nd cent. A.D.

13

[There won? in the Secretaryship of] [Chari]cles the son of Sosicles the following: 13

= BCH 19 (1895) 343 no.17 = Roesch (1982) 182 no. 5.

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the prosodion Vipsanius Philoxenus of Thespiae and Callitychides son of Phocion of Thebes 5 trumpeter Clau(dius) Tertius of Chalcis herald Rutilius Pantagathus of Thespiae encomium to the emperors Callitychides son of Phocion of Thebes and Ariston son of Zosimus of Tanagra 10 encomium to the Muses Vipsanius Phil[oxenus of Thespiae] poem to the Muses Vipsan[ius Philoxenus of Thespiae] poem to the Muses 15 Callitychides son of Phocion of Thebes kithara-player Chrysaon son of Philephebus of Iasus, tragic performer Eudaemon son of Atticus of Thebes, unaccompanied aulosplayer Athenaeus son of Aphrodisius of Athens 20 poet of a new tragedy P. Aelius Amphichares of Athens actor in a new tragedy Philinus son of Epaphrion of Thespiae poet of a new comedy 25 P. [Aeli]us Amph[ich]ares of Ath[e]n[s]

Again the prosodion victors are two, a local man from Thespiae, Vipsanius Philoxenus, and a Theban Callitychides the son of Phocion. Philoxenus also wins the prize for the prose encomium to the Muses and the poem to the emperors, while Callitychides wins that for the poem to the Muses and shares that for the encomium to the emperors with Ariston son of Zosimus of Tanagra. Local talent is also dominant in other events. A much wider spread of victors is found in our last almost complete list, from a date after A.D. 212, but in it we find neither the poem nor encomium to the emperors nor those to the Muses: ਕȖĮșૌ IJ઄Ȥૉǜ ਕȖȦȞȠșİIJȠ૨ȞIJȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ ȝİȖ੺ȜȦȞ ȀĮȚıĮȡ੾ȦȞ ȈİȕĮıIJ੾ȦȞ ȂȠȣıİ઀ȦȞ ǹ੝ȡȘȜ઀Ƞȣ ȀĮȜȜȚțȜȚ5 ĮȞȠ૨ IJȠ૨ ȈȦIJȘȡ઀ȤȠȣ v ਥʌ੿ ਙȡȤȠȞIJȠȢ ǹ੝ȡȘȜ઀Ƞȣ ȂȠȣı੼ȡȦIJȠȢ IJȠ૨ ȂȠȣı੼ȡȦIJȠȢ ʌȣȡijȠȡȠ૨ȞIJȠȢ ǹ੝ȡȘȜ઀Ƞȣ ਝȡȚıIJȠțȜ੼ȠȣȢ IJȠ૨ ਫʌȚțIJ઼ 10

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ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJİ઄ȠȞIJȠȢ ǹ੝ȡȘȜ઀Ƞȣ ȁȚȕ੺ȞȠȣ IJȠ૨ ȁȚȕ੺ȞȠȣ  ਥȞİ઀țȦȞ Ƞ੆įİǜ ıĮȜʌȚțIJ੽Ȣ ȆȠ઄ʌȜȚȠȢ ȉ ǹ੅ȜȚȠȢ ȈİȡĮʌ઀ȦȞ ਫij੼ıȚȠȢ țોȡȣȟ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ Ǽ੝IJ઄ȤȘȢ ȉĮȞĮȖȡĮ૙ȠȢ ૧Įȥ૳15 įઁȢ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ Ǽ੡țĮȚȡȠȢ ȉĮȞĮȖȡĮ૙ȠȢ ʌȣșȚțઁȢ Į੝ȜȘIJ੽Ȣ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ ੉ȠȣȜȚĮȞઁȢ ȉȡȚʌȠȜİ઀IJȘȢ ʌȣșȚțઁȢ țȚșĮȡȚıIJ੽Ȣ ȁȠȣț઀ȜȚȠȢ ǹ੅ȜȚȠȢ ਝȜ੼ȟĮȞįȡȠȢ 20 ț઄țȜȚȠȢ Į੝ȜȘIJ੽Ȣ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ ȈİʌIJ઀ȝȚȠȢ ȃİȝİıȚĮȞઁȢ ਝȞIJȚȖİȞ઀įȘȢ ȀȠȜઅȞ ਝȞIJȚȠȤİ઄Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳įઁȢ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ij઀įȚȠȢ ਝȡIJİȝ઀įȦȡȠȢ ȀȠȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ țȦȝ૳įઁȢ 25 Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ Ǽ੝IJȣȤȚĮȞઁȢ ਝșȘȞĮ૙ȠȢ țȚșĮȡ૳įઁȢ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ ਝȜ੼ȟĮȞįȡȠȢ ȃİȚțȠȝȘįİ઄Ȣ ȤȠȡȠ૨ ʌȠȜİȚIJȚțȠ૨ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ ǽȦıȚȝȚĮȞઁȢ īȜ઄țȦȞȠȢ ĬİıʌȚİ઄Ȣ 30 įȚ੹ ʌ੺ȞIJȦȞ Ȃ઼ȡțȠȢ ǹ੝ȡ੾ȜȚȠȢ ȈİʌIJ઀ȝȚȠȢ ȃİȝİıȚĮȞઁȢ ਝȞIJȚȖİȞ઀įȘȢ ȀȠȜઅȞ ਝȞIJȚȠȤİ઄Ȣ vacat Roesch I.Thesp. 180, after A.D. 212 14 (May) fortune (be) good When the agonothete of the Great Caesareia Sebasteia Mouseia was Aure(lius) Callicli5 anus the son of Soterichus, in the archonship of Aure(lius) Museros son of Mouseros and the firebearer was Aure(lius) 10 Aristocles son of Epictas, and the Secretary was Aure(lius) Libanus son of Libanus, the following won: trumpeter Pu(blius) T. Aelius Serapion of Ephesus, herald M. Aure(lius) Eutyches of Tanagra, rhapsode 15 M.Aure(lius) Eucaerus of Tanagra, unaccompanied aulos-player M. Aure(lius) 14

= IG VII 1776 = BCH 19 (1895) 345 no. 18, cf. SEG 46.536 and 52.511.

Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire Iulianus of Tripolis, unaccompanied kithara-player Lucilius Aelius Alexander aulos-player accompanied by chorus M. Aure(lius) Septimius Nemesianus Antigenidas from the colonia Antioch tragic performer M. Aufidius Artemidorus of Corinth, comic performer M. Eutychianus of Athens, singer to the kithara M. Aure(lius) Alexander of Nicomedeia, chorus of citizens Aure(lius) Zosimianus son of Glycon of Thespiae, overall victor M.Aure(lius) Septimius Nemesianus Antigenidas from the colonia Antioch

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20

25

30

The prosodion has also disappeared, perhaps replaced, as I have suggested elsewhere, by the ‘citizen chorus’ (ȤȠȡȠࠎ ʌȠȜİȚIJȚțȠࠎ, line 29). 15 What that chorus sang, composed by the Thespian Aurelius Zosimianus Glycon, and what the herald (keryx) M. Aurelius Eutyches of Tanagra shouted, and perhaps what the kitharode M. Aurelius Alexander from Nicomedeia sang, are the only traces of performance that will have been wholly or predominantly ‘oral’.

2. The Sebasta at Naples I now wish to supplement our understanding of such performances from an unpublished document from Naples, the victor lists of the Sebasta of A.D. 94. Three slabs have been recovered, and of these two have been partly reconstructed and are on display in the small museum, museo, attached to the metro station called Museo. What I offer here is in no sense a publication but simply the application to this historical question of evidence that is on public display. In the order in which the events appear: Slab II 12 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ șİઁȞ ȈİȕĮıIJંȞ 13 ਬȡȝȠȖ੼ȞȘȢ ਝʌȠȜȜȦȞ઀Ƞȣ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 15

Bowie (2006). Note that in the middle of a list of athletic victors from the early 2nd century A.D. there is (oddly) a ʌȠȚȘIJ‫ޣ‬Ȣ ȤȠȡࠛȞǜ ǽެıȚȝȠȢ ǽȦıަȝȠȣ ĬİıʌȚİުȢ, Roesch I.Thesp 191, 9-10 = IG VII 1772.9-10.

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14 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJઁȞ 15 ȉ ĭȜĮȠ઄ȚȠȢ ǻȚȠȞ઄ıȚȠȢ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 16 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ șİ੹Ȟ ȈİȕĮıIJ੾Ȟ 17 ȁ ȉȚIJ੼ȜȜȚȠȢ ૮Ƞ૨ijȠȢ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 18 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJ੽Ȟ Į੝IJ੽Ȟ 19 ȉ ĭȜĮȠ઄ȚȠȢ ǻȚȠȞ઄ıȚȠȢ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 20 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ șİઁȞ ȀȜĮ઄įȚȠȞ 21 ī ੉Ƞ઄ȜȚȠȢ ȅ੝ĮȜİȡȚĮȞઁȢ ȃİĮʌȠȜ઀IJȘȢ 22 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJઁȞ 23 ȉ ĭȜĮȠ઄ȚȠȢ ǻȚȠȞ઄ıȚȠȢ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 24 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ șİઁȞ ȅ੝İıʌĮıȚĮȞઁȞ 25 Ȃ ਝȞIJઆȞȚȠȢ ĬİંijȚȜȠȢ Ȇİȡ઀ȞșȚȠȢ 26 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJઁȞ 27 ਝșȘȞĮȖંȡĮȢ ȈĮȝ઀Ƞȣ ȆİȡȖĮȝȘȞંȢ 28 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ șİઁȞ ȉ઀IJȠȞ 29 ǹ੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȦȡ vacat aut rasura ȀĮ૙ıĮȡ Ȉ>30 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJઁȞ Į੝IJઁȞ 31 ȉ ਹȠ઄ȜȚȠȢ ȁȠȞȖİ૙ȞȠȢ Ȇİ>ȡȖĮȝȘȞંȢ"@ 32 ਥȖțȦȝȚȠȜંȖȠȣȢ İੁȢ [...............] 33 ਬȡȝȠȖ੼ȞȘȢ ਝʌȠȜȜȦȞ઀Ƞȣ ǽȝȣȡȞĮ૙ȠȢ 34 ʌȠȚȘIJ੹Ȣ ਩ʌȠȣȢ İੁȢ IJઁ>Ȟ Į੝IJઁȞ@ 35 ī ȅ੝İIJȠ઄IJȚȠȢ ĭȜ੺țțȠȢ ȁĮ>ȠįȚțİઃȢ ...] 12 speakers of the encomium on god Augustus 13 Hermogenes son of Apollonius of Smyrna 14 composers of a poem on the same 15 T. Flavius Dionysius of Smyrna 16 speakers of the encomium on goddess Augusta 17 L. Titellius Rufus of Smyrna 18 composers of a poem on the same 19 T. Flavius Dionysius of Smyrna 20 speakers of the encomium on god Claudius 21 C. Iulius Valerianus of Naples 22 composers of a poem on the same 23 T. Flavius Dionysius of Smyrna 24 speakers of the encomium on god Vespasian 25 M. Antonius Theophilus of Perinthus 16 26 composers of a poem on the same 27 Athenagoras son of Samius of Pergamum 28 speakers of the encomium on god Titus 29 Emperor Caesar A>ugustus] 30 composers of a poem on the same 31 T. Iulius Longinus of Pergamum 32 speakers of the encomium on [ ] 16

For the Greek culture of Perinthus in the Imperial period see Robert (1974).

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33 Hermogenes son of Apollonius of Smyrna 34 composers of a poem on the same 35 C. Betutius Flaccus of La[odicea?]

What is of particular interest here is that the term for the prose encomiast is ‫݋‬ȖțȦȝȚȠȜިȖȠȢ, ‘speaker of the encomium’, rather than the more common term ‫݋‬ȖțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ. 17 No doubt a nervous, or simply a prudent, competitor wrote down and memorised his prize composition, but it is his oral delivery that wins the prize.

3. Aphrodisias My third set of agonistic examples is from Aphrodisias, a list of prizes for a musical contest, dated to the 2nd to 3rd centuries A.D. on the basis of its letter-forms. I bring in this document as one of several that give us figures for the monetary prizes on offer, and hence throw light on the relative esteem in which various contests were held. The encomium writer and poet, at 750 denarii, do better than the trumpeter and herald at 500, but much less well than aulos-player accompanied by chorus and singer to the kithara accompanied by chorus, each of whom gets 1500 denarii. All these lie on the boundary of performances that are oral and those that rely on a text, and they are less esteemed than performances by two kinds of competitor who are almost certainly working from written texts, the comic performer, winning 1500 denarii, and the tragic performer winning 2500 denarii. ਕȖ૵ȞȠȢ IJĮȜĮȞIJȚĮ઀Ƞȣ ĭȜĮȕ઀Ƞȣ ȁȣıȚȝ੺ȤȠȣ ʌİȞIJĮİIJȘȡȚțȠ૨ ȝȠȣıȚțȠ૨ ȝંȞȠȣ ș੼ȝĮIJĮ IJ੹ ਫ਼ʌȠȖİȖȡĮȝȝ੼ȞĮ ȈĮȜʌȚțIJૌ vacat įȘȞ੺ȡȚĮ ij ț੾ȡȣțȚ vacat įȘȞ੺ȡȚĮ ij ਥȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ੺ij૳ vacat įȘȞ੺ȡȚĮ ȥȞ ʌȠȚȘIJૌ vacat įȘȞ੺ȡȚĮ ȥȞ [there follows the Greek text of which I offer only a translation]

17

For ‫݋‬ȖțȦȝȚȠȜިȖȠȢ cf. ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȜި[ȖȠȣȢǜ — — —] at IG XII 9.94.6 (from Tamynae on Euboea, early 1st c. B.C.); for ‫݋‬ȖțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȢ (as well as the cases discussed here) see Corinth VIII 1.14.87-88 ‫݋‬ȞțȦȝȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠ[ȣȢ] | ī(‫ޠ‬ȧȠȢ) ݃ȞIJެȞȚȠȢ Ǽ‫އ‬ȝȠ[Ȝ]ʌȠ̙[Ȣ] (dated to A.D. 3). Such formulae as ‫݋‬ȖțެȝȚȠȞ țĮIJĮȜȠȖ̙‫ޠ‬įȘ̙Ȟ [e.g. IG VII 418.3 = Petrakos (1997) no. 524.3; IG VII 420.9 = Petrakos (1997) no. 528.9] or ȜȠȖȚțާȞ ‫݋‬ȖțެȝȚȠȞ [e.g. Corinth VIII 1.19.3 and 7, IG VII 2727.11] leave it unclear whether a spoken or a written encomium was envisaged.

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For the contest, in the talent category, of Flavius Lysimachus, in a four-year cycle, musical only, the prizes are as follows: Column i: Trumpeter, 500 denarii; herald, 500 denarii; encomium writer, 750 denarii; poet, 750 denarii; unaccompanied player on the aulos, 1,000 denarii, second prize, 350 denarii; player on the aulos, 1,000 denarii, second prize, 350 denarii; boy singer to the kithara, 750 denarii, second prize, 250 denarii; [ ? ...] Column ii: aulos-player accompanied by chorus, 1,500 denarii, second prize, 500 denarii; tragic chorus, 500 denarii; singer to the kithara accompanied by chorus, 1,500 denarii, second prize, 500 denarii; comic performer, 1,500 denarii, second prize, 500 denarii, third prize, 300 denarii; tragic performer 2,500 denarii, second prize, 800 denarii, third prize, 400 denarii; [ ? ...] I.Aphr. (2007) 11.21 = MAMA VIII 420 = Roueché (1993) 53

4. Quintus Sulpicius Maximus That some poetic performances in an agonistic context were indeed at least in theory ex tempore is established by a text from Rome that happens to record the entry in the Capitolia of the boy poet Q. Sulpicius Maximus in A.D. 94, precisely the same year as the victories in the Sebasta recorded in the new texts from Naples. That entry, in which Maximus competed against fifty-two other poets, was unsuccessful, and Quintus seems to have died soon afterwards, whether heartbroken or severely beaten by his disappointed parents. These parents set up an imposing monument, a reproduction of which is still to be seen near where the original construction was found, and on it they inscribed the hexameter poem with which their son did not win the prize, describing it as ex tempore, țĮަȡȚȠȞ (in line 2 of the Greek), corresponding to the description versus extemporales in the Latin text. The same impromptu performance is referred to by the phrase ıȤİįަȠȣ Ȗȡ‫ޠ‬ȝȝĮIJȠȢ İ‫ރ‬İʌަȘȞ, “eloquence of an impromptu composition”, in the first of two epigrams on Maximus (not composed by him) which were also inscribed on the monument. 18 A. (to the left of the sculpture of Maximus) ȀȠ઀ȞIJȠȣ Â ȈȠȣȜʌȚț઀Ƞȣ _ȂĮȟ઀ȝȠȣ Â țĮ઀ȡȚȠȞ 18 IG XIV 2012, IGUR 1336, Kaibel, Epigrammata Graeca 618, Peek GVI 1924, IGRR I 350-352, CIL VI 33976, ILS 5177, SEG 47.1499, 50.1060, 54.1840. Republished by Nocita (2000) with excellent photograph, a text with an apparatus criticus, an Italian translation, and a bibliography. Prof. Kathleen Coleman, to whom I owe the English translation, devoted her three Jerome lectures to this monument in Ann Arbor, Michigan in spring 2010, and is currently preparing these for publication with the title “Q. Sulpicius Maximus, Poet, Eleven Years Old”.

Poetic and Prose Oral Performance in the Greek World of the Roman Empire IJ઀ıȚȞ ਗȞ ȜંȖȠȚȢ | Ȥȡ੾ıĮȚIJȠ ǽİઃȢ Â_ ਥʌȚIJȚȝ૵Ȟ ਺Ȝ઀૳ ੖IJȚ IJઁ ਚȡȝĮ ਩įȦțİ ĭĮ੼șȠȞIJȚ ਲȝİIJ੼ȡȠȣ țંıȝȠȚ|Ƞ ijĮİıijંȡȠȞ ਖȡȝİ|10 ȜĮIJોȡĮ Â Ƞ੝Ȥ ਪIJİ|ȡȠȞ ʌȜ੽Ȟ ıİ૙Ƞ șİȠ੿| ʌȠ઀ȘıĮȞ ਙȞĮțIJİȢǜ | IJ઀ʌIJİ țĮțંijȡȠȞĮ șો|țİȢ ਥij’ ਖȥ઀įİııȚȞ ੗|15 Ȝ઄ȝʌȠȣ Â ȣੂ੼Į țĮ੿| ʌઆȜȦȞ ਙijĮIJȠȞ IJ੺|ȤȠȢ ਥȖȖȣ੺ȜȚȟĮȢ, | ਲȝİIJ੼ȡȘȞ Ƞ੝į’ ੖ı|ıȠȞ ਫ਼ʌȠįİ઀ıĮȢ ਥʌĮ|20 ȡȦȖ੾Ȟ ÂȠ੝ IJ੺įİ ʌȚıIJ੹| șİȠ૙Ȣ ı੼Ƞ į੾ȞİĮ Â ʌȠ૙ ĭĮ|੼șȠȞIJȠȢ Â İ੝ıIJĮș੻Ȣ | ਚȡȝĮ ijȠȡİ૙IJȠ IJ઀ ıȠȣ| ʌȣȡઁȢ ਕțȝ੺IJȠȚȠ | 25 ijȜઁȟ ਙȤȡȚ țĮ੿ șȡંȞȠȞ| ਷ȜșİȞ ਥȝઁȞ țĮ੿ ਥʌ’ İ੝|ȡ੼Į țંıȝȠȞ Â ȝ઀ȖȞȣIJȠ| țĮ੿ ț઄țȜȠȚıȚȞ ਫ਼ʌİȡ|ȝİȞ੻Ȣ ਙȤșȠȢ ਕʌ’ İ੅|30 ȜȘȢ Â ੱțİĮȞઁȢ Ȥ੼ȡĮȢ| Į੝IJઁȢ ਥȢ Ƞ੝ȡĮȞઁȞ ਱੼ȡ|IJĮȗİ Â IJ઀Ȣ ʌȠIJĮȝ૵Ȟ| Ƞ੝ ʌ઼ıĮȞ ਕȞİȟȘȡĮ઀|ȞİIJȠ ʌȘȖ੾Ȟ țĮ੿ ıʌં|35 ȡȠȢ ਥȢ ǻ੾ȝȘIJȡĮ țĮ|IJĮ઀șİIJȠ, țĮ઀ IJȚȢ ਙʌȜĮ|IJȠȞ (to the right of the sculpture of Maximus) 38 ਕȗĮȜ੼ȘȞ ਩țȜĮȣıİ ʌĮȡ੹| įȡİʌ੺ȞĮȚıȚ ȖİȦȡȖંȢ,| 40 ıʌİ઀ȡȦȞ İੁȢ ਕȤ੺ȡȚıIJĮ| ȝ੺IJȘȞ ș’ ਫ਼ʌઁ țȣijઁȞ ਙȡȠ|IJȡȠȞ Â IJĮ૨ȡȠȞ ਫ਼ʌȠȗİ઄|ȟĮȢ ਫ਼ʌં IJ’ ਕıIJ੼ȡĮ ȕȠȣȜȣ|IJȠ૙ȠÂ ț੺ȝȥĮȢ ਙȡȡİȞĮ Ȗȣ|45 ૙Į ıઃȞ ਕȤșİȚȞȠ૙ıȚ ȕંİı|ıȚÂ ȖĮ૙Į į’ ਫ਼ʌ੼ıIJİȞİ ʌ઼|ıĮ țĮțંijȡȠȞȠȢ İ੆ȞİțĮ| țȠ઄ȡȠȣÂ țĮ੿ IJંIJ’ ਥȖઅ ʌȣ|ȡ੿ ij੼ȖȖȠȢ ਕʌ੼ıȕİıĮ.|50 ȝȘț੼IJȚ ʌĮȚįઁȢ | ȝ઄ȡİȠ ȜȣȖȡઁȞ ੕ȜİșҕȡȠȞ,|ਦȠ૨ į’ ਩Ȥİ ijȡȠȞIJ઀įĮ țંı|ȝȠȣÂ ȝ੾ ʌȠIJİ ȤİȚȡઁȢ ਥȝોȢ | ijȜȠȖİȡઆIJİȡȠȞ ਩ȖȤȠȢ ਕșȡȠ઀|55 ıૉȢÂ Ȗ઀ȞȦıț’ Ƞ੝ȡĮȞ઀ȠȚȠ| ǻȚઁȢ ȞંȠȞǜ Ƞ੝ ȝ੹ Ȗ੹ȡ Į੝IJ੽ȞÂ_ ૮İ઀|ȘȞ ਙȜȜȠ IJȚ IJȠ૨įİ țĮțઆIJİȡȠȞ| ੇįİȞ ਜ਼ȜȣȝʌȠȢǜ | țંıȝȠȢ ਥȝઁȢ ı੽ ʌ઀ıIJȚȢ ਩ijȣ ȝİ|60 ȖĮțȣį੼ȠȢ ਩ȡȖȠȣÂ ȠੁȤ੼ıșȦ IJ੹ | ʌ੺ȡȠȚșİ, IJ੹ į’ ੢ıIJİȡĮ ijȡȠȞIJ઀|įȚ țİ૨șİÂ Ƞ੝ ıઁȢ ਩ijȣ Â ʌઆ|ȜȦȞ Ȗ੹ȡ ਕʌİ઀ȡȚIJȠȞ Ƞҕ੝ ıș੼ȞȠȢ| ਩ȖȞȦÂ ૧ȣIJ੾ȡȦȞ Ƞ੝į’ ਩ıȤİ|65 ʌȠȜȣijȡĮį੻Ȣ ਩ȡȖȠȞ ਕȞ઄ııĮȚ.| ਩ȡȤİȠ Ȟ૨Ȟ, ʌ੺ȜȚ țંıȝȠȞ ਥʌȠ઀|ȤİȠ, ȝ੽ IJİઁȞ İ੣ȤȠȢ Â ਕȜȜȠ|IJȡ઀ĮȚȢ ʌĮȜ੺ȝĮȚıȚ ʌંȡȘȚ|Ȣ ਕȝİȞȘȞ੹ ʌȠȞ੾ıĮȢǜ | 70 ȝȠ઄Ȟ૳ ıȠ੿ ʌȣȡંİȞIJȠȢ | ਥʌİȚȖȠȝ੼Ȟ૳ ț઄țȜȠȚȠ | ਕȞIJȠȜ઀Ș țĮ੿ ʌ઼ıĮ țĮȜઁȢ | įȡંȝȠȢ ਩ʌȜİIJȠ įȣıȝ੾ǜ | ıȠ੿ IJંįİ ʌȚıIJઁȞ ਩įȦțİ | ij੼ȡİȚȞ ȞંȠȢ ਙijșȚIJȠȞ İ੣ȤȠȢ. | ijİ઀įİȠ ȖોȢ țĮ੿ ʌĮȞIJઁȢ ਕȡȚ|ʌȡİʌ੼ȠȢ țંıȝȠȚȠÂ ੅ıȤİ įȡં|ȝȠȞ ȝİı੺IJĮȚıȚȞ ਥʌ’ ਕȥ઀įİı|ıȚȞ ੗Ȝ઄ȝʌȠȣÂ IJĮ૨IJĮ ʌȡ੼|ʌȠȞIJĮ șİȠ૙Ȣ, IJĮ૨IJ’ ਙȡțȚĮǜ ȝĮ઀|80 İȠ, įĮ૙ȝȠȞÂ ȝȚȜ઀ȤȚȠȞ ʌ੺|ȜȚ ij੼ȖȖȠȢǜ ੒ ıઁȢ ʌĮ૙Ȣ ੭Ȝİıİ | ʌȠȣȜ઄Â țĮ੿ IJઁȞ ਕʌİȚȡ੼ıȚȠȞ | ȝ੼ȖĮȞ Ƞ੝ȡĮȞઁȞ Į੝IJઁȢ ੖ҕįİȣİ,| ਸ਼ȝȚıȣ ȝ੻Ȟ ȖĮ઀ȘȢ Ȟ੼ȡșİȞ,|85 IJઁ į’ ੢ʌİȡșİ IJĮȞ઄ııĮȢǜ| Ƞ੢IJȦ Ȗ੹ȡ ʌȡ੼ȥİȚ ਥIJİઁȞ ij੺ȠȢ | ȅ੝ȡĮȞ઀įĮȚıȚÂ țĮ੿ ijȦIJ૵Ȟ | ਕț੺țȦIJȠȢ ਕİ੿ ȜİȚijș੾ıİ |90 IJĮȚ İ੝Ȥ੾ȚÂ ʌȡȘȣȝİȞો |į’ ਪȟİȚȢ ǽȘȞઁȢ ȞંȠȞǜ ਲ਼Ȟ į’ ਦIJ੼|ȡȘ IJȚȢ Â | A book roll 93 Ȝİ઀ʌȘIJĮȚ ı੼Ƞ | ijȡȠȞIJ੿Ȣ ਕIJĮȡȕ੼|95 ȠȢ, ੆ıIJȠȡİȢ Į੝IJȠ੿ | ਕıIJ੼ȡİȢ ੪Ȣ ʌȣ[ȡં]|İȞIJȠȢ ਥȝȠ૨ ȝ[੼]|ȞȠȢ ĮੇȥĮ țİȡĮȣȞȠ[૨]|

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੩ț઄IJİȡȠȞ ʌઆ|100 ȜȦȞ ıҕİ, șҕİҕંȢ, į੼|ȝĮȢ ਕҕ੺ҕıҕİҕ[Ț]İҕȞ.ҕ The extempore poem of Q. Sulpicius Maximus: What words Zeus might use in reproving Helios for having entrusted his chariot to Phaethon As light-bringing charioteer of our world None other than you did the gods our masters make. Why did you place in the vaults of Olympus your irresponsible Son and put in his hands the ineffable speed of horses, Without cringing in the least fear of our opposition? 5 These plans of yours were not responsible behaviour towards the gods. Where did The well-built chariot of Phaethon go careering? Why did the flame of your Inexhaustible fire sweep right up to my throne and over the whole wide universe? Mighty pressure from the heat assailed the heavenly bodies; Ocean himself threw up his hands to heaven. 10 What river did not have every one of its springs dried up? The seed for Demeter burnt to ashes, and the farmer wept over her Parched and unyielding, his sickle at his side, Sowing her thankless soil and, in vain, beneath the curved plough Yoking his bull, and at the star that signals unyoking 15 Bending his manly limbs (in repose) alongside his toiling oxen. The earth groaned, all of it, because of the boy so irresponsible; And then the blaze I extinguished with my own conflagration. No longer Mourn your son’s baneful destruction; take care of my world. Don’t attract a still more fiercely blazing sword from my hand. 20 Read the mind of Zeus in heaven. By Rhea herself I swear, Olympus nothing worse than this has ever seen. My world was given in trust to you, a pledge of surpassing fame. Forget the past, and to what is to come pay close attention. He was not yours. For he did not understand the boundless strength of horses, 25 Nor was he able to handle the marvelous work of the reins. Come now, travel the world again, don’t place your reputation In other people’s hands, toiling to no avail. When you—and you alone—are hastening on your course, the rising And the setting of the fiery circle were completed as a beautiful circuit. 30 My mind has granted you this responsibility to carry out, imperishable fame: Spare the earth and the whole glorious universe, Check your course right in the middle of the vaults of Olympus; This is right for the gods, and critically important; o divine one, strive for A gentle blaze again. Your son has destroyed much. 35 You must traverse the great and limitless heaven yourself, Tracing your course half above the earth and half below. For so indeed will your light be appropriate for the denizens of Heaven, And you will remain unblemished as the object of men’s praise, And you will keep Zeus’ attitude well-disposed. But if another 40 Idea makes you reckless, let the stars

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Be my witness, god, that immediately the might of my fiery thunderbolt Would ravage your bodily form more swiftly than horses. B.1 Deis · Manibus · sacrum · Q(uinto) · Sulpicio · Q(uinti) · f(ilio) · Cla(udia) · Maximo · domo · Roma · vix(it) · ann(os) · XI · m(enses) V, d(ies) XII. hic · tertio · certaminis · lustro · inter · Graecos · poetas · duos · et · L professus · favorem · quem · ob · teneram · aetatem · excitaverat, 5 in admirationem · ingenio · suo · perduxit · et · cum · honore · discessit · versus extemporales · eo · subiecti · sunt · ne parent(es) · adfectib(us) · suis · indulsisse · videant(ur). Q(uintus) · Sulpicius · Eugramus · et · Licinia · Ianuaria · parent(es) · infelicissim(i) · f(ilio) · piissim(o) · fec(erunt) · et · sib(i) · p(osterisque) · s(uis). Sacred to the Gods of the dead To Quintus Sulpicius, son of Quintus, of the Claudian tribe, Maximus, resident of Rome: he lived 11 years 5 months and 12 days. In the third quinquennium of the competition he entered in a field of 52 Greek poets and by his talent converted to admiration the good-will which he had aroused on account of his tender age, and left with an honour. His ex tempore lines of verse are written below with the intention that his parents shall not seem to have been swayed by their emotions. Quintus Sulpicius Eugramus and Licinia Ianuaria, most unfortunate parents, constructed (this tomb) for their most dutiful son, for themselves and for their descendants. C.1 ਥʌȚȖȡ੺ȝȝĮIJĮ col. I.1 ȝȠ૨ȞȠȢ ਕʌ¶ Įੁ૵ȞȠȢ įȣȠțĮ઀įİțĮ ʌĮ૙Ȣ ਥȞȚĮȣIJ૵Ȟ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝȠȢ ਥȟ ਕ੼șȜȦȞ İੁȢ ਝ઀įȘȞ ਩ȝȠȜȠȞǜ ȞȠ૨ıȠȢ țĮ੿ ț੺ȝĮIJંȢ ȝİ įȚઆȜİıĮȞǜ Ƞ੡IJİ Ȗ੹ȡ ਱Ƞ૨Ȣ Ƞ੝ț ੕ȡijȞȘȢ ȝȠȣı੼ȦȞ ਥțIJઁȢ ਩șȘțĮ ijȡ੼ȞĮ . Ȝ઀ııȠȝĮȚ ਕȜȜ੹ ıIJોșȚ įİįȠȣʌંIJȠȢ İ੆ȞİțĮ țȠ઄ȡȠȣ 5 ੕ijȡĮ ȝ੺șૉȢ ıȤİį઀Ƞȣ Ȗȡ੺ȝȝĮIJȠȢ İ੝İʌ઀ȘȞ İ੝ij੾ȝȠȣ țĮ੿ Ȝ੼ȟȠȞ ਕʌઁ ıIJંȝĮIJȠȢ IJંįİ ȝȠ૨ȞȠȞ įĮțȡ઄ıĮȢǜ İ੅ȘȢ Ȥ૵ȡȠȞ ਥȢ ਹȜ઄ıȚȠȞǜ ȗȦȠ઄ıĮȢ ਩ȜȚʌİȢ Ȗ੹ȡ ਕȘįંȞĮȢ ਘȢ ਝȚįȦȞİઃȢ Ƞ੝į੼ʌȠș¶ Įੂȡ੾ıİȚ IJૌ ijșȠȞİȡૌ ʌĮȜ੺ȝૉ 10 col. II. ȕĮȚઁȞ ȝ੻Ȟ IJંįİ ıોȝĮ IJઁ į੻ țȜ੼ȠȢ Ƞ੝ȡĮȞઁȞ ੆țİȚ Ȃ੺ȟȚȝİ ȆİȚİȡ઀įȦȞ ਥȟ੼Ƞ ȜİȚʌȠȝ੼ȞȦȞ ȞઆȞȣȝȠȞ Ƞ੝į੼ ıİ ȝȠ૙ȡĮ țĮIJ੼țIJĮȞİ ȞȘȜİંșȣȝȠȢ, ਕȜȜ’ ਩ȜȚʌİȞ Ȝ੾șȘȢ ਙȝȝȠȡȠȞ İ੝İʌ઀ȘȞ. Ƞ੡IJȚȢ ਕįĮțȡ઄IJȠȚıȚ IJİઁȞ ʌĮȡ੹ IJ઄ȝȕȠȞ ਕȝİ઀ȕȦȞ ੑijșĮȜȝȠ૙Ȣ ıȤİį઀Ƞȣ į੼ȡȟİIJĮȚ İ੝ıIJȚȤ઀ȘȞ.

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ਙȡțȚȠȞ ਥȢ įંȜȚȤȠȞ IJંįİ ıȠȚ țȜ੼ȠȢǜ Ƞ੝ Ȗ੹ȡ ਕʌİȣș੽Ȣ țİ઀ıİĮȚ, Ƞ੝IJȚįĮȞȠ૙Ȣ ੁįંȝİȞȠȢ Ȟ੼țȣıȚ, ʌȠȣȜઃ į੻ țĮ੿ ȤȡȣıȠ૙Ƞ țĮ੿ ਱Ȝ੼țIJȡȠȚȠ ijĮİȚȞȠ૨ ਩ıİIJ’ ਕİ੿ țȡ੼ııȦȞ ਴Ȟ ਩ȜȚʌİȢ ıİȜ઀įĮ. 20 Epigrams Alone in history did I, a boy of twelve years, Maximus, go from competitions to Hades: disease and toil killed me: for neither at dawn nor dusk did my mind quit the Muses. But stop, I beg you, for the youth who fell, 5 so that you may learn his impromptu letter’s eloquence and when you have wept just say with a well -omened mouth: “May you go to Elysium: for you have left alive nightingales, which Aidoneus will never take with his jealous hand.” 10 Small is this tomb, but your renown reaches 11 heaven, Maximus, now you left the Muses, nor are you without a name whom implacable Fate has slain but she left eloquence immune to oblivion. None passing by your tomb will behold with 15 tearless eyes your fine impromptu lines. This renown will last you for the long run: for you will not lie unknown, resembling the worthless dead, but much better than both gold and bright electrum will for ever be the page you left. 20

Questions must be asked about how impromptu Maximus’ poetic performance really was. We know from Philostratus’ Lives of the sophists of a case where a display orator visiting Athens, Philagrus of Cilicia, pretended that his performance was ex tempore, but Herodes’ pupils in his audience (whom he had already rendered insulted) started chanting the phrases of his epideixis which had in fact already been given to great acclaim in another city and published. 19 If Maximus really composed his 19

For sophists presenting both impromptu and carefully prepared epideixeis cf. Philostr. VS 570 (Antiochus of Aegeae): IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ ȝİȜȑIJĮȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠıȤİįȓȠȣȢ ‫݋‬ʌȠȚİ߿IJȠ ‫ݏ‬ȝİȜİ į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ijȡȠȞIJȚıȝȐIJȦȞ (“Some of his declamations were impromptu, but he also gave attention to prepared performances”). For the humiliation of Philagrus ibid. 579-580: ȜȩȖȠȣ į‫ݜ ޡ‬țȠȞIJȠȢ ‫݋‬Ȣ IJȠީȢ ܻȝij‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ‫ݠ‬ȡȫįȘȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬ĭȓȜĮȖȡȠȢ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ʌȡࠛIJȠȞ ‫ݸ‬ȡȚȗȠȝȑȞĮȢ ‫ބ‬ʌȠșȑıİȚȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠıȤİįȚȐȗȠȚ, IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬įİȪIJİȡȠȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬țȑIJȚ ܻȜȜ’ ‫ݐ‬ȦȜĮ ȝİȜİIJࠚȘ țĮ‫݌ ޥ‬ĮȣIJࠜ ʌȡȠİȚȡȘȝȑȞĮ, ʌȡȠ‫އ‬ȕĮȜȠȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ IJȠީȢ ܻțȜȒIJȠȣȢ IJȠȪIJȠȣȢ, įȠțȠࠎȞIJȚ į‫ܻ ޡ‬ʌȠıȤİįȚȐȗİȚȞ ܻȞIJĮȞİȖȚȖȞȫıțİIJȠ ‫ ݘ‬ȝİȜȑIJȘ (“And when a report reached

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quite long poem on the spot, either he or somebody else (or both) must have written down the text that was inscribed after his death. That had already, presumably, been the case for the impromptu poetry for which Cicero commends the poet from Antioch, Archias: Quotiens ego hunc Archiam vidi, iudices, – utar enim vestra benignitate, quoniam me in hoc novo genere dicendi tam diligenter attenditis, – quotiens ego hunc vidi, cum litteram scripsisset nullam, magnum numerum optimorum versuum de eis ipsis rebus quae tum agerentur dicere ex tempore! Quotiens revocatum eandem rem dicere, commutatis verbis atque sententiis! 20

(“How often have I seen Archias here, gentlemen of the jury, – and I shall trespass on your good will, since you are paying such close attention to me in this new mode of oratory – how many times have I seen him, after he had written not a single letter, recite ex tempore a huge number of excellent lines of verse about the very things that were going on at that moment! How often have I seen him being called back and treat the same subject with different words and ideas!”) In the same context of late republican Rome Catullus presents his poems as in essence composed ex tempore, but states explicitly that they were written down: 21 Hesterno, Licini, die otiose multum lusimus in meis tabellis, ut convenerat esse delicatos: scribens versiculos uterque nostrum ludebat numero modo hoc modo illoc, reddens mutua per iocum atque vinum. (Yesterday, Licinius, we relaxed and played with much light verse on my tablets, as it had been agreed we should be refined; each of us wrote little poems Herodes and his pupils that Philagrus used to speak impromptu on the subjects that were first proposed, but no longer did so on those proposed later, but would declaim recycled material that he had already delivered before, they proposed to him this theme ‘the uninvited’, and as he gave the impression of speaking impromptu his declamation was read out to him sentence for sentence”). Pliny seems have nurtured no such suspicions about the ex tempore performances of Isaeus: dicit semper ex tempore, sed tamquam diu scripserit (“He always speaks ex tempore, but as if he had written it up for a long time”, Epist. 2.3.1). 20 Cic. Pro Archia 18. 21 Catull. 50.1-6.

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5. Poetic Performances outside Competitions It seems likely that poets who gave performances outside the framework of agones, on visits to cities that may well have been part of a tour, treated their audiences to ex tempore compositions as well as to the performance of poems that had been written down in advance, but I know of no evidence that proves this. Such cases as that of C. Iulius Longianus, honoured at Halicarnassus in A.D. 127 for ʌȠȚȘȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ ʌĮȞIJȠįĮʌࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİަȟİȚȢ ʌȠȚțަȜĮȢ, “diverse demonstrations of poems of every kind”, fall short of establishing that the variety of poetic performance he offered included anything ex tempore. 22 And again what is certain is that for some or most of Longianus’ performances there were written texts available, since it was resolved that his ‘books’ should be presented to the city’s libraries at public expense, ‫݋‬ȥȘijަıșĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ȕȣȕȜަ̙ȠȚȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ įȘȝȠıަĮȞ ܻȞ‫ޠ‬șİıȚȞ ‫ݏ‬Ȟ IJİ ȕȣȕȜȚȠș‫ޤ‬țĮȚȢ̙ IJĮ߿Ȣ ʌĮȡ' ‫ݘ‬ȝİ߿Ȟ. 23

6. Prose Performances outside Competitions I pick out one text from several which attest speeches by distinguished citizens or visitors, a topic about which much more is said in this volume by Angelos Chaniotis. In this example from Argos recognition is proposed for the expositions by the sophist P. Anteius Antiochus of Aegeae relating to an antique kinship between Argos and Aegeae. Nothing specific shows that these expositions were entirely ex tempore, but however much homework Antiochus may have done it seems to me likely that both his initial performance and certainly his handling of questions were predominantly oral. 24 >ǹੁȖİĮ઀@ȦȞ IJ૵Ȟ ਥȞ ȀȚȜȚț઀ĮȚ ਕȞĮȞ੼ȦıȚȢ IJ઼Ȣ >ʌĮȜĮȚ઼Ȣ ʌ@ȡઁȢ IJ੹Ȟ ʌંȜȚȞ ıȣȖȖİȞ੾ĮȢ >੘ į઼ȝȠȢ IJ@૵Ȟ ਝȡȖİ઀ȦȞ țĮ੿ ਖ ȕȠȣȜ੹ țĮ੿ Ƞੂ ı઄ȞİįȡȠȚ ǹੁȖİĮ઀ȦȞ >IJȠ૙Ȣ ıȣȖ@ȖİȞ੼ıȚ ȤĮ઀ȡİȚȞ ȆંʌȜȚȠȢ ਡȞIJİȚȠȢ ਝȞIJ઀ȠȤȠȢ vac. >ʌȠȜ઀IJĮȢ ਫ਼ȝ੼@IJİȡȠȢ ȖİȞંȝİȞȠȢ ਥȞ IJ઼Ț ʌંȜȚ ਖȝ૵Ȟ ʌİȡ੿ ʌȠȜȜȠ૨ ਥʌȠȚ>੾ıĮIJȠ ਕȞĮȞİ@આıĮıșĮȚ IJ੹ IJ઼Ȣ ਫ਼ȝİIJ੼ȡĮȢ ʌંȜȚȠȢ į઀țĮȚĮ ʌȡઁȢ IJ੹Ȟ ਖȝİ>IJ੼ȡĮȞ țĮ੿ ਥȖ@Ȗȡ੺ȥĮȢ ıIJ੺ȜĮȚ șİ૙ȞĮȚ ਥȞ IJ૵Ț IJȠ૨ ȁȣțİ઀Ƞȣ ਝʌંȜȜȦȞȠȢ ੂİ22

I.Aphr. 12.27.2-3. For the full text see the Appendix below, pp. 79-81. I.Aphr. 12.27.14-16. 24 SEG 26.426, cf. SEG 1.69, Robert (1977b) 120-132, a re-edited text with French translation, bibliography, ap. cr., and commentary. 23

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>ȡ૵Ț ੖ʌİȡ țĮ੿@ ਖįİ૵Ȣ ਥʌİIJȡ੼ȥĮȝİȞ Į੝IJ૵Ț įȚįĮȤș੼ȞIJİȢ ਥʌȚȝİȜ૵Ȣ >ʌİȡ੿ IJȠ઄IJȦ@Ȟ ਚȝĮ į੻ țĮ੿ ੒ȡ૵ȞIJİȢ țĮȜ੹Ȟ ਚȝȚȜȜĮȞ IJ੹Ȟ ਫ਼ʌİȡ IJ઼Ȣ vac >ıȣȖȖİȞİ઀Į@Ȣ Į੝IJઁȞ ijȚȜȠIJȚȝȠ઄ȝİȞȠȞ ੖șİȞ ȕȠȣȜİȣIJ੺Ȟ IJİ >Į੝IJઁȞ ਥʌȠȚȘ@ı੺ȝİșĮ țĮ੿ IJ੹Ȣ ȜȠȚʌ੹Ȣ ਘȢ ʌȡંıșİȞ ਥȥȘijȚı੺ȝİșĮ [- - - IJȚȝ੹@Ȣ țĮȜઁȞ ਫ਼ʌંȝȞȘȝĮ ȞȠȝ઀ȗȠȞIJİȢ İੇȞĮȚ IJ੹Ȟ >IJ૵Ȟ ਕȖĮș@૵Ȟ ਕȞįȡ૵Ȟ IJȚȝ੺Ȟǜ IJ઼Ȣ į੻ ıIJ੺ȜĮȢ IJઁ ਕȞIJ઀ȖȡĮijȠȞ ਥ>ʌ੼ȝȥĮȝİȞ@ ਫ਼ȝ૙Ȟ IJઁ ਫ਼ʌȠȖİȖȡĮȝȝ੼ȞȠȞǜ >ਫʌİȚį੽ ȆંʌȜȚȠ@Ȣ ਡȞIJİȚȠȢ ਝȞIJ઀ȠȤȠȢ ਥʌȚįĮȝ੾ıĮȢ ਖȝ૵Ȟ IJ઼Ț ʌંȜȚ țȠıȝ઀ȦȢ țĮ੿ ijȚȜȠ@ijȡંȞȦȢ ਩Ȟ IJİ IJȠ૙Ȣ ȜȠȚʌȠ૙Ȣ ਥʌİįİ઀ȟĮIJȠ IJ੹Ȟ ੁį઀ĮȞ țĮȜȠțĮȖĮș઀ĮȞ ț@Į੿ IJ੹Ȟ ਥȞ ʌĮȚįİ઀ĮȚ IJİȜİȚંIJĮIJĮ Ƞ੝ț ਸ਼țȚıIJĮ į੻ ਥȞ IJ઼Ț >ʌİȡ੿ IJ੹Ȟ ʌĮIJȡ઀@įĮ ıʌȠȣį઼Ț IJİ țĮ੿ įȚĮș੼ıİȚ ijĮȞİȡ੹Ȟ ਖȝȚȞ ʌȠȚ੾ıĮȢ >IJ੹Ȟ ਥț ʌĮȜĮȚȠ૨" ਫ਼@ʌ੺ȡȤȠȣıĮȞ ʌȠIJૃ ǹੁȖİĮ઀ȠȣȢ ਖȝ૵Ȟ ıȣȖȖ੼ȞȘĮȞǜ Ȇİȡ>ı੼Į Ȗ੹ȡ ਩ijȘ IJઁ@Ȟ ǻĮȞ੺ĮȢ ਥʌ੿ IJ੹Ȣ īȠȡȖંȞĮȢ ıIJİȜȜંȝİȞȠȞ ਥȢ [- - ca. 9 - ਕij઀ț@İıșĮȚ ȀȚȜȚț઀ĮȞ ਚIJȚȢ ਥıIJ઀Ȟ IJ੼ȡȝĮ IJ઼Ȣ ʌȡઁȢ vac[ca. 13-14 -] țਕțİ૙ IJઁ IJ઼Ȣ ʌĮIJȡ઀Ƞȣ țȠȝ઀ȗȠȞIJĮ ਕijİ઀>įȡȣȝĮ - - - ca. 25 - - įȚ੹@ IJҕઁҕ >ȝ@Șįҕ੼ʌȦҕ IJઁҕȞ ਛșȜȠҕȞ ਥț Renewal of the citizens of Aegeae in Cilicia’s ancient kinship with the city. The damos of the Argives and its boula and synhedroi send greetings to their kinsmen the magistrates and boula and damos of the citizens of Aegeae in Cilicia. When P. Anteius Antiochus, your citizen, was in our city he set great importance on renewing the rightful claims of your city upon ours and to inscribing them on a stele and setting it up in the precinct of Apollo Lyceios, which indeed we gladly permitted him to do, having been instructed conscientiously on the subject, and at the same time seeing that it was a fine struggle in the matter of kinship to which he was devoting himself, for which reason we made him a member of our boula and voted him the other honours which we have voted before, thinking the honouring of good men to be a fine recollection. And we have sent you the copy of the stele which is written out below: Since P. Anteius Antiochus, having spent time in our city in a becoming and friendly manner, demonstrated his excellence of character and the perfection of his paideia in other matters and not least in his enthusiasm and attitude towards his native city, making evident to us the kinship that once existed [in the past] between us and the citizens of Aegeae: for he said that Perseus the son of Danae on his mission against the Gorgons came [ ..........] to Cilicia, which is the end of the [ ..........] and there bringing a settlement of his native [........] because the contest was not yet [...

7. A Woman Performing It is worth noting that the world of sophistic performance into which the Argive text takes us, although overwhelmingly dominated by men, very occasionally allowed women to play similar roles (as of course they did in

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some theatrical contexts). Indeed a relatively recently published honorific text from Cos documents a woman whose name is lost, but who was the daughter of an Apollonius and held citizenship both at Alexandria and Cos, and who was victorious as (it seems) a poet of Old Comedy in an agon called Sebasta Olympia and in the agon of the Asian koinon at Pergamum. 25 Another of the very few cases is that of a woman whose Roman nomen was Aufria (her cognomen or ‫ݻ‬ȞȠȝĮ, partly lost, ended in -Ȟ‫ޤ‬/-ne), and who gave prose performances at Delphi in the early 2nd century A.D: 26 >șİ@ંȢ IJ઄ȤĮȚ ਕȖĮș઼>Ț@ >਩įȠȟ@İȞ IJૌ ʌંȜİȚ >IJ૵Ȟ ǻİ@Ȝij઀ȦȞ ǹ੝ijȡ઀ĮȞ [ါါါါ@Ȟ੽Ȟ ǻİȜij੽Ȟ İੇȞĮȚ >ਥʌİȚį@੾ ʌĮȡĮȖİȞȠȝ੼ȞȘ 5 >ʌȡઁȢ IJ@ઁȞ șİંȞ ʌ઼Ȟ IJઁ >਷șȠȢ IJો@Ȣ ʌĮȚįİ઀ĮȢ ਥʌİ>įİ઀ȟĮIJȠ@ ȜંȖȠȣȢ IJİ ʌȠȜ>ȜȠઃȢ țĮ੿ ț@ĮȜȠઃȢ țĮ੿ ਲį઀>ıIJȠȣȢ ਥȞ@ IJૌ ʌ>ȣ@șȚțૌ ıȣ>Ȟંį૳ IJ૵Ȟ@ ਬȜ>Ȝ੾Ȟ@ȦȞ į>Ț੼@[șİIJȠ, ါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါါ] 12 (lines 13-19 are beyond restoration) [ါါါါါါါါါါါါij]ĮȞૌ [ਥij’ ါါါါါ] 20 [ါါါါါါါါါါါါါ] ʌİʌȠȚȘȝ੼Ȟ[ါ] [ါါါါါါါါါါါါါ IJ]૶ șİ૶ ਕȖĮș[੹ ʌ]ȠȚ[ါါါါါါါါါါါ] ਥȥȘijȚı੺ȝİșĮ. [ਥʌ੿ į੻ ǹੁ]Ȝ. ȆȣșȠįઆȡȠȣ ਥȥȘijȚı੺ȝİșĮ [IJ੹Ȣ IJ૵Ȟ ਕȞ]įȡȚ੺ȞIJȦȞ ਕȞĮıIJ੺ıİȚȢ. 25 [The g]od. With good fortune. [It was deci]ded by the city [of the De]lphians that Aufria 25

Published by Bosnakis (2004): ‫[ ݸ‬į]ߢȝȠȢ ‫݋‬IJİަȝĮıİ [IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ įİ߿ȞĮ]| ݃ʌȠȜȜȦȞަȠȣ ݃ȜİȟĮȞ[įȡަįĮ]| țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȀެȚĮȞ ʌȠȚ‫ޤ‬IJȡȚĮȞ țȦ[ȝȦȚįަĮȢ]|ܻȡȤĮȓĮȢ ȞİȚț‫ޠ‬ıĮıĮȞ IJ‫[ ޟ‬--Ȉİ]|ȕĮıIJ‫ݽ ޟ‬ȜުȝʌȚĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ [ȆİȡȖ‫|]ޠ‬ȝȦȚ țȠȚȞާȞ ݃ıަĮȢ țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȜȜȠȣȢ ‫[ݨ‬İ]|ȡȠީȢ ܻȖࠛȞĮȢ ܻȡİIJߢȢ ‫ݐ‬ȞİțĮ ț[Į‫ |]ޥ‬İ‫ރ‬ȞȠަĮȢ IJߢȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޠ‬Ȟ.| ܼ İ‫ݧ‬țޫȞ ǻİȜijަįȠȢ IJߢȢ ȆȡĮȟĮȖިȡĮ ȀެȚĮȢ ‫݋‬ȜİȖİȚȠȖȡ‫ޠ‬ijȠȣ (“The people honoured [ . . . . . .] the daughter of Apollonius, a citizen of Alexandria and of Cos, a poet of old co[medy], who was victorious in the Sebasta Olympia and in the competition of the province Asia at Pergamum, and in other sacred competitions, for her excellence and her good will towards her [it?]. The statue is of Delphis the Coan, daughter of Praxagoras, a writer of elegies”). See the Introduction to this volume, n. 53. 26 FD 3.4 (1930) no.79.

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[ . . . . . . .]ne should be a Delphian, [sinc]e, when she came to visit 5 [th]e god, the whole [character of he]r culture was dis[played by her] and she set forth many speeches [that were fair and most pleas[ing in] the Pythian gather10 [ering of the] Hellenes [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] 12 [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . ]appear[ . . . . .] 20 [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]fashione[d .] [doi]ng(?) good things for the god [ . . . . . . . . ] we voted. [in the tenure of Ae]lius Pythodorus we voted [the sta]tues’ erection.

My last example is a representative of what is a well-documented phenomenon (also, for example, represented by the decrees above), i.e. a prose text of a speech delivered in the meeting of a council or an assembly and then inscribed. That we have many such is certain, but what is far from certain is how closely the inscribed text actually corresponds to what was said by the speaker on the occasion in question. Was there tweaking by a grammateus, or indeed did the speaker himself improve his prose before submitting it to the grammateus? 27 I choose the example below because some of its incoherence and stylistic weakness seems to me to point rather to a text that stands fairly close to what was said.

8. Consolatory Decree at Bithynion-Claudiopolis for Theodorus, Son of Attalus The text is that of a long consolatory decree, preserved on two tablets from Bithynion-Claudiopolis: the tablets preserve 40 and 32 lines respectively. Their phraseology at I 34-7 suggests that their subject had come to Claudiopolis to study rhetoric. His name was Theodorus, son of Attalus, from a community known from the elder Pliny (NH 5.149) as Agrippenses (ĬİިįȦȡȠȢ ݃IJIJ‫ޠ‬ȜȠȣ ݃ȖȡȚʌʌİުȢ). 28 27 For adaptations of his oral versions by Dio of Prusa cf. Or. 42. 4-5 (his speeches disseminated and changed); and Or. 11.4-6 (his speeches to be delivered before other audiences in the future, cf. Or. 57.11); and Or.30.6-8 (repetition of a written speech) and Nuñez (2009a). I owe these references to Larry Kim’s paper in Cartagena. 28 IK 31.70; Merkelbach (1984).

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Tablet I [ıIJȡĮ]IJҕȘȖ૵Ȟ ʌȡȠș੼Ȟ|[IJȦ]Ȟǜ ȂȘIJȡંįȦȡȠȢ ĭȚ-|[Ȝ઀]ʌʌȠȣ İੇʌİȞǜ ਥʌİ੿ Ĭİં|įȦȡȠȢ ਝIJIJ੺ȜȠȣ ਝȖȡȚʌ-|5 İઃȢ ਪȞİțİȞ ıȤȠȜોȢ ਕij| ȚȖȝ੼ȞȠȢ İੁȢ IJ੽Ȟ ʌંȜȚȞ| įİ઀ȜĮȚȠȢ Ƞ੝į੻ IJોȢ ਥȜʌ|઀įȠȢ ਕʌȠȜĮ઄ıĮȢ ਥʌ੿| ʌȜ੼ȠȞ ਩ijșȘ ȝ੻Ȟ IJ੹Ȣ İ੝|10 Ȥ੹Ȣ įȣıȝȠ઀ȡ૳ IJ઄Ȥૉ țĮ੿| IJોȢ ਕʌȠįȘȝ઀ĮȢ țĮ੿ IJો|Ȣ ਲȜȚț઀ĮȢ ਕȞંȞȘIJȠȞ ı|ʌȠȣį੽Ȟ IJĮȤ઄ȞĮȢ ਥijҕ’ ਘ | ȝ੻Ȟ ਥȟોȜșİȞ ʌ੺ȞIJȦȞ ʌ|15 ȡȠĮʌȠȜંȝİȞȠȢ, IJȠ૙Ȣ į’|Ƞ੅țȠșİȞ ਕȖĮșȠ૙Ȣ ȝȘį’| İੁȢ IJ੺ijȠȣҕ țĮ੿ ȞİțȡȠ૨ țં|ıȝȠȞ ȤȡȘı੺ȝİȞȠȢ ȟ੼Ȟ| ૉ Ȗİ Ƞ੣Ȟ ਥȞș੺ʌIJİIJĮȚ Ȗૌ țĮ|20 ੿ ʌȡઁȢ ਕȜȜȠIJȡ઀ȠȚȢ ਕʌ੼ʌ|Ȟİȣıİ țંȜʌȠȚȢ ੒ ȝȘIJȡ੿ Ȥ|İ૙ȡĮȢ ੑȡ੼ȟĮȢ Ƞ੝į੻ ʌĮ|IJȡઁȢ ੢ҕıҕIJĮIJĮ ʌȡȠııIJİȡ|ȞȚı੺ȝİȞȠȢ ਕıʌ੺ıȝ|25 ĮIJĮ ʌȚțȡ઼Ȣ ȝȞȘȝંıȣȞĮ |IJȤȘȢǜ ਥȡĮȞ઀ıȗİIJĮȚ į੻ ਲ| ʌİȡ઀ıIJĮıȚȢ ਥʌ’ Į੝IJ૶ IJ|ઁȞ IJȠ૨ IJ੼ȜȠȣȢ ȠੇțȠȞǜ ț|ਗȞ ʌ੺ȞIJİȢ IJȠ૨ ʌ੺șȠȣȢ |30 ıȣȞȖİȞİ૙Ȣ ੒ȝȠȜȠȖȠ૨ȝİ|Ȟ ਨȞ Į੝IJ૶, IJȠ૨ įĮ઀ȝȠȞȠȢ | ȤĮȡȚıĮȝ੼ȞȠȣ ਥȞIJઁȢҕ | IJૌ ʌંȜİȚ IJİȜİȣIJ઼Ȟ ਸȢ [ਥ]|ȡ੺ıșȘ ȝ੻Ȟ įİ઀ȜĮȚȠҕȢ [İੁȢ ਱]|ȤȘIJઁȞ ȜંȖȦȞ IJ૵Ȟ ʌİ[ȡ੿ ਥʌ]|35 Į઀ȞȠȣ ਲ਼ țĮ੿ ਱ș૵Ȟ țĮ[੿ țȜĮȣș]-| ȝ૵Ȟ ȝĮșȘIJ੽Ȣ IJ[૵Ȟ ʌİȡ੿]| ਦIJ੼ȡȦȞ ਕijȚțંȝ[İȞȠȢ Ȟ૨Ȟ ਕ]-| [ʌ]ȠȜĮ઄İȚ įȠઃҕȢҕ ါါ[— — —]|40[ါ]ȞȠı[— — — —] Tablet II — — — — — — — — — — — — [— —]ș઀ĮȢ ʌİȞșȠ઄ȝİȞ|[ȠȞ] ਲ਼ҕ ਫ਼ʌઁ ʌĮIJȡ઀įȠȢǜ țĮ੿ |[ . . ] [IJઁ ȝ]੻Ȟ IJોȢ Ȝ઄ʌȘȢ ਕȞ|[ . . . .]Ȟ ਲ਼ IJ૵Ȟ Ƞੁțİ઀ȦȞ ਥҕȡȘҕ-| 5 [ȝ઀Į Ƞ੝] ʌȜ੼ȠȞ ਥʌ઀ IJȚȞİȚ ȖȞȦȡ઀ȝ|[૳ Ȟ]੼ȦȞ ਥȞ IJૌ ʌĮIJȡ઀įȚ Ȝҕ-| [Įȝʌ]ȡȠ૨ țĮ੿ {țĮ੿} Ȗ੼ȞȠȣȢ IJȠ[૨] | [ʌȡઆ]IJȠȣ țĮ੿ ʌĮIJȡઁȢ ਕȖĮ-|[șȠ૨] țĮ੿ ਥʌȚıȘȝȠIJ੺IJȠȣ |10 [țĮ੿] ʌĮIJȡ઀įȠȢ ȣȞȖİȞȠ૨-|[Ȣ ਲ]ȝİ૙Ȟ țĮ੿ IJİȚȝȚȦIJ੺IJ|[ȘȢ Ƞ]੡IJİ ijȚȜȠIJİȚȝȚ૵Ȟ ਖʌ-|[IJંȝİȞ]ȠȢ Į੝IJȠ૨ ȜĮȞʌȡ઄Ȟİ-|[ıșĮȚ] ਕȡȤ઼Ț țĮ੿ įંȟૉ ʌ੺-| 15 [ıȘȢ IJ]੼ȦȢ ıȣȞʌȠȜİȚIJİȣȠ|[ȝ੼Ȟ]ȘȢ IJોȢ ਥʌĮȡȤİ઀ĮȢ Ƞ੝ | ... On the prop[osal] of the [strat]egoi. Metrodorus son of Philip spoke: since Theodorus son of Attalus the Agrippensian came for schooling to the city, poor boy, and, enjoying no more of his hope, anticipated by an ill-fated misfortune the desired outcome of his journey and his youth after hastening his study to no purpose, dying before getting all for which he had set out, not even having his wealth from home for the adornment of his burial and corpse, is buried in foreign soil and breathed his last in strange arms, not stretching out his hands to his mother nor giving a last embrace to his father, greetings recalling a bitter fate; and the neighbourhood contributes to his last home, and all we who are his kin in his affliction admit one thing in his fate, god having given him the favour of ending his life inside the city which he loved, poor boy, having come for the ringing tones of logoi to learn about praise, or the character, or laments for others, he now benefits having given … II … than being lamented by his own city and [the qual]ity of grief [...] or the absence

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of his father and a city kin to us and most honoured family not more for some young pupil in his city of a brilliant and the first family and a good and most renowned father not grasping at honours so as to shine there by officeholding and all manner of fame with the province joining …

The remaining lines of Tablet II of this text are increasingly lacunose, and little survives of Tablet III, which is a salutary reminder of how fragmentary is our evidence as a whole: constructing a coherent train of thought becomes even more difficult, and indeed the coherence of what I have printed may be questioned. I have attempted simply to give a small sample of the sorts of epigraphic evidence for poetic and prose oral performance in the Greek world of the Roman Empire, and have deliberately chosen to focus more on these texts themselves than offering a fully-developed hypothesis constructed on their basis. The evidence makes clear that there were many occasions, both within and outside competitions, when a poetic or a prose performance was expected to be oral. But as the evidence of Philostratus concerning Philagrus of Cilicia shows, and as my arguments about the poem of Q. Sulpicius Maximus also suggest, the gains that might be expected from breaking the rules were such that it seems likely that they were indeed not infrequently broken. But how frequently we cannot tell.

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Appendix The inscriptions honouring C. Iulius Longianus, I.Aphr. 12.227 = MAMA VIII 418b and c ii.

· ? ··] IJૌҕ ਙȜȜૉ ਥʌȚįȘȝ઀઺ țĮ੿ ਥIJİ઀ȝȘıİȞ țĮ੿ ਥțંıȝȘıİȞ ਲȝ઼Ȣ țĮ੿ ʌȠȚȘȝ੺IJȦȞ ʌĮȞIJȠįĮʌ૵Ȟ ਥʌȚįİ઀ȟİȚȢ ʌȠȚț઀ȜĮȢ ਥʌȠȚ੾ıĮIJȠ įȚ' ੰȞ țĮ੿ IJȠઃȢ ʌȡİıȕȣIJ੼ȡȠȣȢ İ੡ijȡĮȞİȞ țĮ੿ IJȠઃȢ ȞİȦIJ੼ȡȠȣȢ ੩ij੼ȜȘıİȞ ਥʌ઀ IJİ IJȠ઄IJȠȚȢ 5 ਚʌĮıȚȞ ਲıșİ੿Ȣ ੒ įોȝȠȢ IJİȚȝ੹Ȣ Į੝IJ૶ ʌȡȠı੼IJĮȟİ IJ੹Ȣ ʌȡȠıȘțȠ઄ıĮȢ ȥȘij઀ıĮıșĮȚ stop įİįંȤșĮȚ ī੺ȚȠȞ ੉Ƞ઄ȜȚȠȞ ȁȠȖȖȚĮȞઁȞ ʌȡȠ૙țĮ ʌİʌȠȜİȚIJİ૨ıșĮȚ ʌĮȡ ਲȝİ૙Ȟ vac. ੕ȞIJĮ țĮ੿ ਙȞįȡĮ ਕȖĮșઁȞ țĮ੿ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȟ IJઁȞ ਙȡȚıIJȠȞ IJ૵Ȟ țĮș ਲȝ઼Ȣ IJĮ૙Ȣ IJİ ਙȜȜĮȚȢ ʌȠȜİȚIJİ઀ĮȚȢ țĮ੿ IJİȚȝĮ૙Ȣ IJİIJİȚ10 ȝોıșĮȚ IJĮ૙Ȣ ਥț IJ૵Ȟ ȞંȝȦȞ ȝİȖ઀ıIJĮȚȢ țĮ੿ İੁțંıȚȞ vac. ȤĮȜțĮ૙Ȣ ਘȢ ਩Ȟ IJİ IJȠ૙Ȣ ਙȜȜȠȚȢ ਕȞĮıIJĮșોȞĮȚ IJȠ૙Ȣ ਥʌȚıȘȝȠIJ੺IJȠȚȢ IJોȢ ʌંȜİȦȢ ȤȦȡ઀ȠȚȢ țĮ੿ ਥȞ IJ૶ IJ૵Ȟ ȂȠȣҕı૵Ȟ IJİȝ੼ȞİȚ țĮ੿ ਥȞ IJ૶ ȖȣȝȞĮı઀૳ IJ૵Ȟ ਥij੾ȕȦȞ ʌĮȡ੹ IJઁȞ ʌĮȜĮȚઁȞ ਺ȡંįȠIJȠȞ stop ਥȥȘij઀ıșĮȚ į੻ țĮ੿ IJȠ૙Ȣ ȕȣȕȜ઀ҕ 15 ȠȚȢ Į੝IJȠ૨ įȘȝȠı઀ĮȞ ਕȞ੺șİıȚȞ ਩Ȟ IJİ ȕȣȕȜȚȠș੾țĮȚȢҕ IJĮ૙Ȣ ʌĮȡ ਲȝİ૙Ȟ ੆ȞĮ țĮ੿ ਥȞ IJȠ઄IJȠȚȢ Ƞੂ Ȟ੼ȠȚ ʌĮȚįİ઄ȦȞIJĮȚ IJઁȞ Į੝IJઁȞ IJȡંʌȠȞ ੔Ȟ țĮ੿ ਥȞ IJȠ૙Ȣ IJ૵Ȟ ʌĮȜĮ઀ȦȞ ıȣ>Ȟ@Ȗȡ੺ȝȝĮıȚȞ ੖ʌȦȢ į੻ țĮ੿ IJ૶ į੾ȝ૳ IJ૵Ȟ ıȣȞȖİȞ૵Ȟ ਝijȡȠįİȚıȚ੼ȦȞ ijĮȞİȡ੹ Ȗ੼ȞȘIJĮȚ ਲ ਲȝİIJ੼ȡĮ ʌİȡ੿ IJઁȞ ʌȠȜİ>઀]20 IJȘȞ Į੝IJ૵Ȟ İ੡ȞȠȚĮ țĮ੿ ıʌȠȣį੾ stop įİįંȤșĮȚ țĮ੿ ਕȞIJ઀ȖȡĮijȠȞ IJȠ૨įİ IJȠ૨ ȥȘij઀ıȝĮIJȠȢ ʌİȝijșોȞĮȚ įȚ੹ Į੝IJȠ૨ IJȠ૨ ੉ȠȣȜ઀Ƞȣ IJȠ૙Ȣ ਝijȡȠįİȚıȚİ૨ıȚȞ IJૌ įȘȝȠı઀઺ ıijȡĮȖİ૙įȚ ıȘȝĮȞș੻Ȟ ਥȟ Ƞ੤ țਕțİȚȞȠȚ ȝĮș੾ıȠȞIJĮȚ IJં IJİ ਲȝ੼IJİȡȠȞ ਷- vv. șȠȢ મ ʌİȡ੿ ʌ੺ȞIJĮȢ ੒ȝȠ઀ȦȢ IJȠઃȢ ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝ੼ȞȠȚȢ 25 ȤȡઆȝİȞȠȚ įȚĮIJİȜȠ૨ȝİȞ țĮ੿ ĮੈȢ IJઁȞ ਙȞįȡĮ IJİȚȝĮ૙Ȣ ੪Ȣ įȚİȞȘȞȠȤંIJĮ IJ૵Ȟ ਙȜȜȦȞ IJİIJİȚȝ੾țĮȝİȞ stop ? leaf vac.

iii stop leaf (at end of i) stop ȥ੾ijȚıȝĮ ੂİȡ઼Ȣ ıȣȞંįȠȣ vac. [਩įȠȟİȞ IJૌ ੂİȡઽ ıȣȞંį૳ IJ૵Ȟ ਕʌઁ IJોȢ ȠੁțȠȣ@ȝ੼ȞȘȢ ʌİȡ੿ IJઁȞ ǻȚંȞȣıȠȞ țĮ੿ Į੝IJȠțȡ੺IJȠȡĮ ȉȡĮȚĮȞઁȞ ȀĮ઀ıĮȡȠȢ șİȠ૨ vac. >ȉȡĮȚĮȞȠ૨ ǻĮțȚțȠ૨ ȆĮȡșȚțȠ૨ ȣੂઁȞ șİȠ૨ ȃ@੼ȡȠȣĮ ȣੂȦȞઁȞ ਞįȡȚĮȞઁȞ ȀĮ઀ıĮȡĮ ȈİȕĮıIJઁȞ Ȟ੼ȠȞ ǻȚંȞȣıȠȞ IJİȤȞİ>Ț@>IJ૵Ȟ ?ੂİȡȠȞİȚț૵Ȟ ıIJİijĮȞİȚIJ૵Ȟ țĮ੿ IJ૵Ȟ ı@ȣȞĮȖȦȞȚıIJ૵Ȟ vac. İੁıȘȖȘıĮȝ੼ȞȠȣ ĬİȠijȡ੺ıIJȠȣ IJȠ૨ Ǽ੝ȕȚંIJȠȣ ȉȡ઄ijȦȞȠȢ vac. 5 >țȦȝ૳įȠ૨ ȁĮȠįȚț੼ȦȢ ਥʌȚȥȘijȚıĮȝ੼ȞȠȣ Ǽ@੝ҕIJ઄ȤȠȣȢ IJȠ૨ Ǽ੝IJ઄ȤȠȣȢ țȦȝ૳įȠ૨ ਝıȚȠȞİ઀țȠȣ ੊İȡĮʌȠȜİ઀IJȠȣ vac. [ਥʌİ੿ ī੺ȚȠȢ ੉Ƞ઄ȜȚȠȢ ?īĮȓȠȣ ȣੂઁȢ ȁȠȖȖȚ@Į ҕȞઁȢ ਕȖĮșઁȢ ਕIJİȜ੽Ȣ IJȡĮȖ૳įȚ૵Ȟ ʌȠȚȘIJ੽Ȣ ਕȞ੽ȡ ʌĮȞIJઁȢ ȜંȖȠȣ țĮ੿ ʌ੺ıȘȢ

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[·· c. 30 ··]Ȉҕǿǹȃ Ƞ੝ ȝંȞȠȞ țȠıȝ૵Ȟ ਕȜȜ੹ țĮ੿ ıȣȞĮ઄ȟȦȞ įȚ੹ IJોȢ ਥȞĮȡ੼IJȠȣ ʌĮȚįİ઀ĮȢ [·· c. 27 ·· "ȝİȖ@ĮȜȠijȣİ૙ įંȟૉ ȜȠȖȚંIJȘIJĮ IJ੽Ȟ ਕįȚ੺ȜİȚʌIJȠȞ İ੡ȞȠȚ੺Ȟ IJİ țĮ੿ ıʌȠȣį੽Ȟ Ǽȃ v. [·· c. 30 āā@Ȋȉǹǿ ੪Ȣ ʌȜȘș઄İȚȞ ਲȝ૵Ȟ IJ੽Ȟ ı઄ȞȠįȠȞ țĮ੿ ıȣȞĮ઄ȟİȚȞ įȚ ੔ ਙșҕȡҕȠȠȞ IJઁ IJોȢ Ǽǿҕȅҕ 10[·· c. 30 ··]ȉҕǹǿ țĮ੿ ʌȡȠIJȡȠʌ੽Ȟ IJ૵Ȟ ȝİȜȜંȞIJȦȞ ਥIJİ઀ȝȘıİȞ Į੝IJઁȞ İੁțંȞȚ ȖȡĮʌIJૌ vac. [·· c. 25 ·· ਥȞ મ ਗȞ@ IJҕંʌ૳ IJોȢ ʌĮIJȡ઀įȠȢ Į੝IJઁȢ ʌȡȠ੼ҕȜҕȘIJĮȚ İੇȞĮ઀ IJҕİҕ ʌҕȡȠ੾ȖȠȡȠȞ įȚ੹ ȕ઀Ƞȣ IJોȢ >ıȣȞંįȠȣ ·· c. 24 ··]ȅҕȋǾ IJોȢ ਕȟ઀ĮȢ ਙȞįȡĮȢ IJĮ૙Ȣ ʌȡİʌȠ઄ıĮȚȢ IJİȚȝĮ૙Ȣ ਕȝİ઀ȕİıșĮȚ stop ਥIJİȜ੼ıșȘҕ [ਥʌ੿ ਫ਼ʌ੺IJȦȞ Ȃ੺ȡțȠȣ īĮȠȣ઀Ƞȣ ȈțȠȣ઀ȜȜĮ ī@ĮȜȜȚțĮȞȠ૨ țĮ੿ ȉ઀IJȠȣ ਝIJҕİȚȜ઀Ƞȣ ૮Ƞ઄ijȠȣ ȉȚIJȚĮȞȠ૨ ʌȡઁ ࢪ´ țĮȜĮȞį૵Ȟ ਝʌȡİȚȜ઀ȦȞҕ [·· c. 12 ·· ĬİȠijȡ੺ıIJȠȣ IJȠ૨ Ǽ੝ȕȚંIJȠ@ȣ ȉȡ઄ijȦȞȠȢ IJȠ૨ țĮȜȠȣȝ੼ȞȠȣ ĬİȠijȡ੺ıIJȠȣ ੱȡİ઀ȦȞȠȢ ȁĮȠįȚț੼ȦȢ țȦȝ૳>įȠ૨ ·· c. 28 ··]Ȉҕ țĮ੿ ȖȣȝȞĮıȚ੺ȡȤȠȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJİ઄ȠȞIJȠȢ į੻ ǹੁȜ઀Ƞȣ ȀȜĮȣį઀Ƞȣ ǻȚȠȖ੼ȞȠȣȢ vac. [·· c. 31 ··]ȃҕȉȅȈ ਝʌİȜҕȜĮ ȋ੺ҕȡҕȘҕIJȠȢ ਝijȡȠįİȚıȚ੼Ȧҕ>Ȣ țȚ@șҕĮҕȡ૳ ҕ ҕ>įȠ@ȣҕ [·· c. 7 ··] ȅȊ vac. LL [The Council and people ?of Halicarnassus honoured C. Julius Longianus since he had benefited them ...] and by the rest of his visit, and he also honoured and adorned us, and gave demonstrations of poems of every kind, by which he both delighted the older and improved the younger, and, pleased at all this, the People instructed that the appropriate honours be voted to him; it has been resolved that Gaius Julius Longianus function as a citizen among us without payment, being both a good man, and the best poet of our times, and be honoured with the other grants of citizenship and honours, the greatest that the laws permit, and with bronze statues which are to be put up both in the most notable places of the city and in the precinct of the Muses and in the gymnasium of the ephebes next to the ancient Herodotus; it has also been voted that there should be public presentation of his books in the libraries in our city, so that the young men may be educated in these also, in the same way as in the writings of the ancients; and, so that our goodwill and enthusiasm for their citizen should become clear to the People of our kinsfolk, the Aphrodisians, it has been resolved that a copy of this decree should be sent, by the hand of Julius himself, to the Aphrodisians, signed with the public seal, from which they too will learn both the way in which we regularly behave towards all educated men, and the honours with which we have honoured (Longianus) as someone quite outstanding. LLLDecree of the sacred synod. [It was resolved by the sacred worldwide synod] honouring DionysXs and the emperor Traianus, [son] of the divine Caesar [Traianus Dacicus Parthicus], grandson of the [divine] Nerva, Hadrianus Caesar Augustus, new DionysXs, of performers [?crowned and sacred victors] and the associatecompetitors; (resolution) introduced by TheophrastXs Tryphon, son of EubiotXs, [comedian, of Laodicea, seconded by] Eutyches son of Eutyches, comedian, Asian

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victor, of Hierapolis. [Since Gaius Julius,? son of Gaius, Longi]anXs, a good and ?unrivalled tragic poet, a man [?worthy of] all regard and all [? - - ] not only adorning but also enhancing through his virtuous learning [?our association, - ? his ] eloquence [?adorned with the] reputation of his natural genius, his unceasing goodwill and zeal [ - - ] so as to increase and enhance our synod, by which altogether [ --] and as an encouragement for future generations, honoured him with a paintedlikeness [ - to be put up in whatever] place in his homeland he himself may choose,and to be advocate, for his lifetime, of the [synod - ? e.g. since it is our wish] toreward men with the fitting honours; it was carried out [in the consulate of Marcus Gavius Squilla G]allicanus and Titus Atilius Rufus Titianus, six days before thecalends of April; [?the president was TheophrastXs] Tryphon [son of EubiotXs] also called TheophrastXs Orion, of Laodicea, comedian; [ - - ] and gymnasiarch; thesecretary was Aelius Claudius Diogenes [...the ...] was Apelles son of Chares,Aphrodisian, a kitharode [...] End.

CHAPTER THREE WRITING, ORALITY AND PAIDEIA IN PLUTARCH’S THE BANQUET OF THE SEVEN SAGES JOSÉ ANTONIO FERNÁNDEZ DELGADO

1. The idea that Plutarch’s sizeable body of work was immediately disseminated by means of writing is now firmly established, through both the testimony of authors from not much later, such as Aulus Gellius (4.11; 2. 8-9) or Galen (V, p. 115), and of papyri. The first papyrus containing Plutarch was not discovered until 1951, while as recently as 15 years ago only half a dozen were known. 1 However, in the intervening short span of time four more papyri have come to light, to which six specimens from the Oxyrhynchus papyri collection can now be added. 2 However, this conception of Plutarch’s work as something written does not exclude the presence of orality, an equally important element in the cultural features of the period. We should expect nothing less from an intellectual movement known as the Second Sophistic, of which Plutarch is a forerunner, with its firm desire to revitalise the culture of Classical Greece, including this culture’s decidedly oral aspect. The first impulse behind this dual attitude on the part of Plutarch derives from paideia, today recognised as the main instrument in the cultural renovation carried out by the authors that made paideia their trademark during the period in which Rome dominated political life. 3 More specifically, Plutarch’s programme of intense training in rhetoric was concerned with both objectives, that is, the training of brilliant orators and, 1 This research was carried out as part of the Research Project FFI2010-21125, financed by the MICINN. 2 Cf. Fernández Delgado (2013a); Fernández Delgado and Pordomingo Pardo (forthcoming). Cf. P.Oxy. LXVIII 2012. 3 Cf. Whitmarsh (2001) 29-38.

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simultaneously, the forming of erudite writers. The methods for both goals were the same, as can be seen in the doctrine of the rhetors, in particular the introductory section on progymnasmatic theory that precedes rhetorical studies per se by Aelius Theon of Alexandria, whose work – dated to the 1st century A.D. – may well have been known and used by Plutarch. 4 Palpable traces of this progymnasmatic training that was ultimately focused on composing meletai and the like can be found throughout Plutarch’s work, both from his early period and from his maturity, contrary to what has usually been thought. Furthermore, many of his epideixeis were undoubtedly intended to be declaimed in the intellectual circles of his friends or in his own classes. The existence of such contexts is suggested in different passages of his work. Moreover, he himself contributed to the compilation of repertories of the progymnasmata that were so common in his prose, such as anecdotes (chreiai), gnomai and diegemata. These were organised normally according to topic or to the type of protagonist involved. They were used in various circumstances and even in different versions and were attributed to various authors. All this meant that they could be used to create a context of orality. 5 Indeed, in Plutarch’s work, orality undoubtedly constitutes a factor didactic in character that is as typical of his work as moralising is. In fact, didacticism is a factor as important for him as it is for various other Neoplatonic thinkers. 6 All things considered, Plutarchan dialogues are the heirs to the theatrical dialogues of Plato. Many of these works, including his sympotic ones, which are obviously more, illustrate our thesis, although we shall focus on just one work, The Banquet of the Seven Sages. This work brings together elements from both types of dialogue. It forms a unique experiment in its oralising recreation or representation of an important and highly educative, albeit fictitious, episode in the history of Archaic Greece, although the piece is admittedly not entirely free of reference to writing, which appears in the unequivocal shape of a letter.

4

Cf. Theon 70-71, Spengel; Patillon (1997) and cf. Kennedy (2003); Reche Martínez (1991). The Latin version of progymnasmatic theory dates from the 1st century A.D., drawn in turn from earlier sources now lost to us. It is included in Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria, and there are indications of its existence as early as the Hellenistic period, cf. Fernández Delgado (2013b) 18-19; Pirovano (2007-2008) n. 3. 5 Cf. Fernández Delgado (2013b) 13-44. 6 Cf. Marzillo [(2012) 183-200] in regard to Proclus’s commentary on Hesiod’s Works and Days as an ‘oral lesson’.

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2. Commencing the compositional thread of the dialogue, 7 in the prologue the narrator (Diocles) tries to clarify certain unacceptable points in previous versions of the story of the banquet to a group of listeners. We know they are listeners, as the expression ‫݋‬ʌİ‫ ޥ‬ıȤȠȜ‫ ޤ‬IJİ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȡİıIJȚ (“since we have time”, Mor. 146C) applies to an oral, rather than written, story. They are personalised in one Nicarchus and represent the traditional addressees of didactic literature. 8 These unacceptable points are that, contrary to reports, not only were there not seven sages present, but in fact more than double that number, including the narrator himself. Furthermore, the ‘conversation’ (IJȠީȢ ȜިȖȠȣȢ) has not so far been recounted in its exact form to Nicarchus. 2.1. The narration begins with a reference to the exchange of views that took place among the participants who happened to meet one another on the way to the banquet. 9 A third participant joins Diocles and Thales, Niloxenus of Naucratis, who is on his way to the banquet, to consult Bias for a second time on behalf of King Amasis about some matter. 10 Thales jokingly reacts to Niloxenus’ information by adapting a proverb about Priene. For his part, the narrator says that he asked which of the two questions was first, to which Niloxenus responds with a well-known chreia ‘of facts’ relating to the importance of the tongue. 11 Addressing Thales, the 7

Cf. Aune (1978) 51-60 (56-58); Morales Otal and García López (1986) 215ff. Although it is true that the beginning of Plato’s Symposium makes use of a similar strategy to guarantee the ‘veracity’ of the story, the pretext adopted here for the supposed correction of errors in the symposium story may mean that previous versions of it existed, cf. Teodorsson (2009) 3-16 (10-11, 13-14). 9 To do so, the narrator begins by situating the location of the banquet, offered by the tyrant Periander in Corinth on the occasion of the festival of Aphrodite. According to the story (Mor. 146 D), this was the first time that Periander decided to celebrate Aphrodite, on the advice of his wife, after a period of not doing so, because of the suicide of his mother, who had had sexual relations with him. Perhaps this attempt by Periander at moral rehabilitation after this crime is sufficient to explain why Aphrodite is evoked, with no attempt however, to concede great importance to the topic of love in this banquet, pace Mossman (1997) 119-140 (126ff.). The author employs a strategy which both fosters the conversation and serves to reveal Thales’ frame of mind. Each of the guests is sent a horse and cart. Thales refuses his and, despite the clouds of dust raised by the horses, he and his interlocutor continue on foot, conversing at the same time. 10 ȆȡިȕȜȘȝĮ is the term used, as in the Quaestiones convivales. 11 That is, when Amasis had sent an animal to Bias, asking him to cut out its best and its worst parts and return it to Amasis, Bias did so, having removed the tongue. This chreia, whose classification corresponds to the chreia offered by progymnasmatic theory (cf. Theon 97-100, Spengel), is used on another two 8

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Egyptian says that the king is aware of his animosity towards monarchs, and includes a chreia to this effect. 12 Thus the topos of good governance is introduced, to which Plutarch returns more than once as the key topic of the work. 13 Thales corrects the information in the chreia 14 and the narrator adds another piece of information. 15 The speakers consider the topic now closed, although the foreigner, Niloxenus, urges them to reopen it and also to discuss the sort of topics suitable for discussion on the way to a banquet. 16 In the case of the banquet of the Sages, however, the preparations do not deal with the adornment of the body but rather with that of the soul, which anticipates the essential theme of the work. The aim is to prepare oneself for speaking seriously or jokingly, for listening and speaking at the right time, in order to enjoy the conversation. 17 2.2. This emphasis on the conversational context of the story, rather than ending with the arrival of the group of guests at Periander’s mansion, is prolonged in vivid fashion there. They find Anacharsis seated on the occasions by Plutarch himself (Mor. 38B; Comm. in Hesiod. 716, in this case attributed to Pittacus). This may mean that the chreia came from a repertory for school use and is representative of the actual collections of maxims that figure among Plutarch’s works. 12 Namely, that having been asked what the most extraordinary thing he had ever seen was, Thales replied “an old tyrant”, whilst on another occasion at a banquet he had said that the worst of wild animals was the tyrant and the worst domestic animal was the sycophant. As in the previous case, the first chreia can be found in another passage in the Moralia (578C) and in other authors involving another protagonist, Chilon (Diog. Laert. 1.73, cf. also 1. 36); the second chreia is attributed to Bias in Mor. 61C. 13 And likewise the subject of other works by Plutarch, cf. de Blois (2008) 317-324. 14 He replied that the first answer was from Pittacus, who addressed it to his friend Myrsilus, the tyrant of Mytilene. 15 Namely, that the substitution is like the one performed by a young man, who, throwing a stone at a dog, hit his stepmother and said: “It’s not bad that way either”. This chreia is told in the same terms in Mor. 467C. As for Periander, the narrator adds (supposedly in an obligatory note of praise of the banquet’s host) that he softened the evil of tyranny through good relations and through the intelligent individuals that he was able to attract. 16 Topics that begin with banquet preparations concern the guests, rather than the host. This type of issue is frequently addressed in the Quaestiones convivales, several of which include a whole lesson in rhetoric as to the types of topics that should be addressed in the symposium, the expository procedure of conversation and the style or the behaviour of the dinner guests, cf. González Julià (2009). 17 ...țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıʌȠȣį‫ޠ‬ıĮȚ IJȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌĮ߿ȟĮȚ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȠࠎıĮȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬İ‫ݧ‬ʌİ߿Ȟ ‫ޖ‬Ȟ ‫ ݸ‬țĮȚȡާȢ ʌĮȡĮțĮȜİ߿ IJȠީȢ ıȣȞިȞIJĮȢ İ‫ ݧ‬ȝ‫ޢ‬ȜȜȠȣıȚ ȝİIJ¶ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȦȞ ‫ݘ‬į‫ޢ‬ȦȢ ‫ݏ‬ıİıșĮȚ (Mor. 147E).

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portico and with him a young woman combing his hair, whose presence gives rise to a lively conversation, 18 in which Niloxenus asks why she is so attentive to Anacharsis. Thales, who responds that Anarcharsis is prudent and wise and that the woman learns through conversation with him, thereby indirectly sanctions teaching activity as an essentially oral exercise. The guests’ passage to the banquet room is occupied by two episodes. These also illustrate the importance of conversation and also highlight the immense wit and grace that in this work characterise their common protagonist, Thales. 19 The agent of the first episode is one Alexidemus of Miletus, 20 who is leaving in a very angry state, 21 Thales having reprimanded him in a sarcastic reply, in which three chreiai can be distinguished. 22 The second episode occurs when, after the first, a servant of Periander approaches Diocles. Diocles is an expert in the art of divination and the servant asks him on Periander’s behalf to come and decide whether the creature which Periander was shown by a young shepherd – born of a horse and with a horse’s body but with the head and arms of a human – was an ominous marvel or not. Thales smiles, teasing Diocles about the possibility of an exorcism of what the latter views as a bad omen, and on Periander’s arrival, Thales advises him not to use such young men to look after horses

18

That is, among Diocles (who asks who she is), Thales (who says that she is either Eumetis, which is the name given by her father or Cleobuline, as others call her, because her father was called Cleobulus) and Niloxenus (according to whom some of her famous aenigmata are also known in Egypt). 19 The ethopoiia or characterisation exercise, of course, is one of the progymnasmata or introductory exercises to the teaching of rhetoric: cf. Kennedy (2003). 20 Bastard son of the tyrant Thrasybulus. 21 Upon seeing Thales, Alexidemus complains of the great insult that Periander had offered to ‘them’ (by which it is understood to Alexidemus himself and to the other Milesians, like Thales) in assigning them a place at the banquet beneath their social status. 22 Thales first asks Alexidemus if he is afraid to share the fate that the Egyptians believe that the stars predict. Their fate improves or worsens depending on whether or not the stars rise or fall during the course of their trajectory; secondly, Thales enquires whether he is about to demonstrate that he is inferior to the Lacedaemonian (Agesilaus according to Apophth. Lac., Mor. 208D) or Daemonidas (Apophth. Lac., Mor. 219E), or Aristippus (Diog. Laert. 2.73) who, having been assigned the last place in the chorus, told the choregos that he had found a good way to value such a position. Thales concludes his reprimand by stating that anyone who complains about his place at table is complaining about his neighbour, rather than about the host who has invited him, thus making enemies of both.

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or at least to provide them with women, a type of chreía katà charientismón. 23 2.3. Once the guests are in the banqueting hall (4), an equally lively conversation takes place among them. 24 Aesop, who is Croesus’ envoy to Periander and to Delphi, is present at the banquet, occupying a low seat next to Solon, whose seat is higher, as dictated by their respective status. Inspired by Alexidemus’ anger, Aesop narrates the fable of the Lydian mule.25 Once the tables have been cleared, crowns distributed and the libations made that mark the start of the symposium proper (5), the conversation, on the matter of the accompaniment of these libations by the aulós player, is equally barbed in its xenophobia or at least cultural bias. 26 23

A classification corresponding to that offered by progymnasmatic theory (cf. Theon 99-100, Spengel). Thales then addresses Diocles, in a final piece of sarcasm, saying: “I believe the portent has come true; now you see what misfortune has befallen us: Alexidemus did not want to dine with us”. 24 ȉȠȚĮࠎIJĮ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬țİ߿ȞȠȚ ʌȡާȢ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȠȣȢ ݀ȝĮ įİȚʌȞȠࠎȞIJİȢ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮȚȗȠȞ (Mor. 150C). As soon as he goes in, Thales asks where the place was that was assigned to Alexidemus that led the latter to complain, and when shown it, then he occupies the triclinion with his companions, saying that he would have paid to share the table of Ardulus, an aulode from Troezen. 25 A mule, seeing itself reflected in the water, and pleased at its beauty, begins to run, shaking its mane like a horse, until, remembering that it was also the son of an ass, immediately stops running and whinnying. Thales then addresses Diocles, whose seat is above that of Bias, and asks Diocles why he has not told Bias that the foreigner from Naucratis had come again to ask him advice on behalf of the Pharaoh, so that Bias might stay sober in order to be able to understand. Bias says Thales has been trying to frighten him with this advice for a long time, but he is aware that, among other virtues, Dionysus is also called Lysios (‘releasing, delivering’, LSJ s.v.), so that he is not afraid, once filled with Dionysus, he will be a less daring competitor (ȝ‫ܻ ޣ‬șĮȡı‫ޢ‬ıIJİȡȠȞ ܻȖȦȞަȗȦȝĮȚ). The appropriate consumption of wine during a banquet is prescribed in Plut. Quaest. conv. (Mor. 657B-C, 692B-C, 698AB): González Julià (2009). 26 The auletes Ardalos asks Anacharsis if there are auletai among the Scythians and he replies that there are not, nor do the Scythians possess vineyards, which is the answer traditionally attributed to the wise Scythian by some authors. Ardalos then says to Anacharsis that at least there are gods among the Scythians, which Anacharsis confirms. He also states that the Scythian gods understand human voices, unlike the gods of the Greeks. The Greeks, despite believing that they speak better than the Scythians, think that their gods prefer the sounds of bones and logs. “‘If you only knew!’, interrupted Aesop, ‘the auloi makers of today reject deer bones and use the bones of asses, because they say they sound better. Hence Cleobuline’s riddle about the Phrygian aulós: My ear was hit by the horn-hoofed leg of a dead ass’”.

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2.4. After a silence (an important part of a conversation), 27 Periander (6), noticing that Niloxenus wants to talk, but is afraid to do so, uses a sententia to provide him with a conversational entrée. 28 Bias, too, to whom Niloxenus is bringing the letter from Amasis with his consultation, invites him to read it. In the letter, Amasis says that the king of Ethiopia is conducting a competition to decide who is the wisest of the two 29 and that, defeated in all the other tests, the Ethiopian king has finally ordered him to drink the sea to the last drop. This is an adynaton that pertains, as does Bias’ subsequent solution, to a series of proverbs. The proverb was widely known and is also posed by Master Xanthus in the so-called Life of Aesop. This is dated to the 1st century and so is more or less contemporary with The Banquet of the Seven Sages, thought to be one of Plutarch’s mature works. The section in the Life of Aesop is a narrative in which an agon of wisdom takes place between Nectanebus, the king of Egypt, and Lycurgus, the king of Babylonia. 30 Bias’ answer is another adynaton: that Amasis should ask the Ethiopian to block the rivers that flow into the sea until he can drink it in its present state, not its future one. Chilon then comes up with an amusing chreia. 31 Thereupon Periander proposes that they all take part in a new agon and compete with each other in making proposals as to the best way for Amasis to proceed. Chilon suggests (7) that it is right and proper for Solon to speak first, who states that the most illustrious king or tyrant would be he who replaces monarchy with democracy. In numerical order, we are then And Niloxenus adds that this is the same criticism the people of Busiris make of the inhabitants of Naucratis [and which Plutarch (De Iside et Osiride, Mor. 362F) recounts in regard to the Naucrateans and the people of Lycopolis], that is, that Naucrateans use ass bones for making the aulós, whereas for the Lycopolitans even to hear a trumpet is a sacrilege, because it reminds them of an ass braying; it is also well-known that the ass is despised by the Egyptians because of Typhon. 27 Cf. Ginestì Rosell (forthcoming). 28 “I praise, gentlemen, the cities and governors who grant audience first to foreigners and then to their own citizens”. 29 ıȠijަĮȢ ݀ȝȚȜȜĮ, or ܻȖެȞ, which is the best known term for this type of competition, an ancient tradition in Greek culture, as illustrated by the contest between Aeschylus and Euripides at Aristophanes’ Frogs 883, or by the mythical contests between Thamyris and the Muses and between Apollo and Marsyas: see Radermacher (1923) 28ff. 30 Between Plutarch’s narrative and the Life of Aesop there are yet further points of contact that derive from the influence exercised by paideia: cf. Jedrkiewicz (1997); Defradas (1985) 185; Ruiz-Montero (2014b). 31 He ironically (ȖİȜ‫ޠ‬ıĮȢ) tells Niloxenus that, before the sea gets drunk completely, he, Niloxenus, should take a boat and go and tell the pharaoh that, rather than drinking such a large amount of salt water, he should make his government sweetly potable for all his subjects.

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given the opinions on the matter of Bias, Thales, Anacharsis, Cleobulus, Pittacus and Chilon, all of them consisting of brief and witty chreiai, which are, moreover, traditional maxims of the Seven Sages. 32 Periander (8) finds a pretext to urge Niloxenus to read the rest of the letter. In it, Amasis is more civilised in the tone of his reply that he offers the Ethiopian king in their agon of wisdom. The pharaoh asks him what is oldest, most beautiful, largest, wisest, most common and most useful, most dangerous, strongest and easiest, an old type of question known as early as the date of the question in Herodotus (1.30) that Croesus puts to Solon, when he asks Solon who he thinks is the happiest of men. Once the answers are read there is silence. Thales (9) replies that all of the answers are open to criticism, and proposes that the rest give their own replies, offering to start things himself. Each of the subsequent answers is expressed in the form of a sententia, in contrast to the succinct manner in which the Ethiopian king replies. The replies thus sketch the nature of the verbal agon, which has its origins in the schools, and of which this symposium chapter is an example. Cleodorus refers to the adynaton that the barbarian proposed to Amasis by means of a proverb. 33 Then Periander enters the conversation, commenting that the ancient Greeks used to set each other problems of this type and citing the case of the agon for poets held at the funeral of Amphidamas, mentioned by Hesiod (Op. 650-660) and of the so-called Agon of Homer and Hesiod, dating to the time of Plutarch. 34 This narrative is also connected with the schools of rhetoric and dates to the 2nd century A.D., but its antecedents go back to the work of rhetor Alcidamas, in the 4th century B.C. 35 Given the enigmatic nature of the lines from the Agon (8) 32 Only Chilon’s answer, which is the only one not included in Stobaeus’ repertory, is supposed to come not from folk wisdom, but from Plato (in contrast to the maxim attributed to Chilon himself that urges us, being mortal, to adopt human, rather than divine thoughts: șȞȘIJ‫ ޟ‬ijȡިȞİȚ ܻș‫ޠ‬ȞĮIJĮ ȝ‫ ޣ‬ijȡިȞİȚ): cf. Stobaeus 4.296. 33 According to Chilon, the adynaton of drinking the sea deserves the laconic response that Pittacus gave Alyates, when the latter sent him a letter containing an insulting order for the people of Lesbos to carry out, namely they should eat onions and hot bread. The Suda (s.v. țȡިȝȝȣĮ ‫݋‬ıșަİȚȞ) explains the phrase attributed to Bias by Diogenes Laertius (1.84), as a proverb meaning ‘crying’. 34 Plutarch denies that it existed in another two passages: Mor. 643 and 675A. 35 In this work, faced with the difficulty of deciding who among the rival poets would be victorious, according to the Plutarchan version (Mor. 153F), Homer (according to Lesches, the cyclic poet and author of the Little Iliad) asked, “Tell me, Muse, what has not happened before / nor will happen hereafter” and Hesiod replied, “But when galloping horses with hoofbeats will shatter chariots in haste to victory around the tomb of Zeus”. In the usual version of the agon, the hexameter sequence

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cited it is not surprising that Cleodorus should ask what difference there was with Eumetis’ riddles. 36 After both types of agones, that of poet-scholars and that of riddlers, have been illustrated, another diner, Mnesiphilus of Athens, a friend of Solon, suggests (11) another agon, which turns out again to concern sententiae-chreiai on democracy, with each of the seven sages offering their opinion on tyranny in the same order as before (7) and likewise beginning with Solon. 37 2.5. When this topic has been exhausted, the narrator (12) says that he himself asked the sages to speak on the proper administration of a household, which, unlike the management of kingdoms and cities, concerns everyone. This exposition is again carried out in the form of an agon, in which each of the seven sages gives his answer in the form of a chreia and in the same order as in the first two agones, the only difference being that the first to answer in this case is not Solon, but Anacharsis, the only one of the sages who does not have a house, preferring to lead a wandering existence. He defends his way of life by making an obviously cynical distinction, 38 albeit based on a historia like the one composed by Solon, when he visited the palace of Croesus, 39 plus a fabula, 40 between the house proposed by Lesches is attributed to Hesiod and that of Hesiod is attributed to Homer, Agon (8). 36 In regard to these, Cleodorus said that they were more suitable for posing to women than to intelligent men, and Aesop said that what was even more ridiculous was to be unable to solve such riddles, like the one that he had posed to them earlier in the banquet, a famous conundrum likewise cited by Arist. Po. 1458a; Rh. 1405b: “I have seen a man fasten bronze on another man with fire”; Cleodorus does not know the answer and Aesop tells him that no one could know the answer better than Cleodorus and as witness to this he had the ȈȚțȣȦȞަĮȢ, a pun deriving from the name of the inhabitants of Sicyon and a synonym of ıȚțުĮȚ, the name of the “cuppingglasses”, a medical remedy made famous by Cleodorus. 37 The argument is that conversation, like wine, rather than being governed by aristocratic principles, should be shared among all, as in a democracy. This is one of the sympotic prescriptions gathered in Quaestiones convivales (Mor. 686C). As in 7, Periander also closes the cycle of contributions to the conversation with an overall appraisal that skilfully tries to keep his tyrannical regime out of danger. He argues that in his opinion everyone has praised the type of democracy that most resembles an aristocracy. This is a common theme in Attic rhetoric and philosophy, as illustrated, for example, by Plat. Menex. 238c-d. 38 Cf. Defradas (1985) 216, n. 1. 39 The diegema is also one of the first in the series of progymnasmata. In regard to the story itself, cf. Hdt. 1. 30ff. 40 The fable of the fox and the leopard, used in the same sense by Plutarch, Animine an corporis...: Mor. 500B.

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as a construction and the people living in it. The last one to intervene in the ensuing conversation, Chilon, says that, when facing demands that democracy be established in the city, Lycurgus responded with the chreia, 41 “Begin by establishing democracy in your house”; and with this the chapter ends, linking itself in a ring-like composition to the topic of good governance, which appeared to have been forgotten. Several of the diners reproach each other in lively fashion for not letting the cup of wine circulate (13), one making ironic use of a quotation from Solon against Solon himself, as if it were a chreia, 42 while another employs one of Aesop’s fables. All this serves as a run-up to the well-known ‘question’ of the use of wine at a symposium. 43 A friend of Solon, in a speech much longer than those that have occurred in the first two thirds of the work, diverts the conversation on this topic, though of clear Platonic inspiration, 44 into an explanation that develops Solon’s chreia, whereby the importance of drink, rather than lying in drink itself, actually consists of the feelings, the enjoyment of conversation and of friendship that moderate drinking produces in the soul. 45 The mention of savings leads to a consideration (14) of the economic aspect of running a household, as some of the sages and other diners embark on a discussion on what is to be considered an appropriate level of wealth. In this case, the first to respond is Cleobulus (to whom the maxim ȝ‫ޢ‬IJȡȠȞ ܿȡȚıIJȠȞ may well be attributed) who establishes a distinction in this respect between the sages and ordinary people. He offers a fabula (ȜިȖȠȞ) composed by his daughter Cleobuline, which nonetheless has something of a riddle 46 about it, together with a fabula by Aesop that also concerns lack of restraint. 47 41

Likewise quoted in Life of Lycurgus 52A. ‫ݕ‬ȡȖĮ į‫ ޡ‬ȀȣʌȡȠȖİȞȠࠎȢ ȞࠎȞ ȝȠȚ ijަȜĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ǻȚȠȞުıȠȣ / țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȂȠȣı‫ޢ‬ȦȞ ݀ IJަșȘı¶ ܻȞįȡ‫ޠ‬ıȚȞ İ‫ރ‬ijȡȠıުȞĮȢ (“Currently I find pleasant the works of Cyprogenia, / of Dionysus and the Muses, which provide men with happiness”). These lines by Solon are also quoted in Amat. 5 (Mor. 751D) and V. Solon. 96E. 43 Cf. above n. 25. 44 Cf. Defradas (1985) 218, n. 5. 45 Sept. sap. conv., Mor. 156D: Į‫ ݨ‬ȂȠࠎıĮȚ țĮș‫ޠ‬ʌİȡ țȡĮIJ߱ȡĮ ȞȘij‫ޠ‬ȜȚȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȝ‫ޢ‬ı࠙ ʌȡȠș‫ޢ‬ȝİȞĮȚ IJާȞ ȜިȖȠȞ ߔ ʌȜİ߿ıIJȠȞ ‫ݘ‬įȠȞ߱Ȣ ݀ȝĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌĮȚįȚߢȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıʌȠȣį߱Ȣ ‫ݏ‬ȞİıIJȚȞ ‫݋‬ȖİަȡȠȣıȚ IJȠުIJ࠙ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮIJ‫ޠ‬ȡįȠȣıȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įȚĮȤ‫ޢ‬ȠȣıȚ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ijȚȜȠijȡȠıުȞȘȞ ... For the development of a chreia see Theon 103-105, Spengel. 46 In regard to the not always clear distinction among fable, riddle and proverb see Fernández Delgado (2008); Beta (2012) [see below n. 64]. 47 This leads Cleodorus to reply that the fates of sages, such as they themselves, are also unfairly distributed, and this leads to two different responses, which include 42

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When Solon suggests that the lack of need for food is the ultimate good (15), his view is contested by the doctor, Cleodorus, in a speech that again is longer than usual. Cleodorus expresses objections deriving from a variety of topics that range from the suppression of the table and friendship to the break-up of the household and even devotion to the gods. Diocles adds that the elimination of food would also entail the elimination of sleep, and it would be useless for the soul to retain the body as means of support, since there would be no need for it: İ‫ ݧ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȈިȜȦȞ ‫ ݙ‬IJȚȢ ܿȜȜȠȢ IJȚ țĮIJȘȖȠȡİ߿, ܻțȠȣıިȝİșĮ (“And, if Solon or anyone else has an accusation to make, we shall hear it”, Mor. 159A), says Diocles, in terms that give rise to the subsequent Solonian confirmatio of his hopes of doing away with food. The text thus follows the formal rules of the progymnasma ܻȞĮıțİȣ‫ – ޤ‬refutatio / țĮIJĮıțİȣ‫ – ޤ‬FRQILUPDWLȠ, 48 a process found, for example, in the discussion of several Quaestiones convivales. Solon gives particular attention to two of the arguments that he answers in his speech (16), which is much longer than those of Theodorus and Diocles put together: one concerns the topic of conversation itself (Mor. 159D-E), with which Solon deals by regarding it as strictly the result of the symposium, that is, what arises when they are not actually eating, as opposed to the silence of the diners that reigns during the first part of the gathering, when they are busy with the meal. The other argument concerns the slavery of the soul with respect to the body and its liberation therefrom, and, as in the previous chapter, this serves to finish the argumentation, while at the same time stressing the spiritual and divine orientation that the work will from now on lend to the topic that unifies the work, namely that of good governance (Mor. 160C). 2.6. Gorgus, Periander’s brother, bursts into the symposium, goes up to Periander (17) and whispers in his ear a story so incredible that, before allowing it to be communicated to the others, Periander feels the need to pronounce a chreia attributed to Thales that alludes to the situation, while Bias feels bound to pronounce another one attributed to Thales, albeit opposite in meaning to Periander’s. The story refers to the beautiful įȚ‫ޤ‬ȖȘȝĮ (18) 49 of the miraculous rescue of Arion, the kithara-player, from the waves excerpts from a folk song and from Hesiod, according to the cases in question: one of these responses involves the rest of the sages and the other Epimenides of Crete, who ate and drank hardly anything. Then they go on to praise Hesiod’s recommendation of frugality of diet, and Aesop’s indebtedness to him as the inventor (Op. 207-212) of “his beautiful, varied and polyglot wisdom through the fable of the hawk and the nightingale, the oldest one in Greek literature”. 48 Cf. Kennedy (2003) 79, 101-105, 144-147; Lausberg (1998) 430. 49 Already present in Herodotus (1. 24) as well as in Paus. 3.25.7.

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of the sea by a group of dolphins when he was fleeing the ship whose crew wished to kill him. The dolphins take him to the coast of Tenarus during the celebration of the feast in honour of Poseidon. Then Solon (19) offers another įȚ‫ޤ‬ȖȘȝĮ 50 according to which Hesiod, unjustly accused of being an accomplice of the seducer of the daughter of a Locrian próxenos, was murdered by the young woman’s brothers. His body was thrown into the sea, but was returned to the coast by dolphins while the Locrians were holding a festival. This allows Solon to tell a story from Lesbos of a rescue by a dolphin (20), according to which an oracle had prescribed to the expedition of the founders of Lesbos that, whenever they face an obstacle, they are to throw a bull into the sea in honour of Poseidon, together with a young girl in honour of Amphitrite and the Nereids. This fate befalls the daughter of one of the seven kings of the colony. When, however, the moment for the sacrifice arrives, a young man of the colony, who is in love with her, hurls himself into the sea, reappearing later in Lesbos to recount how he had been saved by dolphins. As we can see, all three stories involve narratives of murder, frustrated or otherwise, and the recovery of the body of the victim, alive or dead, from the sea by dolphins. The dolphin is closely linked both to Poseidon and to Delphic mythology and not merely in terms of etymology, as there are similar stories in certain oracular responses that refer to these animals. 51 Since Pittacus confesses to Chilon, the author of this sententia, that his attitude towards and belief in these stories is summed up in the words of the maxim ‘nothing in excess’ (ȝȘį‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܿȖĮȞ, Mor. 163D), it is curious that it is the ‘barbarian’ Anacharsis (21) who considers them a manifestation of divine will. Thus, at the end of the work, Plutarch ties these narratives, so closely associated with the schools of rhetoric, to the essential theme of government at the level of the universe, by means of divine providence, which here is represented by the god of Delphi. To him Plutarch, the priest, has devoted many years of his life and many fruits of his labours, and he also relates, as we shall see at the peak of the work, this theme to the maxims of the Seven Sages, some of which were engraved on the temple of Apollo at Delphi. 52 Indeed, after Anacharsis has spoken, the poet Chersias recalls another miraculous story of rescue linked to Apollo, in this case concerning Cypselus, the tyrant of Corinth and father of the host, who is praised once 50

Also told in other passages from Plutarch (969E and 984D) and by other authors. Cf. Fernández Delgado (1996b); B.S. MacKay (1965). There are other analogous legends in Greek Asia Minor: Radermacher (19382). 52 Something similar occurs with the dialogue on The E of Delphi, which is in fact a kind of wisdom agon regarding this enigmatic subject. 51

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again in the final moments of the dinner. Cypselus was spirited away, hidden in a chest, from his would-be murderers, and Periander, in gratitude, ordered his famous treasury to be built in the sanctuary at Delphi. 53 The conversation, its clever, sparkling tone restored in this final chapter of the work, continues with Pittacus, who asks about the significance of the frogs sculpted on the treasury, to which Chersias replies ironically that he would not know what to say, unless he were to hear from those present what they intended with their famous maxims ‘Know thyself’, ‘Nothing in excess’ and ‘To commit oneself brings misfortune’. Pittacus replies that there is no need to explain them, because Aesop has already composed fables on the subject, 54 and the latter says that Chersias is making fun of him in praising him for it, because when Chersias speaks seriously, he shows that Homer was originator of these maxims in that he presents in the shape of Hector, Ulysses and Zeus various examples of behaviour that illustrate each of these maxims. Thus, the responses of Pittacus and Aesop, albeit apparently avoiding explaining the maxims, in fact employ a rhetorical-scholarly and philological technique subtly to expound them. Thus, Pittacus mentions fables that express meanings of the maxims and Aesop mentions examples of their poetic personification in nothing less than the work of the poet par excellence and supreme master of the schools, Homer, in a new tribute to him. 55 This tribute continues in what may be considered the colophon of the work (Mor. 164D). Here it is paid by the wise Plutarchan hero, Solon, who, quoting “from very wise Homer” (IJࠜ ıȠijȦIJ‫ޠ‬IJ࠙ ...‫ݾ‬ȝ‫ޤ‬ȡ࠙), warns that it is night and it is good to obey her. He then exhorts his fellow symposiasts to pour libations to the Muses, to Poseidon and to Amphitrite, so bringing the symposium to an end. The Muses are by definition patrons of the symposium. The invocation to the other two divinities is more difficult to explain, although they are expressly involved in the ‘miracle’ that takes place in the presence of the colonists of Lesbos. Poseidon was also the patron of the feast at Tenarus during which the ‘real’ miracle of Arion took place in the time of Periander, the host of the banquet. Poseidon was perhaps

53

Hdt. 5. 92. 3 relates the story in great detail. One of the procedures included in the development of the progymnasma mythos / fabula consists of the composition of a fable based on a given maxim that serves as its moral (epimythion / promythion): Theon 75-76, Spengel. 55 For the important role played by Homeric texts in Greco-Roman education see Verdenius (1970). 54

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also involved in the case of the miracle of Hesiod’s body, which took place when the Locrians were holding a festival also on the beach. 56 3. As we have said, the theme of the dialogue at the most profound level is that of good governance in its political, economic-domestic and spiritualreligious aspects (although 19th century critics failed to see this and indeed denied that Plutarch was the author of the dialogue). 57 The subject, however, does not become prominent until the sixth of the 21 chapters into which the work is usually divided, that is, until after the prologue, the conversation on the way to the banquet and the conversation in the house and the banqueting room, when the symposium proper begins. Even then the passage from one aspect of the subject to another does not involve important structural breaks. Instead, the theme of governance is gradually modulated and mixed with the others. The political aspect of good governance holds way until Chapter 11, the economic and domestic aspect until Chapter 14 and the spiritual and religious aspect thereafter until the end, albeit in a less direct fashion. However, it is clear that the work is divided up into three sections, rather than two, as has often been asserted, if one considers the form of the dialogue, particularly from the point of view of the structure of the conversation, which in formal terms is crucially important. It is not, as has been frequently asserted, 58 simply a matter of a first part that consists of brief conversational interchanges and of a second that consists of longer speeches. Instead, the dialogue consists of three parts, Chapters 1- 5, 6-12 and 13-21, the second thus being slightly larger than the first and the third slightly larger than the second. 3.1. The prologue announces that the conversation which took place at the banquet will be reported fully and truthfully. Following this comes the first part, which consists of the conversation of the three guests who happen to fall in with each other on the way to the feast, which continues until they arrive at the house of Periander and the banqueting hall and ends up in the hall itself, with Aesop present, as well. This conversation makes use of various elements: the application of a proverb, or a popular version of a maxim, together with the uttering of four chreiai as the diners make their 56

Von Wilamowitz (1890), for example, thought that an invocation to Aphrodite would have been more logical, since she is being celebrated at the banquet. Perhaps even more suitable would be Apollo at Delphi, under whose aegis both the maxims of the Seven Sages and the legends in question end up by converging with each other in one way or another. 57 Defradas (1985) 169ff.; Morales Otal and García López (1986) 210ff., with previous references. 58 Defradas (1985) 189; Kim (2009).

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way to the feast, 59 four more chreiai, one being of the type labelled katà charientismón or ‘amusing’ by rhetors, while they approach the banqueting hall, along with Aesop’s fable in the lively conversation that takes place when they have finally reached the hall. The first of the chreiai (Mor. 146F), describes (highly significantly from the point of view of orality) the tongue as the best and worst organ of the body. Two other chreiai refer to the figure of tyrant, and, as the conversation leaves this topic, the guests then move on to discussing how they should be prepared to enjoy conversation at symposia. Regarding their encounter with Eumetis, who accompanies Anacharsis, they comment that she learns through speaking with him (Mor. 148E), thus implicitly sanctioning the educational role of orality. We see, then, from the very beginning of the work, how various procedures create a clear atmosphere of orality, even when the existence of the letter which will be read in the second part is mentioned. To create this atmosphere, Plutarch in the prologue uses the strategy of referring to other versions of the story apart from that of the narrator, which resembles the beginning of Plato’s Symposium, although Plutarch’s prologue actually shows greater affinities to Xenophon’s Symposium. 60 There are other declarations and topics that show the influence of Plato and various structural characteristics of the Socratic-Platonic type of banquet and there are also influences from other philosophical schools of thought, which is a characteristic ingredient of Plutarch’s thought. 61 Nonetheless, over and above the literary influences, throughout the dialogue there are constant situational indicators and important agents of orality. The principle factors of orality, that is, the utterances of the participants in the dialogue, frequently relate to the first and most versatile of the series of progymnasmata which make up the first stage of rhetorical studies in the Greek educational system from at least Hellenistic times and above all during the Imperial period. 62 As was the aim at previous stages of learning, these exercises were designed to help students perfect both their written and oral expression, that is, to train both the future writer and the brilliant orator, as Theon points out in the introduction to his theory. 63

59 All of them being referred to more than once in different contexts of Plutarch’s writings, making it highly likely that they came from repertories. 60 Teodorsson (2009); Vela Tejada (2009). 61 Adrados (1996); Vela Tejada (2009). 62 Kennedy (2003) and González Equihua (2009). 63 Theon 70-71, Spengel.

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3.2. A chreia and the mention of a riddle, a form which complements proverbs and maxims, 64 likewise colour the conversation with Anacharsis with which the second part of the work begins, once the tables have been cleared and the symposium proper begins (Mor. 150D-E). A maxim by Periander leads to the reading of the letter by Amasis. Plutarch inserts chreiai, maxims, and riddles in a structure that has its roots in school practices, of which some elementary specimens in papyri have come down to us in the so-called ‘Homeric catechisms’, although Plutarch’s structure is much more complex. 65 This is the agon of questions and answers that the Egyptian king says his neighbour in Ethiopia has already posed in the form of adynata. After a chreia offered by Chilon on good governance, the other six Sages compete with him, in an agon with a chreia from each of the seven offered in answer (7). In the letter, Amasis then places the ball directly in the Ethiopian’s court and four of the answers are corrected by the Sages in the form of maxims. After Cleodorus pronounces a proverb, Periander comments on the ancients’ passion for agones in wisdom and mentions the poetical agon in which Hesiod competed at the funeral games of Amphidamas, positing the difference between some of the questions proposed there and the riddles, as already said (8). A new agon, this time on the subject of democracy, is proposed by Mnesiphilus of Athens, and the Seven give their opinions in the form of maxims-chreiai and in the same order as they did when discussing tyranny, beginning, as previously, with Solon (11). When the topic of governance has been exhausted, the topic of household governance is proposed, and again the speakers adopt the form 64

Cf. Beta (2012), an extended version of the one published with the title “Riddling at table. Trivial aenigmata vs. philosophical problemata”, in Ribeiro Ferreira, Leâo, Tröster and Barata Dias (eds) (2009) 97-102. In regard to the structural affinity between the riddle and the proverb cf. E.K. Maranda (1971) 223. This enigma is said expressly to apply to different situations. 65 Cf. Cribiore (2001) 209: “The school exercises (sc. in question-and-answer form) show that they systematized gnomic and ‘historical’ knowledge, besides being used to categorize grammatical points. Their pedagogical effectiveness is measured by the fact that they still functioned at higher levels of education, as two papyri with remnants of rhetorical catechisms show: one (PSI I 85) presents questions and answers probably written by a student, the other (Oellacher, 1937) is a book of higher level with the same structure”. To these papyri Pordomingo Pardo [(2012) n. 32] adds others: “P. IFAO inv. 320, qui, en plus d’autres éléments, contient un catéchisme sur l’Iliade; PSI I 18+ PSI I 19, qui, en plus d’autres éléments, contient des questions et de réponses sur la guerre de Troie; et dans le ‘Cahier d’Epaphroditos’, Kenyon (1909), l’une des tablettes contient des questions gnomiques sous forme d’exercise avec les réponses correspondantes: l. 256 IJަȢ ‫ ݘ‬IJȠࠎ ȕަȠȣ ʌȡߢıȚȢ; țĮȚȡިȢ…”.

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of an agon centred around seven chreiai that are given in the same order as in the previous two agones on political subjects, except that Anacharsis speaks first. He is, of course, the only one of the speakers who has no home and therefore uses a brief diegema and a fable to differentiate between the physical structure of a house and its inhabitants. Chilon closes the agon with a chreia that is connected with the topic of government (12). 3.3. Reproaches exchanged among the diners, a chreia by Solon and a fable by Aesop lead to the first long speech, given by Mnesiphilus, which signals the start of what we can consider to be the third part of the work. It takes the form of an explanatory paraphrasis 66 of a chreia by Solon to the effect that the use of drink enhances the feelings that are generated at symposia such as enjoyment of the conversation (13). The mention of savings leads to the topic of running a household and what can be considered sufficient wealth, which Cleobulus approaches by distinguishing between the wise and the morally base man and by applying a fable-riddle and a fable by Aesop he claims that Hesiod is Aesop’s teacher and praises Hesiod for his recommendation of frugality. Solon suggests that the ‘non-need’ of food is the ideal. This view is refuted by Cleobulus in a long speech of anaskeue which in turn is confuted by Solon in a longer kataskeue 67 giving particular attention to the topic of conversation on the one hand and to the theme of good governance through the liberation of the soul from the body on the other (16). Periander’s brother then bursts into the symposium, to tell the miraculous diegema of Arion, which leads Periander to pronounce a chreia and Bias to reply with another. Solon recounts Hesiod’s diegema (19) and Pittacus adds another diegema of a similar kind. Anacharsis, curiously enough, considers these stories to be manifestations of the divine (21), which, he feels, are connected with the Delphic god, Apollo, and related to the maxims of the Seven Sages. The poet Chersias recalls another diegema of the same type, the story of Cypselus, and the conversation then examines the maxims of the Seven, about which Aesop composed fables and which Homer is to have invented through some of his characters. 4. In the past, scholars thought that the abundant presence in The Banquet of the Seven Sages of characteristics typical of school exercises, which include not only chreiai, as is usually pointed out, 68 suggested that Plutarch was not the author. It has also been thought that Plutarch handles the extremely famous and lively progymnasmata in the first part of the work 66 Paraphrasis is an exercise so inseparable from the progymnasmatics that Theon (62-64, Spengel) almost considers it to be one of them. 67 This is, too, a double progymnasmatic exercise: Kennedy (2003). 68 Defradas (1985) 170 ff., with bibliography.

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somewhat awkwardly, as he allocates them to the Sages. 69 By contrast, I believe that Plutarch used his immense rhetorical training 70 deftly to create a fictional situation and endow it with an eminently oral nature. Plutarch’s Sages utter the various sayings traditionally attributed to them, in a highly plausible sequence of scenes in which they encounter other intellectuals, who make the conversations richer and more nuanced. Each guest employs the type of discourse and intervenes in the conversation at the moment and in the order that is to be expected of him, displaying thereby the appropriate psychology and even an appropriate tone and style (ethopoiia). 71 In other words, Plutarch is imitating an oral situation, 72 which, of course, corresponds to the conditions of the age of the Seven Sages. This he achieves through the use of procedures that he has taken from the school context and directs at readers who are as pepaideumenoi as Plutarch himself and appreciate his brilliant literary application of a progymnasmatic education and its enormous oral and rhetorical potential. Perhaps Raphael is attempting something similar, in the field of painting, during the Renaissance, a period rather similar to the Second Sophistic, with his extraordinary gathering of intellectuals depicted in his School of Athens. If this is so, perhaps the enigmatic offering to Poseidon and his wife Amphitrite, and to the Muses that is performed at the end of the symposium, is an attempt by Plutarch ironically to warn his audience of pepaideumenoi 73 that the narrative of the banquet of the Seven Sages as a whole is a diegema (įȚȘȖ‫ޤ‬ıȠȝĮȚ is the term used by the narrator to end his prologue). 74 Furthermore, is it not as miraculous and as more or less credible as the offerings the narrative contains in relation to both divinities? 75 Plutarch is as aware that the banquet of the Seven Sages could never have taken place as the critics are who have criticised him for putting them all together at one meal. Certainly, in regard to the place where the Banquet is set, Plutarch 69

Kim (2009), and also Busine (2002) 93, 101, 102. Fernández Delgado (2013b). 71 See for example, Chilon’s ‘laconic’ interventions, or Thales’ incisive character, Solon’s authority, Aesop’s wit, etc. 72 Cf. Whitmarsh (2001). 73 Scholars have repeatedly noticed the humour of this work of Plutarch and have frequently related it to the characteristics of the genre: Gera (1993) 136; Mossman (1997) 122; Vela Tejada (2009) 461, n. 18. Nevertheless, humour is also inherent to the progymnasmata so abundant in this work, such as the chreia or the ethopoiia, cf. Fernández Delgado (1996a). 74 The verb is used repeatedly by Plato at the beginning of the Symposium and is also used by Chariton of Aphrodisias in the introduction to their fictitious stories: see Ruiz-Montero in this volume, p. 128. 75 ‘Nothing in excess’ said Pittacus of their credibility (Mor. 163D). 70

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says clearly at the beginning (Mor. 146D) that it is by the sea, in the port of Corinth, 76 that is, in Poseidon’s domain. The same applies to the three Delphic stories told at the end, by virtue of their miraculous dolphins. Thus, the dolphins’ rescue of the sublime kithara-player Arion and the recovery of the mortal remains of that paradigm of wisdom, Hesiod (cf. Mor. 158B), are appropriate for representation at the Plutarchan Banquet, which itself is a miracle, in that it is a living reconstruction, achieved by Plutarch, the brilliant Delphic priest, 77 of the instructive, but hitherto putative, conversation of the ancient sages.

76

Cf. Defradas (1985) 321, n. 4. The salvation of the pair of lovers in the diegema of the founding of Lesbos, for its part, may have been a way of drawing attention to Periander’s amorous extramarital excesses. The presence of his wife Melissa at the symposium is difficult to explain otherwise; that this was the point is also suggested by the occasion, the festival of Aphrodite, and by another reference to her and to the effects of love in the speech of Solon referred to in chapter 13 (Mor. 156C), and in agreement in this respect with Mossman (1997). 77

CHAPTER FOUR PLUTARCH AND THE NOVEL: REGISTER AND EMBEDDED NARRATIVES IN THE DE GENIO SOCRATIS AND IN ACHILLES TATIUS HAROLD TARRANT

1. Linguistic Register Human beings do not have only one way of speaking. According to the requirements of the situation our voices are required to operate in different registers. 1 And so too it was in ancient Greece, both preliterate and literate. Careful readers of ancient Greek will be sensitive to some of the changes, though because these changes belonged to their original culture it is not easy for scholars today to speak with authority about register-changes in Greek literature. Awareness of genre does not always bring with it an awareness of the internal variations produced by register-changes. Fortunately, appropriate stylistic tests can reinforce our awareness of these changes, and when working in the service of trained Hellenists computers may detect changes of register just as well as changes of authorship and date. 2 It is gratifying to find that such changes in the diction of Plato were often noted in late antiquity by Proclus and others. 3

1

See Biber, Conrad and Reppen (1998) 248: “all speakers of a language control many registers, and every time people speak or write, they must choose a register to use ...” 2 Variations within the genre are the concern of Biber (1988); on p. 181 he enumerates several, including “Involved v. Informational Production”, “Narrative v. Non-Narrative Concerns”, “Explicit v. Situation-Dependent Reference”, “Overt expression v. Persuasion”, and “Abstract v. Non-Abstract Information”. 3 See on this topic Tarrant (2014) 143-166.

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Since some early work involving orality and literacy, 4 I have developed an interest in the computer-assisted study of ancient texts, primarily involving recurrent vocabulary. Tests observe the simultaneous increases in the rates of certain words and decreases in the rates of others that accompany changes in the prevailing type of speech. Obviously it is desirable to confine oneself to those words that could potentially occur in any work of the same genre, independently of subject matter. When working on narrative texts, for instance, one has to exclude first and second person pronouns if one does not wish one’s tests to rigidly separate first person narrative from third person narrative. Dealing with ancient Greek I have found it convenient to ignore different inflexions of the same lexical word. Changes in register within written texts are not found uniformly across all authors. Obviously they are most likely to occur in authors who are skilled at capturing such changes in spoken discourse, and primarily in genres that involve the imitation of such discourse. A political orator may use a single register that is considered suitable for addressing assemblies, and a historian may use a single register for all historical narrative, while allowing at least one other register for speeches. In the early days of writing it seems likely that many of the few who did write at any length developed only one written register. However, as Greek literature developed it set about imitating (within limits) a variety of kinds of oral discourse. The tragic poets not only adopted different kinds of poetic rhythms, especially for sung passages, but they also attributed to messengers and to prophets a discourse that differed in kind from that of the potentate or his servants. The same character in a given play will always speak ‘in character’, but he or she may still use different registers when addressing different persons in different situations. The imitative character of some Greek literature meant that it could not confine itself to a single register, but had to reflect, albeit in some stylised way, the variations of living speech. This being the case, if one is to attempt the hazardous task of searching Greek literature itself for evidence of the living oral Greek of the Roman period, then it is natural to look primarily to works with strong dramatic and dialogic elements: works of a type that Aristotle would have classified as ‘mimetic’, where the most vivid representations of oral discourse might have been expected. Even here, of course, an author might easily be imitating types of discourse that had become stylised, and perhaps even fossilised, in previous literary discourse, but it is unlikely that the more appealing mimetic authors did not bring to their genres traces of the types of living discourse with which they were familiar. Even when they present before us what purport to be conversations from a distant past, the past is 4

The paper most obviously relevant here was Tarrant (1999).

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being understood in terms of their experience of the present, and their work is intended to be relevant for the present. I have chosen here to look primarily at works of a broadly narrative character, with a particular focus on the so-called embedded narratives within them. My premise is that if the authors are imitating the variety of ordinary speech we should expect at least some of these embedded narratives to differ in register from the wider story that plays host to them, and that they will differ from one another and from the main narrative in ways that reflect more than the different character of the speaker. I propose to enlist the support of the computer to analyse the vocabulary of works of the required type, since it would be an extremely prolonged exercise to enumerate similarities and differences between multiple passages of text. With all this in mind I have chosen to examine the variations in discourse that are to be found in one of the most dramatic dialogues of Plutarch, the De genio Socratis, which I suppose to have been to some degree novelistic; 5 and at Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe and Clitophon, concentrating on the first five books of the latter before the narrative pace increases in the Melite complex, squeezing out more reflective, even philosophical, 6 discourse that sometimes characterises the earlier books. I had computer-readable texts of this novel and of this and several other works of Plutarch, and I had already been noticing how, when these texts were analysed, one type of embedded narrative, namely myth, tends to look different in Plutarch (as it had done in Plato), 7 while certain myths and ekphraseis, which spelled out the stories of art-works, seemed to differ in Achilles Tatius also. My methods, borrowed partially from colleagues analysing English texts, 8 use Principal 5 If the sole purpose here had been to draw attention to some similarities between Plutarch and the Greek novel, then the task would have been easier, and one might have chosen the Eroticus in preference, since it has much in common with the De genio but also tells a successful story of love, in which the match of a younger male with a wealthy and attractive widow (and the consequent philosophical debate) may in some ways remind one of the less fulfilling encounter between Cleitophon and Melite in Achilles Tatius. It does not have the same wealth of embedded narratives, however, and that of Empona alone was long enough for tests on it to be taken seriously. Preliminary tests indicated that the language of the work is no closer to the language of the novel, and that the story of Empona bore no close resemblance to the myths etc. in Achilles Tatius. 6 Several publications draw attention to the links between the novels, even apart from Apuleius, and philosophy, but see in particular Morgan and Jones (eds) (2007), especially the papers of Ní-Mheallaig (2007), Trapp (2007) and Repath (2007); see also Tarrant (2000). 7 See Tarrant, Benitez and Roberts (2011). 8 Thanks are due to the University of Newcastle’s Centre for Literary and Linguistic Computing led by Professor Hugh Craig.

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Component Analysis and Cluster Analysis of recurrent vocabulary such as would belong in any work of its type, regardless of the subject matter. 9

2. Register in the Earliest Greek Literature If computer-detected variations in register are a reflection of how literature could serve as a mirror of oral discourse one would perhaps expect them to be found from the beginning. Hence one would wish to know what differences my methods revealed when applied to a substantial sample of Homer. 10 Besides the expected ability of the cluster analysis to distinguish Odyssey from Iliad with about 82% accuracy, 11 it was noted that books 9 to 12 of Odyssey, giving Odysseus’ own ‘folk-tale’ account of his travels, tended to be placed in a separate cluster from the rest of either poem, while the ‘Shield’ ekphrasis of Iliad 18 was sui generis linguistically, at least until I thought to analyse the brief description of the Cave of the Nymphs early in Odyssey 13. The Shield and Cave passage stood out as employing a different mix of recurrent vocabulary from all other material, not very close to one another but with definite similarities. 12 Two related clusters included most passages (18) from Odyssey but only four from Iliad, while three other related clusters contained most passages (14) from Iliad but only three from Odyssey, 13 with distribution as follows (Table 1):

9 Nouns play no part in the analysis, and only a very few verbs or adjectives do so; first and second person pronouns are not included in the comparative analysis of narrative texts; this will usually leave sixty to a hundred ‘function-words’ that fulfil the required conditions for inclusion. 10 I had the texts of Odyssey 7-20 books and Iliad books 15-24 in the required format. 11 This should not be assumed to be an indication of ‘authorship’, and probably reflects differences in oral performances in different traditions designed for different occasions. 12 The Cave passage was a mere 75 words, and separate analysis is extremely hazardous. However, in the Shield passage the rate of įȑ doubled to around 10.5%, while that of ‫݋‬Ȟ likewise increased considerably to 3.5%; in the Cave the former was 9.3% and the latter 4%. Correspondingly, the rate of țĮੁ fell in both to around 1.3%. As a result, computer analysis sometimes grouped them together, even though brief passages tend to produce anomalous results with fewer affinities. See further Tarrant and Johnson (2018). 13 Where books were less than 4000 words they were placed in a single file, with those of 4000-5999 occupying two files, and those of 6000 words or more becoming three files. The Iliad 18NS file contained all of book 18 prior to the Shield passage.

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Cluster 2 Odyssey 9a, 10b, 11a, 11b, 12; Iliad 24a only

Cluster 5 Odyssey 7a, 8a, 8b, 13, 14, 15a, 15b, 16, 17b, 18, 19a, 19b, 20; Iliad 15a, 19, 24b

Cluster 3 Iliad 15b, 16a, 16c, 17a, 17b, 18NS, 22a, 23a; Odyssey 10a only

Cluster 4 Iliad 20, 21a, 21b; Odyssey 9b, 17a

Cluster 6 Iliad 16b, 23b, 23c

Table 1: Cluster Analysis, Ward’s Method, data not standardised 14 It will be observed that the Odyssey material in cluster 2 is all from Odysseus’ self-reported wanderings whose folktale elements have often been emphasised. Books 9b and 10a, which are missing here, are sufficiently different from the rest of the work to have been grouped with Iliad material in clusters 3 and 4. The analysis will not confirm how these books differ but confirm that they do differ in some computer-detectable way. However, though based upon 84 function-words which all contribute to the calculation, one analysis should not immediately be trusted. In particular, standardising data guards against the most frequent words having excessive influence on the outcome of the analysis, and a similar analysis based on standardised data, again ignoring the Cave and Shield passages, are given in Table 2: Cluster 2 Odyssey 7a, 8b, 10a, 10b, 11a, 12, 13; Iliad 16a, 19, 24a, 24b

Cluster 3 Odyssey 9a, 9b, 12

Cluster 4 Odyssey 8a, 11b, 14, 15a, 15b, 16, 17a, 17b, 18, 19a, 19b, 20; Iliad 15a

Cluster 5 Iliad 15b, 17a, 17b, 18NS, 20, 21b, 22a, 22b, 23a, 23b, 23c

Cluster 6 Iliad 16b, 16c, 21a

Table 2: Cluster Analysis of Homer, Ward’s method (standardised data) Here the closely related clusters 5 and 6 contain only Iliad passages. Cluster 4 consists mainly of passages from Odyssey 13-20, but with 8a and 11b as well as Iliad 15a. All other material from Odyssey books 7 to 12 is placed in the closely related clusters 2 and 3, along with Iliad 16, 19a, 24a and 24b. Hence the more folktale-like material, now influencing the Phaiacian episode more widely, is again grouped separately and in company with a 14

Cluster 1 was the Cave passage only, not too far from Cluster 7, the Shield.

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little material from the Iliad. Groupings are different, but the message is similar. A part of the Odyssey that includes Odysseus’ own story of his wanderings tends to be grouped apart from Odyssey books 14-20, 15 often keeping company with some less usual material from the Iliad. That it belongs to a different narrative register is plausible. Even so, its differences are not so noticeable as those of the Shield passage in Iliad book 18.

3. Episodes in the De genio Socratis I have long been concerned with Plutarch’s techniques of dialogic composition, 16 and with the storytelling that takes place in his dialogues, but only recently have I noticed the particular affinities between his De genio Socratis and the Greek novel. 17 The title of this work, which has recently received a new edition by D. A. Russell in a multi-authored volume edited by Nesselrath, 18 is in many ways confusing, since it gives the impression that the exchange of views about Socrates’ daimonion and about daimones more widely is the purpose of the dialogue. It is indeed an important part of it, but no more important than the events at Thebes that both frame and interrupt the discussion. 19 Hardie has referred to the work as “a mixture of philosophical dialogue and political thriller”. 20 The term 15 A subsequent analysis was able to include books 20-24 also, and avoided any distortion that the inclusion of the Shield and Cave files that might have been responsible for by omitting them. Now, out of three clusters, cluster 1 included all Iliad except book 19, 24a and 24b; cluster two included these parts of the Iliad with all Odyssey (books 7-24) except 9a, 9b, 10a, 10b, and 12; and cluster three included these files only; I concluded that these books presenting tales of magical islands were the ones that could most properly be said to display a different register. 16 See Tarrant (1999). 17 Plutarch is not regularly compared with the novels; in the most recent volume of the Ancient Narrative Supplement series, Futre Pinheiro, Schmeling and Cueva (2014), in which Plutarch’s relation to the genre might have been found a place, he is briefly referred to by Clay (2014) 3 and 5, and by Karla (2014) 90, but no in-depth comparison occurs. 18 Russell (2010) and Nesselrath (2010); it is interesting that the ‘Source Index’ fails to mention any of the five Greek erotic novelists or even Apuleius, and unfortunately the volume rather lacks coherence. For my present purposes the most interesting contribution were perhaps that of Pelling (2010) which includes a section headed “Voice in the De Genio and Pelopidas”, and that of Schröder (2010). 19 For a view that gives much more prominence to the philosophic discussion, see Pelling (2008) 542: “The forward movement of the essay is carried not by the action but by the discussion of Socrates’ daimonion, and the moments of action or of news punctuate it, even serve as panel-dividers to separate the discussion.” 20 See Hardie (1996) 123.

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‘thriller’ has implications for the language, since it could only have this impact if the conversations within the story are recognisably natural and immediate: though written, and written with the intention that they should somehow contribute to the literary whole, they must be a convincing imitation of their oral equivalent. The dialogue was a natural vehicle for such immediacy, for in late antique theory the dialogue, with its variety of speakers, was an imitation of the natural variety of the cosmos, and an organic living whole. 21 The dialogue has a particular capacity to charm the human soul, dependent upon our appetite for mimesis to which Aristotle had drawn attention when dealing with tragedy. 22 Occasionally articles on the De genio do show that the relevance of tragedy for its interpretation has been noticed. 23 Most of the reported discussion and much of the drama takes place at a single house, that of Simmias, over a single evening in 379 B.C., while momentous events take place elsewhere, thus almost conforming in another respect to Aristotle’s requirements of serious drama: the unity of place and time. 24 We may even speak of a peripeteia of sorts, or perhaps more than one peripeteia, for the prospects of a successful coup against the Spartanbacked government of Archias seem grim at 586B-587D, when it transpires that Hippostheneidas has sent a message that will greatly hinder the successful implementation of the plot, yet almost immediately we find that the messenger, Chlidon, who is renowned for his speedy riding, is still present and has not been able to leave, because his wife has lent out his bridle, thereby precipitating a considerable domestic crisis involving bad behaviour on the part of both participants; the previous gloom then provokes a notable change of emotion, 25 tension rather than despair, but great danger remains until at 595F reports of initial success in covering up the plot are brought as if by a messenger’s speech by Charon, and a final threat of disaster is avoided as a letter that endeavours to reveal the conspiracy is left 21

Prolégomènes à la philosophie de Platon 15.1-17 in Westerink, Trouillard, and Segonds (1990). 22 Prolégomènes 15.23-27; Arist. Po. 1448b. 23 See here Georgiadou (1995) who suggests a connection with Euripides’ Antiope in particular; and Desideri (1984), the relevance of which is much more general, and concerned with the tragic in a more general and less Aristotelian sense than that explored here. 24 See Po. 1449b-1450b; even if the genre of prose dialogue, like other prose genres, commands no more than a fleeting mention at 1447b11, it should be recognised that it is for Aristotle and Plutarch alike a kind of mimesis, much of what Aristotle has to say about tragic mimesis could have some relevance for it. The focus on the one venue disappears at 596C, with only about a tenth of the dialogue remaining. 25 588A: ‫ݘ‬ȝİ߿Ȣ įȑ IJȚȢ ‫ݏ‬ıȤİȞ ܿIJȠʌȠȢ ȝİIJĮȕȠȜ‫ ޣ‬IJȠࠎ ʌȐșȠȣȢ ....

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unread. 26 That Plutarch is thinking of the events described as a drama is underlined at 596E-F, where the only case of the word ʌİȡȚʌȑIJİȚĮ in the Moralia occurs in conjunction with one of only eleven occurrences each of įȡߢȝĮ and ‫݋‬ʌİȚıȩįȚȠȞ. 27 Finally, Plutarch’s interweaving of the discussion of Socrates’ daimonion with the historical events that he is describing is clearly something that he consciously sets out to do. At the outset (575D) Archedamus asks for an account of the action (ʌȡߢȟȚȢ) and the discussion (ȜȩȖȠȢ), and Caphisias (575E) warns that his audience may not be pleased with the extent of both action and discussion (݀ȝĮ ʌȡȐȟİȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȜȩȖȦȞ IJȠıȠȪIJȦȞ), but is assured that theatre-goers (IJާ șȑĮIJȡȠȞ, 575F) will be more than ready. This may indicate that Plutarch is determined to interweave ‘plot’ with ‘character’ in accordance with Po. 1450a. At very least it would appear that he is intending to offer a kind of narrated drama, and there has been some Aristotelian influence on the type of narrated drama that is here to be presented, which must therefore be in some sense ‘mimetic’. While there may be some direct influence from Aristotle’s Poetics, we should remember that Aristotle was still known as a composer of dialogues, and that Plutarch may have found in them examples of how Aristotelian literary theory could be reflected in dramatic prose writing. Their loss is undoubtedly something to be regretted. None of this wholly prepares one for the nature and variety of the discussion that will follow. Among other contributions, there are various embedded narratives, philosophic discussion, and a myth in the style of Plato. Such a blend is not atypical of Plutarch, who in his dialogues is in the habit of depicting the free and varied conversations of intellectuals in his own day, giving us insights into life at Delphi, Boeotia, and Athens. Delphi and Athens were still attracting a range of visitors whose overseas experiences qualified them to discourse about a range of matters unfamiliar to the more sedentary participants, and it is wholly intelligible that many of the short stories that characters tell fall into the category of travellers’ tales. In general Plutarch’s dialogues provide a useful window into the nature of 26 587D-E might encourage one to look upon the Chlidon episode as a kind of recognition-scene; in Euripides' plays of escape involving a peripeteia from bad to good fortune, such as Iphigeneia at Tauris and Helen, the recognition-scenes are no release of tension in themselves, but rather a first step upon the road that will eventually lead to escape and resolution. 27 To be more precise, there are eleven occurrences of ‫݋‬ʌİȚıȩįȚȠȞ, the majority of them adjectival (with the meaning ‘adventitious’), rather than the neuter used as a substantive; only here are we obviously dealing with a tragic ‘episode’ or ‘adventitious episode’.

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intellectual conversation in Greece in his day. The impression left agrees in many ways with the picture of intellectual life at Athens a little later, when Aulus Gellius had studied with the Platonist Calvenus Taurus. 28 Writing is still not the essence of philosophical activity, and even by the 3rd century Longinus in Porphyry (VPlot. 20) reports that many philosophers of his day were largely content to pass on their expertise orally, including Ammonius Saccas, Origenes, Theodotus and Euboulus. Plutarch of course was a natural writer, like Cicero or Seneca for instance, but his own teacher Ammonius apparently was not. Plutarch’s writings may always be those of an intellectual, but they are seldom typical of a philosopher; they may always be those of a historian, but their relevance is not confined to the understanding of the past. In particular, just as the geographical setting has no implications for Plutarch’s choice of language, so neither does its historical setting in the 4th century B.C. The language remains as vivid as it is varied, and it probably offers as much insight into the educated oral conversation of his own day as dialogues with a contemporary setting; for it has been argued that the historical material itself conceals relevance and inter-textual allusion to the Roman world, and to the assassination of Julius Caesar in particular. 29 Some of the literary authors most relevant to the study of oral culture include in their work an invitation for the reader to reflect on the interrelation between orality and literacy. The tendency of Plato’s Phaedrus to undermine the very idea of serious writing is an extreme case, but I would particularly like to recall the story of the invention of writing by Theuth, and how he was rebuked by the king of Egypt for his unrealistic view of what it might achieve (274c-275b). Socrates of course claims to have heard the story, 30 while Phaedrus seems to presume that he has a particular facility for composing stories from Egypt and elsewhere (275b3-4). The antiquity of Egypt’s writing make it an ideal location for such stories, which is why Egyptian stone must be said to have preserved the Atlantis story until such time as it could be passed on orally through the family of Critias (Ti. 25de), leaving us paradoxically with a story that reached Egypt orally, was recorded in writing, was passed on orally through a Greek family, and then to Socrates, Timaeus and Hermogenes, and is ultimately written again by Plato. It should also be appreciated that the detailed descriptions within 28 Though Taurus, whose fragments are collected in Lakmann (1995), as well as by Gioè (2002), is known also as a commentator on Plato’s Timaeus and Gorgias, it is generally agreed that he provides precious insights into the intellectual life of a small Platonic school. 29 See here Pelling (2008) 547. 30 Note the recurrence of ܻțȠȒȞ ܻțȘțȠȑȞĮȚ and ‫ݛ‬țȠȣıĮ at 274C.

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Plato’s Critias are incompatible with inscriptional records. Plutarch’s De genio likewise includes a story of the discovery of an ancient indecipherable writing tablet in front of the tomb of Alcmene, about the meaning of which Egyptian priests were to be consulted (577E-F), followed by Simmias’ account of the decipherment by a priest in Egypt of what may have been a different tablet ordering the celebration of a contest in honour of the Muses (578F-579A). So Plutarch includes twin stories about writings and Egyptian decipherment, reported orally in the course of Plutarch’s written narrative. To match the story about the illegible tablet we shall later encounter part of the main narrative that speaks of a crucial letter that failed to influence events because it remained unread (596E-F). Not only scripts but also art-works, such as vase-paintings and sculptures, used to record the stories of ancient Greece, and no doubt to act as a catalyst to the story’s oral retelling. The detailed interpretation of such art-works, or ekphraseis, became an important intellectual exercise during the Second Sophistic, becoming the subject of whole works in the case of Philostratus’ Eikones and the Tablet of Cebes.31 Ekphraseis open the novels of Longus and Achilles Tatius, and one of no less significance stands at the beginning of the Hypata phase of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (2.4), in the home of Lucius’ aunt and fellow-relative of Plutarch himself. 32 The De genio opens not with an ekphrasis but with a reference to the very kind of elaborate discrimination that the ekphrasis of a painting involves. Its very first word is ‘painter’ (ȗȦȖȡȐijȠȢ),33 and the distinction between those who see only the general outline of a work and those who appreciate all the little details is applied also to the auditors of a story: the better ones will require all the details that are needed to reveal the character of the protagonists (595C). Caphisius accordingly promises a ‘mimetic’ narrative that will spell out for Archedamus all the details of the story of the return of the Theban exiles. The whole story will therefore resemble an ekphrasis to some extent, if not in the obvious sense that this is true of the Tablet of Cebes. 31

It is curious that Simmias should have a central role in the De genio while his cointerlocutor from the Phaedo gives his name to this strange little ekphrastic work, but nothing can be built on this fact. On the Tablet of Cebes see Ruiz-Montero in this volume, 129-132. 32 On Achilles Tatius and Longus see Whitmarsh (2011) 69-79, with bibliography; on Apuleius see van Mal-Maeder (2001). 33 Plutarch makes reference to painting at the beginning of certain other works. In the Lives a painting analogy illustrates the aim of his writing at Cimon 2.3 and at Alexander 1.3, bringing out his aim of capturing character; and in the De defectu (409F-410A) the wrong way of investigating ancient myths is compared with evaluating a painting by touch.

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Furthermore, ekphrasis has a prophetic role in the novels. The opening ekphrasis of Daphnis and Chloe simply tells the story that is to come. That of Leucippe and Clitophon instead offers insights into the dreadful driving forces with which the protagonists will subsequently contend. Later in the same work the ekphrasis of Perseus and Andromeda arises after the artwork is seen as a response to a prayer for some sign at 3.6.2, and the Tereus ekphrasis is a second portent that works together with the omen (Ƞ‫ݧ‬ȦȞȩȢ, 5.3.3) of the swallow that brushes Leucippe’s face, both recognised as ıȪȝȕȠȜĮ by Menelaus at 5.4.1. Nor is the ekphrasis of the Actaeon and Artemis sculpture at Byrrhaena’s house in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses any less prophetic, for it has a direct bearing on Lucius’ own impending punishment for his curiositas. Powerful forces ultimately exercise a predictable control over the outcome of such novels, and Plutarch, both through the twists and turns of his narration and through the discussion of Socrates’ prophetic daimonion, offers a picture of a world that is ultimately providentially governed, having a special concern for the well being of the virtuous who are thereby rescued from the vicissitudes of fortune. 34 And just as the ekphraseis and similar material in the novel can act as signs, so too it may be said of the whole De genio that “There is scarcely a page of the work that is not concerned, in one way or another, with signs and their interpretation”. 35 When one considers that the dialogue begins with a reference to ekphrasis and has a strong plot line involving considerable suspense and providential powers that eventually guide the virtuous safely through, one becomes aware of a certain resemblance with the sophistic novel. It is therefore worth looking in greater detail at the range of embedded narratives, that other feature that it shares with the novel, and not least with 34

If this is correct then it clearly influences Apuleius’ picture of the providence of perceptive Isis that triumphs over the onslaughts of blind fortune (11.15), but the contrast is less clearly marked by relevant vocabulary in Plutarch. However, in the important passage at the outset Archedamus wants to be an observer not merely of results that may be the outcomes of chance (IJȪȤȘȞ), but of the struggles of excellence against chance happenings (IJ‫ ޟ‬ıȣȞIJȣȖȤȐȞȠȞIJĮ); again, the problem with the idea that Socrates’ divine sign was a sneeze is seen to be that sneezes are chance occurrences (‫ݸ‬ʌȘȞȓțĮ IJȪȤȠȚ, 581B; ‫ݼ‬IJİ IJȪȤȠȚ, 581D); again, at 593E-F it is claimed that the watchful daimonic host does not come to our rescue by chance (Ƞ‫ ރ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ Ƞ‫ݮ‬Ȣ ‫ݏ‬IJȣȤİ ıȣȝijȑȡİIJĮȚ IJާ įĮȚȝȩȞȚȠȞ), but in response to our efforts; finally, at 596D where the concentration of dramatic language occurs, the forces of bad luck are directly contrasted with daring and preparation. The blind forces of the universe, contrasted with divine or human foresight, are also indicated twice by the concept of IJާ Į‫ރ‬IJȩȝĮIJȠȞ, at 578A and 586C. 35 Hardie (1996) 124.

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Apuleius’ adaptation of a Greek original during which he has chosen to allude to Plutarch. 36 Besides the ‘Egyptian tale’ (if one may speak of it in these terms) begun by Pheidolaus and completed by Simmias, we meet a rather comic Socratic story by the seer Theocritus, a purported historical narrative about Pythagorean tragedies in the west from a newly arrived stranger Theanor, a report from the horseman Chlidon of a domestic argument that had prevented an urgent journey, and the myth-like story of Timarchus’ vision again contributed by Simmias. Both in Plutarch and in Achilles passages of great significance for the understanding of the wider context are liable to be marked by a register shift, more easily detected in Achilles than in Plutarch. My team first recognised this phenomenon in Plato’s myths, particularly those of the middle and late dialogues, 37 and comparable register-shifts are found even in Homer as we have seen. But it was suspected of applying also to some myth-like material in Plutarch, and to ekphraseis and perhaps other important myths in Achilles Tatius—indeed to any passage that has some kind of revelatory force that the author wishes to be specially noticed. It seemed therefore that there was some sense in examining material from both authors including selected passages of special interest.

4. Stylistic testing: Plutarch and Achilles Tatius Tests were run on the working vocabulary to determine whether there are special features of the De genio Socratis, and in particular whether there is anything stylistic to confirm that Plutarch is striving for a similar effect to a novelist writing perhaps just a little later, in this case Achilles Tatius. Methods were originally adapted from those employed by the University of Newcastle’s Centre for Literary and Linguistic computing, and they usually concentrate on the rate of occurrence of ‘function-words’, i.e. the type of common words that might be expected to be found in any work of the same author and genre, irrespective of subject matter. Each ‘word’ for the purposes of examining ancient Greek is normally anything that must be included in a single lexical entry, regardless of any inflections. 38 In practice 36

The debt to Plutarch is of course generally linked with the theme of curiositas or meddlesomeness, a dangerous quality that Plutarch had himself written on. 37 See Tarrant, Benitez, and Roberts (2011). 38 Where some tenses of a verb are supplied from a different root, then they may be treated as a second verb throughout all texts: e.g. both ‫ݸ‬ȡߢȞ and ‫ݧ‬įİ߿Ȟ will be included; similarly where degrees of comparison are derived from a different root from the simple adjective they will be treated separately, e.g. ȕİȜIJȓȦȞ. Regularly formed adverbs are treated as inflections of the adjective for this purpose.

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there will usually be about eighty to one hundred function-words in the commonest two hundred words in a given text-set, consisting of the article, conjunctions, particles, demonstratives, third-person pronouns, 39 a few adjectives with common adverbs. Nouns are not usually treated as functionwords, and most verbs are also excluded. Vocabulary can be recognised as an important feature of style, and one that usually relates to the style of the author as opposed to accidents of transmission. In measuring style the computer is not qualified to judge authorship, genre, or approximate date, but in noting similarities of style it may yield results that permit interpretations in terms of one or another of these alternatives. 40 Of the eighty or so variables (i.e. function-words) that are usually employed in factor analysis, principal component analysis, or cluster analysis, one can track down which are making the biggest difference in separating two or more groups of texts, and to see which words are making the biggest difference to the outcome of the analysis. Ordinarily methods are such that a demonstrative like Ƞ‫ފ‬IJȠȢ at about 1% of total vocabulary, or a conjunction like įȑ at around 3%, can potentially influence the analysis to the same extent as the definite article, at nearer 15% of vocabulary for early Imperial prose authors. 41 Obviously, computers are unnecessary to establish that where Ƞ‫ݫ‬İıșĮȚ constitutes 0.14% of total vocabulary in Plutarch and only 0.02% in Achilles Tatius, then any substantial piece of text displaying the former rate is unlikely to come from the latter author, and a number of similar results might tend to confirm this. In fact the computer finds it similarly important that the rate of țĮȓ is

39

First and second person pronouns are excluded in cases where they are common in some texts and not in others, and one does not want the computer to be highlighting differences between first-person and third-person narratives. 40 Occasionally it is too hastily assumed that a variable of style has a bearing on authorship, or, as in many studies of Platonic chronology documented by Brandwood (1990), on date; there is some such assumption in Dowden (2007) that attempts to date the novels partly by sentence-length, though the assumption is at least argued for, and the claims concerning the reliability of the results are appropriately modest. However, a study of Plato by sentence-length by Morton and Winspear (1971) came to some remarkable, and, in my view, hasty conclusions about the spuriousness of otherwise undoubted works of Plato, using sentencelength as a variable alongside the rates of țĮȓ and įȑ. They did discover variations of some importance, but, as shown by Tarrant, Benítez and Roberts (2011) 97-98, they had more to do with voice or register than authorship or date. 41 Where cluster analysis is used, data are standardised in order to achieve this equivalent potential.

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consistently around 7% of vocabulary in Plutarch and only 5.5% in Achilles. 42 Fortunately I already possessed some prepared text-files of several relevant works of Plutarch and of the whole of Achilles Tatius that could be used to compare any alleged similarity between the De genio Socratis and a near-contemporary novelistic text. It remained to separate out various episodes, mainly embedded narratives, from the rest of the work, and to see whether they tended to show, more than other Plutarch-text (including the Lives), any features more closely associated with the novels. First, did the brief embedded narratives show any obvious differences from the rest of Plutarch, and second were these differences such as to make the style closer to that of Achilles Tatius? When one examined the rates of occurrence of the individual words, some seemed clearly to warrant an affirmative answer in both cases, including five conjunctions (țĮȓ ܻȜȜȐ ‫ݛ‬, ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ IJİ), the negatives Ƞ‫ ރ‬and Ƞ‫ރ‬įȑ, and two other words (Ƞ‫ݫ‬İıșĮȚ ‫ݏ‬ȞȚȠȚ). In all cases other than Ƞ‫ݫ‬İıșĮȚ the differences from Plutarch’s normal rates were not shared with the Life of Alcibiades, a more usual form of narrative for Plutarch to be writing; nor were they shared with the rest of the De genio Socratis itself, except in the case of IJİ and to some extent in the cases of ‫ݏ‬ȞȚȠȚ and țĮȓ. It would be a reasonable guess that these brief embedded narratives were written in something closer to the ‘low genre’ style of the novels, and hence presumably closer to the narratives of every day speech. First, however, let us see what the computer did when asked to examine all available text from Plutarch. This included a number of works, mainly dialogues, from the Moralia: the Eroticus, the De facie in orbe lunae, the three Delphic dialogues, and the De sera numinis vindicta; the treatise-like De Iside et Osiride; and two Lives, those of Alcibiades and Pericles. Except for material of special interest works were divided into 2000-word blocks, with any remainder added to the final block. One section of special interest was included, both for the De defectu oraculorum (416C418A) and for the De Iside (369B-371C). Based on seventy-eight ‘function-words', a cluster analysis 43 allocated 27 files to cluster 1, including all four from the De sera, all five of the Eroticus, all three from De Pythiae oraculis, five out of six from the De facie, and all five files from the De genio other than the embedded narratives that had been excised; 15 files to cluster 2, including all eight from the De 42 It is not sufficient that the average rate of occurrence in Plutarch should differ from that in Achilles, since the standard deviation from the mean is also an important factor in determining probabilities of this kind. 43 Using Ward’s method and standardised data, which regularly yields the most credible results; see Ward (1963).

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Iside and the myth of Timarchus from the De genio; and 9 files to cluster six consisting of all nine files from the Lives. The embedded tales about the Egyptian decipherment of the tablet, Chlidon’s frustration with his wife, and the adequacy of Lysis’ burial formed cluster three, loosely related to the story of Theanor’s mission and the tale of Socrates and the pigs, which constituted clusters five and four respectively. Such isolation is not unexpected in the case of very short blocks, which can easily display aberrant features, but the analysis suggested that they were interestingly related to one another, and all far removed from the normal expectations for works of Plutarch. This gave credibility to the idea that, although these short embedded narratives varied a great deal, there was nevertheless something in common between them. If so, it would be expected that other works contained comparable embedded narratives, and four of these, two told by Demetrius (412A-E, 419E-420A) and one each by Philip (419B-E) and Cleombrotus (421A-E), were excised from the De defectu file and treated separately before repeating the analysis. 44 Only three clusters were necessary to sort the material effectively, cluster one remaining very similar, and cluster two containing mostly De Iside material and files from the Lives (roughly equivalent to the previous clusters two and six together). Now cluster three contained exclusively all short embedded narratives from either the De genio or the De defectu, indicating a degree of linguistic similarity between them. 45 There was, then, good reason to assume that the embedded narratives of the De genio and De defectu showed some stylistic features that marked them apart from Plutarch’s normal styles, whether in dialogues, treatises, or biographies. It is time, therefore, to consider whether the recurrent vocabulary of these passages is at all close to the novel of Achilles Tatius. Some preliminary results suggested to me that the embedded narratives in Plutarch actually resembled Achilles rather more than the less ‘chatty’ style of regular Plutarch. 46 44

To avoid too many blocks the Eroticus was omitted from this analysis. The words that showed most clearly that the embedded narratives were not a random subset of extracts from Plutarch (T-test probability = less than 1%) were six conjunctions (țĮȓ ܻȜȜȐ ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ IJİ ‫݋‬ȐȞ ‫ݼ‬IJĮȞ; not ‫)ݛ‬, ‫ݼ‬ıȠȢ and IJȠıȠࠎIJȠȢ, Ƞ‫ ރ‬and Ƞ‫ރ‬įȑ, and seven others (ܿȞ ȝȐȜĮ IJȓȢ ʌȡࠛIJȠȢȠȞ ȝȩȞȠȢȠȞ įİ߿Ȟ Ƞ‫ݫ‬İıșĮȚ). In only four of these cases were the rates of occurrence in the biographical works not significantly closer to the rest of Plutarch than to the embedded narratives. 46 Using a T-test to compare results for each variable (i.e. each of the 78 words) across the twenty-one blocks of the first five books of Achilles Tatius with those for the nine embedded narratives of Plutarch under consideration, I noted only ten of the seventy-eight variables that were incompatible with these narratives being a 45

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Cluster analysis was then performed involving: ƒ Thirty-four blocks of Achilles Tatius, eight being short extracts of special interest; ƒ Forty-five blocks of Plutarch (from nine works), 47 excluding the embedded narratives; ƒ The nine short embedded narratives from the De genio and De defectu. The analysis was conducted by the standard means, Ward’s method with Euclidean distance and standardised data. Three clusters were requested. The material split as follows: ƒ Cluster 1: All files of Achilles Tatius, except one file of special interest, from 2.2, an embedded narrative in the form of a Tyrian myth recounting the origin of wine; ƒ Cluster 2: All nine short embedded narratives from Plutarch, plus Achilles 2.2; ƒ Cluster 3: All other files of Plutarch. What matters is that cluster 2, mainly embedded narratives from Plutarch, proved closer to cluster 1, the Achilles cluster, than to cluster 3, the principal Plutarch cluster. 48 Cluster analysis can give a greatly simplified picture of the situation, and there are dangers in working with a combination of short selected extracts and random 2000-word blocks. Short extracts are always liable to give more extreme results than larger passages, something that often becomes more obvious when one employs factor analysis. However, factor analysis in this case not only produced a reasonable distinction between the

random subset of Achilles Tatius (T-test probability = less than 1%), as opposed to the 17 that were incompatible with their being a random subset of Plutarch. They were ‫ݸ‬, ȖȐȡ ܿȞ įİ߿Ȟ IJȓȢ ‫݋‬ȐȞ ‫ݼ‬ıȠȢ Ƞ‫ݫ‬İıșĮȚ IJȠıȠࠎIJȠȢ ‫ݼ‬IJĮȞ. 47 Most works were automatically divided according to 2000-word blocks, with a final block allowed to reach 3999 words; however, On the E at Delphi was divided into three sections, 384D-387F, 387F-391E, and 391E-394C; De defectu had a further short block considered separately (416C-418A); and so did De Iside (369B371C). 48 The similarity level at which all material within clusters was joined was -0.28 (cluster 1), -03.54 (cluster 2), and -19.83 (cluster 3); clusters 1 and 2 were linked together at a level of -50.95, and clusters (1+2) and 3 at a level of -109.89; two identical files have a similarity of +100.

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ordinary blocks of Plutarch 49 and of Achilles, 50 placing Plutarch mostly in positive territory on the X-axis (factor 1), and in negative territory on the Yaxis (factor 2). Almost all standard blocks of Achilles were placed in the negative on the X-axis, and all were in the positive zone on the Y-axis. Figure 1 is the chart that maps these results:

49

For Plutarch standard blocks have a title followed by the number of the block; embedded narratives of De genio and De defectu are in bold. The following abbreviations are used for Plutarch’s works: Alc = Alcibiades, Del = on the E at Delphi, Isis = On Isis and Osiris, Obs = On the Obsolescence of Oracles, Per = Pericles, Sign = On the sign of Socrates. 50 All blocks of Achilles begin ‘AT’ followed by the number of the book; thereafter standard blocks are followed by / and block number, while special extracts, involving myth or ekphrasis, are followed by a stop and the chapter number(s); special extracts of both authors are given in bold. For further information please, contact the author.

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Factor Analysis F86, factors 1 & 2 3 AT1/2

2

Factor 2

AT3/3

-3 -3

AT2.2 AT4 AT4 AT4/2 AT T AT5/4 AT4/1 AT4 A AT T4/ 4/1 4

AT2/ AT2 A T2 2//1 AT5 -5 5AT2/1 AT5.3-5 AT T3.25 25 5AT5.3 AT3.25 AT4/3 AT A T4/ 4//3 31 5/2 / Sign3 AT5/3 A T T5 5//3 3AT5/2 S AT2/3 AT A T2/ T2 T 2//3 2/ 3 AT1/1 AT A T1/ 1//1 1AT AT2/4 A T2 T2/4 T 2 2/4 AT5.1 AT5 A AT T T5 5.1 1 AT3/2 A AT AT3 3/2 2 AT2 A AT T 2.1 .1 .14 1 14 4gn AT2.14 Sig SignPigs g AT T3..6 T3 .6-8 AT3.6-8 Sign2 S Si Sig n2 2SignSim Obs1 O Obs 1 AT2/2 AT A T2 T 2/2 D DelB SignTim Si S i ignT gnT gn T Tim im im AT1.15-18 AT T1.1 T 1 1.1 1 15 5AT 1 18 8 Obs5 Obs Sign1 S iign1 ign ig g gn1 gn n1 AT3/1 AT3 A T3/ T3 3/1 3 10 De D e lA A DelA Isis6 Per1 1Isis7 Per4 Pe P er4 4Alc5 sis s s7 s 7 Is Sign4 Si gn gn4 nAlc n4 4lc Alc lc5 c5Is Alc4 Al lc c4 40 Alc IIsis4 siiis s ss4 4 Is Isis369 I -2 71 Isis369-71 -2 -1 Sig 1 2 Obs2 Obs O b s2 s I Is s sis sis3 i s3 s 3 Isis3 Alc Al Alc1 Alc lc1 c1 c 1 sis5 is5 is5 5 Alc A lcc3 cIIsis5 3s Alc3 AT1.1 A Alc2 Al Alc A lc lcc2 2 Obs ObsDem1 ObsD O bsD bs s sD Dem1 Per2 P Pe Per err2 er 2IIsis2 AT2.11b AT2.1 AT2 11b 1 F Fa Fac2 ac2 siss s s2 2P Per3 Per Pe e err3 3 ObsExtr -1 1 ObsCleom O Ob b Sig SignChlidon g ObsPhilip SignEgypt Sign Sig nEg gyp pt SignPyth2 Si Sig g y

Obs4 O Ob

DelC Obs3 O

3

-2

SignPyth1 Sign h

-3 3 ObsDem2

-4

Factor 1

Figure 1: Factor analysis with Embedded Narratives, factors 1 & 2

The diagonal line separates all but one special block (2.14) of Achilles Tatius from all but one special block of Plutarch: the embedded narrative about Socrates’ premonition of the pigs. All four regular blocks of the De genio, plus the contribution of Simmias and the myth of Timarchus’ experience (all prefixed ‘Sign’) are placed only marginally on the Plutarch side of the line, making it quite clear that the De genio was throughout the closest Plutarchian work to Achilles Tatius of those investigated. The short embedded narratives from the De genio were widely scattered at some distance, and apart from the story of the pigs (X = –2.705, Y = + 0.225) they all fall well into negative territory on both axes, as does Demetrius’ British tale in the De defectu. Other embedded narratives from the De defectu (prefixed ‘Obs’) were likewise among those blocks that fall furthest into the

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negative range on factor 2, but they are closer to one’s expectations of Plutarch. An excellent measure of how far removed certain types of Plutarch’s discourse are from the regular vocabulary of the novels is given by subtracting the factor 2 result from the factor 1 result for every block of text (Table 3): Works compared

included

Achilles Tatius

All analysed Normal All analysed Normal All analysed All analysed Normal All analysed Normal

De genio Lives Moralia (without De genio) De defectu only

Average

Maximum

Minimum

-1.46 -1.43 -0.08 -0.04 0.55 1.48 1.29 1.76 1.56

-0.34 -0.82 1.92 0.16 1.07 2.98 2.41 2.98 2.35

-2.49 -2.3 -2.93 -0.36 -0.18 0.58 0.58 0.79 0.79

Table 3: Distance comparison (factor 1 – factor 2) Of the works analysed we find that the regular blocks of the De genio were closer to Achilles Tatius than the Lives, and that the Lives were in turn closer than our sample from the rest of the Moralia. The De defectu is overall the furthest work from the novel of those analysed. The short extracts from Achilles Tatius, the De genio, and the De defectu, while their brevity almost guarantees a greater range than that of regular blocks, stand overall in roughly the same relation to the more regular blocks. This can be seen from figure 1 above. In each case the majority of the extracts occur to the left and lower than the corresponding body of material: either slightly so or considerably so. This phenomenon applies to the following passages:

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Achilles Tatius: 2.11b: The myth of purple 1.1: Europa ekphrasis 1.15-18: Leucippe’s love-lesson in the garden 3.6-8: The Andromeda and Prometheus ekphraseis 5.3-5: Swallow and Tereus ekphrasis 3.25: Myth of the Phoenix Plutarch De genio: All five short embedded narratives Plutarch De defectu: Certainly the second embedded narrative from Demetrius Probably the embedded narrative of Philip Perhaps the first embedded narrative of Demetrius and the embedded narrative of Cleombrotus. One may plausibly claim as a result of these analyses that Plutarch in the De genio has adopted a narrative register that overlaps substantially with that of the Greek erotic novels, and that he has adopted different registers as appropriate for the embedded narratives, probably registers that are more influenced by Plutarch’s knowledge of educated contemporary story-telling and less by recognisable written models. This too may have been a practice influenced by the novels, and by the novelists’ quest for varied and vivid story-telling in their embedded narratives. Finally a new analysis was carried out after identifying what appeared to be the thirty-five most significant words separating the diction of Achilles from Plutarch’s normal diction. They can be distinguished from the remainder of the original eighty-eight function-words in the analysis either by the loadings afforded to these words in the factor analysis, or by the use of T-tests. This refinement helps to remove those variables that contribute comparatively little, and which may sometimes obscure the clarity of the results. Since the embedded narratives of the De defectu were clearly less striking, the work was now treated as one continuous entity, without the separate consideration of special blocks. Other works of Plutarch were included, the De sera numinis vindicta, De facie in orbe lunae and De Pythiae oraculis. Results were as follows: ƒ

All fourteen regular blocks of Achilles Tatius along with (the story of Chaerephon, Sostratus and the Oracle) and the myth of Timarchus from the De genio were placed in cluster 1;

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All special blocks of Achilles Tatius other than 2.14, seven in all, were placed in cluster 2, at no great distance; These two were next conjoined with cluster 5, consisting of all five short embedded narratives from the De genio; All this material was only joined at a similarity level of –148.87 with the rest of the Plutarchian material, which was distributed across clusters 3 and 4.

Since the resulting chart would have been too crowded to be legible, the analysis was repeated with fewer Plutarch works.51 Cluster 1, the lefthand group of seventeen files, contained all fourteen regular blocks of Achilles Tatius along with 2.14 (Chaerephon, Sostratus and the Oracle), the myth of Timarchus from the de genio and the final regular de genio file. Immediately to the right came cluster 2 (7 files), with all other special extracts from Achilles Tatius. To the right of this came cluster 4 (5 files), all embedded narratives in the de genio. Finally came cluster 3, with all Plutarch files except the embedded narratives, the myth of Timarchus, and the final regular file of the de genio. Clusters 1, 2 and 4 were only joined to the standard Plutarch material of cluster 3 at a similarity level of –127.65. Here is what the cluster analysis looked like when charted on a dendrogram (Fig. 2):52

51

Here VOr = De Pythiae oraculis and Moon = De facie in orbe lunae; omitted were Alcibiades, the De E apud Delphos, and all but the first 8000 words of De Iside et Osiride. 52 See detail at: https://www.dropbox.com/s/7hgz2m5frvx274s/PlutATfig2.jpg?dl=0

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Figure 2: Cluster analysis of Plutarch and Achilles, standardised data

5. Conclusion Leaping from computer analyses to sweeping conclusions is not to be encouraged. What the analyses have done is to offer support for the following parts of our thesis: 1. There is something special about the De genio, and its dominant narrative concerns in general make it the closest work analysed to the novel of Achilles Tatius—I would suggest that this is because it is one of the most dramatic of Plutarch’s works, conforming in many ways with Aristotle’s expectations of mimetic literature; 2. The short embedded narratives are closer to Achilles Tatius than to the rest of the Plutarch analysed, and appear to behave in a way reminiscent of the ekphraseis and short embedded myths of Achilles Tatius – in both cases this proximity might be explained in terms of the natural spontaneity of its language, that engages readers and enlivens their response; 3. The short embedded narratives in both Achilles and the De genio (and sometimes at least in the De defectu) are accompanied by a register-change, likely to have been noted by the ancient reader, and to have acted as a signal of some sort – presumably of a greater or

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somewhat different significance for the wider story. While I cannot in this instance claim any direct support from the analyses, I should in this regard suggest that the ancient reader’s ability to recognise and to respond to such changes are likely to have been dependent on their accurately mirroring the registers of oral speech as the reader knew it, as opposed to the fossilised speech that had become associated with a bygone era documented only by surviving literature. 53 4. The very fact that comparison between one or more works of Plutarch and Achilles Tatius can prove instructive also demonstrates the need to avoid postulating artificial barriers between the genres during the period of the Second Sophistic. Literary versatility was characteristic of the age, and, even though he was not as anxious as Apuleius to display it, Plutarch shared that versatility. 54 One should give serious consideration to the possibility that such versatility had been enhanced by the vibrancy of the oral culture of Plutarch’s intellectual world. But of course the most important conclusion is that there is more work to be done. It would be extremely useful to be able to compare also the text of the other Greek erotic novelists. It would be fascinating too to compare such texts as the Tablet of Cebes, certain conversationally narrated works of Lucian and the Eikones of Philostratus. I should also be delighted if at some stage I were able to extend this study to the Latin language, 55 and to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in particular, 56 to see whether comparable 53

In the sole instance of the myth of Timarchus did the De genio have fairly obvious precedents in the myths of Plato, particularly the Myth of Er that closes the Republic, and of others of his school including Heraclides Ponticus; similar myths in the Platonic tradition also occur in other works of Plutarch, such as the De sera and the De facie. Its literary provenance may perhaps explain why the myth of Timarchus is not usually grouped with the other embedded narratives analysed. 54 For treatment of Plutarch in relation to the Second Sophistic see now R.C. Fowler (2018) 229-232. 55 The assumption that any stylistic criterion is directly transferable from Greek to Latin, as would seem to underlie Dowden’s (2007) analysis of sentence-lengths, is problematic. In the case of sentence-length one should bear in mind the Greek language’s wealth of very small words that lend little but colour, and whereas the connective IJİ adds a word in Greek the Latin equivalent -que does not add one in Latin. 56 One notes that the Apuleian corpus has been subjected to a new computer-based analysis by Stover and Kestemont (2016), using methods that have the same origin as those employed here, if somewhat more refined. Their analysis is aimed at settling questions of authenticity and genre rather than register.

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differences were to be found in the embedded narratives (including the old woman’s tale of Cupid and Psyche) and highly descriptive passages like the ekphrasis of Actaeon’s transformation, and the re-enactment of the Judgement of Paris in book 10. 57 Even so, one huge methodological problem remains: I have only written texts to compare, and while one can make reasonable guesses as to which parts of which texts best reflect the language of educated oral society, final proof must necessarily be elusive. 58

57

If figures for sentence-length have any value in this regard, then many embedded narratives of Apuleius involve some kind of shift in diction. On my figures, which are likely to differ a little from those given by Dowden (2007) 144, the average sentence-length for all of Met. 2.1-20 that precedes Thelyphron's tale is 19.3, for 2.31-32 that follows it is 20.3, whereas for the tale itself it is only 15.3; similarly for the narrator's voice in book 4 it is 22.4, whereas for all robbers' speech it is 20.2 (20.0 for the embedded narrative), for the conversation between the old woman and Charite 19.1, and for the Cupid and Psyche story only 16.5, slightly more than the 16.0 for the first ten chapters of the continuation of the story in book 5. Dowden (2007) 144, claims that a 3-4% drop in average sentence-length for books 5 and 6 (in spite of its overall tendency to increase) “is clearly caused by the special register of Cupid and Psyche,” and I concur. However, because Aristomenes’ tale has a slightly higher average sentence-length from the surrounding narrative in book 1, it is clear that embedded narratives do not always stand in the same relationship to the voice of the narrator. On embedded tales in Apuleius´ Metamorphoses see Núñez in this volume. 58 This project was an offshoot of one funded by the Australian Research Council (DP120102425: “Plato's Myth Voice: The Identification and Interpretation of Inspired Speech in Plato”) and in collaboration with E. E. Benitez, M. M. Johnson, J. C. Kindt and D. C. Baltzly, whose assistance is gratefully acknowledged.

CHAPTER FIVE ORAL TALES AND GREEK FICTIONAL NARRATIVE IN ROMAN IMPERIAL PROSE* CONSUELO RUIZ-MONTERO

1. Ephesian tales and old women tales 1.1. In previous studies I have attempted to show that the Ephesian Tale by Xenophon of Ephesus is the Greek novel that has most in common with oral narrative. 1 This is due as much to its monotonous and repetitive style, frequently formulaic, as to its choice of material, which presents numerous points of overlap with storytelling, but it is also evident from the work’s opening words: ‫ݝ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫ݑ‬ij‫ޢ‬ı࠙ ܻȞ‫ޣ‬ȡ IJࠛȞ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȡࠛIJĮ ‫݋‬țİ߿ įȣȞĮȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȦȞ ȁȣțȠȝ‫ޤ‬įȘȢ ‫ݻ‬ȞȠȝĮ IJȠުIJ࠙ IJࠜ ȁȣțȠȝ‫ޤ‬įİȚ ‫݋‬ț ȖȣȞĮȚțާȢ ‫݋‬ʌȚȤȦȡަĮȢ ĬİȝȚıIJȠࠎȢ ȖަȞİIJĮȚ ʌĮ߿Ȣ ݄ȕȡȠțިȝȘȢ … (“There was in Ephesus a man from among the first citizens there, named Lycomedes. To this Lycomedes from his wife, Themisto, a native, is born a son, Habrocomes, …”, 1.1.1). An ambiguous position between oral and literary traditions is a characteristic of this novel, which, in this regard, could be compared with Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, perhaps dated a little later. In effect, although one may note significant differences in terms of ideology, genre, and the literary praxis of the two authors, their commonalities are also significant. Let us consider a few of these. * I am very grateful to the participants in the Cartagena conference for their generous and helpful comments. My thanks also go to the audience at the Leeds University Seminar, where I delivered a version of this paper in December 2015. All translations are mine. 1 See Ruiz-Montero (1982), (1994) and (2003). In my 1989 study I carried out a Proppian functional analysis of the work, also cataloguing the folk motifs found within it. For a survey of the novel, see Ruiz-Montero (1994). On Xenophon’s narrative technique, the analyses of Hägg (1972) and O’Sullivan (1995) are fundamental and undermine the traditional theory that the work is an epitome: see my arguments based on language and style at Ruiz-Montero (1982).

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Scobie has revealed the oral origins of the Metamorphoses’ varias fabulas and the folkloristic character of a metamorphosis into an ass, and his conclusions should be accepted without reservation. 2 It is interesting, then, that a variant on the theme of a metamorphosis into an ass appears at Ephesian Tale 2.8.2, where the protagonist dreams of being transformed into a horse, and after a long journey, recovers his human form: ‫ݏ‬įȠȟİȞ ‫ݧ‬įİ߿Ȟ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ IJާȞ ʌĮIJ‫ޢ‬ȡĮ ȁȣțȠȝ‫ޤ‬įȘ ... ȜࠎıĮަ IJİ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ijȚ‫ޢ‬ȞĮȚ ‫݋‬ț IJȠࠎ Ƞ‫ݧ‬ț‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJȠȢÂ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ į‫ݬ ޡ‬ʌʌȠȞ ȖİȞިȝİȞȠȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ʌȠȜȜ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ij‫ޢ‬ȡİıșĮȚ Ȗ߱Ȟ įȚެțȠȞIJĮ ‫ݬ‬ʌʌȠȞ ܿȜȜȘȞ ș‫ޤ‬ȜİȚĮȞ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޢ‬ȜȠȢ İ‫ބ‬ȡİ߿Ȟ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݬ‬ʌʌȠȞ țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȞșȡȦʌȠȞ ȖİȞ‫ޢ‬ıșĮȚ (“He thought that he saw that his father Lycomedes … would release him and would set him free of his cell; and that he, after becoming a horse, would travel across many countries chasing a mare, and finally found her and became a man”.)

We are therefore dealing here with a folkloristic motif. 3 1.2. Deserving of greater attention, in my view, is how Xenophon transforms an extended episode, of which the heroine is the protagonist, into a brief oral tale which an old woman relates to a group of strangers, in this case bandits, at 3.9.4-5: ʌĮȡȠࠎıĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȚȢ ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ ܿȡȤİIJĮȚ įȚȘȖ‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJȠȢ, ߄ ‫ݻ‬ȞȠȝĮ ȋȡȣıަȠȞ “ܻțȠުıĮIJİ” ‫ݏ‬ijȘ “‫ ޕ‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȚ ʌ‫ޠ‬șȠȣȢ Ƞ‫ ރ‬ʌȡާ ʌȠȜȜȠࠎ ȖİȞȠȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJ߲ ʌިȜİȚÂ ȆİȡަȜĮިȢ IJȚȢ ܻȞ‫ޣ‬ȡ IJࠛȞ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȡࠛIJĮ įȣȞĮȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȦȞ ܿȡȤİȚȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȤİȚȡȠIJȠȞ‫ޤ‬șȘ IJ߱Ȣ İ‫ݧ‬ȡ‫ޤ‬ȞȘȢ IJ߱Ȣ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȀȚȜȚțަߠ, ‫݋‬ȟİȜșޫȞ į‫݋ ޡ‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬Ȝ߯ıIJࠛȞ ȗ‫ޤ‬IJȘıȚȞ ‫ݛ‬ȖĮȖ‫ ޢ‬IJȚȞĮȢ ıȣȜȜĮȕޫȞ Ȝ߯ıIJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝİIJߩ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ țިȡȘȞ țĮȜ‫ޣ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJĮުIJȘȞ ‫ݏ‬ʌİȚșİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ ȖĮȝȘș߱ȞĮȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJĮ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȡާȢ IJާȞ Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȝȠȞ ‫݋‬țIJİIJ‫ޢ‬ȜİıIJȠ ‫ ݘ‬į‫ ޡ‬İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ș‫ޠ‬ȜĮȝȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬ıİȜșȠࠎıĮ İ‫ݫ‬IJİ ȝĮȞİ߿ıĮ İ‫ݫ‬IJİ ܿȜȜȠȣ IJȚȞާȢ ‫݋‬ȡࠛıĮ, ʌȚȠࠎıĮ ij‫ޠ‬ȡȝĮțިȞ ʌȠșİȞ ܻʌȠșȞ߰ıțİȚÂ Ƞ‫ފ‬IJȠȢ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ ݸ‬IJȠࠎ șĮȞ‫ޠ‬IJȠȣ IJȡިʌȠȢ Į‫ރ‬IJ߱Ȣ ‫݋‬Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖİIJȠ.” (“An old woman who was present, whose name was Chrysion, begins the tale. ‘Hear, strangers’, she said, ‘of a calamity that occurred in the city not long ago: a certain Perilaos, a man from among the first citizens, had been elected as keeper of the peace in Cilicia. Setting out in search of bandits, he brought back some of them that he had captured and among them a beautiful girl, and he persuaded her to marry him. Now everything had been prepared for the wedding, but she, entering the bedroom, either driven crazy or in love with another, dies by drinking a potion obtained from somewhere: for this was the way of her death that was reported.’”) 2

Scobie (1975) 26-46 and (1983). Ruiz-Montero (1988) 161, n. 32. Cf. Paus. 10.18.4: ‫ݻ‬ȞȠȞ ș‫ޤ‬ȜİȚĮȞ įȚެțȠȞIJȠȢ… I quote Xenophon’s text following O´Sullivan´s (2005) edition. 3

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The style of the story, comparable to that of a folktale, follows the rules that we will see operating in other tales. The motif of the old woman and the bandits appears in several of Grimms’ tales, 4 as well as in the Ass (2024) and in Apuleius (Met. 4.28 and 6.24), which may suggest a common source. As is well known, Apuleius presents the story of Cupid and Psyche as an anilis fabula, and this story is documented in the iconography as early as Hellenistic times. 5 Plato attests to the fact that the 'old woman's tale' already existed in Greek tradition in his time (R. 350e; 378d; Lys. 205c-d; Hipp. Ma. 286a). Our Xenophon, therefore, clearly wants to assimilate, up to a point at least, both this story and his own novel to this type of oral narrative. 6 In Xenophon’s ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ, however, several literary traditions and story types are intermingled. The name ȋȡȣıަȠȞ seems to belong to the comic tradition, 7 and it is interesting to note that Xenophon is the Greek novelist who most frequently has recourse to a ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ, often with a clearly negative connotation. 8 We shall return to the figure of the ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ later. The ʌ‫ޠ‬șȠȢ that the old woman narrates recalls the beginning of Chariton’s novel: ȋĮȡަIJȦȞ ݃ijȡȠįȚıȚİުȢ ݃șȘȞĮȖިȡȠȣ IJȠࠎ ࠍ‫ޤ‬IJȠȡȠȢ ‫ބ‬ʌȠȖȡĮijİުȢ, ʌ‫ޠ‬șȠȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȚțާȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȈȣȡĮțȠުıĮȚȢ ȖİȞިȝİȞȠȞ įȚȘȖ‫ޤ‬ıȠȝĮȚ. (“I, Chariton of Aphrodisias, secretary of rhetor Athenagoras, will narrate a love story which happened at Syracuse”, 1.1). The verb įȚȘȖ‫ޢ‬ȠȝĮȚ is used repeatedly at the start of Plato’s Symposium. Plato is the classical author who uses the term most, later to be surpassed by Plutarch and Galen. Xenophon refers to 4

Ruiz-Montero (1988) 161, n. 37. See Stramaglia (2010) 165-176. Lucian (Philops. 9) qualifies the tales that he has heard as ȖȡĮࠛȞ ȝ૨șȠȚ (‘old women’s tales’). Graverini [(2006), (2010)] provides a good commentary on the anilis fabula in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, although he does not refer to Xenophon; nor does Tilg (2014b) refer to this text. The similar episode in the [Luc.] Ass 20-24 does not contain any tale. 6 Ruiz-Montero (1996) 62-63. Tagliabue (2017) proposes interpreting the Ephesiaca as ‘paraliterature’, a type of literature which shares some features with Xenophon´s novel (see 163-209). Yet I would still emphasise the consciously mimetic ‘oral style’ of the text, and its telling use of the optative. On the other hand, Tagliabue is right when he observes that the level of literariness of Ephesiaca is inferior to that of the other love novels. 7 The form ȋȡȣıȓȠȞ is frequent in inscriptions from Asia Minor, but does not appear in Cilicia according to Kanavou (2010). ȋȡȣıȓȢ appears in Men. Samia; Petr. Satyr. 127.5; Luc. Philops.14-15. 8 Cf. 5.9.1, where an old woman leaves a rich legacy to Hippothous. Cino, the wife of a ʌȡİıȕުIJȘȢ at 3.2.13ff., possesses a comic-mime character. An old woman named Althea hosts the heroes at 5.11.2. With regard to the ʌȡİıȕުIJȘȢ-type, it appears four times in this novel, only superseded by Heliodorus (five times, in the TLG). 5

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the ‘old woman’s tale’ using the terms įȚȒȖȘȝĮ ʌȐșȠȢ, and the verbal form ‫݋‬ȜȑȖİIJȠ, which is to say that he regards the tale as a form of a ȜȩȖȠȢ. In my view, the tale is also a ʌȠȜȚIJȚțާȢ ȜިȖȠȢ, that is, a ‘tale referring to the city’ and, with time, perhaps became an ‫݋‬ʌȚȤެȡȚȠȢ ȜިȖȠȢ, a ‘local tale’, comparable to those that Pausanias mentions (6.9.2; 7.17.10; 7.23.1; 7.23.3; 9.30.9, etc.). 9 The fact that Xenophon’s story concerns private life also links it to paradoxographic tales of oral origin, like the one told by Phlegon: ȆȠȜުțȡȚIJȠȢ Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȡ IJȚȢ IJࠛȞ ʌȠȜȚIJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ȤİȚȡȠIJȠȞ‫ޤ‬șȘ ‫ބ‬ʌާ IJȠࠎ į‫ޤ‬ȝȠȣ ǹ‫ݧ‬IJȦȜ‫ޠ‬ȡȤȘȢ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJȡަĮ ‫ݏ‬IJȘ IJࠛȞ ʌȠȜȚIJࠛȞ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ ܻȟȚȦı‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ įȚ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ބ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȡȤȠȣıĮȞ ‫݋‬ț ʌȡȠȖިȞȦȞ țĮȜȠțĮȖĮșަĮȞ ‫ޑ‬Ȟ į‫݋ ޡ‬Ȟ IJ߲ ܻȡȤ߲ IJĮުIJ߯ ܿȖİIJĮȚ ȖȣȞĮ߿țĮ ȁȠțȡަįĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȖțȠȚȝȘșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ IJȡȚı‫ޥ‬Ȟ Ȟȣȟ‫ ޥ‬IJ߲ IJİIJ‫ޠ‬ȡIJ߯ IJާȞ ȕަȠȞ ‫݋‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ȜȚʌİȞ. (De mirabilibus, 2.2.1-3) (“Polycritus, one of the citizens, was elected Aetolarch by the people, since the citizens reckoned him worthy of a three-year term on account of the nobility already present in his forefathers. Being in office, he married a Locrian woman, and having slept with her for three nights, on the fourth he died.”)

1.3. At the end of the novel, the heroes visit the temple of their civic goddess, Artemis of Ephesus, to whom they dedicate various offerings, including a ȖȡĮij‫ޤ‬: ܿȜȜĮ ܻȞ‫ޢ‬șİıĮȞ ܻȞĮș‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬į‫ ޣ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖȡĮij‫ޣ‬Ȟ IJ߲ șİࠜ ܻȞ‫ޢ‬șİıĮȞ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ ‫ݼ‬ıĮ IJİ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮșȠȞ țĮ‫ݼ ޥ‬ıĮ ‫ݏ‬įȡĮıĮȞ (“They dedicated other items and in particular they dedicated an inscription to the goddess about all the things that they suffered and did”, 5.15.2). 10 Here there is a clear echo of Odysseus’ words to Demodocus in Od. 8.489-491: ȜަȘȞ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬țިıȝȠȞ ݃ȤĮȚࠛȞ Ƞ‫ݭ‬IJȠȞ ܻİަįİȚȢ / ‫ݼ‬ııߩ ‫ݐ‬ȡȟĮȞ IJߩ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮșިȞ IJİ țĮ‫ݼ ޥ‬ııߩ ‫݋‬ȝިȖȘıĮȞ ݃ȤĮȚȠަ / ‫ޔ‬Ȣ IJ‫ ޢ‬ʌȠȣ ‫ ݙ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ ʌĮȡİޫȞ ‫ܿ ݙ‬ȜȜȠȣ ܻțȠުıĮȢ (“Truly, in the proper order you sing the woe of the Achaeans, the many things they did and suffered and everything the Achaeans toiled, as if somehow either you yourself were present or had heard it from another”). 11 Xenophon’s allusion to the 9

Cf. Arrian An. 5.3.2; Paus. 8.11.6; Ath. 15.673b6. More similarities between Pausanias and Xenophon are cited in Ruiz-Montero (2003) with bibliography. On local ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ‫ݨ‬İȡާȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌިȜȚȞ (“a story related to the sanctuary and the city”) see Chaniotis [(1988) 354-362]. On oral traditions in Pausanias see Pretzler (2005) and (2007) 40-43. 10 Apollonius sets forth orally omnes casus suos before Diana and her chief sacerdos, his own wife (Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri 48). 11 The same double possibility appears at Od. 4.322-325, when Telemachus asks Menelaus about his father. Plato also provides examples of the combination of both possibilities, to be “an actual witness to a story” or “to hear it from another” (Į‫ރ‬IJިȢ, ‫ ޕ‬ĭĮަįȦȞ, ʌĮȡİȖ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣ...., ‫ܿ ݙ‬ȜȜȠȣ IJȠȣ ‫ݛ‬țȠȣıĮȢ, Phaed. 57a1); țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȞIJĮ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ܿȜȜȠȣ ܻțȠުȠȞIJĮ (ibid. 58d5).

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Odyssey is intentional, and he has previously employed the same expression in a symposium scene in Rhodes, in which all the guests relate their įȚȘȖ‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJĮ, whatever everybody experienced or did. 12 The double possibility of being an actual witness to a story or of hearing it from the lips of another became a commonplace in the post-Homeric literary tradition, as we shall see. The mention of the heroes’ İ‫ވ‬ȡİıȚȢ and their ıȦIJȘȡަĮ before the temple of Isis in Rhodes in the midst of the town’s religious ardour (5.13.2-4) also foreshadow the concluding episode of the votive inscription at Ephesus. That ȖȡĮij‫ ޤ‬is a proof of the ıȦIJȘȡަĮ of the protagonists, which the whole city recognises (5.15.2), and corresponds to the scene of the initial departure from Ephesus, in which the entire town sees them off as if they were its own children.13 The protagonists’ story is thus converted into a written document that can be read or recited by a priest, an interpreter, or an aretalogos. This kind of information comes both from literary texts (Plut. Mor. 394D-F; 940F; Paus. 6.6.7-11; [Luc.] Amores 8.7-12) and from inscriptions dating back to the Hellenistic period, among which the chronicle from the Temple of Athena at Lindos is of particular importance. 14 By the same token, in Chariton’s Callirhoe the epiphaneiai of Aphrodite, to which her priestess refers at 2.2.5 (‫݋‬ʌȚijĮȞ‫ޣ‬Ȣ į‫݋ ޢ‬ıIJȚȞ ‫݋‬Ȟș‫ޠ‬įİ ‫ ݘ‬șİިȢ), and which the townsfolk 12

ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌȠȚțަȜĮ ʌĮȡ‫ ޟ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ IJ‫ ޟ‬įȚȘȖ‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJĮ ‫ݼ‬ıĮ IJİ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮșİȞ ‫ݐ‬țĮıIJȠȢ țĮ‫ݼ ޥ‬ıĮ ‫ݏ‬įȡĮıİ (“[all of them told] many and different stories about all the things each of them had experienced and had done”, 5.13.5). Also compare ‫ݏ‬ȡİȟİ țĮ‫ݏ ޥ‬IJȜȘ (“he accomplished and endured”, Od. 4.242-243; cf. 4.271) in reference to Odysseus. 13 șȣıަĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬ʌȡާ IJ߱Ȣ ܻȖȦȖ߱Ȣ IJ߲ ݃ȡIJ‫ޢ‬ȝȚįȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬İ‫ރ‬ȤĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠࠎ į‫ޤ‬ȝȠȣ ʌĮȞIJާȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬į‫ޠ‬țȡȣĮ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ȝİȜȜިȞIJȦȞ ܻʌĮȜȜ‫ޠ‬IJIJİıșĮȚ ʌĮަįȦȞ țȠȚȞࠛȞ (“there were sacrifices to Artemis before their departure, and prayers from all the people, and tears from all of them, as if their common children were to depart”, 1.10.5). See too filium publicum in Apul. Met. 4.26.3, and the commentary by Hijmans Jr. et alii (1981) 192. It was an honorific title: in the Imperial inscriptions from Cos, the expression į‫ޠ‬ȝȠȣ ȣ‫ݨ‬Ƞࠎ is frequently found (in 1146 the phrase appears in feminine): Bosnakis and Hallof (2012). Among them a certain Xenophon (mid-first century A.D.) is quoted in 951 and 953. 14 See the conclusions of Higbie (2003); p. 7 for a list of written sources; pp. 300301 cite the public recitation of a work that collected the epiphanies of Artemis Parthenos in the Chersonese during the 3rd century B.C., and at pp. 273-299 there is mention of other works regarding the epiphanies of different gods. See also Chaniotis (2009a) 259-262; p. 266: “the ritual context of festivals was possibly the most significant context for the oral presentation of travelling memories”. Chaniotis’ study is fundamental for the theme treated in this paper. S. West [(2013) 89] mentions public reading and performance as part of the regular activities taking place within an Egyptian temple and adds practical reasons why people would share the contents of a book.

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believe (3.9.1), may mean that the novel was an encomium by Chariton to his civic goddess. It is to her protection that the heroine has entrusted herself from the beginning, and it is she who brings about the rescue and return of the heroes, just as in the Ephesian Tale. 15 In like manner the closing narrative of their adventures that Chaereas delivers in the theatre at Syracuse (Callirhoe 8.7.3ff.), although it displays clear epic reminiscences, also calls to mind the real-life practice of narrative oratory and of local historiography, which merit comparison with some points to which Chaniotis has drawn attention. 16

2. Oral tales, old men and paintings 2.1 As is well-known, Longus employs the word ȖȡĮijȒ at the start of his proemium as proof of his story’s authenticity: ‫݋‬Ȟ ȁ‫ޢ‬ıȕ࠙ șȘȡࠛȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ܿȜıİȚ ȃȣȝijࠛȞ ș‫ޢ‬ĮȝĮ İ‫ݭ‬įȠȞ ț‫ޠ‬ȜȜȚıIJȠȞ ‫ޖ‬Ȟ İ‫ݭ‬įȠȞÂ İ‫ݧ‬țިȞȠȢ ȖȡĮij‫ޤ‬Ȟ, ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȞ ‫ݏ‬ȡȦIJȠȢ. 17 Longus seeks out an interpreter (‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJȒȢ, praef. 3), and presents the novel as both a verbal depiction of the painting and an offering to Eros, the Nymphs and Pan. 18 Longus would have had in mind here some local myth 19 that also offered an example of the power of Eros. This power constitutes a familiar literary commonplace, while encomia to Eros and the Muses were delivered at the festival of Thespiae, 20 just as the ʌȡİıȕȪIJȘȢ Philetas does in the novel (2.3.1ff.). 2.2. Of special interest is a text that has not been given the attention it deserves, to which Michael Squire has drawn my attention. 21 This is the Tabula Cebetis, written between the 1st and 2nd centuries A.D. and attributed 15 Encomia to cities figure within the already cited sources for Lindos in Higbie (2003). 16 Chaniotis (2009a) 266-268. 17 İ‫ݧ‬țިȞȠȢ ȖȡĮij‫ޤ‬Ȟ is the reading offered by Reeve quoted herewith correcting the İ‫ݧ‬țިȞĮ ȖȡĮij‫ޤ‬Ȟ presented by the only manuscript. Brunck’s [see Hunter (1983) 112, n. 80] earlier proposal, İ‫ݧ‬țިȞĮ ȖȡĮʌIJ‫ޤ‬Ȟ, appears on inscriptions of Aphrodisias (XII 704b; c9; XII 27, III 10) and seems to find a corollary at Apul. Met. 6.29.7 (depictam in tabula fugae presentis imaginem meae domus atrio dedicabo… “I will dedicate in the atrium of my house an image painted on a tablet of our current scape…”), in view of which Brunck’s suggestion perhaps deserves more attention. 18 See J. R. Morgan (2004) on the proemium. 19 Cf. Chaniotis (2009a) 258, and Petsalis-Diomidis, p. 250, n. 23, in this volume. 20 Manieri (2009) 315-419; see p. 424 for encomiographoi of Eros; p. 431 for the dedication of a statue of Eros. See Chaniotis, p. 41 and Bowie, pp. 52ff., in this volume. 21 In Squire and Grethlein (2014), which I was generously allowed to consult before its publication.

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to Cebes, the disciple of Socrates, who accompanies him in the Phaedo, which Lucian cites (Mer. cond. 42; Rh. pr. 6) and Dio Chrysostom 10.3033 may perhaps refer to. 22 The beginning of the text is as follows: ‫݋‬IJȣȖȤ‫ޠ‬ȞȠȝİȞ ʌİȡȚʌĮIJȠࠎȞIJİȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJࠜ IJȠࠎ ȀȡިȞȠȣ ‫ݨ‬İȡࠜ, ‫݋‬Ȟ ߔ ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ܿȜȜĮ ܻȞĮș‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJĮ ‫݋‬șİȦȡȠࠎȝİȞÂ ܻȞ‫ޢ‬țİȚIJȠ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌަȞĮȟ IJȚȢ ‫ݏ‬ȝʌȡȠıșİȞ IJȠࠎ Ȟİެ, ‫݋‬Ȟ ߔ ‫ݝ‬Ȟ ȖȡĮij‫ ޣ‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȘ IJȚȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝުșȠȣȢ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȣıĮ ‫ݧ‬įަȠȣȢ Ƞ‫ކ‬Ȣ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫ݗ‬įȣȞ‫ޠ‬ȝİșĮ ıȣȝȕĮȜİ߿Ȟ IJަȞİȢ țĮަ ʌȠIJİ ‫ݝ‬ıĮȞ Ƞ‫އ‬IJİ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ʌިȜȚȢ ‫݋‬įިțİȚ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ IJާ ȖİȖȡĮȝȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȞ Ƞ‫އ‬IJİ ıIJȡĮIJިʌİįȠȞ ܻȜȜ‫ ޟ‬ʌİȡަȕȠȜȠȢ ‫ݝ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬Ȟ Į‫ބ‬IJࠜ ‫ݏ‬ȤȦȞ ‫݌‬IJ‫ޢ‬ȡȠȣȢ ʌİȡȚȕިȜȠȣȢ įުȠ … Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȡȦȞ IJȚȢ ‫݌‬ıIJޫȢ ‫ݏ‬ȝijĮıȚȞ ‫݋‬ʌȠަİȚ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ʌȡȠıIJ‫ޠ‬IJIJȦȞ IJȚ IJࠜ İ‫ݧ‬ıȚިȞIJȚ ‫ݻ‬ȤȜ࠙. ܻʌȠȡȠުȞIJȦȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȝȣșȠȜȠȖަĮȢ ʌȡާȢ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȠȣȢ ʌȠȜީȞ ȤȡިȞȠȞ ʌȡİıȕުIJȘȢ IJȚȢ ʌĮȡİıIJެȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޡ‬Ȟ įİȚȞާȞ ʌ‫ޠ‬ıȤİIJİ ‫ ޕ‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȚ, ‫ݏ‬ijȘ ܻʌȠȡȠࠎȞIJİȢ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȖȡĮij߱Ȣ IJĮުIJȘȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ ޡ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȤȦȡަȦȞ ʌȠȜȜȠ‫ ޥ‬Ƞ‫ݫ‬įĮıȚ IJަ ʌȠIJİ Į‫ވ‬IJȘ ‫ ݘ‬ȝȣșȠȜȠȖަĮ įުȞĮIJĮȚÂ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ ޡ‬Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȡ ‫݋‬ıIJȚ ʌȠȜȚIJȚțާȞ ܻȞ‫ޠ‬șȘȝĮ· ܻȜȜ‫ޟ‬ ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ IJȚȢ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȜĮȚ ʌȠIJ‫ܻ ޡ‬ijަțİIJȠ įİࠎȡȠ ܻȞ‫ޣ‬ȡ ‫ݏ‬ȝijȡȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įİȚȞާȢ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬ıȠijަĮȞ, ȜިȖ࠙ IJİ țĮ‫ݏ ޥ‬ȡȖ࠙ ȆȣșĮȖިȡİȚިȞ IJȚȞĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȆĮȡȝİȞަįİȚȠȞ ‫݋‬ȗȘȜȦțޫȢ ȕަȠȞ ‫ݺ‬Ȣ IJި IJİ ‫ݨ‬İȡާȞ IJȠࠎIJȠ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȖȡĮij‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܻȞ‫ޢ‬șȘțİ IJࠜ ȀȡިȞ࠙. ʌިIJİȡȠȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ijȘȞ ‫݋‬Ȗެ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ IJާȞ ܿȞįȡĮ ȖȚȞެıțİȚȢ ‫݌‬ȦȡĮțެȢ; țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬șĮުȝĮı‫ ޠ‬Ȗİ ‫ݏ‬ijȘ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ ʌȠȜȣȤȡȠȞȚެIJĮIJȠȞ ȞİެIJİȡȠȢ ‫ޓ‬Ȟ ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıʌȠȣįĮ߿Į įȚİȜ‫ޢ‬ȖİIJȠ IJިIJİ į‫ޣ‬ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJĮުIJȘȢ [į‫ ]ޡ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȝȣșȠȜȠȖަĮȢ ʌȠȜȜ‫ޠ‬țȚȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ ‫ݗ‬țȘțިİȚȞ įȚİȟȚިȞIJȠȢ. ʌȡާȢ ǻȚާȢ IJȠަȞȣȞ ‫ݏ‬ijȘȞ ‫݋‬Ȗެ, İ‫ ݧ‬ȝ‫ ޤ‬IJȚȢ ıȠȚ ȝİȖ‫ޠ‬ȜȘ ܻıȤȠȜަĮ IJȣȖȤ‫ޠ‬ȞİȚ Ƞ‫މ‬ıĮ įȚ‫ޤ‬ȖȘıĮȚ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ· ʌ‫ޠ‬Ȟȣ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬ʌȚșȣȝȠࠎȝİȞ ܻțȠࠎıĮȚ, IJަ ʌȠIJ‫݋ ޢ‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ ݸ‬ȝࠎșȠȢ. (“We happened to be strolling in the sanctuary of Cronus, in which we saw many other dedications. But there was also a votive tablet set up in front of the temple, on which there was a strange painting that also contained peculiar tales, the nature and origin of which we were unable to understand. Indeed, what was depicted seemed to us to be neither a polis nor an army camp, but a perimeter-wall containing two other perimeterwalls ... An old gentleman, who was standing there, appeared to be giving orders to the crowd that was entering. When, therefore, we were both puzzled long and hard over the story, an old man standing nearby said: ‘Strangers, it is not surprising that you are puzzled about this painting. Indeed, not even many of the locals know what this story means. For this is not a civic dedication, but once long ago a stranger came here, a prudent man and exceptional in his wisdom, devoted in word and deed to the Pythagorean and Parmenideian way of life, and dedicated the painting and this shrine to Cronus.’ I said, ‘Do you, then, know about this man having observed him directly?’ ‘As a young man,’ he said, ‘I marvelled at him when he was exceedingly old, for he discoursed on many serious topics. In fact it was then that I also heard him many times explaining this story.’ 22 Text, translation and commentary in Pesce (1982); Fitzgerald and White (1983) adduce, among other possible examples of votive tablets, that cited at Paus. 9.39.14 and dedicated to Trophonius, in which appears “all that they have seen or heard”; Nesselrath [(2005) 43-45] cites Lucian’s Hercules, and Pisc. 13-17.

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‘By Zeus,’ I said, ‘unless there happens to be some great demand on your time, tell us. For we very much desire to hear what the tale is.’” [1.1])

If the contents of the tablet are an allegory of human life, the explanation (‫݋‬ȟ‫ޤ‬ȖȘıȚȢ) that follows is presented as the enigma of the Sphinx: only those who understand the riddle will be saved (3.1.4). The explanation takes the form of a dialogue with Cebes, the conclusion of which also marks the end of the work. The figure of the ʌȡİıȕުIJȘȢ appears in the text three times through the technique of mise en abyme: the first old-man interpreter can guarantee the truth of the story because he has seen and heard in his youth another old man, the sage whose message he is now to explain. In third place, the old man depicted in the painting is a reflection of the other two. In this case we are not dealing with an epichoric painting, as in Longus, but rather with a painting commissioned by a stranger and explained to strangers, as is the case with the story of the ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ in Xenophon. Pausanias offers a similar example at 9.30.11, and the consummate orator Lucian employs this technique in his Hercules. 23 The fictive scene exemplifies a real-world practice, to which we have already referred. 24 One of the fundamental hypotexts here is the palaios logos about the glorious past of Athens at the start of the Timaeus, a tale transmitted by the older members of a family, who in turn heard it from Solon, who picked it up from Egyptian priests. 25 The whole process in the Tabula Cebetis is oral, 23

In Hercules 4 the narrator is admiring a painting of the old Celtic god Ogmios – Hermes for the Greeks– when an old man at his side, a native and a philosophus, explains to him the allegorical enigma that it contains, employing a series of clichés: IJĮࠎIJߩ ‫݋‬Ȗޫ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ʌȠȜީ İ‫ݨ‬ıIJ‫ޤ‬țİȚȞ ‫ݸ‬ȡࠛȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șĮȣȝ‫ޠ‬ȗȦȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ʌȠȡࠛȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ȖĮȞĮțIJࠛȞ· .İȜIJާȢ į‫ ޢ‬IJȚȢ ʌĮȡİıIJޫȢ … “İȖެ ıȠȚ”, ‫ݏ‬ijȘ “‫ ޕ‬ȟ‫ޢ‬Ȟİ ȜުıȦ IJ߱Ȣ ȖȡĮij߱Ȣ IJާ Į‫ݫ‬ȞȚȖȝĮ” (“I had stood for a long time, looking, wondering, puzzling and getting annoyed about these things. And a Celt standing nearby (…) said ‘strangers, I shall solve you, the enigma of the painting’”, 4.1-6). Nesselrath (2005) offers a commentary on the tablet. 24 P.Oxy. VII 1025 refers to a biologos and a homeristes at the festival in honour of Cronus. More data in Nervegna (2013) 187. On these actors see above, Introduction, n. 52. 25 Ti. 20d7-21a3: ܿțȠȣİ į‫ޤ‬, ‫ ޕ‬ȈެțȡĮIJİȢ ȜިȖȠȣ ȝ‫ޠ‬ȜĮ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܻIJިʌȠȣ ʌĮȞIJ‫ޠ‬ʌĮıަ Ȗİ ȝ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܻȜȘșȠࠎȢ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݌‬ʌIJ‫ ޟ‬ıȠijެIJĮIJȠȢ ȈިȜȦȞ ʌȠIJߩ ‫ݏ‬ijȘ… (“Listen, Socrates, to a very strange but absolutely true tale, as Solon, the wisest of the Seven, had narrated once…”). Critias added that the tale was narrated afterwards to his grandfather, who recounted it to them again. Cf. Criti.113a-b; Theaet. 183e6-7 referring to his meeting with the very old Parmenides, when he was a very young boy (ıȣȝʌȡȠı‫ޢ‬ȝİȚȟĮ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ į‫ ޣ‬IJࠜ ܻȞįȡ‫ ޥ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬Ȟȣ Ȟ‫ޢ‬ȠȢ ʌ‫ޠ‬Ȟȣ ʌȡİıȕުIJ߯); Phaed. 58d2 on leisure time (ܻıȤȠȜަĮ). Diod. Sic. 1.44.4 also attests to the prestige of Egyptian priests and their anagraphai in

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and, as befits such a context, the verbs įȚȘȖ߱ıĮȚ / ܻțȠࠎıĮȚ appear once again. 26 2.3. Achilles Tatius’ novel begins along similar lines. The narrator undertakes a touristic pilgrimage to Sidon. There, in the temple of Astarte, he encounters the young Clitophon, who tells him his life story, a novel, another example of the power of Eros: ʌİȡȚȧޫȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܿȜȜȘȞ ʌިȜȚȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌİȡȚıțȠʌࠛȞ IJ‫ܻ ޟ‬ȞĮș‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJĮ ‫ݸ‬ȡࠛ ȖȡĮij‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܻȞĮțİȚȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȘȞ Ȗ߱Ȣ ݀ȝĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șĮȜ‫ޠ‬IJIJȘȢ. Ǽ‫ރ‬ȡެʌȘȢ ‫ ݘ‬ȖȡĮij‫݋ … ޤ‬Ȗޫ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ޥ‬ IJ‫ܿ ޟ‬ȜȜĮ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ʌ߰ȞȠȣȞ IJ߱Ȣ ȖȡĮij߱Ȣ ݀IJİ į‫ޑ ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȚțާȢ ʌİȡȚİȡȖިIJİȡȠȞ ‫ݏ‬ȕȜİʌȠȞ IJާȞ ܿȖȠȞIJĮ IJާȞ ȕȠࠎȞ ‫ݕ‬ȡȦIJĮÂ țĮަ, ³Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ´ İ‫ݭ‬ʌȠȞ “ܿȡȤİȚ ȕȡ‫ޢ‬ijȠȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬ȡĮȞȠࠎ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȗ߱Ȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șĮȜ‫ޠ‬ııȘȢ´ IJĮࠎIJ‫ ޠ‬ȝȠȣ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȞIJȠȢ ȞİĮȞަıțȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ ʌĮȡİıIJެȢ, “‫݋‬Ȗޫ IJĮࠎIJĮ ܽȞ İ‫ݧ‬įİަȘȞ´ ‫ݏ‬ijȘ ³IJȠıĮުIJĮȢ ‫ވ‬ȕȡİȚȢ ‫݋‬ȟ ‫ݏ‬ȡȦIJȠȢ ʌĮșެȞ … IJ‫ ޟ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬ȝ‫ ޟ‬ȝުșȠȚȢ ‫ݏ‬ȠȚțİ´ ³ȝ‫ ޣ‬țĮIJȠțȞ‫ޤ‬ı߯Ȣ ‫ ޕ‬ȕ‫ޢ‬ȜIJȚıIJİ´ ‫ݏ‬ijȘȞ ³ʌȡާȢ IJȠࠎ ǻȚާȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠࠎ ‫ݕ‬ȡȦIJȠȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ, IJĮުIJ߯ ȝߢȜȜȠȞ ‫ݜ‬ıİȚȞ İ‫ ݧ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝުșȠȚȢ ‫ݏ‬ȠȚțİ … ‫ޔ‬ȡĮ ıȠȚ´ ‫ݏ‬ijȘȞ ³IJ߱Ȣ IJࠛȞ ȜިȖȦȞ ܻțȡȠ‫ޠ‬ıİȦȢÂ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȢ į‫ ݸ ޡ‬IJȠȚȠࠎIJȠȢ IJިʌȠȢ ‫ݘ‬įީȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝުșȦȞ ܿȟȚȠȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȚțࠛȞ´ (“Wandering around the rest of the city and surveying the dedications, I see a painting on display that is simultaneously of land and sea. The painting was of Europe … I also admired the other features of the painting, but, as I am erotically inclined, I was gazing with particular attention at Eros who was leading the bull. I said, ‘How a newborn rules over sky and land and sea!’ As I said this, a young man, who was also standing there, said, ‘I would know having suffered such great outrages from Eros … Truly my experiences seem like fantastic tales’. ‘By Zeus and Eros himself, good fellow,’ I said, ‘do not shrink from delighting me more, even sacred books; cf. Pretzler (2007). See Stephens [(2013) 94] for Egyptian and Greek sources on Egypt as visited by traditional Greek sages, such as Solon, Plato, Pythagoras, etc.; but, as she rightly observes on p. 93, the Timaeus establishes that Athens is older than Egypt. 26 Cf. Collins II [(2012) 169, n. 34] for verba dicendi in Plato. The terms ȝࠎșȠȢ and ȝȣșȠȜȠȖަĮ are here synonymous and designate a ‘tale’ or ‘story’ in a generic sense. Diodorus uses ȝȣșȠȜȠȖȠࠎıȚȞ (1.43.6) and ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡȠࠎıȚȞ (1.96.1) interchangeably for recitations of sacred inscriptions by Egyptian priests. Plutarch (Mor. 940F-945D) also refers to the story that the barbarians tell (ȝȣșȠȜȠȖȠࠎıȚȞ) about Cronus. At 945D-E adds: “IJĮࠎIJૃ” İ‫ݭ‬ʌİȞ ‫ ݸ‬ȈުȜȜĮȢ, “‫݋‬Ȗޫ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݛ‬țȠȣıĮ IJȠࠎ ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣ įȚİȟȚިȞIJȠȢ, ‫݋‬țİަȞ࠙ įߩ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬IJȠࠎ ȀȡިȞȠȣ țĮIJİȣȞĮıIJĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬șİȡ‫ޠ‬ʌȠȞIJİȢ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ݏ‬ȜİȖİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJިȢ ‫݋‬ȟ‫ޤ‬ȖȖİȚȜĮȞ” (“Sulla said: ‘I heard these things from a stranger who was relating them, and the chamberlains and servants of Cronus informed the stranger, according to his own words’”). The Platonic echoes are clear: cf. Phaed. 114d; Meno 86b; Gorg. 527a; Phaedr. 246a. The ancient story about Athens is already mythologia at Tim. 22c. Already Plat. R. 394b93 cited three types of ʌȠȚ‫ޤ‬ıİެȢ IJİ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝȣșȠȜȠȖަĮȢ, an expression equivalent to įȚ‫ޤ‬ȖȘıȚȢ in 393d1; see also 392d3. See also Fernandez Delgado´s paper in this volume.

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if they seem like fantastic tales. 27 … This is the time for you to recite the stories, and a place of this sort is pleasant and worthy especially of erotic tales’”, 1.2.1-3)

As he introduces the young Clitophon, Achilles subverts the topos of the traditional old man of this story-type, just as he subverts the structural model of the romantic novel itself by presenting his as a first-person narrative. 28 Clitophon ends his tale at Tyre, where the novel also closes, without us ever learning how he arrived at Sidon or why he tells his story. Platonic echoes are also clear in this passage and throughout the novel, which nevertheless, like Longus’ work, is still a study on love and its power. 29 Moreover, Phoenicia in antiquity was famous both for its alphabet, and for a tradition of obscene fables, of which Lollianus’ Phoenicica provides a good example. But the Temple of Hercules at Tyre was also important to the denouement of Antonius Diogenes’ Incredible things beyond Thule, according to the summary of Photius, cod. 166. 30 This work represents the most sophisticated literary experiment between oral and written literature in ancient narrative. As I cannot explore it here in depth, 31 I will simply mention that, as Photius presents the work, the protagonist related his story to a compatriot, most probably in the context of a symposium. This is another Platonic marker, although the most fertile ‘symposium’ in Greek literature is probably the banquet offered by the Phaeacians to Odysseus in

27

Scobie [(1975) 64] had also interpreted ȝުșȠȚȢ as “fictional, unreal narratives” and not “tragic themes”. 28 The same context of a stroll through a temple with a stranger that involves interpreters of dedications appears in Plut. Mor. 394D, where we encounter the conjunction of the adjectives ‘lover of seeing’ (ijȚȜȠșİ‫ޠ‬ȝȦȞ) and ‘lover of hearing’ (ijȚȜ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȢ) related to a ‘stranger’ (ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ). Cf. below, n. 61. 29 0DULQþLþ (2007) offers a cogent analysis of the novel’s relationship to Plato. See also Petsalis-Diomidis (2005) 207-209; Galli (2005) 265; Keulen (2007a and b); in his commentary (2007a) on Met. 1.2.6 he quotes Petr. 131.8: dignus amore locus (see below, n. 61). On Plato in this era see Trapp (1990), especially pp. 155-164; Tarrant (1999); Graverini (2010). 30 Stephens and Winkler [(1995) 101-172] provide a good overview. Sidon already appears in Od. 15.423 (cf. 392), and Tyre and Sidon appear in Herodotus. Of particular interest is Hdt. 2.43-44, where the author mentions a second Hercules, an old Egyptian god, to whose temple in Tyre Solon travels in order to gain knowledge; on this see Lightfoot (2005); Fear (2005) refers to the temple of Phoenician Hercules in Cádiz. 31 See Ruiz-Montero (forthcoming): “The prefatory letters of the Incredible things beyond Thule and their literary context”.

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Odyssey 8. 32 The Odyssey is the fundamental hypotext for the entire novelistic genre. Indeed, the two practices that historians later designated as autopsia and autopatheia are already found in its opening lines: ʌȠȜȜࠛȞ įߩ ܻȞșȡެʌȦȞ ‫ݫ‬įİȞ ܿıIJİĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȞިȠȞ ‫ݏ‬ȖȞȦ / ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬įߩ ‫ ݼ‬Ȗߩ ‫݋‬Ȟ ʌިȞIJ࠙ ʌ‫ޠ‬șİȞ ܿȜȖİĮ ‫ݺ‬Ȟ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬șȣȝިȞ (“He saw the cities of many people and learned their thinking /and many sufferings he endured himself in his heart at sea”, 1.3-4). 33 Moreover, it already contains all later narrative strategies, as we shall now see. Firstly, Odysseus acts as a homodiegetic narrator of true events (IJަ ʌȡࠛIJިȞ IJȠȚ ‫ݏ‬ʌİȚIJĮ IJަ įߩ ‫ބ‬ıIJ‫ޠ‬IJȚȠȞ țĮIJĮȜ‫ޢ‬ȟȦ (“which are the first things I should tell you, and which are the last”, Od. 9.14), a quality on which Homer repeatedly insists, 34 also applied to stories that are intentionally fictional, such as the extensive autobiography that Odysseus narrates first to Eumaeus, saying that he has a Cretan origin (‫݋‬ț ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ȀȡȘIJ‫ޠ‬ȦȞ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ İ‫އ‬ȤȠȝĮȚ İ‫ރ‬ȡİȚ‫ޠ‬ȦȞ« 14.191ff.), and afterwards to Penelope at 19.164ff. In this latter story the Phoenicians play an important role. 35 In the Odyssey there are also inset narratives, such as that of Demodocus, in the same Phaeacian banquet (8.43ff.). The Odyssey adds a third form of knowledge to the two from its opening lines: “hear something from a wandering traveller,” as in the Telemachus’ question to Menelaus about his father: İ‫ ݫ‬ʌȠȣ ‫ݻ‬ʌȦʌĮȢ / ‫ݷ‬ijșĮȜȝȠ߿ıȚ IJİȠ߿ıȚȞ ‫ܿ ݙ‬ȜȜȠȣ ȝࠎșȠȞ ܿțȠȣıĮȢ / ʌȜĮȗȠȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣ (“whether you saw it with your own eyes or heard the tale from another wandering traveller”, 4.323), with which the figure of the Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȢ, ‘ear-witness’, is established. 32 These two models, the Homeric and the Platonic, are combined in the symposium scene at Parthenope´ s novel, P. Berol. 7927: see López Martínez and Ruiz-Montero (2016). 33 The term autopatheia appears in Polyb. 12.28.6 (IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ț IJ߱Ȣ ʌȜ‫ޠ‬ȞȘȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ș‫ޢ‬ĮȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠʌ‫ޠ‬șİȚĮȞ) in his discussion on Timaeus, possessing the double meaning ‘subject’ and ‘witness to events’. 34 Relevant formulae are: ܻȜȜߩ ܿȖİ ȝȠȚ IJިįİ İ‫ݧ‬ʌ‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬IJȡİț‫ޢ‬ȦȢ țĮIJ‫ޠ‬ȜİȟȠȞ (“come on, tell me about it and relate the whole truth”), and IJȠȚȖ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬Ȗެ IJȠȚ IJĮࠎIJĮ ȝ‫ޠ‬Ȝߩ ܻIJȡİț‫ޢ‬ȦȢ ܻȖȠȡİުıȦ (“certainly I shall relate the whole truth on these things”, ca. 30 times); ȞȘȝİȡIJ‫ޢ‬Į ȝȣș‫ޤ‬ıĮıșİ (“tell me the sure truth”, Il. 6.376), İ‫ݧ‬ʌİ߿Ȟ ȞȘȝİȡIJ‫ޢ‬Į and the like occur 10 times: the relevant formulae appear with greater frequency in the Odyssey. On the catalogue vocabulary in Homer see Kyriakidis (2007) 68-73. 35 Cf. ‫ݫ‬ıțİ ȥİުįİĮ ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȦȞ ‫݋‬IJުȝȠȚıȚȞ ‫ݸ‬ȝȠ߿Į (“he introduced many lies into his speech, as if they were really true”, Od. 19.203). Homer’s mastery in this regard is recognised by Arist. Po. 1460a18-20, who voices his approval of fiction at Po. 1460b23-27; Rh. 1371a31-32; 1371b10-12; Top. 126b23. Zeus himself is labelled as philopseudes at Il. 12.164 (cf. 21.275). Odysseus mentions Phoenicians in his autobiography at 15.415. Phoenicia is also mentioned as a stop in Menelaus’ wanderings at Od. 4.83.

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These are practices that will subsequently appear in Ionic logography and later historiography as a means of establishing the truth of stories of hitherto unknown reliability. 36 Indeed, they appear both in Thucydides (1.22.3) and Ctesias, the latter a highly idiosyncratic historian who presents himself as an eye- and earwitness to the contents of his Persica (Phot. cod. 72.36a.14): ijȘı‫ ޥ‬į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ބ‬IJާȞ IJࠛȞ ʌȜİȚިȞȦȞ ܾ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡİ߿ Į‫ރ‬IJިʌIJȘȞ ȖİȞިȝİȞȠȞ ‫ ݙ‬ʌĮȡߩ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ ȆİȡıࠛȞ, ‫ݏ‬ȞșĮ IJާ ‫ݸ‬ȡߢȞ ȝ‫݋ ޣ‬ȞİȤެȡİȚ Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȞ țĮIJĮıIJ‫ޠ‬ȞIJĮ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȞ ıȣȖȖȡ‫ޠ‬ȥĮȚ (“He says that he was an eyewitness of the majority of things that he relates, or, where seeing was not possible, he was told in person by the Persians themselves, and that in this way he wrote his history.”)

The practice becomes a topos, appearing, for instance, in the novel of Antonius Diogenes. 37

3. The Amores and its hypotexts The reception of the famous banquet from the Odyssey is manifest in another text that has long been linked to the so-called ‘Milesian tradition’ associated with the author Aristides, and, to a lesser extent, with the romantic novel. I refer, of course, to the Amores, attributed to Lucian, whose author, whoever he may have been, created a dialogue of remarkable rhetorical elaboration. The Amores begins with the following address by its protagonist, Lycinus: ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȚț߱Ȣ ʌĮȚįȚߢȢ ‫݌‬IJĮ߿ȡ‫ ޢ‬ȝȠȚ ĬİިȝȞȘıIJİ ‫݋‬ȟ ‫݌‬ȦșȚȞȠࠎ ʌİʌȜ‫ޤ‬ȡȦțĮȢ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ IJ‫ޟ‬ țİțȝȘțިIJĮ ʌȡާȢ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ıȣȞİȤİ߿Ȣ ıʌȠȣį‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫ޕ‬IJĮ … ‫ ݘ‬IJࠛȞ ܻțȠȜ‫ޠ‬ıIJȦȞ ıȠȣ įȚȘȖȘȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ Į‫ݨ‬ȝުȜȘ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖȜȣțİ߿Į ʌİȚșޫ țĮIJİުijȡĮȖțİȞ ‫ޔ‬ıIJߩ ‫ݷ‬ȜަȖȠȣ įİ߿Ȟ ݃ȡȚıIJİަįȘȢ ‫݋‬ȞިȝȚȗȠȞ İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ IJȠ߿Ȣ ȂȚȜȘıȚĮțȠ߿Ȣ ȜިȖȠȚȢ ‫ބ‬ʌİȡțȘȜȠުȝİȞȠȢ… (1.112)

36

See Pretzler [(2007) 44-56] for their influence on later periploi, which extends to Luc. VH 1.8.5: Ȗȡ‫ޠ‬ijȦ IJȠަȞȣȞ ʌİȡ‫ޖ ޥ‬Ȟ ȝ‫ޤ‬IJİ İ‫ݭ‬įȠȞ ȝ‫ޤ‬IJİ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮșȠȞ ȝ‫ޤ‬IJİ ʌĮȡߩ ܿȜȜȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌȣșިȝȘȞ… (“Consequently, I am writing about things that I have neither seen nor experienced nor learned from others…”). See further the introduction in Georgiadou and Larmour (1998) 1-48 and, especially, the commentary on Lucian’s proemium in von Möllendorff (2000) 30-61. 37 İ‫ݧ‬ı‫ޠ‬ȖİIJĮȚ įȚȘȖȠުȝİȞȠȢ ݀ʌİȡ IJİ Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌȜ‫ޠ‬ȞȘȞ șİ‫ޠ‬ıȠȚIJȠ ‫ ݙ‬țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȜȜȦȞ șİĮıĮȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȦȞ ܻț‫ޤ‬țȠİ (“he appears narrating the things he saw himself in his wanderings or also the things he had heard from others who had seen them, Phot. Bibl. 166.109b7-9). Cf. Graverini (2010) for more on this topos.

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Chapter Five (“Theomnestus, my friend, since dawn you have filled our ears, exhausted by unceasing serious pursuits, with erotic jests … The wily and sweet persuasion of your licentious tales has cheered us to such a point that I almost reckoned myself an Aristides thoroughly enraptured by Milesian stories.”)

It should not surprise us by now to find that the expression ‫݋‬ȟ ‫݌‬ȦșȚȞȠࠎ appears in Phaedr. 227a4 and 228b2, Symp. 220c7, and Leg. 722c8, and that the verb țȘȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȝĮȚ, from which the hapax ‫ބ‬ʌİȡțȘȜȠުȝİȞȠȢ derives, is frequent in Plato. 38 Nor is it surprising that as early as the Odyssey a similar expression is used to describe the mood of the Phaeacians after hearing Odysseus’ tales: “they were held spellbound” (țȘȜȘșȝࠜ įߩ ‫ݏ‬ıȤȠȞIJȠ, Od. 11.334; cf. 13.2). Quite likely Homer here had enraptured Plato, as on so many other occasions. It is curious that the context for the dialogue is the annual festival of Hercules, a god who, Lycinus claims, was inflamed by Aphrodite and therefore worth honouring with logoi, and whose festival is mentioned again at the work’s closure in ring composition, at Chapter 54. The opening frame of the dialogue encompasses two further diegetic levels in a Chinese-box structure. The first diegetic level includes the protagonist’s narrative of a trip to Italy, which covers the majority of the work and functions as a second narrative frame that encompasses a trip to Rhodes. Here Lycinus gives ear to tales of local heroes (‫ݘ‬ȡȦȧțȠީȢ ȝުșȠȣȢ ܻȞĮȞİȠުȝİȞȠȢ), which are expounded by interpreters (ʌߢıĮȞ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȞ ܻijȘȖȠުȝİȞȠȚ) in accordance with the narrative rules already observed in the case of Achilles Tatius: ‫݋‬țʌİȡȚȧޫȞ į‫ ޡ‬IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJࠜ ǻȚȠȞȣıަ࠙ ıIJȠ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݌‬ț‫ޠ‬ıIJȘȞ ȖȡĮij‫ޣ‬Ȟ țĮIJެʌIJİȣȠȞ ݀ȝĮ IJࠜ IJ‫ޢ‬ȡʌȠȞIJȚ IJ߱Ȣ ‫ݻ‬ȥİȦȢ… (“Wandering around the porticoes in the temple of Dionysus, I examined each painting, delighting my eyes…”, Amor. 8). In Rhodes, Lycinus undertakes a voyage to Cnidus in the company of two friends, and it is in Cnidus where the second diegetic level is introduced, consisting of an etiological tale about the statue of Aphrodite and a discussion regarding the kind of love which is best, homo- or heterosexual. 39 The story explaining the stain that the travellers discover on Aphrodite’s statue is narrated by the zacoros of the temple, and is introduced 38

24 cases at TLG; e.g. ȆȡȦIJĮȖިȡĮȢ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJȠıĮࠎIJĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠȚĮࠎIJĮ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİȚȟ‫ޠ‬ȝİȞȠȢ ܻʌİʌĮުıĮIJȠ IJȠࠎ ȜިȖȠȣ. țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȗޫ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ʌȠȜީȞ ȤȡިȞȠȞ țİțȘȜȘȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ ‫ݏ‬IJȚ ʌȡާȢ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ ‫ݏ‬ȕȜİʌȠȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ȡȠࠎȞIJ‫ ޠ‬IJȚ, ‫݋‬ʌȚșȣȝࠛȞ ܻțȠުİȚȞ (“Protagoras, after having performed a rhetorical display of such amplitude and quality, ended his speech. And I, already enraptured for a long time, continued to gaze upon him as if he were about to speak, desiring to hear him”, Pl. Prot. 328d3-7). 39 For the enduring influence of the Phaedrus on these types of discussions, both here and in other works of the 2nd century A.D., see above, n. 29 and below, n. 59.

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with a now familiar formula: ‫ ݘ‬į‫ ޡ‬ʌĮȡİıIJࠛıĮ ʌȜȘıަȠȞ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ ȗ‫ޠ‬țȠȡȠȢ ܻʌަıIJȠȣ ȜިȖȠȣ țĮȚȞ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌĮȡ‫ޢ‬įȦțİȞ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȞ·… (“the deaconess, standing at our side, delivered the extraordinary account of an incredible story”, 15). The story that follows relates how a young man fell in love with the goddess’ statue, managed to hide in the temple in order to satisfy his lust, and as a result of doing so left a blemish on the image. The zacoros’ story is longer and rhetorically more elaborate than that of the ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ in Xenophon of Ephesus, but it remains an oral tale circulated among the townsfolk (‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬įȘȝެįȘȢ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡİ߿ ȜިȖȠȢ, Amor. 29). Moreover, although the author does not specify that the zacoros is an old woman, she very well may have been, as will be shown below. At the level of expression, we here encounter an important variant, since the story begins in indirect speech but ends up in direct speech, a process that appears as early as Xen. Eph. 3.11.4-5, to cite just one example. In addition, the story is an example of a kind of eros and draws on literary antecedents. 40 In Imagines 4, Lucian offers a synopsis of the same story and declares it a ȝࠎșȠȢ “that the natives tell: how someone fell in love with the statue and, hidden away secretly in the temple, had intercourse with it, to the degree he could” ([ܻȜȜ‫ ޟ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ȝࠎșȠȞ ‫ݛ‬țȠȣıĮȢ,] ‫ݺ‬Ȟ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȣıȚȞ Ƞ‫݋ ݨ‬ʌȚȤެȡȚȠȚ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJ߱Ȣ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ȡĮıșİަȘ IJȚȢ IJȠࠎ ܻȖ‫ޠ‬ȜȝĮIJȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȜĮșޫȞ ‫ބ‬ʌȠȜİȚijșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫ݨ‬İȡࠜ ıȣȖȖ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȚIJȠ ‫ސ‬Ȣ įȣȞĮIJާȞ ܻȖ‫ޠ‬ȜȝĮIJȚ, Imag. 4.7-10). The existence of parallel contemporary examples (Paus. 6.9.1; 7.20.6) corroborates the oral circulation of this type of story. Lycinus thus listens to stories avidly as an Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȢ (‘ear-witness’), and narrates his own as an Į‫ރ‬IJȠʌĮș‫ޤ‬Ȣ. The text has a mixed character, since it is a hybrid between Platonic dialogue and novelistic fiction. The narrator characterises his stay in Cnidus and his conversations there as “at the same time pleasant seriousness and cultured play” (ıʌȠȣį‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݨ‬ȜĮȡ‫ޟ‬Ȟ ݀ȝĮ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ʌĮȚįȚ‫ޟ‬Ȟ İ‫އ‬ȝȠȣıȠȞ, 53), a combination that reappears in other passages. 41 It thus constitutes a type of spoudogeloion, a genre with roots in the Socratic dialogues that continues in the satirical tradition, as can be appreciated, especially in Menippean satire. Bakhtin, who considered Menippean to be

40 A well-known antecedent is Euripides Alcestis 348f. [Trenkner (1958) 66ff.], and the idea recurs in Apuleius (Met. 8.7.28). Athenaeus (13.590e.8) mentions a zacoros of Aphrodite in connection with Hyperides and his speech in defense of the beautiful Phryne, model for the statue of Aphrodite. See Williamson (2005) 239, n. 91 for further examples. 41 See the expressions ıʌȠȣį߱Ȣ ‫ݨ‬ȜĮȡࠛȢ (Amor. 4. 5-7); ȆĮȚįȚߢȢ… țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȜȦIJȠȢ … țĮ‫ޥ‬ ıʌȠȣįĮ߿ȠȞ (5.1-3); İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ‫ݨ‬ȜĮȡަĮȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝİIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޢ‬ȡȥİȦȢ … ıʌȠȣį‫ޤ‬Ȟ (17. 23).

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a proto-phase of the novel, makes note of this. 42 According to his theory, Plato’s Symposium is considered to be the first Greek novel, 43 and Amores would fit comfortably within this trajectory. But spoudogeloion assumes various forms and functions in the ancient world, and it is not the distinguishing characteristic of any one genre in particular, although the Platonic model is fundamental for the Amores. Thus, the descent of the Amores from the fabula Milesia, whatever form it may take, has often been emphasised, 44 and serves as proof that this genre could reach even a learned audience, such as the Amores dialogue’s interlocutors. Accordingly, account should be taken of the Amores when reconstructing the Milesian tradition, which we shall discuss shortly. The zacoros fulfills the same function here as the exegetes and aged narrators of the earlier passages. She also has an antecedent—although not necessarily inspired by it—in the old servant of Aphrodite, a zacoros, at Callirhoe 3.6.3ff., who is introduced with the now familiar formula, IJ߱Ȣ ȗĮțިȡȠȣ ʌĮȡȠުıȘȢ. She goes on to tell Chaereas and his friend, Polycharmus, another etiological tale, the local history of a gold statue that they are admiring in her temple. It is in fact a statue of Callirhoe, which, for the natives, is an authentic double of the goddess: șİĮıĮȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȘ į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ ‫ ݘ‬ȗ‫ޠ‬țȠȡȠȢ … İ‫ݭ‬ʌİ “ș‫ޠ‬ȡȡİȚ IJ‫ޢ‬țȞȠȞ … ‫ݸ‬ȡߣȢ İ‫ݧ‬țިȞĮ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Ȥȡȣı߱Ȟ; Į‫ވ‬IJȘ įȠުȜȘ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݝ‬Ȟ ‫ ݘ‬į‫݃ ޡ‬ijȡȠįަIJȘ ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ țȣȡަĮȞ ʌİʌȠަȘțİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޤ‬Ȟ” (“When the attendant saw him, she said “Don´t be afraid, my son. Do you see the golden image? She was a slave, and Aphrodite has made her mistress of all of us”.)

Later on, the zacoros, now styled a priestess and a ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ, tells the heroine of the impact that her image has had on the strangers: ȝȚțȡާȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ įȚĮȜȚʌȠࠎıĮ țĮȜİ߿ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ޢݨ‬ȡİȚĮȞÂ ‫ ݘ‬į‫ ޡ‬ʌȡİıȕࠎIJȚȢ ‫ބ‬ʌĮțȠުıĮıĮ “IJަ țȜ‫ޠ‬İȚȢ” İ‫ݭ‬ʌİȞ “‫ ޕ‬ʌĮȚįަȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ܻȖĮșȠ߿Ȣ IJȘȜȚțȠުIJȠȚȢ; ‫ݛ‬įȘ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ı‫ސ ޡ‬Ȣ șİ‫ޟ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȚ ʌȡȠıțȣȞȠࠎıȚ. ʌȡެȘȞ ‫ݝ‬ȜșȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟș‫ޠ‬įİ įުȠ ȞİĮȞަıțȠȚ țĮȜȠ‫ޥ‬ ʌĮȡĮʌȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȞIJİȢÂ ‫ ݸ‬į‫ݐ ޡ‬IJİȡȠȢ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ șİĮı‫ޠ‬ȝİȞިȢ ıȠȣ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ İ‫ݧ‬țިȞĮ ȝȚțȡȠࠎ įİ߿Ȟ ‫݋‬ȟ‫ޢ‬ʌȞİȣıİȞ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦȢ ‫݋‬ʌȚijĮȞ߱ ıİ ‫݃ ݘ‬ijȡȠįަIJȘ ʌİʌȠަȘțİȞ.” (3.9.2)

42 Bakhtin (1979) with Graverini’s commentary (2007a) 139. Attention is drawn to the mixture of pleasure and pain already at Phaed. 59a5-6, as noted by Tarrant (1996), although Gorgias, according to Arist. Rh. 1419b3, had himself emphasised earlier that one must refute the seriousness of opponents with laughter, and their laughter with seriousness. 43 Graverini [(2007a) 139ff.] makes this point well; cf. p. 155. 44 Cf. below, section 5.

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(“Consequently, after a short time, she called the priestess. The old woman when called, said, ‘why are you crying, my child, in such a good fortune? For strangers are now worshipping you even like a goddess. The other day, two handsome young boys sailed by here, and one of them, when he saw your image, almost fainted. So famous Aphrodite has made you’”.)

The function of this episode in Chariton is to pull together the threads of the plot, just as in the Ephesian Tale, which echoes Chariton’s text. In both cases contemporary events, that is, real events, are narrated. In the Amores, however, one finds a traditional tale embedded into the thread of the plot. All three instances are concerned with local stories, which differ among themselves typologically and which at the same time are different from the anilis fabula in origin, content, structure and function. Chariton frequently employs the adjectives ʌĮȡ‫ޠ‬įȠȟȠȞ, ܿʌȚıIJȠȞ, and țĮȚȞިȞ to refer to his plot, 45 adjectives that are shared with Amores: both texts deal with a tale that seems incredible but is true (Chariton) or is accepted as true by the natives (Amores).

4. Milesian tales In an earlier study I argued as to whether the erotic episode of Callirhoe and Dionysius in Miletus, in Chariton´s novel, alludes to the ‘Milesian tradition’, a question that Bowie has addressed in a stimulating article, in which he rejects the possibility. 46 Unquestionably, the reconstruction of Aristides’ Milesiae is extremely difficult. Only one word of the original Greek is preserved, įİȡȝȘıIJȒȢ, ‘worm which eats skin or leather’, 47 cited by the lexicographer Harpocration (88.12), 48 along with ten short expressions or phrases, some in verse, from the translation of the erudite historian Sisenna of ca. 80 B.C. Taken together, these allow us to deduce that the work contained at least thirteen books. Chariton does seem to allude to an erotic narrative tradition of a less chaste nature than that of the romantic novel, the Sybaritic, when he has the pirate Theron sell Callirhoe by feigning that she was a slave sold by her mistress, an aristocrat of Sybaris, due to jealousy (ȖȣȞ‫ ޣ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȈȣȕĮȡ߿IJȚȢ, İ‫ރ‬įĮȚȝȠȞİıIJ‫ޠ‬IJȘ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬țİ߿, țĮȜȜަıIJȘȞ ݀ȕȡĮȞ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȣıĮ įȚ‫ ޟ‬ȗȘȜȠIJȣʌަĮȞ ‫݋‬ʌެȜȘıİȞ 45

Cf. Char. 2.8.3: ‫ ޑ‬țĮȚȞȠࠎ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ʌަıIJȠȣ ʌȡ‫ޠ‬ȖȝĮIJȠȢ; 6.2.11: ʌȡߢȖȝĮ ʌĮȡ‫ޠ‬įȠȟȠȞ, ȝߢȜȜȠȞ į‫ܿ ޡ‬ʌȚıIJȠȞ. 46 Bowie [(2013a) 251, n. 32] referring to Ruiz-Montero (1996). 47 Ingleheart (2010) on Ov. Trist. 2.413-414. 48 Further examples in LSJ. On the Milesiae and their tradition, see Harrison (1998), Benz (2001) and, mainly the study of Jensson (2004) in addition to the above cited Bowie (2013a). See also Núñez (n.18) in this volume.

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‫݋‬Ȗޫ į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ʌȡȚ‫ޠ‬ȝȘȞ…, “A Sybaritic woman, the richest in the town, who had a most beautiful maid, sold her out of jealousy, and I bought her…”, 1.12.8). However, it is in Miletus that Dionysius, a widower who is rich and a lover of women (ܿȞįȡĮ ʌȜȠުıȚȠȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ijȚȜȠȖުȞĮȚȠȞ) falls in love with Callirhoe (ǻȚȠȞުıȚȠȞ ʌȜȠުIJ࠙ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞİȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌĮȚįİަߠ IJࠛȞ ܿȜȜȦȞ ‫ެݯ‬ȞȦȞ ‫ބ‬ʌİȡ‫ޢ‬ȤȠȞIJĮ ijަȜȠȞ IJȠࠎ ȝİȖ‫ޠ‬ȜȠȣ ȕĮıȚȜ‫ޢ‬ȦȢ… IJ‫ޢ‬șȞȘțİ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ ‫ ݘ‬ȖȣȞ‫ݞ ޣ‬Ȣ ‫ݛ‬ȡĮ “Dionysius, who is superior to the rest of the Ionians in wealth, lineage and learning, a friend of the Great King ... His wife, whom he loved, has died”, 1.12.6-7). Sybaris and Miletus share a reputation, well attested since Aristophanes, 49 as cities of loose mores, which Athenaeus (12.519ff.) confirms at length. By the 5th century B.C. there existed stories known as Sybariticoi logoi / mythoi, or Sybaritica, and Milesiacoi logoi, or Milesiaca. We know the names of a few local historians who wrote either Milesiaca or Peri Miletou, mentioned in both Aristotle and the Imperial scholia to Parthenius 14 and 16, an author who sets six of his Erotica pathemata in Miletus. 50 In her discussion of the topic, Trenkner distinguishes stories concerning local traditions or glorious past accomplishments from often comic or ridiculous anecdotes about a man or a woman from Sybaris, which are topped off with a moral. She also observes that it is illogical to suppose that comic and ridiculous stories involving citizens of Sybaris originated there, as this is equally true for Miletus. These Sybaritic tales often have an erotic dimension, although not necessarily an obscene one. But whether heroic or comic, they are traditional stories of oral origin grouped under a single title. Trenkner adds that stories like that of the ephebe of Pergamum or the matron of Ephesus, recounted in Petronius and often associated with the Milesian tradition, also appear in other Greek settings and in other genres. One of these is the Aesopic fable, which Aristophanes cites along with the Sybariticoi logoi in the context of a symposium. 51 Trenkner concludes that the characters in all these stories were originally types that only received names during a later phase of development.

49

Vesp. 1259; 1427-1440; Pax 344; Lys. 108-110. Plut. Cras. 32.4, which links Milesiae and Sybaris, as Ath. 12.484ff. does with Syracuse and Sybaris. See below, n. 51. 50 Trenkner (1958) 171. Harder [(2013) 101] cites the ȁİ]Į̙ȞįȡަįİȢ … ʌĮȜĮȚĮަ… ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡަĮȚ mentioned at Callim. Aetia fr. 92.2-3 Pf. as a source of the history of Melicertes, which would thus mean that the poet is referring to Milesiaca of Leandrius of Miletus, thought to be a local history. 51 Vesp. 1259: ǹ‫ݧ‬ıȦʌȚțާȞ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȜȠȚȠȞ ‫ ݙ‬ȈȣȕĮȡȚIJȚțިȞ / ‫ޖ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ȝĮșİȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJࠜ ıȣȝʌȠıަ࠙.

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As is well known, rhetorical handbooks preserve information about various traditional tales, and the Sybaritic ones are documented in Theon Progymn.73 in the section he dedicates to ȝࠎșȠȚ (‘fables’): țĮȜȠࠎȞIJĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬ǹ‫ݧ‬ıެʌİȚȠȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȁȚȕȣıIJȚțȠ‫ ݙ ޥ‬ȈȣȕĮȡȚIJȚțȠަ IJİ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ĭȡުȖȚȠȚ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ȀȚȜަțȚȠȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȀĮȡȚțȠ‫ ޥ‬ǹ‫ݧ‬ȖުʌIJȚȠȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȀުʌȡȚȠȚ· IJȠުIJȦȞ į‫ ޡ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȞ ȝަĮ ‫݋‬ıIJ‫ޥ‬ ʌȡާȢ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȠȣȢ įȚĮijȠȡ‫ޠ‬, IJާ ʌȡȠıțİަȝİȞȠȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݌‬ț‫ޠ‬ıIJȠȣ ‫ݫ‬įȚȠȞ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ ǹ‫ݫ‬ıȦʌȠȢ İ‫ݭ‬ʌİȞ ‫ ݙ‬ȁަȕȣȢ ܻȞ‫ޤ‬ȡ ‫ ݙ‬ȈȣȕĮȡަIJȘȢ ‫ ݙ‬ȀȣʌȡަĮ ȖȣȞ‫ޤ‬, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ IJȡިʌȠȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ ܿȜȜȦȞÂ ‫ޟ݋‬Ȟ į‫ ޡ‬ȝȘįİȝަĮ ‫ބ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȡȤ߯ ʌȡȠıș‫ޤ‬țȘ ıȘȝĮަȞȠȣıĮ IJާ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ țȠȚȞȠIJ‫ޢ‬ȡȦȢ IJާȞ IJȠȚȠࠎIJȠȞ ǹ‫ݧ‬ıެʌİȚȠȞ țĮȜȠࠎȝİȞ (“These are called Aesopic and Libyan or Sybaritic and Phrygian and Cilician and Carian, Egyptian and Cyprian. But the one difference among them is the particular origin appended to each, for example, ‘Aesop said,’ or ‘a Libyan man,’ or ‘a Sybarite,’ or ‘a Cyprian woman,’ and in the same manner in all the other cases. But if no addition indicating origin is present, we commonly call such a tale ‘Aesopic’.”) 52

Milesiaca are never cited in rhetorical progymnasmata. Nevertheless, extrapolation by analogy from the Sybariticoi logoi can shed some light on Aristides and his Milesiae. Ovid, for instance, connects the two in Trist. 2.413-417: iunxit Aristides Milesia crimina secum, / pulsus Aristides nec tamen urbe sua est. … / nec qui composuit nuper Sybaritica, fugit (“Aristides linked his Milesian crimes to himself / and Aristides was nevertheless not expelled from his city. … / Nor did that man flee, who recently composed Sybaritic tales”). However, Ovid here refers by analogy to two recent works known to his readers, and not to older tales of a traditional and local nature. But at Trist. 2.443-444 Ovid adds: vertit Aristiden Sisenna, nec obfuit illi / historiae turpes inseruisse iocos (“Sisenna translated Aristides, nor did it cause him trouble to have introduced obscene jests into his narrative”). 53 Plutarch (Crassus 32.4) confirms that the Milesiae were famous above all else for the obscene nature of their tales: ܻțިȜĮıIJĮ ȕȚȕȜަĮ IJࠛȞ ݃ȡȚıIJİަįȠȣ ȂȚȜȘıȚĮțࠛȞ. The title of the work may have been due to its contents, its tone or the home city of its author, but it is worth noting that neither was Philip of Amphipolis, author of the Rodiaca, another obscene work, from Rhodes, nor Heliodorus from Ethiopia. Nor was Lollianus, author of the Phoenicica, necessarily from Phoenicia, nor the author of the Ephesian Tale 52 Hermogenes (1.10) and Aphthonius (10.1) classify their mythoi according to the creator of each type, and they use the term ‘Aesopic’ as a generic name. Nicolaus (6.20) distinguishes all of these from the mythica diegemata that refer to gods, metamorphoses, and similar topics. See Bowie [(2013a) 254, n. 40] for the Sybaritic stories at Aelian VH 9.24 and 14.20 as different from Milesian tales. The scholarly context is similar for both story-types. 53 Ingleheart (2010) on Trist. 2.443-444.

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from Ephesus. We should add that the author of the Ass is from Patrae, but sets his tale in Thessaly, without Patrae appearing in the narrative. What does seem certain from Ovid is that the work involved a first-person narrative, which is corroborated by the ‘Milesian tradition’, which does in fact present common compositional characteristics. By this ‘tradition’ we mean works like the Ass, attributed to Lucian, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, which aligns itself to the genre with its sermone isto Milesio (1.1.1, repeated at 4.32.17), 54 the lost Metamorphoses of Lucius of Patrae, described by Photius, cod. 129, Petronius, and, probably, the Amores. Nonetheless, it should be kept foremost in our minds that the original Milesiaca need not coincide at all points with what are taken as later examples within this tradition, since the latter would already form part of the former tales’ reception and, thereby, their interpretation and transformation. According to Photius, cod. 129, 96b ff., Lucian’s Ass was drawn from the first two books of Lucius’ Metamorphoses: țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ ܻʌާ ʌȜ‫ޠ‬IJȠȣȢ IJࠛȞ ȁȠȣțަȠȣ ȜިȖȦȞ ‫ ݸ‬ȁȠȣțȚĮȞާȢ ܻʌȠȜİʌIJުȞĮȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌİȡȚİȜޫȞ ‫ݼ‬ıĮ ȝ‫݋ ޣ‬įިțİȚ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ ʌȡާȢ IJާȞ Ƞ‫ݧ‬țİ߿ȠȞ Ȥȡ‫ޤ‬ıȚȝĮ ıțȠʌިȞ, Į‫ރ‬IJĮ߿Ȣ IJİ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȟİıȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȞIJ‫ޠ‬ȟİıȚȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ‫ݐ‬ȞĮ IJ‫ ޟ‬ȜȠȚʌ‫ ޟ‬ıȣȞĮȡȝިıĮȢ ȜިȖȠȞ, “ȁȠࠎțȚȢ ‫ݙ‬ ‫ށ‬ȞȠȢ” ‫݋‬ʌ‫ޢ‬ȖȡĮȥİ IJާ ‫݋‬țİ߿șİȞ ‫ބ‬ʌȠıȣȜȘș‫ޢ‬Ȟ. Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȝİȚ į‫݌ ݸ ޡ‬țĮIJ‫ޢ‬ȡȠȣ ȜިȖȠȢ ʌȜĮıȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ȝȣșȚțࠛȞ, ܻȡȡȘIJȠʌȠȚ߾ĮȢ į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ݧ‬ıȤȡߢȢ. ʌȜ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ ݸ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ȁȠȣțȚĮȞާȢ ıțެʌIJȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įȚĮıުȡȦȞ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݒ‬ȜȜȘȞȚț‫ޣ‬Ȟ įİȚıȚįĮȚȝȠȞަĮȞ, ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ țܻȞ IJȠ߿Ȣ ܿȜȜȠȚȢ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠࠎIJȠȞ ıȣȞ‫ޢ‬IJĮIJIJİȞ. ‫ ݸ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȁȠުțȚȠȢ ıʌȠȣį‫ޠ‬ȗȦȞ IJİ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌȚıIJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ȞȠȝަȗȦȞ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ȟ ܻȞșȡެʌȦȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȠȣȢ ȝİIJĮȝȠȡijެıİȚȢ IJ‫ޠ‬Ȣ IJİ ‫݋‬ȟ ܻȜިȖȦȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ܻȞșȡެʌȠȣȢ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬Ȟ‫ޠ‬ʌĮȜȚȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ܿȜȜȠȞ IJࠛȞ ʌĮȜĮȚࠛȞ ȝުșȦȞ ‫ވ‬șȜȠȞ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ijȜ‫ޤ‬ȞĮijȠȞ, ȖȡĮij߲ ʌĮȡİįަįȠȣ IJĮࠎIJĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȞުijĮȚȞİȞ. (“Lucian, condensing and eliminating some parts from the whole expanse of Lucius’ work – all the elements that did not seem to him useful for his own purpose –, and combining the rest into one book with the same words and constructions, gave the title ‘Lucian or the Ass’ to what he extracted from there. The narrative of each is full of fantastic fictions on the one hand and unmentionable obscenity on the other. Yet Lucian assembled this work around ridiculing and disparaging Greek superstition, in the same manner as he did in his other works. Lucius, however, has a serious purpose. He also accepts as trustworthy that men can be transformed into other men and that animals can be changed into men and vice versa; also

54 See Keulen’s commentary (2007a). De Jong (2001) had already insisted on the importance of a Platonic model for the prologue. Likewise very useful is Kahane and Laird (2001). At Ov. Met. 4.37f. the daughters of Minyas lighten their labour vario sermone: cf. S. West (2013).

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the other nonsense and drivel in ancient tales, he set these things down in writing and wove them together.”)

From this we can infer that, in addition to the story of the ass, the works of Lucius of Patrae may also have involved other metamorphoses, either as episodes or as tales, directly or indirectly related. Consequently, the paradoxographic character may have been a fundamental characteristic of the Milesia, in the same way as the presence of inset narratives. The recently published P.Oxy. LXX 4762, which narrates in the third person a sexual act between an ass and a woman in a fashion similar to Ass 51-52 and Met. 10.19-22, is of paramount importance as a document of how a single story can be adapted to different literary formats. The multiple versions attest to the story’s popularity, as does iconographic evidence from the 2nd and 3rd centuries A.D., which Stramaglia emphasises. 55 A connection to the fabula Milesia was proposed as long ago as the editio princeps, but May has suggested that the fragment may belong to the Aristides’ Milesiae, and Stramaglia that it could be a short tale inserted into a larger narrative, or could have formed a part of a pornographic collection. 56 We should add that the ‘Milesian tradition’ also allows for a type of chaste love story, which we can observe if we look at the tales of Cupid and Psyche, Charite and her fiancé (Ass 22 and Met. 7.12-8.14), and Plotina (Met. 7.6-7). 57 The Milesiae with which we are familiar, bring together narrative typologies that are not only merely different, but in fact contrary to one another. Consequently, Aristides’ Milesiae may have already constituted a novel with a complex narrative, whose narrator would have been not only Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȢ but also Į‫ރ‬IJȠʌĮș‫ޤ‬Ȣ or Į‫ރ‬IJިʌIJȘȢ. 58 In all the novels, a combination of genres, of models and of narrative types can certainly be discerned. As a result of this, we cannot know to what extent the voyages of Dinias that Antonius Diogenes narrates may have been influenced by a Milesian schema. Although its author presents Dinias as an eye- as well as an ear-witness (Phot. Bibl. 166.109b7-9), we have seen that these categories can also be traced to the historiographic and, before that, epic tradition. In view of the evidence adduced here, it seems possible to connect the fabula Milesia and the episode between Callirhoe and Dionysius cited above.

55

Stramaglia (2010) 176-185. May (2010). 57 See Nuñez, n.29 in this volume. 58 Paus. 8.41.10 presents this same opposition. 56

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5. Plato and the Milesian tradition An illustration of the fact that the ancients did not make such clear-cut divisions between genres as we do today is the reception of the works of Plato, an author upon whose importance as a narrator one should insist. Earlier we mentioned two fundamental narrative models, the Odyssey and the Ionian logography, and their subsequent development. We have also seen the importance of Plato’s dialogues as hypotexts for a good portion of Imperial narrative. 59 It is worth asking, therefore, whether evidence of Plato’s influence is limited solely to the imitation of specific passages, phrasing and particular doctrines, or if his imprint runs deeper and whether he should be considered as yet another of the grand narrative models for the Milesia. It is striking how often Plato’s dialogues begin with the mention of a journey as a vehicle ‘for listening and speaking,’ as at Symp. 173b: ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȢ į‫ݸ ݘ ޡ‬įާȢ ‫ ݘ‬İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ܿıIJȣ ‫݋‬ʌȚIJȘįİަĮ ʌȠȡİȣȠȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȚȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖİȚȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȠުİȚȞ. In fact, Plato is the classical author who most often employs the verb ܻțȠުȦ, surpassed in the Imperial period by Plutarch, an author with Platonic tendencies. 60 But, as is well known, an opening scene in which the dialogue’s protagonists, upon falling in with a group of beautiful young men – paidika – on their way somewhere, get into a conversation about love or other philosophical topics, appears in a great number of Platonic dialogues. Here I provide some examples, in which verbs of motion are combined with other significant phrases: ‫ݫ‬ȦȝİȞ ʌĮȡߩ Į‫ރ‬IJިȞ· ܿȡIJȚ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬Ȟș‫ޢ‬Ȟįİ Ƞ‫ݫ‬țĮįİ Ƞ‫ݫ‬ȤİIJĮȚ, Ƞ‫ݧ‬țİ߿ į‫݋ ޡ‬ȖȖީȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȂİȜަIJ߯. IJĮࠎIJĮ İ‫ݧ‬ʌިȞIJİȢ ‫݋‬ȕĮįަȗȠȝİȞ… (Parm. 126c-127a). Also of interest are the following passages from the Protagoras: ȝ‫ޤ‬ʌȦ, ܻȖĮș‫ޢ‬, ‫݋‬țİ߿ıİ ‫ݫ‬ȦȝİȞ—ʌȡ࠘ Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȡ ‫݋‬ıIJȚȞ—ܻȜȜ‫ ޟ‬įİࠎȡȠ ‫݋‬ȟĮȞĮıIJࠛȝİȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Į‫ރ‬Ȝ‫ޤ‬Ȟ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌİȡȚȚިȞIJİȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ įȚĮIJȡަȥȦȝİȞ ‫ݐ‬ȦȢ ܽȞ ijࠛȢ Ȗ‫ޢ‬ȞȘIJĮȚ· İ‫ݭ‬IJĮ ‫ݫ‬ȦȝİȞ… (“Let us not yet go there, my friend—for it is early—but let us step out here into the courtyard and let us pass the time there walking around until the light comes. Then let us go …”, 311a); ‫ݫ‬ȦȝİȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȠުıȦȝİȞ IJȠࠎ ܻȞįȡިȢ, ‫ݏ‬ʌİȚIJĮ ܻțȠުıĮȞIJİȢ țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȜȜȠȚȢ ܻȞĮțȠȚȞȦıެȝİșĮ (“Let us go and listen to the man. Then, after we have heard him, let us also share this with others”, 314b); ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬į‫ޖ ޡ‬Ȟ įȚİȜ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȞIJȠ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫݋‬įȣȞ‫ޠ‬ȝȘȞ ‫ݏ‬ȖȦȖİ ȝĮșİ߿Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ȟȦșİȞ, țĮަʌİȡ ȜȚʌĮȡࠛȢ ‫ݏ‬ȤȦȞ ܻțȠުİȚȞ IJȠࠎ ȆȡȠįަțȠȣ—ʌ‫ޠ‬ııȠijȠȢ Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȡ … (“From outside I 59

Cf. n. 29, above. Plato’s strengths as a narrator are cogently explored by Gill (1993); see also Halperin (1989); Tarrant (1996) thinks that Plato imitates storytelling-practices: see above Tarrant, this volume, and Introduction, n. 12. 60 See Tarrant (1999), a fundamental study. The adjective ijȚȜ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȢ also appears in Plato, seven times and in conjunction with ijȚȜȠșİ‫ޠ‬ȝȦȞ (R. 476b4), ijȚȜȠȝĮș‫ޤ‬Ȣ (R. 535d4) and ijȚȜިȝȠȣıȠȞ (R. 548e5), foreshadowing Philo, Plutarch and Dio Chrysostom.

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was unable to understand what they were discussing, although being anxious to hear Prodicus—for he is most wise …”, 315e); ȆȡȦIJĮȖިȡĮȢ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJȠıĮࠎIJĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠȚĮࠎIJĮ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİȚȟ‫ޠ‬ȝİȞȠȢ ܻʌİʌĮުıĮIJȠ IJȠࠎ ȜިȖȠȣ. țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬Ȗޫ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ʌȠȜީȞ ȤȡިȞȠȞ țİțȘȜȘȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ ‫ݏ‬IJȚ ʌȡާȢ Į‫ރ‬IJާȞ ‫ݏ‬ȕȜİʌȠȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ȡȠࠎȞIJ‫ ޠ‬IJȚ, ‫݋‬ʌȚșȣȝࠛȞ ܻțȠުİȚȞ (“Protagoras, after having performed a rhetorical display of such amplitude and quality, ended his speech. And I, still enraptured and eager to hear him, kept gazing upon him as if he were about to speak”, Prot. 328d). The same scenario plays out when those making the journey are older, such as the three protagonists of the Laws, who, en route to the cave and temple of Idaean Zeus in Crete, set themselves to talk and listen throughout the journey (Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȞIJ‫ޠ‬Ȣ IJİ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȠުȠȞIJĮȢ ݀ȝĮ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌȠȡİަĮȞ, 625a): ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞIJȦȢ įߩ ‫ ݜ‬Ȗİ ‫݋‬ț ȀȞȦıȠࠎ ‫ݸ‬įާȢ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާ IJȠࠎ ǻȚާȢ ܿȞIJȡȠȞ țĮ‫ݨ ޥ‬İȡިȞ, ‫ސ‬Ȣ ܻțȠުȠȝİȞ, ‫ݨ‬țĮȞ‫ޤ‬, țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬Ȟ‫ޠ‬ʌĮȣȜĮȚ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݸ‬įިȞ, ‫ސ‬Ȣ İ‫ݧ‬țިȢ, ʌȞަȖȠȣȢ ‫ݻ‬ȞIJȠȢ IJ‫ޟ‬ ȞࠎȞ, ‫݋‬Ȟ IJȠ߿Ȣ ‫ބ‬ȥȘȜȠ߿Ȣ į‫ޢ‬ȞįȡİıަȞ İ‫ݧ‬ıȚ ıțȚĮȡĮަ, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJĮ߿Ȣ ‫ݘ‬ȜȚțަĮȚȢ ʌȡ‫ޢ‬ʌȠȞ ܽȞ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ İ‫ݫ‬Ș IJާ įȚĮȞĮʌĮުİıșĮȚ ʌȣțȞ‫݋ ޟ‬Ȟ Į‫ރ‬IJĮ߿Ȣ, ȜިȖȠȚȢ IJİ ܻȜȜ‫ޤ‬ȜȠȣȢ ʌĮȡĮȝȣșȠȣȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȣȢ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݸ‬įާȞ ݀ʌĮıĮȞ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦ ȝİIJ‫ߠࠍ ޟ‬ıIJެȞȘȢ įȚĮʌİȡߢȞĮȚ (625a-b). (“The road from Cnosos to the cave and shrine of Zeus is, as we hear, considerable, and there are shady resting places along the road among the tall trees, as one would expect in view of the current stifling heat. It would be fitting to our age to pause frequently in these, and encouraging each other with conversation to traverse the whole road with ease in this manner.”)

This theme which has become a literary topos appears also at the beginning of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: 61 impertite sermone non quidem curiosum sed qui velim scire vel cuncta vel certe plurima; simul iugi quod insurgimus aspritudinem fabularum lepida iucunditas levigabit (1.2.6; cf. 1.20.5). (“Make me a party to your conversation, for indeed I am not meddlesome, but I am the sort of person who likes to know everything or at least most things. At the same time the charm of amusing stories will smooth out the roughness of the hill we are climbing”.)

References to loci amoeni in the Laws, where the protagonists can rest and converse (ܻȞĮʌĮȣިȝİȞȠȚ įȚĮIJȡަȕȠȚȝİȞ ܿȞ …), recall the opening of Phaedrus 229a and 230b-c, which develops along similar lines. 62 It is these 61 Keulen [(2007a) 109-113] quotes Hld. 6.2.2 and other ancient texts, but not Plato, though the Phaedrus is mentioned together with Hld. 2.21.6 at p. 354. 62 ʌȠȡİުȠȝĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬ʌȡާȢ ʌİȡަʌĮIJȠȞ ‫ݏ‬ȟȦ IJİަȤȠȣȢ· ıȣȤȞާȞ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬țİ߿ įȚ‫ޢ‬IJȡȚȥĮ ȤȡިȞȠȞ țĮș‫ޤ‬ȝİȞȠȢ ‫݋‬ȟ ‫݌‬ȦșȚȞȠࠎ. IJࠜ į‫ ޡ‬ıࠜ țĮ‫݋ ޥ‬ȝࠜ ‫݌‬IJĮަȡ࠙ ʌİȚșިȝİȞȠȢ ݃țȠȣȝİȞࠜ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ

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loci amoeni in whose shade it is proper that we too detain ourselves for a spell. Phaedrus is a willing victim of his own well-known passion for listening to speeches, and has dragged Socrates all over Attica to hear them (‫ݏ‬ȖȦȖߩ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦȢ ‫݋‬ʌȚIJİșުȝȘțĮ ܻțȠࠎıĮȚ …, 227d). Again in the Phaedrus, therefore, the traveller should give time to listening (ʌİުı߯, İ‫ ݫ‬ıȠȚ ıȤȠȜ‫ޣ‬ ʌȡȠȧިȞIJȚ ܻțȠުİȚȞ, 227b). This time, the listening involves a book, which Phaedrus has been up reading since dawn (‫݋‬ȟ ‫݌‬ȦșȚȞȠࠎ țĮș‫ޤ‬ȝİȞȠȢ …, 228b), just as the protagonist of the Amores spent the early hours engrossed in Milesian tales.63 Here, too, there is a nearby altar, in this case of Boreas (țĮ‫ޥ‬ ʌȠު IJަȢ ‫݋‬ıIJȚ ȕȦȝާȢ Į‫ރ‬IJިșȚ ǺȠȡ‫ޢ‬Ƞȣ, 229c). The locus amoenus of the Phaedrus is the perfect spot not only to sit and listen to a speech (țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJާȞ ‫ݯ‬ȜȚıާȞ ‫ݫ‬ȦȝİȞ, İ‫ݭ‬IJĮ ‫ݼ‬ʌȠȣ ܽȞ įިȟ߯ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫ݘ‬ıȣȤަߠ țĮșȚȗȘıިȝİșĮ), but also, as we know, to recount a myth. Another point of overlap with the texts surveyed above, is that Plato presents Socrates as a “stranger informed by a guide”64 (ܻIJİȤȞࠛȢ Ȗ‫ޠ‬ȡ, ‫ݺ‬ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖİȚȢ, ȟİȞĮȖȠȣȝ‫ޢ‬Ȟ࠙ IJȚȞ‫ ޥ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫݋‬ʌȚȤȦȡަ࠙ ‫ݏ‬ȠȚțĮȢ, 230d). Noteworthy also is the relationship that the text posits between the truth and the verisimilitude of a story, which we have seen as a theme going back to the Odyssey and is alluded to in the Incredible things beyond Thule, the True Histories and the Amores. The same could be said of the conflict that the Phaedrus envisions between orality and writing (257d; 274b), exemplified through the ancient ܻțȠ‫ ޤ‬about Theuth. The priority that Plato grants to orality also allows the dialogue to be considered as a ‘hypotext’ for those other Imperial works that adopt the form of an oral representation, often set at symposia, which were also a social and literary commonplace of the era.65 Given all this, the Phaedrus must be understood as a fundamental intertext

‫ݸ‬įȠީȢ ʌȠȚȠࠎȝĮȚ IJȠީȢ ʌİȡȚʌ‫ޠ‬IJȠȣȢ (“I am going on a stroll outside the walls. For I spent a long time there, seated since dawn. But convinced by Acoumenus, your friend and mine, I am taking my walks along the roads”, 227a2). 63 See above, p. 135. 64 Socrates also defines himself as ijȚȜȠȝĮș‫ޤ‬Ȣ at 230d4. 65 Cf. above, n. 59. We cannot deal here with all aspects of the Phaedrus, but it is worth at least mentioning that the work also touches upon the already established assimilation of writing to painting, with both seen as mere images of the authentic logos (276a8-9). In this sense the ʌȠȜȣ‫ޤ‬țȠȠȚ seem to be ʌȠȜȣȖȞެȝȠȞİȢ, although in reality they are ܻȖȞެȝȠȞİȢ (275a7-b2). The form ܿțȠȣİ (230c5) and its equivalents (ܾ ij߮Ȣ ܻțȘțȠ‫ޢ‬ȞĮȚ Ȝ‫ޢ‬Ȗİ, 274c4) are used by Plato both in reference to oral tales and the reading of a written text.

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for fictional literature, just as the Symposium is for its various diegetic levels, its fantastic tales and its peripeteia. 66 The mention of a return journey (ܻȜȜ‫ݫ ޟ‬ȦȝİȞ, 279b-c) and a parting prayer to Pan at the conclusion of the work give the Phaedrus a ringstructure. 67 The above examples allow us to relate ‘road’ and ‘journey’. 68 A similar relation can be seen at the beginning of the novel, the Ass, and in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. See Ass 1.1 and 4.5: ܻʌ߰İȚȞ ʌȠIJ‫݋ ޡ‬Ȣ ĬİIJIJĮȜަĮȞ· ‫ݝ‬Ȟ į‫ ޢ‬ȝȠȚ ʌĮIJȡȚțިȞ IJȚ ıȣȝȕިȜĮȚȠȞ ‫݋‬țİ߿ ʌȡާȢ ܿȞșȡȦʌȠȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȤެȡȚȠȞ· ‫ݬ‬ʌʌȠȢ į‫ ޢ‬ȝİ țĮIJ߱Ȗİ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬ıțİުȘ țĮ‫ ޥ‬șİȡ‫ޠ‬ʌȦȞ ‫ݗ‬țȠȜȠުșİȚ İ‫ݮ‬Ȣ. ‫݋‬ʌȠȡİȣިȝȘȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌȡȠțİȚȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȘȞ ‫ݸ‬įިȞ … ʌİȡȚ߰İȚȞ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌިȜȚȞ, ܻʌȠȡࠛȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJ߱Ȣ ܻȡȤ߱Ȣ IJȠࠎ ȗȘIJ‫ޤ‬ȝĮIJȠȢ ‫ݼ‬ȝȦȢ į‫ ޡ‬ʌİȡȚ߰İȚȞ (“I was once upon a time journeying to Thessaly. There was some family business there with a native. A horse was carrying me and my luggage, and a single servant was following along. Therefore, I was travelling along the road set before me … I was wandering around the city, at a loss how to start my search, but wandering around nonetheless”). [Cf. Apul. Met. 1.2: Thessaliam … eam Thessaliam ex negotio petebam …] 69

Entirely comparable to these texts are the opening words of Achilles Tatius’ novel: ʌİȡȚȧޫȞ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܿȜȜȘȞ ʌިȜȚȞ… (“Wandering around the

66 The opening of the Theaetetus purports to be the report of an earlier conversation, although this framing device is not present again at the dialogue’s conclusion, as it also occurs with the Symposium. However, while the Symposium narrates its story in indirect speech, the Theaetetus employs a dramatic presentation. Furthermore, a slave reads to the protagonists while they rest, a scenario similar to the one we have drawn attention to in the Phaedrus. 67 As we see at the beginning of Leucippe and Clitophon and Amores, as well as in the denouement of the Incredible things beyond Thule, festivals for various gods provide a frame for stories or conversations in several dialogues: Parm.127a8 (Great Panathenaea), Lys. 206d2 (Hermes), R. 327a2 (‘the goddess’); the Phaedrus is set in a sanctuary of the Nymphs (230b7); at Ion 530a2-3 the eponymous rhapsode arrives from the festival of Asclepius in Epidaurus; in Gorg. 447a-b Gorgias has just performed his epideixis at a festival. 68 A ‫ݸ‬įާȢ is used as a metaphor for inquiry at Lysis 213d6f., for romantic love at 204c, and for ‘rest’ at R. 532e. Criti. 106a3 creates a parallel between ‫ݸ‬įާȢ and conversation: ‫ސ‬Ȣ ݀ıȝİȞȠȢ ‫ ޕ‬ȈެțȡĮIJİȢ Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ ‫݋‬ț ȝĮțȡߢȢ ܻȞĮʌİʌĮȣȝ‫ޢ‬ȞȠȢ ‫ݸ‬įȠࠎ, ȞࠎȞ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦȢ ‫݋‬ț IJ߱Ȣ IJȠࠎ ȜިȖȠȣ įȚĮʌȠȡİަĮȢ ܻȖĮʌȘIJࠛȢ ܻʌ‫ޤ‬ȜȜĮȖȝĮȚ. 69 Hunter (2006) has already noted the similarities between Apul. Met. 1.2.20 and Symp. 173b7-8, as well as the assimilation of the utile and the dulce at 173c2-5.

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rest of the city…”). Also parallel is the description of the departure for Italy in Amores 6: țĮIJ߰İȚȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ș‫ޠ‬ȜĮııĮȞ· İ‫ݭ‬IJĮ IJȠީȢ ʌĮȡĮʌ‫ޢ‬ȝʌȠȞIJ‫ޠ‬Ȣ ȝİ įİȟȚȦı‫ޠ‬ȝİȞȠȢ— ‫ݗ‬țȠȜȠުșİȚ į‫ ޡ‬ʌĮȚįİަĮȢ ȜȚʌĮȡ‫ޣ‬Ȣ ‫ݻ‬ȤȜȠȢ, Ƞ‫ ݪ‬ıȣȞİȤ‫ޡ‬Ȣ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ ‫݋‬ȞIJȣȖȤ‫ޠ‬ȞȠȞIJİȢ ܻȞȚĮȡࠛȢ įȚİȗİުȖȞȣȞIJȠ—IJ߱Ȣ ʌȡުȝȞȘȢ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ʌȚȕ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ȖȖީȢ ‫݋‬ȝĮȣIJާȞ ‫ݬ‬įȡȣıĮ IJȠࠎ țȣȕİȡȞ‫ޤ‬IJȠȣ. (“… I was walking down to the sea. Then, having bid farewell to those who were accompanying me – a crowd eager for learning followed me, who conversing with me continually, departed with reluctance – so, getting on to the poop I sat near the helmsman”.) 70 [Cf. ʌİȡȚ߰İȚȞ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȀȞȓįȠȞ … (11).]

The Platonic backdrop to all of these fictional narratives is clear. The question therefore is whether Aristides of Miletus consciously took Plato as a model in the Milesiae. In this regard it is of great interest the large volume of evidence that Charalabopoulos marshalls to support his claim that a large part of Plato’s work represents a performance text that could have been recited by children or dramatised during public competitions in the Hellenistic period, as well as at private symposia of the Imperial era. 71 We have already seen how the Timaeus, with its encomium of Athens, may have furnished a model for later public agones, as the Athenian nationalism, that underlies the myth of Theuth, may also have furnished a model. Interestingly, in the ‘House of Menander’ there is a mosaic (A.D. 350-375) depicting Socrates, Simmias and Cebes in a non-theatrical scene that appears to illustrate the Phaedo. The scene appears next to other mosaics depicting scenes from Menander, with the juxtaposition suggesting an intentional contrast between two types of dramatic literature. 72 Plutarch (Mor. 711B-C), Dio Chrysostom (36; 27; 26.69), Athenaeus (9.376c-383) and others appear to document the staging of scenes from Plato’s dialogues and even entire works. We mentioned above that the mosaics at Antioch (ca. A.D. 200) of Ninus and

70 Compare with the scene described by Gellius 3.1 and commented in W. A. Johnson (2009) 326. 71 Charalabopoulos (2012) 113-157; see especially 197-221: “The Dinner Theatre.” For a possible recitatio of the Protagoras, see p. 227. See also the evidence for contemporary practices in performative readings, including Plato, in W.A. Johnson (2000). For theatrical performances of Empedocles, see Ath. 7.320c. For Menander’s reception at Imperial symposia, see Nervegna (2013) 120-169. 72 Cf. Dunbabin (2006) and Charalabopoulos (2012) 158 and 238. On this topic see Introduction, section 3.2.

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of Metiochus and Parthenope are similar, 73 and that both are protagonists of novels and characters in pantomimes cited by Lucian. 74 These mosaics also lack signs of a scenographic origin: that of Metiochus and Parthenope seem to possess a generic character and the mosaic depicting Ninus gazing at a portrait seems to refer to some particular scene from the novel. The mosaics and pantomimes attest to a form of oral diffusion of the novel, the genre’s popularity, and the acceptance of its contents as ‘traditional’ material on equal level to orthodox mythology and prestige genres such as epic and tragedy. In a parallel way, the novel and the mime share common themes. 75

6. Conclusions Given the ambiguities between the two areas discussed above, it is evident that a form of feedback existed between literary texts and dramatic representations. 76 Indeed, one must remember that Antonius Diogenes refers to himself as a ʌȠȚȘIJ‫ޣ‬Ȣ țȦȝ࠙įަĮȢ ʌĮȜĮȚߢȢ, which should not be understood as a metaphor, and that Macrobius (1.2.7-8) groups Petronius and Apuleius together with Terence in a manner that has led several modern critics to suggest the possibility that Apuleius’ Metamorphoses was read in theatres. 77 We should also keep in mind the difficulties we have with the terminology used by ancients in referring to the novels as a genre, given that they are not labelled together under a single name until Photios’ dramatikon, whereas the inscriptions sometimes introduce words of unclear or a new semantic meaning that could refer to the novels as well. 78 The world of the Empire was a theatrical world and, consequently, a visual and oral one—two traditional categories that were now more closely united than ever before. It was also, as Roueché puts it, “a world full of 73

See above, Introduction, n. 113. De salt. 54; Pseudol. 25. See Ruiz-Montero (2014a). 75 For the interaction of the two forms, see Andreassi (2002) and Webb (2013). 76 In the Phaedrus there is no distinction between orator and poet. In R. 595b-c; 598d; 605c; 607a, as observed by Charalabopoulos [(2012), 84, n.130], Homer is classified as a tragic poet; on p.77 the Republic is considered as a philosophical answer to the Odyssey. For Demetrius (De eloc. 218) Plato is a poet, together with Homer and Ctesias, because of his enargeia. 77 Ruiz-Montero (2013) with bibliography and my Introduction to this volume, n. 15. 78 Antonius Diogenes’ ta dramata (111a34) should also be considered. I quote two interesting examples of new terms or meanings: firstly, the katalogé (palaiá and néa) in Larisa from 172 B.C., commented on by Petrovic (2009) 205-209, and Gangloff (2010) 64-65. In addition Chaniotis [(2009a) 262] cites ܻʌȠȜȠȖަȗİıșĮȚ in Xanthos, 206 B.C., with the meaning of ‘present an account’. 74

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stories”. 79 Thus we see the same tales repeated in different formats: literary, theatrical, epigraphic, iconographic and oral. 80 What is oral becomes written and what is written is disseminated orally. Apuleius (Met. 6.29.7) captures this dynamic of ‘multimedia’ diffusion well, when he has the young woman taken prisoner by the bandits declare: Nam memoriam praesentis fortunae meae divinaeque providentiae perpetua testatione signabo et depictam in tabula fugae praesentis imaginem meae domus atrio dedicabo. Visetur et in fabulis audietur doctorumque stilis rudis perpetuabitur historia ‘Asino vectore virgo regia fugiens captivitatem’. (“I will create a noteworthy memorial of my present good luck and of divine providence through my unceasing testimony, and I will dedicate in the atrium of my house an image painted on a tablet of our current flight. My unwrought story will be seen, and heard in tales, and spread through the pens of the learned: ‘a royal maiden fleeing her captivity with an ass as her guide’”.) 81

It is proper to ask whether, in such a context, the novel could be expected to remain at the margins of the oral diffusion characteristic of its era, in all its great variety, and remain limited only to a private audience of educated readers. 82 Epigraphic sources do not attest to public contests involving the novel, but this is hardly surprising, given that we are dealing with a non-traditional genre rather than encomium, rhapsody, drama (with the ever more musical ‘remakes’ and adaptations of the era), or even the very dialogues of Plato. It is true that shorter tales could be more easily disseminated, such as the legends and local histories that fit within ta patria and provided source material for the theatrical performances of historians, orators and poets—intriguingly, overlapping with the credentials held by the author of the Ass, “writer of stories and other works” (țܻȖޫ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡȚࠛȞ țĮ‫ܿ ޥ‬ȜȜȦȞ İ‫ݧ‬ȝ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȖȖȡĮijİުȢ…, 55). But the greater length of the texts would not have intimidated the Greeks, as would be the case today, given their customary attendance of long performances in verse and prose, some over

79

Roueché (2009). See also the data and conclusions in Kim (2013). Chaniotis [(2009a) 256] arrives at the same conclusion, as Dunbabin has (per litteras). 81 See the commentary in Hijmans Jr. et alii (1981) 55-57. 82 The formulae used by Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus would be proof of a popular oral reception for Hägg (1994), who suggested the idea of an oral performance before a real audience. In my opinion, ‘oral’ does not mean ‘popular’, and these formulae are the product of a learned mimesis. 80

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several days. 83 Moreover, there is always the possibility that only individual passages were performed, as we see in the short scenes of pantomime. 84 Were there public recitations (akroaseis) or some other type of hypocrisis of individual scenes, or even monologues, in public theatres or private ones, in public symposia or private ones, in gymnasia, or in libraries, 85 as there were of Plato, of tragedy, of comedy, of the works of history and of biographies? 86 For now we will have to mark the idea with an asterisk and hope that the passage of time will provide evidence to confirm our hypothesis.

83

See Parker (2009) 216. See also Introduction, section 2. See Dunbabin (2006) for particular dramatic scenes depicted in reliefs and her conclusions regarding possible theatrical practices “passed over in silence by more formal literature or inscriptions.” See above, Introduction, n. 115. 85 For the possibility that recitations and declamations took place in the libraries see above Introduction, section 3.3. 86 See Valette-Cagnat (1997), Johnson (2000) and (2009), Parker (2009), White (2009). For biographies see Parker (2009) 217 and W.A. Johnson (2009) 329. See above Introduction. 84

CHAPTER SIX EMBEDDED ORALITY IN APULEIUS’ METAMORPHOSES AND FLORIDA LORETO NÚÑEZ

Introduction ...tam graece quam latine, gemino voto, pari studio, simili stilo. (“…both in Greek and in Latin, with twin engagement, comparable eagerness, similar style”) 1

Apuleius claimed to be completely bilingual in Greek and Latin. 2 This linguistic relation to the Hellenic world was accompanied by a strong connection to Greek literature and culture in general, to the point that Sandy calls him an Orator Sophisticus Latinus 3 and Harrison qualifies him as a “Latin sophist”, 4 “a Latin-speaking version of the Greek rhetorical performers of his own time”. 5 Apuleius is indeed a good example for the interconnection between Greek and Latin literature and culture, especially in the Roman Empire; he therefore deserves to be taken seriously in discussions dealing with this period. The present contribution will deal with two quite different sorts of productions by Apuleius: the Metamorphoses or the Golden Ass and the Florida: that is, on the one hand, narrative fiction concerning the adventures of Lucius, who becomes an ass and recovers his 1

Apul. Flor. 9.29; text by Vallette (2002). On this topic see also Mestre and Gómez (2014). Unless otherwise noted, the translations are my own; they are only working translations, as close to original as possible. 2 See also Flor. 18.38-39, where Apuleius talks of a bilingual hymn preceded by a bilingual dialogue in honour of Aesculapius, or Apol. 4.1, where he mentions the accusation of being “in both, Greek and Latin […] very fluent” (tam Graece quam Latine […] disertissimum); for the Apology text by Vallette (2002). 3 Sandy (1997) 131. 4 Harrison (2000). 5 Harrison (2001) 10.

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human form thanks to Isis, and on the other, fragments of rhetorical pieces; on the one side a written text (even if perhaps destined to aural reception 6), and on the other excerpts of discourses held in front of an audience with ex tempore elements. The Metamorphoses and the Florida will be treated as two complementary examples by the same author, through which one may examine the issue of orality from various angles. On the one hand, the Metamorphoses may depict real practices in the fictional world they represent; on the other hand, the Florida, as oratorical pieces intended for delivery, enact orality. The comparison of these two texts, seen as two sides of the same coin, should enable us to throw light on oral communication as represented by an author of the 2nd century A.D. This leads us to the heuristic value of comparison, through which, precisely by putting together different elements, we may discover aspects which otherwise would remain unnoticed. The comparative method I will apply to the texts is the so-called ‘differential comparison’ (comparaison différentielle) elaborated by Heidmann: [la comparaison différentielle engage] 1) à reconnaître les différences des faits ou objets à comparer, 2) à construire un axe de comparaison pertinent, 3) à établir et à configurer des critères (ou plans) de comparaison, 4) à placer les faits ou objets à comparer dans un rapport non-hiérarchique. [Heidmann (2006) 141] (“[the differential comparison involves us in] 1) recognising the differences between the facts or objects compared, 2) constructing a pertinent comparative axis, 3) establishing and configuring criteria (or levels) of comparison, 4) placing the facts or objects which are to be compared in a non-hierarchical connection.”)

This method takes into account the specificities and differences of the works studied, without privileging one text over the other. As level of comparison, I propose the embedding procedure, which I understand as follows: …enchâssement au sens strict d’une inclusion d’un élément encadré des deux côtés par un autre. […] Trois changements m’ont semblé être particulièrement pertinents: changement de niveau [et donc narrateur] […], de sujet ou d’histoire […], dans l’axe temporel [analepse, prolepse]. (“…embedding strictly speaking as an inclusion of an element framed on both sides by another element. … Three changes seemed particularly 6

For further references on aurality, cf. Núñez (2006) esp. 99-100. See also Dupont [(1998) 234-239] who sees in the prologue an invitation to the reader to “oralize” his reading of the text. Keulen [(2007b) 109-113] goes further and suggests the possibility of a recitatio of the Metamorphoses.

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In addition to its general narratological aspect, the embedding procedure also constitutes a form of representation of the communication employed by the culture and society that uses it. Like an internal mirror, it can offer information on the exchange of narratives. In this sense, it is interesting to notice that embedded narratives are predominantly presented in oral contexts, whether it be a kind of re-enactment of orally delivered speeches in the Florida or an oral narrative scene constructed in the fictional world of the Metamorphoses. But as will be shown, the representation of these contexts, both in the Golden Ass and in the Florida, is not always as simple as it may seem. Often we face a tension or oscillation between orality and scripturality. In previous studies, 8 I have analysed all examples of embedded narratives in the Metamorphoses, mainly from a rhetorical and narratological perspective, focusing on the stories, understood (according to Genette) as the content in its chronological and logical order; the narrative, seen as the form in which this content is presented, i.e. the plot; and the narration, taken as the act of narrating, involving its interlocutors and the context.9 It is this last aspect that will be at the centre of this paper: the interlocutors in the narrative exchange and their performances and reactions (emotional, intellectual, physical) as well as occasions and spaces in which narratives are told (for instance, travel, dinner, gathering, theatre). Thus, the focus will be less on the narrated stories and their respective narratives, and more on the narrative act as staged in the Metamorphoses and in the Florida. Another kind of limitation of this work is that it deals not with embedded narratives about the primary story, but with what I have suggested calling ‘parallel stories’, i.e. where “the main character is not directly involved”. 10 Generally, these are indeed the cases in which more attention is paid to the 7

Núñez vol. I (2013) 101-102. See in particular Núñez vols I and II (2013), but see also Núñez (2010) and, for the Florida, Núñez (2009b). 9 In Genette [(1972) 72] there are the following definitions: histoire/ diégèse (here translated by “story”) is seen as “the narrative signified or content” (le signifié ou contenu narratif); the récit (here “narrative”) as “the signifier, utterance, discourse of the narrative text” (le signifiant, énoncé, discours du texte narratif lui-même); the narration (here “narration”) as “the narrative productive act and, by extension, the whole of the real or fictive situation in which it takes place” (l’acte narratif producteur et, par extension, l’ensemble de la situation réelle ou fictive dans laquelle il prend place). 10 Núñez vol. I (2013) 27; see also Núñez vol. I (2013) 80 or vol. II (2013) 9. 8

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narration. In view of the fact that the examples in the Metamorphoses are very many, only some of them will be mentioned. The cases in the Golden Ass will be studied first, given that they offer the advantage of presenting a complete work 11 in comparison to the fragmentary form we have in the Florida. 12

1. Embedded Orality in the Metamorphoses The passages of the Metamorphoses will be treated in two main groups: the first deals with the communication of the characters as represented in the fictional world by the narrator Lucius. The second concerns the communication between the narrator and his audience. The distinction is important: it reflects a particularity of the Metamorphoses where we have different levels of communication. In this context, I intend to follow the distinction proposed by Winkler between the figure of Lucius as represented in the story, the Lucius-character (‘actor’ or ‘Lucius-then’ for Winkler) and his later Lucius narrating the past events, Lucius-narrator (‘auctor’ or ‘Lucius-now’ in Winkler’s words). 13 Of equal importance is the need to approach the text as it presents itself, from the beginning.

11 In my view, the text is complete. However, Pecere [(1987) 107-111] remarks a lacuna at the end of the manuscript text. Van Mal-Maeder [(1997) 114-117] proposed that the missing end was similar to that of the Onos: Lucius, after recovering his human shape, would vainly try to continue the sexual relationship he started as an ass. The hypothesis is controversial. See the counter-arguments in Graverini [(2003) 182] and more recently in Zimmerman [(2012) 27]. 12 The chosen order of presentation is therefore not based on chronological argument. The chronology of Apuleius’ works is a much discussed issue. Scholars normally agree that the Apology is dated perhaps around A.D. 158/159 and that the original anthology of the Florida, given that some pieces can be placed in 163/164, may also date to this time. See for instance Lee [(2005) 13] or Hunink [(2001a) 18], who shows that the collection as we have it today, dates to late antiquity. For the Metamorphoses, dating suggestions range from the 150s to the 180s, with much discussion of the question of whether the text preceded or followed the Apology. To take only three extreme proposals (with further references): Dowden (1994) suggests a very early date, before the Apology, Harrison [for instance (2000) 10 and (2001) 6-7] favours a late date after the speech, and Hunink [(2002) 235] concludes with a “tantalizing solution”, in order to “have it both ways: an early date for the composition of the Metamorphoses, and a middle or relatively late date for its first stages of circulation among a literary audience”. 13 See Winkler (1985) in particular ch. “The Duplicities of Auctor/Actor” (pp. 135179), esp. pp. 139, 140 and 153.

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1.1. Prologue This leads us to the famous prologue of the Metamorphoses, from which I quote here an excerpt: At ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido susurro permulceam – modo si papyrum Aegyptiam argutia Nilotici calami inscriptam non spreveris inspicere ... Exordior. “Quis ille?” Paucis accipe. … Mox in urbe Latia advena studiorum Quiritium indigenam sermonem aerumnabili labore nullo magistro praeeunte aggressus excolui. En ecce praefamur veniam, siquid exotici ac forensis sermonis rudis locutor offendero. … Lector intende: laetaberis. (Apul. Met. 1.1.1; 3; 4-5 and 6) 14 (“But as to me, I will connect for you various stories in this Milesian discourse, and caress your benevolent ears with a pleasant murmuring – only if you do not refuse to survey the Egyptian papyrus inscribed with the acuteness of a reed of the Nile … I begin. ‘Who’s that?’ Wait a little bit… Then, in the Latin city, as a stranger to the studies of the Quirites, after having laboriously approached native speech without the supervision of a teacher, I improved my knowledge. See now, we beg for pardon if I make any mistake as an uncultivated speaker of the foreign language of the forum … Reader, look out: you will have fun.”)

The complexity of the opening of the Metamorphoses is huge. 15 We shall not therefore touch upon each single aspect, but mention only certain points that seem relevant to the orality question. ǿ start with the most problematic point, the vexed question of the ‘Milesian tale’: 16 It is difficult to say whether the Golden Ass can be used to reconstruct the specificities of the genre or whether it is an example of Milesian text. But we can at least assume that the narrator plays with the generic expectations of his audience, in that he goes in the direction of obscene and magical fictional stories, whose narration may be staged in an oral context. These expectations are increased by the use of the term fabula which is to be understood here, as Bitel shows, as a “narrative of impossible fiction”. 17 From the point of view of orality, at least two related elements in the prologue offer particular interest. First, some of the statements of the 14

For the Metamorphoses: text by Robertson and Vallette (2002). For the prologue, see the various contributions in Kahane and Laird (eds) (2001) and the commentary by Keulen (2007a). 16 For the question of the ‘Milesian tale’, see Ruiz-Montero’s contribution in this volume; see also Moreschini (1990); Lefèvre (1997); Harrison (1998); Benz (2001); Jensson (2004); Bowie (2013a); Renda (2013) and Tilg (2014a) 37-40. 17 Bitel (2001) 140. 15

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speaking voice recall formulations we find in rhetorical speeches in the Florida, where the orator directly addresses his audience, asks for indulgence, uses the future tense to introduce his performance, promises pleasure. This is accompanied by a strong accentuation on the communication between an ‘I’ and a ‘you’, ego tibi (1.1.1). The first word preceding them, at, has an important communicative value: as Morgan says, “we are plunged into the position of overhearing part of a larger narrative exchange already in progress”. 18 The voice coming from the written text constructs thus an oral scene, as it is often the case in the Platonic dialogues, and we know that Apuleius liked to call himself a Philosophus Platonicus. 19 This connection is all the more interesting, given that Apuleius is apparently evoking Plato’s Phaedrus here and in particular certain elements of it, as Trapp has indicated: Egypt, which according to Socrates’ narrative, is the place where writing originated; writing itself is talked about as being accomplished with reeds. 20 This leads us to the famous Socratic-Platonic opposition between writing and oral discourse, as for instance in the following Phaedrean passage: >Ȉȍ@ ǻİȚȞާȞ ȖȐȡ ʌȠȣ ‫ ޕ‬ĭĮ߿įȡİ IJȠࠎIJ¶ ‫ݏ‬ȤİȚ ȖȡĮijȒ țĮ‫ސ ޥ‬Ȣ ܻȜȘșࠛȢ ‫ݼ‬ȝȠȚȠȞ ȗȦȖȡĮijȓߠ. țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ IJ‫݋ ޟ‬țİȓȞȘȢ ‫ݏ‬țȖȠȞĮ ‫ݐ‬ıIJȘțİ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ȗࠛȞIJĮ ‫ޟ݋‬Ȟ į¶ ܻȞȑȡ߯ IJȚ ıİȝȞࠛȢ ʌȐȞȣ ıȚȖߣ. IJĮ‫ރ‬IJާȞ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȜȩȖȠȚÂ įȩȟĮȚȢ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܽȞ ‫ޔ‬Ȣ IJȚ ijȡȠȞȠࠎȞIJĮȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠީȢ ȜȑȖİȚȞ ‫ޟ݋‬Ȟ įȑ IJȚ ‫ݏ‬ȡ߯ IJࠛȞ ȜİȖȠȝȑȞȦȞ ȕȠȣȜȩȝİȞȠȢ ȝĮșİ߿Ȟ ‫ݐ‬Ȟ IJȚ ıȘȝĮȓȞİȚ ȝȩȞȠȞ IJĮ‫ރ‬IJާȞ ܻİȓ (Phaedr. 275d) 21 (“[Socrates:] It is this marvellous thing, Phaedrus, that writing has, and it is really like painting. For the productions of the latter [i.e. painting] stand like living beings; yet if you ask them a question, they completely and solemnly keep silence. So it is with the written words too: you could think they speak as if they were minded, but if you ask in order to know what they are saying, they always point out the same single thing.”)

Writing is presented as less effective than oral discourse, and this is done through a conversation between two characters, Socrates and Phaedrus, who are however staged in the written text by Plato. Of course, Apuleius does not want to keep his readers from reading his pleasant book, and thus goes against Plato, as Trapp suggests. 22 But actually, by doing so, he precisely imitates Plato’s procedure: the opposition between oral and written communication staged in a written text puts forward the vivid oral 18

Morgan (2001) 161. See, for instance, Apul. Apol. 10.6. 20 Trapp (2001) 39-46. 21 For Plato’s Phaedrus: text by Burnet (1967). 22 See also Trapp (2001). 19

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exchange. Thus, Apuleius’ narrator invites his lector to let him seduce his ears (aures) by elegant whispers (lepido susurro permulceam). A similar way of handling Platonic positions is to be found in the complicated question of mimesis. With the Metamorphoses, Apuleius proposes precisely an imitation that his philosophic model would have condemned. But the Latin author does it through a protagonist-narrator that he transforms into an ass, until the end when he recovers his human shape through Isis and becomes an enthusiastic follower of the divinity. The imitation of ‘reality’ is therefore mostly related to a ridiculous asinine figure. This sort of antidote against Platonic criticism has another consequence. The imitation as such has to be taken at its face value: it is imitation, no more or less. This can be applied also to the ‘mimetic’ orality between characters.

1.2. ‘Mimetic’ Orality between Characters: on the Road with Aristomenes, Symposia, and the ‘Charite-Psyche Connection’ The adjective ‘mimetic’ is not used here in the sense that it is usually employed by orality-scholars, such as Logan, for instance, who says that “gestural or mimetic orality, another form of unspoken orality, is the ground zero of orality”. 23 Nor do I refer to what D. Fowler calls a ‘fictional orality’ (fingierte Mündlichkeit), an “assumed orality [which is at odds with] an actual written reception”. 24 Instead, I qualify as ‘mimetic’ the fictional representation of orality, or, the other way round: orality as represented in the fictional world, this last being an imitation of the real world. The term is therefore employed in a relatively broad fashion, as Harold Tarrant used it in regard to Plato’s dialogues, considering mimetic as “involving imitation of the human world, in particular of its speech”. 25 This seems to be the case in the following passages, which involve various occasions on which narratives are told: on the road and at dinner. Aristomenes’ narration occurs during a journey. The journey itself receives little attention, except in the sense that the tale is said to “lighten up the road” (levigabit, 1.2.6) and to avoid effort and tediousness (sine labore ac taedio, 1.20.5). This effect is achieved through a narrative which 23

Logan (2010) 104. D. Fowler (2001) 225; Rabau (2000) goes further: her major hypothesis is that the orality presented in ancient novels is only a “fiction of presence” (fiction de présence), which is intended to reject any actual oral presence in the new written genre of the ancient novel; see esp. pp. 128-132. 25 Tarrant (1999) 182; see also Tarrant (1996). See also Tarrant and Ruiz-Montero, in this volume. 24

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is framed by qualifications, such as “pleasant delight of stories” (fabularum lepida iucunditas, 1.2.6) and “through the delight of a pleasant story” (lepidae fabulae festivitate, 1.20.5). This seems to be the case, even when Aristomenes recounts how Socrates was killed by two witches. There is however another element that frames the narration: the criticism of the second traveller, who argues that the events told by Aristomenes are only lies (mentiendo, 1.2.5; fabula fabulosius, 1.20.2; mendacio absurdius, 1.20.2). Appearing, as it does, at the opening of our text, this point also has consequences for Lucius’ narrative and, more relevantly for the present issue, for his representation of orality. The reader is prompted to ask whether he really can trust Lucius. The dialogue is presented in a vivid form, like a conversation. Lucius even spontaneously introduces an anecdote about himself, saying “as for me, for instance, yesterday evening” (ego denique vespera, 1.4.1). But the fact that the question of reality and fiction is raised also destabilises Lucius’ frame narrative and his imitative nature. The destabilisation of the narrator’s reliability, including his representation of orality, is also to be found in the next example, with which we pass on to narrations in the context of symposia, the Thelyphronepisode. The situation is described more carefully than was the case for Aristomenes, and at the end of the narration there is the mention of the fact that “the drinking-companions, soaked with wine, start again to laugh loudly” (conpotores vino madidi rursum cachinnum integrant, 2.31.1). The general laughter is, however, at odds with the content of the story, in which Thelyphron narrates how he has been mutilated by the witches, who actually wanted to attack the dead body he was guarding. Yet it is not the only tension in this sense: the hostess Byrrhena, who knows the fabula, as she asks Thelyphron to retell it (remetire, 2.20.7), speaks of its narrative with terms like ‘refinement’ (urbanitatis, 2.20.7), and ‘affability of a pleasant discourse’ (lepidi sermonis […] comitate, 2.20.7). Thelyphron, the Milesian, in a potential hint at the Milesian tradition, accepts the invitation and puts himself into the position of an orator before recounting the story (ad instar oratorum, 2.21.2). 26 The reader therefore faces a kind of a horrorstory which is however characterised by its frame as being pleasant, as was Aristomenes’ one. This is not the only parallel between the two episodes: there are several verbal echoes concerning the narrative and the procedure of re-narrating a story. Byrrhena uses the substantive fabula and then the adjective lepidus 26

Rhetorical characterisation is also to be found in the vocabulary: urbanitas, lepidus, sermo, comitas are all terms used in oratory. See van Mal-Maeder [(2001) 305-306] with ancient references and modern bibliography.

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(2.20.7). Lucius-character, too, had pronounced them in front of Aristomenes, at the opening (fabularum lepida iucunditas, 1.2.6) and in the conclusion of his narrative (lepidae fabulae festivitate, 1.20.5). Furthermore, both Luciuscharacter and Byrrhena employ the expression fabulam remetire (1.4.6 for the first and 2.20.7 for the latter). Yet, the other Lucius, Lucius-narrator, should not be forgotten: he is re-narrating Aristomenes’ and Thelyphron’s re-narrations. This link is reinforced by parallels between the presentation of these orally staged narrations and the prologue of the Metamorphoses. Some of the words Byrrhena addresses to Thelyphron also appear in the prologue: fabula, lepidus, sermo (1.1.1); there too, we had a voice speaking, like Thelyphron here, ad instar oratorum at the beginning of their performance. Through the intratextual game, the passages with Aristomenes and Thelyphron are brought closer to each other, to the point that the liecriticism against Aristomenes may also influence the Thelyphron-episode and its representation by Lucius-narrator. With the following examples the questioning of Lucius’ imitation becomes even more powerful. Another example that offers the same communicative opportunity as the Thelyphron episode does, is that in which Lucius is at dinner with his host Milo. Unlike what occurs in the Thelyphron passage, the meal-situation receives almost no attention. But the conversational aspect is stressed through short exchanges between Lucius and Milo. In order to defend the possibility of the existence of prophecies, Lucius comes up with an example from his own experience. It is interesting to notice that he introduces it with nam (2.12.3), a word which may be an echo of the first word of the prologue, at (1.1.1). Furthermore, the prophet who will be in the centre of Lucius’ demonstration, Diophanes, is mentioned as quidam (2.12.3). Thus far, the fiction imitates an oral conversation embedding a narrative. Yet, at this very moment, the value of the imitation is undermined. Taking his own encounter with the prophet as an example, and introducing it with denique (2.12.5), as he did for another example in the Aristomenes episode, Lucius says that Diophanes announced that he would be “the protagonist of a long history and of an incredible story and of [several] books” (nunc historiam magnam et incredundam fabulam et libros me futurum, 2.12.5). At this moment, the fictional representation of an oral narrative becomes an allusion to the written text of the Metamorphoses the reader has in his hands. We will come back to the terms used here in reference to the narrative transmission below. For the moment, it should be noticed that this procedure of cross-references to oral and written

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communication is to be found more than once in our text, in particular in what may be called the “Charite-Psyche complex” or “connection”. 27 Folklorists have often regarded the famous narrative of Cupid and Psyche as the perfect example of an oral narrative 28. Philologists, such as Hansen, have also regarded it as such. 29 This view rests mainly on the communicative situation, in which it occurs and on the statements that introduce it, when the old servant of the bandits who kidnapped Charite says to the young woman: Sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus avocabo. (Apul. Met. 4.27.8) (“Yet as for me, I will divert you immediately with pleasant narrations and stories of old wives.”)

Yet, at the end of the embedded narrative, Lucius-narrator adds the following sentence: …dolebam mehercules quod pugillares et stilum non habebam qui tam bellam fabellam praenotarem. (Apul. Met. 6.25.1) (“… I was sorry, by Hercules, not to have neither writing-tablets nor a stylus in order to write down such a pretty little story.”)

This affirmation is not always taken into account: commentaries on the passage, such as the Groningen Commentary on ‘Cupid and Psyche’, end with the last statements of the old servant. 30 When it is taken into consideration, it is often interpreted as alluding to oral tradition, even in recent research. After acknowledging that “much of what passed on in oral form in Imperial circles was originally written down”, 31 Kim says of the sentence that it may be one of various examples in which Apuleius “provides some hints that the practice of recording ‘living’ oral tradition was current”. 32 However, he qualifies his statement by saying that Apuleius “not only depicts a series of oral tales being told within his narrative frame, but also has the narrators themselves anticipate the transformation of these 27

Following Junghanns (1932), who proposes to talk of the Charite-Komplex (Erzählungen von Psyche, Plotina, Charite). 28 Against the folkloristic perspective, see Fehling (1977). 29 See Hansen [(2002) 100-114], who, according to Antti Aarne and Stith Thompson, puts Apuleius’ narrative in the category of the tale type 425, the ‘Disenchanted Husband’. 30 Zimmerman, Panayotakis, Hunink, Keulen, Harrison, McCreight, Wesseling, and van Mal-Maeder (2004). 31 Kim (2013) 303. 32 Kim (2013) 309.

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originally oral narratives into written texts”; the examples “do show that the transfer of an entertaining narrative from oral to written form was envisaged as a contemporary phenomenon”. 33 This may indeed be a possibility, but in regard to the internal dynamics of the Metamorphoses, we can go further. As Heidmann notes, this final remark “makes it explicit that the fabella on Psyche that we have just been reading is not what the old woman narrated, but the narrative created by the narrator Lucius afterwards, when he recovered his human shape and the capacity to take a stylus and a tablet.” 34 The same can be said of the examples concerning Charite to whom the story of Cupid and Psyche is told. Again, this does not completely rule out the possibility that oral transmission is being referred to here. From this point of view, Charite’s promises made to Lucius the ass during their escape attempt are very interesting. The young woman states what follows: Visetur et in fabulis audietur doctorumque stilis rudis perpetuabitur historia. (Apul. Met. 6.29.3) (“This rough history will be seen and it will be heard in stories and will be perpetuated through the stylus of learned men.”)

As I suggest elsewhere, 35 the sequence of the above chosen terms reflects the chronological evolution of different phases of divulgation and perpetuation: it starts with iconographic representations (visetur) and then goes to narrative creation, first with an oral account which will be heard (in fabulis audietur) and finally in written form (doctorumque stilis rudis perpetuabitur historia). The use of the passive voice can be interpreted as an imitation of the tradition, which spreads independently of any concrete author. Furthermore, the reader again is confronted with the nouns employed in the example we mentioned above concerning Diophanes: fabula and historia. As is well known, in the rhetorical division of narrative these words are generally set in opposition to each other: historia is used for the narrative of real past events; fabula for the narrative of events which are neither true nor plausible.36 But as Bitel suggests in regard to our passages, in their fictional world, Diophanes and Charite “employ the term historia in apposition, rather than opposition, to fabula. For them, fabula is a factual 33

Kim (2013) 309. Heidmann (2010) 56: “explicite le fait que la fabella de Psyché que nous venons de lire n’est pas ce que la vieille a raconté, mais le récit que le narrateur Lucius en a fait ultérieurement, après avoir retrouvé sa forme humaine et la capacité de tenir un stylet et une tablette”. See also Heidmann (2013). 35 Núñez vol. I (2013) 163. 36 The third part of the tripartition of narrative would be the argumentum, applied to a narrative of fictional events that are plausible and thus could have happened. 34

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account (historia) of Lucius’ life which is oral (audietur), rather than written (libros, stilis) or visual (visetur)”. 37 This notion of fabula, in Bitel’s view, could also be applied to the prologue’s fabulae, 38 albeit only on the intratextual level. On the extratextual level, however, the reader is constantly reminded that what is represented as narrated orally, for instance “sitting near the fire” (ignem propter adsidens, 8.1.2) in company with others, as Charite’s servant does when narrating her death, is actually a written text. The slave introduces his narrative saying: … gesta sunt quaeque possint merito doctiores, quibus stilos fortuna subministrat, in historiae specimen chartis involvere. (Apul. Met. 8.1.4) (“…these are deeds which more learned men, to whom fortune gives styli, can deservedly write down on paper in the form of a history.”)

As for Psyche, this comment alludes again to the fact that we read the orally told historia as written down by someone else, that is, Lucius, and finally Apuleius. 39 These tensions and oscillations between oral and written mode can also be found on the level of the communication between Luciusnarrator, or auctor – as Winkler calls him – and his narratee who is sometimes qualified as lector by Lucius.

1.3. The Auctor-Narrator to his ‘Readers’: Adultery Tales and Ekphrastic Representations As regards the embedded narratives that Lucius introduces in his own discourse, in particular in the case of the adultery tales, which we will deal with now, very little is said in the text about the narration through which Lucius learnt the narratives he re-narrates. What receives more attention is the fact that Lucius-narrator is eager to tell the stories to his audience. Introducing the story of a slave who was smeared with honey and then devoured by ants, he explicitly says “I wish to narrate” (narrare cupio, 8.22.1). At the beginning of the story about the cuckolded who sold his jar to his wife’s lover, Lucius only mentions an inn saying: …cognoscimus lepidam de adulterio cuiusdam pauperis fabulam, quam vos etiam cognoscatis volo. (Apul. Met. 9.4.4) (“…we hear a pleasant story about the adultery of some poor man which I want you too to hear.”)

37

Bitel (2001) 147-148. Bitel (2001) 148. 39 See Heidmann (2013) 160 and Núñez vol. II (2013) 51. 38

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I follow Walsh’s translation of cognoscere by ‘hear’, 40 which suits the oral context of an inn better and I would suggest that it can be understood in the same way in the case of the story of a serial killer woman, where it is said “I had heard such a story” (talem cognoveram fabulam, 10.23.2). But there is a more interesting feature in the example of the cuckold and his jar, and Walsh’s translation conveys the idea in the text well. The same verb is applied to reception by Lucius (cognoscimus, 9.4.4) and to reception by Lucius’ audience (cognoscatis). An even more explicit hint at an oral or aural reception of Lucius’ narrative is to be found in the episode concerning the pistor: Fabulam denique bonam prae ceteris, suave comptam ad auris vestras adferre decrevi, et en occipio. Pistor ille 41… (Apul. Met. 9.14.1) (“I’ve decided to bring to your ears a good story among others, agreeably adorned, and see, I begin. That baker…”)

The passage recalls the prologue through the use of terms like fabulam and auris, and the verb occipio (mirroring the exordior of 1.1.3), as well as the pronoun ille (1.1.3). Besides, exactly as in the prologue, Lucius reintroduces in his narrative of the baker’s story another form of communication addressing his lector. In the case of the Phaedra-like story, he goes further in this direction. He not only addresses his audience as lector, but also says: “so that you may read it as well, I publish it in the book” (ut vos etiam legatis, ad librum profero, 10.2.1). One element should be noted. There is not only an allusion to a written reception by Lucius’ narratee, but also by Lucius himself. The etiam implies that he, too, has read the story. 42 As can be seen, Lucius plays constantly on different forms of transmission of stories. Another form of diffusion, to which we turn now, is the visual one. In the Metamorphoses, we have two interesting passages in this respect, a sculptural group depicting Actaeon’s metamorphosis (2.4) and a pantomime on the judgement of Paris (10.29-34). I have suggested calling them ekphrastic representations of narratives. 43 This requires a brief explanation as to why they should be considered as narratives, although they 40

Walsh (2008) 163. It should be noted that for the pistor’s story, who is a character whom Lucius knows personally, he talks about gesta, which echoes the quae gesta sunt used by Charite’s slave for his narrative of her death, Charite being also a figure Lucius met personally. Thus, both characters belong to the ‘real’ world of the fiction. 42 See also Met. 7.16.5 about Diomedes’ horses: sic apud historiam de rege Thracio legeram, qui… (“thus I had read in the history about the king of Thrace, who…”). 43 Núñez vol. I (2013) 68. 41

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are presented in a descriptive mode. As we know, in modern theories, there seems to be a strong division between narrative and description: Genette even goes so far as to qualify the description as an ancilla narrationis. 44 In classical philology, although D. Fowler considers ekphrasis as a pause which is separated from narrative, 45 there are several scholars who recall the fact that in antiquity the opposition between narrative and description was not as strong as it is nowadays. 46 The element that seemed most important in the ekphrasis or descriptio was the effect it had on the audience: the description had to give the possibility for one to see the objects described as if they were before one’s eyes, that is, the effect of enargeia/ evidentia. 47 Yet these objects could be very varied and did not entail only static elements, but also actions, events, changes. This implies a temporal aspect which brings the description closer to a narrative 48 or which at least adds a narrative nuance that is worth thinking about. This is particularly the case when the description of the representation of a story follows the different temporal phases in their chronological order. An example can be seen in the final sentence about the sculptural group representing Actaeon’s transformation: Ecce lapis Parius in Dianam factus … Inter medias frondes lapidis Actaeon simulacrum curioso optutu in deam [sum] 49 proiectus iam in cervum ferinus et in saxo simul et in fonte loturam Dianam opperiens visitur. (Apul. Met. 2.4.3 and 10) (“See Parian marble made into Diana … Among the leaves of marble, one can see Actaeon as a statue, with a curious gaze staring at the goddess, already animal-like changed into a stag, at the same time both in the stone and in the water, waiting for Diana who is about to take her bath.”)

There is first the description of the goddess Diana, cause of the metamorphosis; then, the mention of her victim Actaeon, who is presented “with a curious gaze” (curioso optutu), and afterwards the mention that “he was already animal-like changed into a stag” (proiectus iam in cervum

44

Genette (1969) 57. For more details on the question and also for other views in modern theory, see Núñez vol. II (2013) 67-68. 45 D. Fowler (1991). 46 See for instance Aygon (1994) 44 and 48-49, and (2004) as well as Webb (1999) and (2009). 47 See for instance Quint. Inst. 4.2.123 or Ps.-Herm. Prog. 10 Rabe, as well as Demetrius De eloc. 209-211; on this subject, see also Calame (1991). 48 For the mutual link, see especially Quint. Inst. 4.2.2. 49 The quoted text by D. S. Robertson (2002) has in deam [sum] proiectus; Helm had proposed in deam proiectus.

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ferinus). 50 Thus, the different stages of the story are mentioned in their temporal and logical order. The same procedure is used by Lucius-narrator in the very detailed description of a pantomime about the judgement of Paris. 51 Lucius meticulously describes the different phases of the spectacle, which represent the story in its chronological order. He even imitates in his phrasing the temporal sequence of the non-pronounced discourses of the characters. Talking of Venus’ promises to Paris he says: “if she were to be preferred …, she would give him a bride” (si fuisset … antelata, daturam se nuptam, 10.32.4). Through this ekphrastic tour de force, our narrator presents us another non-written form of transmitting stories and he seems to offer a valuable characterisation of how such spectacles could be performed. However, if we look more closely at the spectacle, it seems at odds with what we know. 52 Generally, pantomime performances were performed by a single actor, and here we have several characters on stage at the same time. Furthermore, the silent performance was normally accompanied by a choir or solo singer who told the story. 53 This element is not mentioned by Lucius, or rather one could say that through his ekphrasis – which adds words to the images and actions described 54 – Lucius takes up precisely the part of the commenting actor or choir. 55 Yet this substitution undermines

50 Concerning the future participle applied to Diana towards the end of the quotation, I have suggested interpreting it as a marker of double temporality: Diana plays a role in Actaeon’s story, where she functions as a cause situated in the past, but she also works as a future element for Lucius-character, announcing his own transformation, to which the goddess seems to lead him; for further details, see Núñez vol. II (2013) 420. 51 For a thorough analysis of the passage, see Zimmerman (1993) and May (2008). For the general relation of Apuleius to theatre, see May (2006). 52 However, for a revision of this traditional position on pantomime, see, for instance, May (2008) 340-346. 53 Lada-Richards (2007) 42-43. 54 In this sense, Lucius puts into practice what is only a comparison in Lucian’s On dance: the analogy between pantomime dance and discourse or rhetoric; see for instance De salt. 35, 62 or 65. For a larger comparison between Lucian’s treatise and the Greek novel, as regards formal and rhetorical aspects, content, pleasant and instructive effects, see Ruiz-Montero (2014a). Furthermore, see also Quint. Inst. 11.3.66: et saltatio frequenter sine voce intellegitur atque adficit (“dance too is often understood without the voice and it impresses as well”). 55 Kirichenko (2010) goes further: he extends the theatrical perspective to the whole text and proposes to see Lucius as a ‘mime actor’ who offers throughout the whole novel a ‘one-actor performance’.

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the reliability of his representation, 56 as does the interruption that he includes in his tirade against corrupt judges (10.33). This tirade may, of course, hint at a cynical or satiric position. 57 But it also echoes and imitates the situation, when an orator introduces a digression and is reminded by the reaction of the audience to get back to his subject: Lucius stages such a reproach to his asinine character and promises: “back again where I left it, I will return to the story” (rursus, unde decessi, revertar ad fabulam, 10.33.4). He thus wears the mask of an orator, as he will at the end of the text and as his creator Apuleius does in his Florida. So far, we have seen how orality is represented in the fictional world of the Metamorphoses and in the communication between Lucius and his audience. We have noticed that orality is present, but often oscillates with scripturality and that the representation itself is sometimes at stake. This does not, however, necessarily imply that embedded orality in the Metamorphoses is only a fiction, an imitation; it hints at reality too, for what is not known and what is not relevant when it takes place cannot be imitated. The presence of orality is a fact, as are the intersections with the written mode. The examples of the Florida, to which we now turn, clearly enact the oral side as practiced by a sophistic orator, even if here too, the frontiers can be blurred.

2. Embedded Orality in the Florida Some preliminary remarks are necessary before considering the cases of embedded orality in the Florida. For our purposes, the problem of the title, which refers either to the process of excerpting or to the florid style applied in the text, is of lesser relevance. 58 What seems more important is the controversial status of the text as it has come down to us. As Hunink summarises the facts, “two things at least seem beyond dispute: the pieces 56 May (2008) explains how Apuleius is not interested here in giving a realistic picture of pantomime. She talks rather of a “‘meta-pantomime’, filling in gaps that the pantomime audience is usually asked to bridge in their imagination” [May (2008) 357] and connects the presentation of the different audience reactions (Corinthian crowd, Lucius-character, Lucius-narrator) with the evolution of Lucius’ knowledge in the text [May (2008) 358] as well as with Apuleius’ ‘method of writing’ and playing with his own audience [May (2008) 362]. 57 For the cynical mask Lucius assumes here, see Zimmerman (2000) 393 or 399; for the satirist’s mask, see Zimmerman (2006) 97. 58 For further discussion on the title, also with supplementary references, see Harrison (2000) 92-94; Hunink (2001a) 13-14; La Rocca (2005) 25 and esp. n. 45; also Lee (2005) 1-3.

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are mostly fragments and Apuleius is their author”. 59 It is generally assumed that the collection presents a fragmentary selection by an unknown person from late Antiquity of a more complete collection of speeches by Apuleius. This implies a double process of writing, one involving the original anthology and one involving the later anthology. In spite of this, the extracts are presented as being parts of oral speeches, whether they were recorded when they were made or previously written down for delivery; we shall return to this question later. For the moment, another element should be addressed: the fragmentary nature of the pieces. This may hide a potential problem regarding the embeddedness procedure. Indeed, the lack of a major frame, whether for the embedded narratives or for the embedded narrations, can constitute a difficulty. This point is accentuated if one compares the Florida with the Metamorphoses. In the Metamorphoses, at least at the fictional level of the characters, the narrative situation is usually described by Luciusnarrator, in a more or less detailed manner. This form of presentation is lacking in the Florida or at least it is not as clear as it is in the Golden Ass. Yet even in this case, some framing elements of the different narrations are to be found. We will first deal with this question and then study some examples regarding oral and written communication.

2.1. Fragmentary Frames of Rhetorical Speeches To start with the problem of the fragmentary status of the frames, the issue arises from two general causes. First of all, it is clear that the transmission of the text and the process of excerpting are the fundamental reasons for the incomplete condition of the pieces. Furthermore, there is a generic aspect. Whereas the Metamorphoses, as a fictional narrative or ‘ancient novel’ (as they are commonly labelled), construct a complete narrative world and depict the characters and their exchanges, the Florida is enacted as speeches, delivered or to be delivered, to an audience that is present, a performance which does not have to be explained in detail for the people attending. Nevertheless, some items of the collection refer to the occasion on which the speech in question is communicated. Among the pieces with embedded narratives of parallel stories, Flor. 9, including a narrative about the sophist Hippias, refers to the crowd and proposes a praise of the departing proconsul Severianus and of his son Honorinus. Flor. 16, embedding the story of the poet Philemon’s death, in order to explain 59

Hunink (2001a) 12.

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Apuleius’ absence for some days, recalls a previous public reading by Apuleius that was interrupted and gives thanks for a statue in his honour. Flor. 17, containing an insertion of a brief version of the myths of Orpheus and Arion, eulogises Orfitus, another proconsul. In Flor. 18, containing anecdotes on Protagoras and Thales, Apuleius explicitly expresses his gratitude to the inhabitants of Carthage. Hence, depending on the narrative occasion, there are various types of discourse in the epideictic genre, encomium, propempticon (farewell oration), gratiarum actio (thanksgiving oration), and the corresponding way to address the respective audience. 60 Besides, even if the extratextual frame is not clearly alluded to, the embedded narrative may be provided with a frame and a purpose constructed through the discourse, although only if the speech is not too short. In most cases, the narration is effectuated as an exemplum or as a more general comparison, in a positive or a negative way. The embedded narrative is even labelled as exemplum in two cases. In Flor. 7 Apuleius begins by speaking of Alexander the Great, first in general terms, then mentioning Alexander’s decree allowing only officially approved representations of himself. This leads our author to the last part of the speech, which he introduces as follows: Quod utinam pari exemplo philosophiae edictum valeret, ne qui imaginem eius temere adsimularet, uti pauci boni artifices, idem probe eruditi omnifariam sapientiae studium contemplarent, neu rudes, sordidi, imperiti pallio tenus philosophos imitarentur et disciplinam regalem tam ad bene dicendum quam ad bene vivendum repertam male dicendo et similiter vivendo contaminarent. (Apul. Flor. 7.9-10) (“If only an edict of a comparable kind were valid for philosophy, that nobody should imitate its image inconsiderately, that a few good masters, rightly instructed in every way, should observe the study of wisdom, and that the uncultivated, mean, ignorant people shouldn’t imitate the philosophers according to their cloak and corrupt the royal discipline, invented both for speaking well and for living well, by speaking badly and living likewise.”)

60

According to Harrison [(2000) 100] in Flor. 4, where we find an episode on the piper Antigenidas, “the allusions to theatrical and amphitheatrical entertainments suggest that Apuleius is speaking in the context of a festival where such things took place, very likely in Carthage”. Yet, the situation is not so clear; Hunink is more cautious [(2001a) 79]: “the element of the theatre … probably reflects the circumstance that Apuleius is actually delivering his speech at such a location”, but in n.1 he adds that “the fact that amphitheatrical elements are named in the text does not mean they were part of its immediate context”.

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The embedded exemplum on Alexander is used to criticise fake philosophers. This may have led Apuleius to continue with a description of good philosophers, as he is himself. Unfortunately, this part is missing. Yet there are hints at what a real philosopher should be like: he should respect the teaching of philosophy “invented both for speaking well and for living well” (tam ad bene dicendum quam ad bene vivendum repertam). The affirmation combining philosophy and rhetoric is of course “typical of the Second Sophist Apuleius”. 61 Yet its impact is much greater in the case of a speech, especially if it is delivered orally. The audience is implicitly invited to see the speaker they are listening to as the very person able to combine “speaking well and living well”. Furthermore, Apuleius is also implicitly presented as a kind of second Alexander, who extends this “copyrightdecree” to philosophy and rhetoric. The second case where the term exemplum is explicitly mentioned is in Flor. 16. There Apuleius tells the story of Philemon’s death, which prevented the poet from finishing a lecture on his work, in order to justify his own delay in appearing in front of the audience. The use of the exemplum is accentuated, the term appearing twice, at the beginning and at the end of the embedded narrative: Exemplum eius rei paulo secus simillimum memorabo, quam improvisa pericula hominibus subito oboriantur, de Philemone comico. … et quidem Philemonis exemplo paenissime. (Apul. Flor. 16.5 and 19) (“I will mention a very similar example to this point, of how unexpected dangers suddenly appear to people, about the comic writer Philemon … and well, completely the same as Philemon’s example.”)

Besides the insistence through the repetition, the initial and final position of the word exemplum reinforces the frame of the embedded narrative. Thus, the inserted section is clearly set apart from the rest of the speech. This is not a complete ring structure, as, for instance, is the case in Homeric epic, although the procedure strengthens the frontiers between the embedded element and its frame, as necessary for oral communication, be it effective or intended. Yet, in spite of this marked structural separation, Philemon’s anecdote, as well as his figure in general, are strongly connected with Apuleius, who compares himself to the writer. As mentioned above, the different embedded narrations are set in a frame involving comparison, positive or negative. Generally, this is effected 61

Hunink (2001a) 99. See also Quintilian (Inst. 12.2, Russell), who deals with the importance of philosophy for rhetoric; he states (12.2.7): atqui ego illum quem instituo Romanum quendam velim esse sapientem (“as to me, I would like the one I am instructing to be a kind of wise Roman”).

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by Apuleius himself. Besides the two examples we mentioned, in Flor. 9, the author from Madauros relates himself to Hippias. He presents a list of the sophist’s handmade artefacts and compares them to his own writings, saying that he prefers to compose his literary productions with a simple pen (pro his praeoptare me fateor uno chartario calamo me reficere, 9.28). The comparison is therefore constructed as a differentiation. In Flor. 15. after having embedded a kind of mini-biography of Pythagoras, Apuleius mentions the philosopher’s rule of silence. He explains that both Plato (noster Plato, 15.26) and himself (aeque et ipse, 15.26) try to follow Pythagorean teaching. The parallel is double: in the case of Pythagoras, with Apuleius accepting his teaching, and in that of Plato, with Apuleius explicitly saying that he follows him in his imitation (aeque). However, there is potential irony, in that Apuleius is praising a rule of silence in a speech (to be) given orally in front of an audience, although he also talks about the faculty of speaking at the right moment. In Flor. 17, Apuleius compares himself to the embedded characters of Orpheus and Arion in negative terms: “in loneliness he hummed, ‘Orpheus in the woods, Arion among the dolphins’” (in solitudine cantilavit ‘Orpheus in silvis, inter delphinas Arion’, 17.15); “yet the one who is about to produce a song useful for children and young and old men, should sing among thousands of men. Thus is this song of mine about the virtues of Orfitus” (enimvero qui pueris et adulescentibus et senibus utile carmen prompturus est, in mediis milibus hominum canat, ita ut hoc meum de virtutibus Orfiti carmen est, 17.18). In Flor. 18, Apuleius carries out both a negative and a positive comparison. In order to exemplify his gratitude to Carthage, he narrates an anecdote about Protagoras and then one about Thales and their respective pupils. Regarding Protagoras, the anecdote concerns an ungrateful student, unlike Apuleius. Regarding the latter, a grateful follower, as Apuleius is (hanc ego vobis, mercedem, 18.36). There is another comparison in an embedded narrative, this time not concerning Apuleius: in Flor. 4, the embedded narrative concerning the piper Antigenidas presents the musician as opposed to calling horn players pipers, a situation that Apuleius compares to problems with fake philosophers. Unfortunately, there is no information on the communicative frame of the other embedded narratives in the Florida. Flor. 2 embeds a chreia on Socrates at the beginning and continues with a description of the eagle, but we do not know in what context the piece was delivered. In Flor. 3, we only have the narrative on Hyagnis and the one about the musical competition between Marsyas and Apollo. There is no frame and so one cannot know how the embedded narrative was to be used. The same situation is to be found in Flor. 6 about India, the gymnosophists and their habitudes as well

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as in Flor. 14 on Crates and Hipparche, in Flor. 19 on Aslepiades, who saves a man thought to be dead and in Flor. 22, in a kind of miniature biography of Crates. Given the passages we saw above, it could be that the embedded narratives were used as points of comparison, but there is not enough information for one to be sure. There is, however, an indication that this may have been so. The different exempla embedded in the Metamorphoses are predominantly used as a comparative feature, rather than as argumentative elements. 62 The parallel with the Metamorphoses proves to be interesting. It reveals a difference in the handling of embedded narrative as a means of comparison in general and as exempla in particular, especially when they are applied to the narrator of the Golden Ass or to the speaker of the Florida. In the case of the Metamorphoses, we are dealing with a fictional text in which the voice of the primary narrator Lucius is clearly fictive. His transformation into an ass accentuates the unrealistic character of the story and of its narrative. Furthermore, as we have seen, in spite of the interaction with orality, the written nature of the text is never totally abandoned. The Florida, on the other hand, enact speeches as given or meant to be given orally. This implies of course the presence or at least the potential presence of an audience and of the orator. Even if in both cases there is a link to the narrating/speaking voice, the effect of embedded comparisons or exempla related to the narrator or speaker respectively is different. With the Metamorphoses, the reader is given the opportunity to visualise Lucius, first as a character and secondly and indirectly as a narrator. Yet, given that in general the embedded narratives which are used as points of comparison or exempla are drawn from mythology and applied to Lucius as an ass, 63 the ironical tone prevails and the exaggerated tone allows the reader’s imagination to envision the passages as he likes. I will mention only one example: the episode where Lucius as an ass has sexual intercourse with the Corinthian matrona. The comparison with the story of Pasiphaë and the bull (10.19 and 22) leads the reader to visualise the scene with more details than those given by the narrator. In the Florida, on the other side, the embedded narratives used as comparison with the would-be speaker guide the audience’s perception of him in a specific direction. Meant to be uttered or actually expressed in the presence of both the audience and the speaker, these elements manipulate the image of the speaker as he wants, giving him the possibility to construct the persona he likes.64 62

See in Núñez vol. II (2013) chapter 5.2.1.2. See Núñez vol. II (2013) 230-245. 64 For the different masks Apuleius assumes in the Florida, see Hunink (2004) and Núñez (2009b). 63

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Regarding the frame elements at the intersection between the Metamorphoses and the Florida, there is another point worth mentioning. It concerns recurring expressions employed to frame or generally structure embedded narratives. There is a particular predilection for the conjunction igitur in the Florida, 65 whereas in the Golden Ass the adverb denique appears more frequently in this co-text. To start with igitur: obviously, it is also employed in the Metamorphoses, but not as a marker indicating the beginning of an embedded narrative. 66 By contrast, in the Florida it is insistently used in the introductory passages for embedded narratives. The conjunction appears in Flor. 4.2 after the broad presentation of the piper Antigenidas in order to start the concrete anecdote about his anger against hornplayers. In Flor. 6.10 it comes after general information on the gymnosophists and brings in what Hunink calls an ‘illustrative example’. 67 In the case of Flor. 7.4, igitur inserts Alexander’s representation decree after proposing a wider view on the character. 68 A similar use is made in Flor. 18.21, where a general presentation of Protagoras is followed by the anecdote concerning his student introduced by igitur; in Flor. 19.2, where Asclepiades is presented and then the story with the man he saves is introduced by the same conjunction; and in Flor. 22.5 with the example of

65 On the application of igitur in the Florida in comparison to the De mundo, see Regen (1971) 104-105; Regen, too, accentuates the fact that it introduces embedded narratives: he repeats in his list several times “folgt der Bericht”. 66 There is one example that perhaps points in this direction, Apul. Met. 9.30.2: accipe igitur quem ad modum homo curiosus iumenti faciem sustinens cuncta quae in perniciem pistoris mei gesta sunt cognovi (“so listen how, as a curious man bearing the face of a draught-animal, I came to know all that was done to the ruin of my baker”). Lucius is about to narrate how the baker was killed by his wife. Yet the formulation, rather than appearing at the beginning of the embedded narrative (9.14.1), actually introduces instead the final part. 67 Hunink (2001a) 92. 68 See Hunink [(2001a) 94], who explains: “after a long parenthesis (7.2-3), the name is resumed with eius igitur Alexandri… facinora”; further, Lee [(2005) 90] notes: “igitur is often used to resume after a digression”. It is clear that igitur may be employed in this sense, after a digression or parenthesis. See for instance TLL s.v. igitur: post digressionem and post parenthesin (7.1, p. 255, l. 40) and post incisionem orationis (vol. 7.1, p. 255, l. 23). See also OLD s.v. igitur: “(resuming after a parenthesis or digression) well then, then”. I am not sure, however, that calling the preceding part of the Flor. 7 a ‘parenthesis’ or a ‘digression’ is completely correct. It seems rather that Apuleius slowly unfolds his embedded purpose regarding Alexander, starting with general remarks to come later on with a specific anecdote. In the oral context of a speech this can be useful for the audience.

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Crates, where again, according to La Rocca, “the usual expression of transition (igitur) goes on narrating an anecdote”. 69 The adverb denique is less frequently applied at the beginning of embedded narratives dealing with parallel stories in the Florida. It appears only once in this context. In Flor. 14.1, after a short phrase presenting Crates, we find it introducing the episode when the Cynic gives up his possessions and starts a sexual relationship with Hipparche: “finally, he springs out into the forum” (denique in forum exsilit). 70 On the other hand, it is more frequent in the Metamorphoses. 71 Denique appears, for instance, in the introductory remarks of the bandit reporting the death of his companions (4.9.3), introducing a miniature narrative comparison between Lucius and Pegasus (8.16.3), and preparing the narrative about the adulterous servant devoured by ants (8.22.1). Another example deserves more attention. It is the story about the baker in book 9. In this episode, the adverb occurs three times as a marker for an embedded narrative. First, it is Lucius-narrator himself who applies it promising “finally a good story” (fabulam denique bonam, 9.14.1). Then he repeats it when introducing the direct discourse of the old go-between to the baker’s wife “finally, one day” (denique die quadam, 9.16.1). Finally, it is the old woman who employs it, when she starts to recount one of Philesitherus’ love stories by saying “then listen” (audi denique, 9.16.3). Now, the reason for the preference of one word or the other may simply be aesthetic or stylistic, especially when one recalls that denique can be used as igitur. 72 As Helbers-Molt has shown, there are even several 69

La Rocca (2005) 289: “la solita formula di passaggio (igitur), passa a narrare un aneddoto”. There is another example in Flor. 16.23, where we have a slightly different application: igitur appears as a shift from the embedded narrative on Philemon’s death to the personal episode about Apuleius himself, not a parallel story as defined above, but a primary one. 70 Again, Flor. 16.22 offers a different case: denique is employed also when the speech comes back to Apuleius’ own anecdote. 71 Next to the examples concerning parallel stories, denique is also used for embedded narratives dealing with the primary story. We find it in Met. 3.3.5, during the Risus-trial, when Lucius starts to narrate the ‘facts’ of the night before: rem denique ipsam et quae nocte gesta sunt cum fide proferam (“finally, I will conscientiously bring forth the point itself and what was done during the night”). As seen above, it appears further in 1.4.1, where Lucius-character introduces his incident with a cheese cake: ego denique vespera… (“as to me, for instance, yesterday evening…”). It should be noted that the passage is the very first embedded narrative in the Metamorphoses after the prologue and thus the first of a series of embedded narratives introduced by denique. 72 See TLL s.v. denique (vol. 5.1, p. 533, l. 10).

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examples in the Metamorphoses in which denique is employed in the sense of igitur. 73 In her conclusion, she explains: Ex eis locis apparet “denique” hanc vim plerumque habere in sermonibus vel narrationibus, qua re minus mirabile est in Apologia nunquam hanc significationem inveniri. In ceteris Apulei operibus nihilo magis haec vis vocabuli “denique” manifesta est. (“From these passages it emerges that denique bears this sense mainly in discourses or narratives; for this reason it is less surprising that we never find this significance in the Apology. Nor is this sense of the word denique apparent in Apuleius’ other works.”) 74

Consequently, it seems that denique in some ways replaces igitur in the Metamorphoses, which consist precisely of conversations and narratives (between the characters and by Lucius-narrator), whereas Apuleius would prefer the latter word in the Apology, but also in the Florida, since both works are related to the tradition of rhetorical speech. To go further, it may be worth recalling a basic difference between the two terms. Although in post-Augustan times, denique can “denote an inference”, it is originally used for “denoting a succession of time”. 75 On the other hand, igitur, “expr[esses] inference or result” 76 or draws “a logical conclusion” 77 and is in general related to thinking and argumentation. Thus, the word would fit in the discursive context of the Florida, where the orator, in some way or another, tries to guide and convince his audience. Hence the preference for igitur, especially in the (allegedly or actually) oral situation of the speeches. 73

Helbers-Molt (1943) 129. Helbers-Molt (1943) 132. 75 See LS (1879) s.v. denique. As said above, the original temporal value does not exclude an argumentative or demonstrative aspect; see TLL s.v. denique (vol. 5.1, p. 532, l. 65): inducit conclusionem ad confirmanda praemissa; but even here it has a temporal nuance, as it introduces a conclusive element at the end of a series of different points. 76 OLD, s.v. igitur. 77 LS (1879), s.v. igitur. For the argumentative nuance, see TLL s.v. igitur: “it stands for fulfilment of meaning” (pro completionis significatione valet, vol. 7.1, p. 253, l. 14), “it would be like the final conclusion of a proposition and assumption and of a confirmation and syllogism, not from the uncertain perspective of someone discussing a point, but from the confidence of someone proving something” (sit quasi propositionis et assumptionis confirmationisque ac syllogismi extrema conclusio, non ex ambigentis incerto, sed ex fiducia comprobantis, vol. 7.1, p. 253, l. 19-21), “conclusive force” (vi conclusiva, vol. 7.1, p. 255, l. 10), “it establishes a logical nexus” (efficit nexum logicum, vol. 7.1, p. 255, l. 12), “it establishes a real nexus” (efficit nexum reale, vol. 7.1, p. 255, l. 16). The logical or argumentative predominance does not exclude temporal aspects (vol. 7.1, p. 255, l. 51). 74

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The oral context, alleged or actual, also explains another feature in the Florida, the use of a demonstrative pronoun in order to introduce famous figures of the past. Ille is applied to Alexander the Great (7.1), Asclepiades (19.1) and Crates (22.1); iste to Hippias, and is to Protagoras; whereas we have the indefinite pronouns quidam for the piper Antigenidas. According to Hunink, there does not seem to be any difference among the various pronouns chosen by Apuleius. Concerning the iste used of Hippias, he adds that “the pronoun is not derogatory here, although it commonly is”. 78 Regarding the quidam for Antigenidas, he asserts that the piper “was a famous Greek musician … he is introduced here, as if he were not well known to all. But in the Florida even important persons are commonly introduced by means of some extra information”. 79 Yet, in my opinion, Apuleius consciously opts for one pronoun or the other. The positive figures (as Alexander, Asclepiades and the philosopher Crates) deserve in some way to receive an ille, whereas the others do not, nor do the sophists Hippias and Protagoras nor the arrogant Antigenidas. Again, in so doing, Apuleius influences his audience’s opinion. The way Apuleius takes the audience into account is also an issue in the larger portrayal of these characters, after they have been introduced by means of a specific pronoun. The figures are indeed almost always introduced, although their fame means that they need no comment. Some have criticised Apuleius’ way of introducing his subjects. Regen, comparing a passage of De Mundo with the procedure in the Florida, says: … erinnert in ihrer schulmeisterlichen Attitüde nur zu sehr an manchen biographischen Anmerkungen der Florida, die zeigen, daß Apuleius seinem Publikum auch die fundementalsten Kenntnisse nicht zuzutrauen wagt. (“…with its schoolmasterly attitude, it recalls all too much some of the biographical comments of the Florida which show that Apuleius has not much confidence in his audience’s most basic knowledge.”) 80

Hunink, on the other hand, merely explains that “in Apuleius’ rhetorical works even the best-known figures from antiquity are briefly introduced to the audience”. 81 Yet, as Lauwers has shown, it was common for Second Sophistic authors and especially for orators to refer to famous figures of the past by briefly explaining who they were, a transmission of basic knowledge which does not reflect on the culture of the orators, but 78

Hunink (2001a) 112. Hunink (2001a) 80. 80 Regen (1971) 104-105. 81 Hunink (2001a) 210. 79

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which has to be related to the performative context of their speeches, taking into account the varied competence of the audience. 82 Aristotle already pointed out that … ‫ݼ‬ı࠙ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ܽȞ ʌȜİȓȦȞ ߃ ‫ݻ ݸ‬ȤȜȠȢ ʌȠȡȡȫIJİȡȠȞ ‫ ݘ‬șȑĮ įȚާ IJ‫ܻ ޟ‬țȡȚȕ߱ ʌİȡȓİȡȖĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȤİȓȡȦ ijĮȓȞİIJĮȚ (Arist. Rh. 1414a9-10) 83 (“…for the greater the crowd, the further off is the point of view; wherefore … too much refinement is a superfluity and even a disadvantage.”)

The different allusions to tradition can also be seen in relation to the presence of a diversified audience. 84 This actual or envisaged presence of the audience of the Florida is also an important factor to be addressed in the last section of this paper.

2.2. The Orator as Improviser and Writer In several passages Apuleius directly addresses his audience. In the corpus of embedded narratives on parallel stories, we see that in Flor. 9, 16 and 17 Apuleius personally speaks to the magistrates Severianus, Strabo 82

Lauwers (2012). For Aristotle’s Rhetoric: text by Ross (1964), trnsl. Freese (1926). Aristotle refers here to the deliberative genre. Yet in spite of the differences between the three rhetorical genres, he also links deliberative and epideictic oratory; see Arist. Rh. 1367b36-1368a1: ‫ݏ‬ȤİȚ į‫ ޡ‬țȠȚȞާȞ İ‫ݭ‬įȠȢ ‫ݏ ݸ‬ʌĮȚȞȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ ݨ‬ıȣȝȕȠȣȜĮȓ ܾ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJࠜ ıȣȝȕȠȣȜİȪİȚȞ ‫ބ‬ʌȩșȠȚȠ ܿȞ IJĮࠎIJĮ ȝİIJĮIJİșȑȞIJĮ IJ߲ ȜȑȟİȚ ‫݋‬ȖțȫȝȚĮ ȖȓȖȞİIJĮȚ (“praise and advices have a common facet; indeed, what you may say as an advice, becomes a praise by changing the expression”). 84 See, for instance, the following examples: Flor. 3.1: Hyagnis fuit, ut fando accepimus (“Hyagnis was, as we have heard it said”); Flor. 3.6: [Marsyas] fertur (“[Marsyas] is said”); Flor. 6.7: gymnosophistae vocantur (“they are called gymnosophists”); Flor. 9.20: id quoque pallium comperior ipsius laborem fuisse (“I learn that this cloak too was his own work”); Flor. 15.13: patre Mnesarcho nuper amisso, quem comperio inter sellularios artifices gemmis faberrime sculpendis laudem magis quam opem quaesisse (“just after having lost his father, who, as I learn, got, among sedentary artisans, more praise than wealth for sculpting gems most skilfully”); Flor. 15.14: sunt qui Pythagoran aiant (“there are people who say that Pythagoras”); Flor. 15.15: verum enimvero celebrior fama (“however the more famous tradition”); Flor. 15.21: memoratur (“is remembered”); Flor. 17.15: si fides fabulis (“if belief is to be given to the stories”); Flor. 18.20: aiunt (“they say”); Flor. 18.29: Thalen memorant suasisse (“Thales is remembered as having persuaded”); Flor. 18.33: Thales memoratur edocuisse (“Thales is remembered as having educated”); Flor. 22.3: poetae memorant (“poets remember”); Flor. 22.4, memoria (“according to memory”). 83

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Aemilianus and Scipio Orfitus respectively. In the same orations, he also addresses the general audience of Carthage. 85 Furthermore, there are numerous addresses to the broader audience in Flor. 18. 86 In Flor. 7.12, there is a direct address to an otherwise unknown audience. The specific passages addressed to the audience revive their attention, as do the different passages in the Metamorphoses, where Lucius talks to his lector in the singular or to an indefinite audience in the plural. Yet the allusions to the recipient of the narrative are very general and, although the exchange between the narrator and his narratee is thus accentuated, there is a kind of invisible gap between them. This is due to the absence of information about the place and time of Lucius’ narration. In the Florida, on the other hand, the addresses to the audience, often identified as the Carthaginians, indicate their presence, be it real or supposed. The actual or assumed oral aspect of the communication between Apuleius and his audience is further accentuated by the orator’s references to his performance. There are even passages in which Apuleius seems to allude to ex tempore speaking. However, it is interesting that these references appear in speeches where Apuleius insists on his written production. This intersection between oral performance and writing is particularly noticeable in Florida 9, 16, and 18. In Flor. 9, Apuleius refers explicitly to the pronunciation of his speech: “Who would let me get away with one single syllable barbarously pronounced?” (quis vel unam syllabam barbare pronuntiatam donaverit?, 9.7). After this rhetorical question he adds the following sentence: Quodcumque ad vos protuli, exceptum ilico et lectum est, nec revocare illud nec autem mutare nec emendare mihi inde quicquam licet. (Apul. Flor. 9.13) (“Whatever I have brought forward to you, it is immediately taken down and read, and I am not allowed then to withdraw it nor to change it nor to correct anything.”)

The term exceptum may hint at oral performance, given that excipere can be used as a technical term for “to take down [spoken] words” [OLD s.v. 6]; yet Hunink maintains the reading of )ij excerptum, which “may equally refer to the publication of written speeches” and “could indicate that excerpts of Apuleius’ speeches [as those in the Florida] circulated even during his lifetime”. 87 In both instances, however, written communication is present: our author also speaks of the reading of his speeches (lectum) and 85

For Flor. 9, see ch. 6-9 and 13-14; for Flor. 16, see ch. 1; 3-5; 10; 19; 24; Flor. 17.22. 86 See for instance the following sections of Flor. 18: 1; 12; 15-16; 18; 36-38 and 42-43. 87 See Hunink [(2001a) 109 and (2001b)] in the same sense; contra: Vössing (2008).

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of the impossibility of correcting them. Thus, orality and scripturality are not separated. Their interrelation can be seen shortly afterwards, when the passage about Hippias is introduced: “what this means, if you pay attention, I will discuss more carefully and in more detail. ” (quid istud sit, si animo attendatis, diligentius et accuratius disputabo, 9.14). The reference to the audience’s attention again (re)constructs the oral scene. Yet the care and detail (diligentius et accuratius) may allude to previous preparation and perhaps to a written version of the speech. Moreover, the verb disputabo is ambiguous as regards the method of communication. It can mean “to argue one’s case or point of view (in speech or writing, as a teacher, litigant, etc., or generally)” [OLD s.v. disputo] and thus it may allude to written or oral discourse, although the latter seems more frequent. Furthermore, the tense employed, the future, has a performative effect. Still, in this somewhat oral frame, the written discourse reappears after the narrative on Hippias. With the statement already mentioned “yet I confess that to this I prefer to rework with one single paper reed” (sed pro his praeoptare me fateor uno chartario calamo me reficere, 9.27) Apuleius introduces a list (9.27-28) of his written works. In Flor. 16 we have another form of interference between orality and scripturality. It arises through the mention of Apuleius’ and Philemon’s respective recitationes, which combine a written text and an oral reading. Yet the interrelation goes further. We see it when, after the Philemon narrative, Apuleius returns to the object of his speech of thanks for the statue: Sed nunc inpraesentiarum libro iusto ad hunc honorem mihi conscripto, ita ut soleo, publice protestabor. (Apul. Flor. 16.29) (“Yet, now, in the present circumstances, I will publicly testify it with a proper book, written for this honour, as I usually do.”)

In agreement with Hilton’s translation and comment on the passage, 88 I omit the supplied nondum and consider with Hunink that “most likely, 88

Hilton (2001) 161 n. 89: “I here omit Vallette’s [actually Helm’s] supplied nondum, which would yield the sense ‘the work I have not yet composed specially to give thanks for this honour’, since two different books seem to be meant in this paragraph; Flor. 16.29 refers to the present speech, while Flor. 16.30 and 16.47 refer to a future piece of writing”. The other mentions of a liber which would refer to another, definitive version of the speech are: Apul. Flor. 16.30: quem librum sperabo me commode posse conscribere (“this book, I should hope to compose conveniently”); and Flor. 16.47: mox ad dedicationem statuae meae libro etiam conscripto, plenius gratias canam (“soon, also with a book written for the dedication of my statue, I will sing more fully my gratitude”).

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Apuleius is referring to the present liber, that is, the provisional speech he is presently delivering”. 89 Another passage of the collection can be used in support of the point. Towards the end of Flor. 18, Apuleius announces a hymn to Aesculapius in Latin and Greek, preceded by a dialogue, also in both languages: … hymnum eius utraque lingua canam, cui dialogum similiter Graecum et Latinum praetexui, in quo sermocinabuntur Sabidius Severus et Iulius Persius ... Eorum ego sermonem ratus et vobis auditu gratissimum mihi compositu congruentem et dedicatu religiosum, in principio libri facio… (Apul. Flor. 18.39 and 42) (“…I will sing a hymn to him in both languages, which I have likewise prefaced with a dialogue in Greek and Latin, in which Sabidius Severus and Julius Persius will converse … As for me, I thought that their discourse would be both very agreeable for you to hear and appropriate for me to compose and religious to dedicate to the god, at the beginning of the book, and so I make…”)

The future canam announces the performance Apuleius is going to commence in front of his audience. Yet this performance has probably been prepared and written in advance. The author explains that the hymn has been prefaced, using the perfect tense (praetexui) 90 and refers to the process of writing compositu using again the substantive liber. The present facio and the expression vobis auditu establish the relation between the written text and the oral context. Of course, one could argue that these statements refer only to the dialogue and the hymn which are being introduced here, not to the Flor. 18 as we have it. However, as Hunink remarks, “although the initial impression may be of superficial, careless talk […] the sequence of thought is well-ordered and seems studied to celebrate Apuleius himself as man of culture and religion”. 91 The to-and-fro between writing author and speaking orator would complete the positive self-portrait. 92 In this connection, there are the passages where Apuleius, in spite of an apparently written speech, expresses himself as if he were extemporising. Before the double anecdote on Protagoras and Thales, he says: “I see what you demand: I will tell both” (video quid postuletis: utramque narrabo, 18.18). And to return to Flor. 16, introducing Philemon’s narrative, he does as if he would add information because the audience is asking for it: “or do you want a few 89

Hunink (2001a) 165. See also Toschi (2000) 23 and Lee (2005) 254. Vallette [(2002) 166] seems to omit this reference to a previously prepared text: he translates praetexui with the future “servira de prélude”. 91 Hunink (2001a) 181. 92 For a comparable fluctuation between orality and scripturality in Dio Chrysostom, see Núñez (2009a). 90

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words on his talent?” (an etiam de ingenio pauca vultis?, 16.5). Furthermore, after the mention of the liber he is possibly reading out or reciting (16.29), we read: … qua remuneratione dicendi gloriam tui facti aequiperem, nondum hercle reperio. Sed quaeram sedulo et conitar … Nam nunc inpraesentiarum – neque enim diffitebor – laetitia facundiae obstrepit et cogitatio voluptate impeditur; ac mens occupata delectatione mavult inpraesentiarum gaudere quam praedicare. Quid faciam? (Apul. Flor. 16.32-34) (“…with what discursive remuneration can I liken the glory of your act, by Hercules, I still don’t find one! But I will seek assiduously and put forth all my strength … For now under the present circumstances – and I won’t deny it – happiness blocks my eloquence and my thinking is embarrassed by pleasure; and the mind, absorbed by satisfaction, prefers now to rejoice than to proclaim. What shall I do?”)

These statements characterise Apuleius’ speech as an ex tempore performance: he gives the impression that he is struggling for words, and that he is at a loss as to what to do. At the same time, the emphasis on this situation, with its redundancy, is perhaps a method for the orator to buy time in order to find the right words. Thus, he seems to apply what Quintilian suggests when, as ex tempore orators, “we don’t take at least a short lapse of time, which almost never will be missing, in order to discern what we are going to say” (non breve saltem tempus, quod nusquam fere deerit, ad ea quae dicturi sumus dispicienda sumamus, Quint. Inst. 10.7.20): Tum et tardior pronuntiatio moras habet et suspensa ac velut dubitans oratio, ut tamen deliberare, non haesitare videamur. Hoc dum egredimur e portu, si nos nondum aptatis satis armamentis aget ventus, deinde paulatim simul euntes aptabimus vela et disponemus rudentes et impleri sinus optabimus. Id potius quam se inani verborum torrenti dare quasi tempestatibus quo volent auferendum. (Quint. Inst. 10.7.22-23) (“Then, a slower delivery creates a delay too and a suspended and likewise dubitative discourse, yet so that we seem to be pondering, not hesitating. This, while we are going out of the harbour, if the wind leads us when the rigging is not yet adjusted, then, gradually, at the same time as we are going ahead, we will trim the sails and adjust the ropes and wish for the sails to be swollen. This is preferable than to give oneself up to a vain torrent of words as if to storms wherever they want to carry one off.”)

In spite of his statements, our orator Apuleius does not seem to be carried away by the storm of his ex tempore performance. Furthermore, the potential written liber of the speech he is delivering should not be forgotten. Thus, the question arises whether we are really dealing with an improvised

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speech. In this context, it might be useful to consider the tension between improvisation and writing from the perspective of two of the most important theorists of rhetoric, the just-quoted Quintilian and Aristotle. In his Rhetoric Aristotle discusses the difference in style between the three rhetoric genres, the deliberative, forensic and epideictic. There he introduces a distinction between what he calls a “written” and a “competitive” or “debating” style (ȖȡĮijȚț‫ ޣ‬țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ȖȦȞȚıIJȚțȒ, Arist. Rh. 1413b4). 93 The written style is qualified as “most precise” (ȜȑȟȚȢ ȖȡĮijȚț‫ ޣ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ܻ ݘ‬țȡȚȕİıIJȐIJȘ, Arist. Rh. 1413b8-9), the competitive one as “most suitable for delivery” (ܻȖȦȞȚıIJȚț‫ ޣ‬į‫ݘ ޡ‬ ‫ބ‬ʌȠțȡȚIJȚțȦIJȐIJȘ, Arist. Rh. 1413b9. Later on, he adds: “the epideictic style is especially suited to written compositions, for it is meant to be read” (‫ݘ‬ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİȚțIJȚț‫ ޣ‬ȜȑȟȚȢ ȖȡĮijȚțȦIJȐIJȘÂ IJާ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ݏ‬ȡȖȠȞ Į‫ރ‬IJ߱Ȣ ܻȞȐȖȞȦıȚȢ, Arist. Rh. 1414a18-19). Aristotle takes into account the fact that in contrast to deliberative and forensic genres, where the orator has to respond to another speech, this is not the case in the epideictic genre. This also applies to Apuleius’ Florida, which consist mainly of epideictic speeches. Thus, Apuleius’ chosen genre is closely related to written style. Aristotle’s statement about the written aspect of the epideictic genre is repeated by other authors, 94 such as Quintilian. He explicitly mentions Aristotle in this context: “Aristotle considered the epideictic discourse most apt for writing” (Aristoteles idoneam maxime ad scribendum demonstrativam … putavit, Quint. Inst. 3.8.63). In a chapter on written and spoken speeches (Quint. Inst. 12.10.49-57), which echoes Aristotle’s comments on the same subject (Arist. Rh. 1413b3-1414a19), the Latin author goes further in claiming: Mihi unum atque idem videtur bene dicere ac bene scribere, neque aliud esse oratio scripta quam monumentum actionis habitae … Quid ergo? semper sic aget orator ut scribet? Si licebit, semper. (Quint. Inst. 12.10.51 and 55) (“For me, speaking well and writing well is one and the same thing, and written discourse is nothing other than the document of a performed pleading … What then? Does the orator always act as he writes? If it is permitted, always.”)

The quotation reflects the importance Quintilian attaches to writing, also noticeable in Aristotle. 95 According to the same author, “the stylus 93 I quote here the translation of the specific terms which Graff [(2001) 20] suggests in his stimulating paper on this chapter of Aristotle’s Rhetoric. On the topic see also the Introduction to this volume, nn. 28 and 29. 94 See Graff (2001) 22, esp. n. 4. 95 This is Graff’s (2001) central argument.

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conveys the maximum of both effort and benefit” (ut laboris, sic utilitatis etiam longe plurimum adfert stilus, Quint. Inst. 10.3.1). 96 He goes on to explain that writing is equally essential for “the capacity of improvisation is indeed the greatest fruit of our studies and, as it were, the largest product of our long effort” (maximus vero studiorum fructus est et velut proventus amplissimus longi laboris ex tempore dicendi facultas, Quint. Inst. 10.7.1). According to Quintilian, the reason for this is as follows: … multo ac fideli stilo sic formetur oratio ut scriptorum colorem etiam quae subito effusa sint reddant. (Quint. Inst. 10.7.7) 97 (“…our speech should be formed by a continuous and firm stylus, so that even sudden effusions may mirror the colour of written things.”)

Towards the end of the chapter on improvisation (10.7.30), Quintilian speaks of the combination of the three practices he has reviewed, i.e. writing, mental preparation and extemporisation: orators who often speak, “write” the basic elements (scribant), “the rest, which they take home, they should embrace by thinking” (cetera, quae domo adferunt, cogitatione complectantur) and “they should meet sudden things with improvisation” (subitis ex tempore occurrant). He gives as examples Cicero’s notebooks (commentariis) and others, saying that some are “as if whoever had written them was about to pronounce them, and others distributed in books” (ut eos dicturus quisque composuerat, et in libros digesti). As book-form 96

See also Quint. Inst. 10.3.2: scribendum ergo quam diligentissime et quam plurimum (“therefore, we have to write as carefully and as often as possible”). 97 See also Quint. Inst. 10.7.28: scribendum certe numquam est magis quam cum multa dicemus ex tempore. Ita enim servabitur pondus et innatans illa verborum facilitas in altum reducetur (“writing, of course, is never more important than when we have to speak a lot ex tempore. For, thus, weight will be conserved and the superficial facility of words will be brought back to depth”); and Quint. Inst. 10.3.2: nam sine hac quidem constantia ipsa illa ex tempore dicendi facultas inanem modo loquacitatem dabit (“without this steadiness, this capacity of speaking ex tempore will give void talkativeness”). Similar statements about writing are made regarding mental preparation which proceeds without it: proxima stilo cogitatio est, quae et ipsa vires ab hoc accipit et est inter scribendi laborem extemporalemque fortunam media quaedam et nescio an usus frequentissimi. Nam scribere non ubique nec semper possumus, cogitationi temporis ac loci plurimum est (“near to the stylus is reflection, which itself receives the strength from it [i.e. stylus/writing] and is halfway in between the effort of writing and ex tempore chance and I do not know whether it is very frequently used. For we cannot write everywhere nor at all times, but usually there is time and place for reflection”, Quint. Inst. 10.6.1); and facienda multo stilo forma est quae nos etiam cogitantis sequatur (“form has to be done with much of stylus, so that it follows us even when we are thinking”, Quint. Inst. 10.6.3).

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notebooks, he mentions those of Servius Sulpicius, adding that they are “so exact that they seem to me to have been composed by himself for the memory of posterity” (ita sunt exacti ut ab ipso mihi in memoriam posteritatis videantur esse compositi). Unfortunately for us, Apuleius’ Florida are only fragmentary. Yet our orator from Madauros has possibly followed the same method in his performances in that he combines writing, thinking in advance and extemporising. At least, he himself and his later anthologist thought the speeches worth keeping for future generations.

3. Some Concluding Remarks Our journey through the Metamorphoses and the Florida has shown how entangled orality and scripturality can be in an author of the 2nd century A.D. The Golden Ass stages orality in its fictional world, at same time undermining imitation of the real world. Furthermore, it constantly recalls the scripturality of Lucius’ narrative. Thus, finally, the writing of Apuleius himself is accentuated. On the other hand, our author presents himself in the Florida as an orator and writer. He alludes to his written works. He emphasises and performs his rhetorical skills, his extempore role. Yet, he interacts with the written mode. The different features are used to shape his persona as one of the “few good masters rightly instructed in everything” (pauci boni artifices, idem probe eruditi omnifariam, Flor. 7.9), one who masters everything. And he manages to show us what Raible affirms in relation to Plato, Apuleius’ ‘teacher’: Plato called notions that are mutually dependent ‘dialectical’. There is no slave or servant without a master, no leisure time without work, no nature without culture; in the same way literacy cannot be conceived of without orality, and orality without literacy. 98

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CHAPTER SEVEN THE SPOKEN WORD, OR THE PRESTIGE OF ORALITY IN LUCIAN FRANCESCA MESTRE

1. Spoken Word and Performance vs. Writing and Reading The declamations of the Second Sophistic are the best example of the immense prestige enjoyed by oral speech in ancient Greece and of its survival as an alternative literary medium to diffusion. Scholars, including myself, 1 have affirmed ad nauseam that the culture of the Empire is bookoriented, in the sense that, in contrast to what is to be observed in respect to literary production in earlier eras of the ancient world, during the Empire the sale, production and circulation of books is a given. Moreover, the book as an object, in this case mainly in the form of a scroll, had become a staple in the daily lives of both Greek- and Latin-speaking pepaideumenoi, although this is not to say that the situation in each context is absolutely identical. Nevertheless, in a book-oriented world such as that of the Empire, the rules of orality seem to remain more or less intact. Moreover, to deviate from these rules is not simply a serious fault, much more serious than plagiarism, but in fact a kind of deception or fraud as reprehensible as falsification, if not worse. 2 We find ourselves, therefore, in a book-oriented society in which, however, the oral remains preeminent. Consequently, we are not dealing with a case of opposition between the written and spoken word so much as with a need to understand how the two coexist, and why the written word is secondary (for lack of a better word) to the spoken. In the case of the Empire, we possess theoretical treatises that take this stance and expand on it: Quintilian declares unambiguously that anybody

1 2

Cf. Mestre (2008) and (2012b). Cf. Mestre (2012a).

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who cannot comply with the rules of orality had better abstain from its practice and limit himself instead to writing: maximus vero studiorum fructus est et velut praemium quoddam amplissimum longi laboris ex tempore dicendi facultas; quam qui non erit consecutus, mea quidem sententia civilibus officiis renuntiabit et solam scribendi facultatem potius ad alia opera convertet. (Quint. Inst. 10.7.1) (“The greatest fruit of our studies, the richest harvest of our long labors, is the power of improvisation. A man who does not succeed in this should, in my opinion, give up public work, and use his one talent, which is for writing, for other purposes instead”, trnsl. Russell).

In the same manner, the aim of progymnasmata manuals, 3 when they touch upon the goals of the exercises that they present and model, is the acquisition on the part of the student of mastery in oral performance. Likewise, when Philostratus in his Vitae Sophistarum examines the task of contemporary sophists, he looks back to the historical origins of the movement and emphasises almost exclusively skill, mastery and success in public declamations, which reap fame, prestige, power and wealth. The primacy of orality is therefore an indisputable fact of the Imperial culture, as it had also been in previous eras, particularly in the Greek world. The key difference is that now, in this book-oriented context, preparation for oral performance must invariably involve careful and sustained cultivation of the written word. This, however, is not undertaken, as our modern mentality might lead us to suppose, for the purpose of writing out ahead of time what will later be recited. Instead, exercise in written composition better prepares one’s capacity for oral production and for improvisation, 4 the latter a virtually indispensable quality in a good

3

Cf. esp. Theon (Prog. 1.12 and 1.17, Patillon), who uses the term ࠍȘIJȠȡİȪİȚȞ to refer to the proper use of oral speech in public, and who claims that he wishes to contribute to the education IJȠ߿Ȣ ȜȑȖİȚȞ ʌȡȠĮȚȡȠȣȝȑȞȠȚȢ. 4 For improvisation and the utility that the exercise of writing has for its practice, cf. once again Quint. Inst. 10.7.1-29; for the development and advantages of improvisation, to which the author alludes quite frequently with the verbs ıȤİįȚ‫ޠ‬ȗȦ or Į‫ރ‬IJȠıȤİįȚ‫ޠ‬ȗȦ and the adjectives ıȤ‫ޢ‬įȚȠȢ (sc. ȜިȖȠȢ) or Į‫ރ‬IJȠıȤ‫ޢ‬įȚȠȢ, cf. Philostr. VS 482 (on Gorgias, who invented the practice), 521 (on Herodes Atticus, the great master of improvisation, who in turn learned it from Scopelianus), 581-583 (on Aelius Aristides, a rare case of a prestigious sophist who does not stand out for his improvised speeches), 627-628 (on Aspasius of Ravenna who does not possess the character necessary to be a good improviser but who with effort manages to master this art), etc. See also Núñez, 153-186 in this volume.

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speaker. 5 If such a figure is successfully to deliver a speech before an audience, usually a large one, he ought first to have pursued written composition exhaustively, to have recited out loud, and to have listened to recitations himself. 6 This, I believe, is how we should understand what was required both of sophists in the Greek-speaking world and of orators and declaimers in the Roman world. One need not labour the point: oratory is an oral phenomenon and in this context the spoken word possesses more prestige than the written. However, it is not only in declamation where we see that the phenomenon of orality is fundamental and not only in the more or less apparently improvised declamatory sessions which Philostratus describes. Reading is also oral: recitation is performed in public and aloud. Considered as an anthropological phenomenon, reading in the Greco-Roman world, because of its ‘oralized’ aspect, 7 differs from how we read today. This is not because the ancients lacked the ability to read silently, as has often been claimed, 8 but rather because they possessed a form of writing geared towards orality. Writing and orality thus do not end up as opposite notions, precisely because there exists a mode of promoting oral speech that rests on writing, in the same manner that oral speech previously rested on memory. As Svenbro well put it, writing is nothing more than “une machine à produire du son,” 9 or, in Corbier’s similar formulation, writing is simply, “une notation des sons.” 10

5 Supposed improvisation is merely an orator’s ability to give the impression that what he is saying is coming to him on the spur of the moment, as if there were no preparation involved. In fact it is the fruit of a grueling training regime, a point which, as we have seen, Quintilian and Theon make clear. The importance attributed by the era’s theorists, such as Philostratus, to what is termed ‘improvisation’ is clearly another irrefutable proof that oral speech possesses a prestige far beyond that of writing. Put another way: the only authorship that counts is that of somebody who performs a text orally; cf. in this sense Mestre (2012a). 6 For reading (always out loud) and listening, which, together with writing, are an indispensable form of training, cf. Theon Prog. 13-15, Patillon; listening, viewed from another angle, is a form of ‘reading’ for the listener: see Schenkeveld (1992). 7 Valette-Cagnac (1997) 11; in effect, in order to appreciate the ancients better, reading should be vocalised: “la lecture sonore des anciens seule permet de goûter les textes et d’en apprécier la valeur musicale.” 8 On this topic and the famous passage in Aug. Conf. 6.3 cf. Gavrilov (1997), Burnyeat (1997). 9 Svenbro (1988) 6. 10 Cf. Corbier [(2006) 85] who adds: “L’écriture pour les Romains reste pourtant inférieure à la parole dont elle n’est en fait qu’une représentation.”

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To my mind, this primacy of orality is present in all contexts, including the most private, e.g. a personal entreaty to the gods, which is conducted aloud. However, the greatest proof of the importance of orality is the existence of multiple forms of public performance in which expressing oneself orally forms the indispensable core in the establishing of a formal relationship between the ‘transmitter’, whether author or reader, and the ‘receiver’, that is, between voice and ear. This relationship, appearing in various guises, informs the vast majority of public events and displays organised for the glorification of the elites and their power. 11 It is necessary, therefore, that the spoken word circulate, even to the extent that practically every written text requires the mediation in the form of someone to read it aloud. Only recitation allows a text to be fully valued and enjoyed. It is obvious that an element of spectacle is also involved, whereby the word is the principle agent, but public performance permits non-textual enhancements. These are dramatic, encompassing gestures, movements or, sometimes, when a fictional element is present, they are paired with some form of dance: in fact, pantomimes frequently accompanied recitations. 12 But the appreciation of what we regard as a literary phenomenon occurs, as it is bound to, through listening, just as today we cannot imagine enjoying silent music. We can therefore appreciate why the performer of a speech was so important. When, therefore, we speak of orality in the Imperial period, we are not talking about the same thing as when we speak of the orality of Archaic times, which is to say a system of cultural diffusion. Instead, we are referring to the use of the voice and the spoken word as a medium that is the most prestigious and representative among those available for the selfpresentation of members of the elite. The dominant culture of the time thus rests fundamentally on the oral expression of its products. 13 These products, it is worth noting, are entirely literary: rhetoric has opened itself to fiction and has passed from philosophy to literature. It is exactly this that is the defining feature of the Second Sophistic. 14 11 There is also a public form of writing, although of much less importance, and more widespread in the Roman world, during the Imperial period, too, than in the Greek: cf. Corbier (2006) 12-35. 12 Valette-Cagnac (1997) 119. 13 On the sophists’ strategies of self-presentation, see the now classic study by Gleason (1995): on the self-defence of Favorinus by means of his statue which is about to be toppled in Corinth, pp. 3-20, and on his marginal condition that he identifies with exile, pp. 131-158; so too the satirising of extreme opposites in rhetoric: the hyper-masculine and the effeminate, pp. 121-130, naturally by means of voice and attitude in the declamatory performance. 14 Cf. Cassin (1995) 448-502.

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2. Lucian and the Second Sophistic After this brief overview of the larger cultural context, I now propose to detail the particular uses of orality practiced by a man wholly characteristic of the Second Sophistic, Lucian of Samosata. ȉhe place which Lucian occupies in the Second Sophistic is unique, different from that of any other sophist. Sophists that we might regard as more conventional are well known to us from both Philostratus’ Vitae Sophistarum and from their own surviving works. 15 From these two sources one can put together a general idea of how such men operated, a pattern into which Lucian does not seem to fit easily. Barbara Cassin has said of Lucian: “c’est le nom propre d’un épisode du conflit entre histoire, philosophie, rhétorique et littérature.” 16 And rightly so: it is no coincidence that Lucian is so difficult for us to classify, if we bear in mind the variety of questions, approaches, objectives and thematic matter that he tackles. Nevertheless, not without reason have critics observed that his themes often repeat themselves, and quite tediously so. 17 Indeed, his characters, anecdotes and themes do recur, as if the author possessed only a modest repertoire from which to construct a frame for his singular personality. However, it is a frame that allows him to present his characteristic variety of approaches and questions, and in which he can sketch out his objectives. Moreover, the habit of drawing on a set repertoire is a common feature of the sophists of his era, who repeatedly rehash the same topics: the confrontation between Greeks and Persians, with the Battle of Marathon taking pride of place, the rivalry between the Athenians and the Spartans, the Macedonian hegemony and the figures of Philip and Alexander and so on. Indeed, it was when they moved away from such subject matter that the sophists had to work most diligently to win over a crowd, since the mere mention of such themes easily captivated audiences. The difference with Lucian is that he re-elaborates common topoi in a novel manner and with an idiosyncratic message, although this does not mean that the scope of his message can easily be discerned. Doubtless Lucian, like the other sophists of his era, intended to stand out, to gain power and to present himself before mass audiences as embodiment of élite values. Such must have been his professional and, to a certain degree, social objective, as we can guess from his decision to

15 For a tentative typology of the sophists in Philostratus cf. Mestre and Gómez (1998). 16 Cassin (1995) 490. 17 Cf. Anderson (1976) 135-160 and (1977); Camerotto (2014) 15-107.

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abandon his family sculpture business, in order to dedicate himself to paideia and rhetoric. 18 For some reason, however, he did not achieve his goal, or at least fell short of it. Why? In the view of Henderson, 19 it was simply because he was no good as a sophist and so failed, as doubtless many others did, too. Whatever the reason was, he was unsuccessful, at least when compared to, say, Hadrian of Tyre or Aelius Aristides, to cite two very different examples. Put simply, Lucian’s career as an itinerant public speaker did not unfold in the same brilliant manner as of others with which we are familiar. Moreover, as is well known, Philostratus does not include Lucian in his Vitae Sophistarum. This is hardly decisive in itself, as there are many reasons why Philostratus did not include him, as he failed to deal with many others whom he may simply have forgotten. Nevertheless, Philostratus’s failure to include Lucian suggests a certain degree of marginality. Indeed, to judge by the tone of Lucian’s works that survive, it is understandable that he does not form part of Philostratus’ catalogue. Lucian displays few of the qualities advocated by Philostratus, despite the fact that Lucian received a similar education and belongs to the same intellectual milieu. 20 On the one hand, then, we can observe in Lucian a level of creativity and literary quality far beyond that of many of his contemporaries, although, on the other, it would seem that he was a failure in his lifetime. In my view, to understand this paradox it is useful to draw attention precisely to the manner in which he communicated, that is, to the vehicle he used for his thoughts and self-presentation. This is clearly related to his use of public speaking, to his orality, that is, in both a concrete and an applied sense, and, just as important, in the role that the oral dimension played for him. This was evidently not the same role as it played for his sophist contemporaries. In order to demonstrate Lucian’s distinct approach, I will deal with three aspects of his works related to orality, which is to say the use of public speech. All three show in different ways the importance and relevance that orality has for Lucian, both culturally and intellectually. In the first place, I will stress the incorporation of oral tales within his narratives: Lucian likes to embed oral tales that give his narratives an ethnographic and cosmopolitan flavour. Second, I will offer an explanation for Lucian’s obsession with hypercorrect speech, especially when it is to be delivered in public. Linguistic propriety in any sphere of language is effectively an 18

As he clearly explains in the Somnium. Henderson (2011) 28-29. 20 ibid. 29: “Lucian was not a successful sophist, despite his massively sophistic literacy.” He adds, going too far in my opinion, that the author’s entire corpus is a kind of consolation and justification for his failure. 19

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obsession for Lucian, but, although he thinks it unnecessary to mention the point, his references to language almost always assume that it is being delivered out loud. 21 Finally, I will consider the importance that Lucian attributes to oral performances as a fundamental medium for the cultural, i.e. literary, interaction with their audience of élite pepaideumenoi, albeit freighted with his own idiosyncratic ideas about its content and development.

3. Oral Devices Lucian’s works are rich in the use of devices that are either oral or related to orality. He is a master of using these in narrative form as exempla, as illustrative elements or Į‫ݫ‬IJȚĮ, or simply to corroborate a tradition, rite or practice. In an important number of his non-narrative works – essays, speeches and dialogues – the inset tale, in the form of a myth, legend or fable, plays a key role. The best example, to my mind, comes from De Syria Dea. 22 This work contains at least five tales that are presented as deriving from oral tradition. These Lucian recounts, to fill out his presentation of the sacred city of Hierapolis and does so in a manner that follows a path between ethnographic inquiry and Hellenism. Thus, the tale that the Greeks tell of Deucalion (ǻİȣțĮȜȓȦȞȠȢ į‫ ޡ‬ʌȑȡȚ ȜȩȖȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫ݖ‬ȜȜȘıȚȞ ‫ݛ‬țȠȣıĮ IJާȞ ‫ݖ‬ȜȜȘȞİȢ ‫݋‬ʌ¶ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ ȜȑȖȠȣıȚȞ ‫ ݸ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȝࠎșȠȢ ‫ޖ‬įİ ‫ݏ‬ȤİȚ, “Regarding Deucalion, I heard a tale among the Greeks, which the Greeks tell about him. The legend goes like this…”, Syr. D. 12) is augmented by the story told by the inhabitants of the sacred city (Syr. D. 12-13). In the same manner, the author’s references alternate accounts of who founded the holy precinct, such as the stories involving Semiramis, Rhea, Hera or Dionysus (Syr. D. 14-16). It is Stratonice, the daughter of Demetrius Poliorcetes, who provides the narrator of De Syria Dea with the most opportunities to engage in the retelling of oral tales, since he records two stories about her: the first (Syr. D. 17-18) simply introduces the character, who has nothing to do with the holy precinct of Hierapolis (ǻȠțȑİȚ įȑ ȝȠȚ ‫ ݘ‬ȈIJȡĮIJȠȞȓțȘ ‫݋‬țİȓȞȘ ‫ݏ‬ȝȝİȞĮȚ IJ߱Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬ʌȡȩȖȠȞȠȢ ‫ݗ‬ȡȒıĮIJȠ IJާȞ ‫ݛ‬ȜİȖȟİȞ IJȠࠎ ‫ݧ‬ȘIJȡȠࠎ ‫݋‬ʌȚȞȠȓȘ …, “It seems to me that this Stratonice is the one whom the stepson fell in love with, that an intuition of the doctor exposed…”, cf. 17); a second (19-26), longer and more elaborate tale recounts the charming romance between Stratonice and 21

On this theme in particular cf. Mestre (2013). I am aware of the lack of general agreement about the attribution of this work to Lucian, although it seems more and more to be the consensus view. See Lightfoot (2003) 184-208; Elsner (2001). 22

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Combabus during the construction of the city’s temple, providing in passing an Į‫ݫ‬IJȚȠȞ for the custom of self-castration before the temple. As many critics have noted, Lucian clearly wishes here to imitate Herodotus, whatever his motives in doing so or the results. At the level of the text’s structure, the imitation rests on the fact that ȜިȖȠȚ mentioned above are narrated in the manner of a Hellenistic ethnographer, as some scholars have characterised the narrator of De Syria Dea. 23 Also to be noted in this section is the use of image-descriptions as a device parallel to ‘pseudo-oral’ tales. Such a method, although frequently employed by other writers of the era, rarely appears in the sophists. 24 The image, in the same manner as the oral tale, serves to occasion a narrative, the oral tale appealing to memory, and the image to sight. The clearest example of this in my view occurs in Lucian’s essay Calumniae non temere credendum: ‫ބ‬ʌȠįİ߿ȟĮȚ ȕȠȪȜȠȝĮȚ IJࠜ ȜȩȖ࠙ țĮșȐʌİȡ ‫݋‬ʌȓ IJȚȞȠȢ ȖȡĮij߱Ȣ ‫ݸ‬ʌȠ߿ȩȞ IJȓ ‫݋‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ ݘ‬įȚĮȕȠȜ‫ ޣ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌȩșİȞ ܿȡȤİIJĮȚ țĮ‫ݸ ޥ‬ʌȠ߿Į ‫݋‬ȡȖȐȗİIJĮȚ (“…I wish to demonstrate with my speech, as if by a drawing, what sort of a thing slander is, what is its origin and how it acts.”, Cal. 2). To equate an oral tale with a painting or image means that such devices become part of the narrative, whether they are real or invented for the occasion. The creation of such a parallel is rooted in the employment of a shared rhetorical-literary strategy, namely the act of transcribing something already extant, prestigious and in the public domain. Everyone is familiar with legends and can go see an image. Listeners are thus more easily persuaded, since the evocation of both legends and images activates their imagination, their phantasia.

4. Language Proficiency The second aspect related to oral speech in Lucian is striking. In a large number of his works he deals above all with the matter of linguistic propriety in the context of the spoken word and how the space that the 23

Cf. Lightfoot (2003) 86-91; Saïd (1994); Baslez (1994). We could consider that description of pantomime is similar to an imagedescription; it is interesting to note, although I cannot here go into detail, that sophists as a whole used to devalue dance (cf. for instance Luc. Ind. 22, Pseudol. 25, and the opinions expressed by Crato in Salt.), because, they say, dance did nothing more than ‘represent’ an image, like other types of oral discourse in this period did: such are the cases with Philostratus´s or even Lucian´s ekphraseis; on this topic see Webb (1997); (2009) 167-191; Garelli (2007) 360-361; see also Ruiz-Montero (2014a) and Mestre (2017); on the description of images in Latin declamationes, see van Mal-Maeder (2007) 65-93. 24

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spoken word fills (for want of a better way of putting it) ought correctly to be used for the transmission of actual content and ideas, rather than as a mere formal artifice. Thus, we see the numerous characteristic instances in which the object of the author’s satire, mockery and even insult, is all those who dare to appear before an audience, despite their total lack of preparation, believing that in order to succeed, it is enough simply to string together words without worrying about their propriety or their educational and cultural value. The clearest example of this is the Rhetorum praeceptor, a bitter satire in which the narrator eulogises choosing the easiest path, which is to say the path of mere appearances. In the following passage, he describes an abuse all too frequent in public declamations, where many speakers, eschewing any preparation and relying solely on flashy elements and devices (among which are voice and a smattering of Attic words), manage to captivate their listeners and produce the impression that the speaker is cultivated: ȀȩȝȚȗİ IJȠȓȞȣȞ IJާ ȝȑȖȚıIJȠȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܻȝĮșȓĮȞ İ‫ݭ‬IJĮ șȡȐıȠȢ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJȠȪIJȠȚȢ į‫ޡ‬ IJȩȜȝĮȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ȞĮȚıȤȣȞIJȓĮȞ Į‫ݧ‬įࠛ į‫݋ ݙ ޡ‬ʌȚİȓțİȚĮȞ ‫ ݙ‬ȝİIJȡȚȩIJȘIJĮ ‫݋ ݙ‬ȡȪșȘȝĮ Ƞ‫ݫ‬țȠȚ ܻʌȩȜȚʌİÂ ܻȤȡİ߿Į Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ țĮ‫ބ ޥ‬ʌİȞĮȞIJȓĮ IJࠜ ʌȡȐȖȝĮIJȚ ܻȜȜ‫ ޟ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȕȠ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ ȝİȖȓıIJȘȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝȑȜȠȢ ܻȞĮȓıȤȣȞIJȠȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȕȐįȚıȝĮ Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ IJާ ‫݋‬ȝȩȞ IJĮࠎIJĮ į‫ޡ‬ ܻȞĮȖțĮ߿Į ʌȐȞȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝȩȞĮ ‫ݏ‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ݼ‬IJİ ‫ݨ‬țĮȞȐ țĮ‫݋ ݘ ޥ‬ıș‫ޣ‬Ȣ į‫ݏ ޡ‬ıIJȦ İ‫ރ‬ĮȞș‫ޣ‬Ȣ ‫ݙ‬ ȜİȣțȒ ‫ݏ‬ȡȖȠȞ IJ߱Ȣ ȉĮȡĮȞIJȓȞȘȢ ‫݋‬ȡȖĮıȓĮȢ ‫ސ‬Ȣ įȚĮijĮȓȞİıșĮȚ IJާ ıࠛȝĮ țĮ‫ݙ ޥ‬ țȡȘʌ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ݃IJIJȚț‫ ޣ‬ȖȣȞĮȚțİȓĮ IJާ ʌȠȜȣıȤȚįȑȢ ‫݋ ݙ‬ȝȕ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ȈȚțȣȦȞȓĮ ʌȓȜȠȚȢ IJȠ߿Ȣ ȜİȣțȠ߿Ȣ ‫݋‬ʌȚʌȡȑʌȠȣıĮ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬țȩȜȠȣșȠȚ ʌȠȜȜȠ‫ ޥ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȕȚȕȜȓȠȞ ܻİȓ (Rh. Pr. 15) (“Bring, therefore, what is most important: ignorance, then daring. Add to these audacity and shamelessness. But shame or propriety or moderation or embarrassment, these let aside, for they are useless and unproductive to your task. But do bring the greatest possible roar, a shameless melody and a gait like mine, as these things are especially necessary and often sufficient by themselves. And let your clothes be flowery or bright, the work of a Tarantine workshop, so that your body may stand out. Wear either a feminine Attic boot, the many-laced thing, or a Sicyonian slipper, conspicuous with white felt; and have always many followers and carry around a book.”)

In the Lexiphanes, on the other hand, Lucian creates a masterful, quasiallegorical description of the bad sophist. Such a one is full of ‘words’ learned incorrectly, and when these begin to cause him serious indigestion, there is no remedy left except purgation, which leaves him empty and so able to start once more, this time on learning that which is truly worthy of presentation before an audience. 25

25

Cf. Lex. 16-20.

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In another work, Judicium vocalium, the letter Sigma draws attention to the crimes of Tau, whose improprieties are always phonetic (for lack of a better term) and consist of pronouncing ș‫ޠ‬ȜĮIJIJĮ instead of ș‫ޠ‬ȜĮııĮ. 26 The latter is the normal usage, unless one wishes to convert the oral transmission of culture into something that is purely artifice. Only once in the whole of this entertaining short work does the author refer to the graphic aspect of written letters, when he compares the shape of Tau to the cross used in crucifixion, a punishment which Sigma proposes be inflicted on Tau. 27 In line with what emerges from the rest of Lucian’s works, Sigma’s emphasis on phonetics reflects a belief that culture is expressed orally, which we can also observe in the author’s attack on an unnamed individual who buys many books but does not have sufficient education to make good use of them (Adversus indoctum). For this man books are merely luxury items that display his wealth. But in Lucian’s view a text, even when written, does not disclose its full value until it is read aloud: ıީ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ޏ‬ȞȒı߯ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȤȡȒı߯ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޡ‬Ȟ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮIJĮȖİȜĮıșȒı߯ ʌȡާȢ IJࠛȞ ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝȑȞȦȞ Ƞ‫ݮ‬Ȣ ܻʌȩȤȡȘ ‫ޏ‬ijİȜİ߿ıșĮȚ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫݋‬ț IJȠࠎ țȐȜȜȠȣȢ IJࠛȞ ȕȚȕȜȓȦȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬į¶ ‫݋‬ț IJ߱Ȣ ʌȠȜȣIJİȜİȓĮȢ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ ܻȜȜ¶ ‫݋‬ț IJ߱Ȣ ijȦȞ߱Ȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȖȞȫȝȘȢ IJࠛȞ ȖİȖȡĮijȩIJȦȞ (Ind. 28) (“You will keep buying [these books] and will benefit by it not at all, and you will be an object of ridicule to the learned, who are content to gain advantage not from the beauty of books nor from their high price, but from the voice and thought of those who have written them.”)

Here, indeed, ijȦȞ‫ ޤ‬țĮ੿ ȖȞެȝȘ are placed above all other considerations. It is noteworthy that in this same short work Lucian also alludes to a correct form of reading in Greek. Let us consider the passage: IJާ Į‫ރ‬IJާ į‫ ޣ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıީ ʌȐıȤȦȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬Ȥ ‫ݸ‬ȡߣȢ ‫ݸ‬ʌȩIJĮȞ IJާ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ȕȚȕȜȓȠȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJ߲ ȤİȚȡ‫ݏ ޥ‬Ȥ߯Ȣ ʌȐȖțĮȜȠȞ ʌȠȡijȣȡߢȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȞ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ įȚijșȑȡĮȞ ȤȡȣıȠࠎȞ į‫ ޡ‬IJާȞ ‫ݷ‬ȝijĮȜȩȞ ܻȞĮȖȚȖȞȫıț߯Ȣ į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާ ȕĮȡȕĮȡȓȗȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮIJĮȚıȤȪȞȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įȚĮıIJȡȑijȦȞ ‫ބ‬ʌާ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ IJࠛȞ ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝȑȞȦȞ țĮIJĮȖİȜȫȝİȞȠȢ ‫ބ‬ʌާ į‫ ޡ‬IJࠛȞ ıȣȞȩȞIJȦȞ ıȠȚ țȠȜȐțȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌĮȚȞȠȪȝİȞȠȢ Ƞ‫ ݪ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJȠ‫ ޥ‬ʌȡާȢ ܻȜȜȒȜȠȣȢ ‫݋‬ʌȚıIJȡİijȩȝİȞȠȚ ȖİȜࠛıȚ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȠȜȜȐ; (ibid. 7) (“Don’t you see that you suffer the same thing when you hold a most beautiful book in your hand with a purple leather binding and a golden boss, but read it like a barbarian, disgracing and distorting it? You are laughed at by the learned while praised by the flatters that accompany you, and even they often turn aside to have a chuckle.”)

26 27

Jud. Voc. 9 ibid. 12.

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The participles ȕĮȡȕĮȡȓȗȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮIJĮȚıȤȪȞȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įȚĮıIJȡȑijȦȞ are especially interesting, particularly ȕĮȡȕĮȡȓȗȦȞ. What might be the precise meaning of ܻȞĮȖȚȖȞެıțİȚȞ ȕĮȡȕĮȡަȗȦȞ? In the same way that hyperAtticism can become self-defeating, as we saw earlier in Judicium vocalium, here we most certainly have a reference to one’s capacity for diction, meaning the proper pronunciation of Greek, in order to avoid “disgracing and distorting it”, which marks the emergence of a new dimension in Lucian’s obsession with propriety. It is as if for Lucian this one natural, privileged and true medium for cultural presentation, transmission and communion between the one who employs speech and the one who listens to it were beset on all sides by dangers, deviations, threats and aberrant usages. Certainly, one’s ears are highly susceptible to the sound of the voice, all the more so when pleasing visual elements accompany the voice. It is therefore easy to trick the ears, which, caught up in the act of listening, allow themselves to be led astray by superficialities into believing almost anything. Just as our ears are susceptible even in private to believing slander, “those destructive pleasures among sounds” (… IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫ݷ‬ȜİșȡަȠȣȢ IJĮުIJĮȢ IJࠛȞ ܻțȠȣıȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ ‫ݘ‬įȠȞ‫ޠ‬Ȣ ..., Cal. 30), however dubious these may be, so too in declamations and public lectures we, the listeners, are easy prey. It is for this reason that Zeus in Juppiter tragoedus is so terribly frightened when the philosophers, whose public activity, when all is said and done, is not very different from that of the sophists, start running around making claims that the gods do not exist and that Zeus is dead. One such philosopher is Damis. When Momus tells Zeus to disdain such people, Zeus exclaims: ȉȓ ȜȑȖİȚȢ ‫ ޕ‬Ȃࠛȝİ țĮIJĮijȡȠȞİ߿Ȟ Ƞ‫ރ‬Ȥ ‫ݸ‬ȡߣȢ ‫ݼ‬ıȠȚ ܻțȠȪȠȣıȚ țĮ‫ސ ޥ‬Ȣ ıȣȝʌİʌİȚıȝȑȞȠȚ İ‫ݧ‬ı‫ޥ‬Ȟ ‫ݛ‬įȘ țĮș¶ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ʌȐȖİȚ Į‫ރ‬IJȠީȢ ܻȞĮįȘıȐȝİȞȠȢ IJࠛȞ ‫ޓ‬IJȦȞ ‫ ݸ‬ǻߢȝȚȢ (J Tr. 45) (“Momus, what are you saying? Disdain them? Do you not see how many are listening and how already they have been persuaded against us? Damis leads them off, stringing them up by the ears”).

Zeus understands perfectly well that sooner or later Damis will convince his listeners... There are, in fact, always strategies available for convincing people, whether privately or in public. Thus, there is Lucian’s report of the speech that Art made to him in a dream, in the hope that he would not abandon her. Although lacking paideia, she tried in every way to persuade him and indeed had tools at her disposal to do so:

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Chapter Seven ȉĮࠎIJĮ țĮ‫ݏ ޥ‬IJȚ IJȠȪIJȦȞ ʌȜİȓȠȞĮ įȚĮʌIJĮȓȠȣıĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȕĮȡȕĮȡȓȗȠȣıĮ ʌȐȝʌȠȜȜĮ İ‫ݭ‬ʌİȞ ‫ ݘ‬ȉȑȤȞȘ ȝȐȜĮ į‫ ޣ‬ıʌȠȣį߲ ıȣȞİȓȡȠȣıĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌİȓșİȚȞ ȝİ ʌİȚȡȦȝȑȞȘ« (Somn. 8) (“Art spoke these things and yet more, stuttering and barbarising over very many, but speaking earnestly without pause and attempting to persuade me…”)

Once more the word ȕĮȡȕĮȡަȗȠȣıĮ appears, together with įȚĮʌIJĮȓȠȣıĮ, but it is applied to a speech that is serious (ıʌȠȣį߲), organised and continuous, since it strives to convince. In sum, given its power and prestige, and despite being the cardinal point in Lucian’s cultural and, of course, literary schema, oral speech involves great dangers, when employed by somebody not imbued with paideia, to make false claims to the possession of which is, of course, blatantly dishonest. This last observation leads directly to the final section of my argument: the public use of speech possesses preeminence over all other forms, but, as happens with any type of recognised excellence, this very quality readily invites abuse, a notion that Lucian echoes at several points. One inference that we can make from this notion is that public recitals, declamations, lectures and so on do not possess any practical and concrete goal, unlike forensic speeches or speeches in the assembly at Athens or any other city, when there was debate about some war or law. It is a problem that is clearly prominent in Prometheus es in verbis: …‫ݸ‬ʌȩıȠȚ ‫݋‬Ȟ įȓțĮȚȢ İ‫ރ‬įȠțȚȝİ߿IJİ ȟީȞ ܻȜȘșİȓߠ ʌȠȚȠȪȝİȞȠȚ IJȠީȢ ܻȖࠛȞĮȢ. ȗࠛĮ ȖȠࠎȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ܻȜȘșࠛȢ țĮ‫ݏ ޥ‬ȝȥȣȤĮ ‫ބ‬ȝ߿Ȟ IJ‫ݏ ޟ‬ȡȖĮ … ‫ݠ‬ȝİ߿Ȣ į‫ ޡ‬Ƞ‫݋ ݨ‬Ȣ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȜȒșȘ ʌĮȡȚȩȞIJİȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ IJȠȚĮȪIJĮȢ IJࠛȞ ܻțȡȠȐıİȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌĮȖȖȑȜȜȠȞIJİȢ İ‫ݫ‬įȦȜĮ ܿIJIJĮ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİȚțȞȪȝİșĮ … (Prom. es 1-2) (“… however many of you gain good repute conducting court cases with truth. Your works, at least, are truly alive and animated. … But we, the ones who go before the multitude and pronounce these sorts of recitations, make a show of mere images...”)

Indeed, the epideictic, or simply spectacular, character of declamatory and declamatory-like sessions can undercut their power, or, at least, can more easily permit the kinds of abuses referred to above. On the one hand, then, these images, these İ‫ݫ‬įȦȜĮ, are tremendously useful for expressing oneself or for interacting with an audience. It is taken for granted that their purpose will be compromised if only fame and attention are sought. However, it is just this quality of being ‘constructions’ that are ‘invented’ by the speaker-transmitter, without communicating any

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actual and concrete reality, which facilitates deception. For such is the power of a voice over the ears, as we read in Hercules, a prolalia: ‫ ݸ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ į‫ ޣ‬ȖȑȡȦȞ ‫ݠ‬ȡĮțȜ߱Ȣ ‫݋‬țİ߿ȞȠȢ ܻȞșȡȫʌȦȞ ʌȐȝʌȠȜȪ IJȚ ʌȜ߱șȠȢ ‫ݐ‬ȜțİȚ ‫݋‬ț IJࠛȞ ‫ޓ‬IJȦȞ ݀ʌĮȞIJĮȢ įİįİȝȑȞȠȣȢ. įİıȝ‫ ޟ‬įȑ İ‫ݧ‬ıȚȞ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ıİȚȡĮ‫ ޥ‬ȜİʌIJĮ‫ ޥ‬ȤȡȣıȠࠎ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫ݗ‬ȜȑțIJȡȠȣ İ‫ݧ‬ȡȖĮıȝȑȞĮȚ ‫ݼ‬ȡȝȠȚȢ ‫݋‬ȠȚțȣ߿ĮȚ IJȠ߿Ȣ țĮȜȜȓıIJȠȚȢ. țĮ‫ݼ ޥ‬ȝȦȢ ‫ބ‬ij’ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦȢ ܻıșİȞࠛȞ ܻȖȩȝİȞȠȚ Ƞ‫އ‬IJİ įȡĮıȝާȞ ȕȠȣȜİȪȠȣıȚ, įȣȞȐȝİȞȠȚ ܽȞ İ‫ރ‬ȝĮȡࠛȢ, Ƞ‫އ‬IJİ ‫ݼ‬ȜȦȢ ܻȞIJȚIJİȓȞȠȣıȚȞ ‫ ݙ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ʌȠı‫ޥ‬Ȟ ܻȞIJİȡİȓįȠȣıȚ ʌȡާȢ IJާ ‫݋‬ȞĮȞIJȓȠȞ IJ߱Ȣ ܻȖȦȖ߱Ȣ ‫݋‬ȟȣʌIJȚȐȗȠȞIJİȢ, ܻȜȜ‫ ޟ‬ijĮȚįȡȠ‫ݐ ޥ‬ʌȠȞIJĮȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖİȖȘșȩIJİȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ ܿȖȠȞIJĮ ‫݋‬ʌĮȚȞȠࠎȞIJİȢ, ‫݋‬ʌİȚȖȩȝİȞȠȚ ݀ʌĮȞIJİȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJࠜ ijșȐȞİȚȞ ‫݋‬șȑȜİȚȞ IJާȞ įİıȝާȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȤĮȜࠛȞIJİȢ, ‫݋‬ȠȚțȩIJİȢ ܻȤșİıșȘıȠȝȑȞȠȚȢ İ‫ ݧ‬ȜȣșȒıȠȞIJĮȚ. … Ƞ‫ ރ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ݏ‬ȤȦȞ ‫ݸ‬ ȗȦȖȡȐijȠȢ ‫ݼ‬șİȞ ‫݋‬ȟȐȥİȚİ IJĮ߿Ȣ ıİȚȡĮ߿Ȣ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ܻȡȤȐȢ, ݀IJİ IJ߱Ȣ įİȟȚߢȢ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݛ‬įȘ IJާ ࠍȩʌĮȜȠȞ, IJ߱Ȣ ȜĮȚߢȢ į‫ ޡ‬IJާ IJȩȟȠȞ ‫݋‬ȤȠȪıȘȢ, IJȡȣʌȒıĮȢ IJȠࠎ șİȠࠎ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȖȜࠛIJIJĮȞ ܿțȡĮȞ ‫݋‬ȟ ‫݋‬țİȓȞȘȢ ‫݌‬ȜțȠȝȑȞȠȣȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠީȢ ‫݋‬ʌȠȓȘıİȞ… (Herc. 3) (“That aged Hercules drags some great multitude, binding them all by the ears. The fetters are fine chains of gold and electrum, carefully wrought, similar to the most beautiful necklaces. And being led by things so feeble they nevertheless neither attempt to flee, although they easily could, nor in any way resist or plant their feet firmly to pull back in the opposite direction of the march. Instead they follow, beaming and contented and praising the one leading them, all of them hastening and pulling on the chain with eagerness to get ahead, as if they would be grieved should they be released. … The painter, not having from where he might bind the ends of the chains, since Hercules’ right hand already held the club and the left the bow, pierced the tip of the god’s tongue and depicted the crowd as being dragged from it…”)

In this prolalia, Lucian describes a painting that he saw of Hercules in Gaul, and he gives it as a paradigm of Sophistic activity, thus identifying the powers of persuasion of speech not with the cleverness of Hermes, but instead with the brute force of the hero, which is able to entice and drag along behind it the greatest number of listeners. For Lucian, therefore, this is an allegory for the power of speech, which proceeds from the tongue to the ears and imprisons listeners, even if these, delighted that they are bound by sweet chains, do nothing to free themselves. Nor is this the only example of this allegory. In Scytha, Lucian also deploys the image to describe the relationship between a young Macedonian and his public: …İ‫ ݧ‬į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬ijșȑȖȟĮȚIJȠ ȝȩȞȠȞ, Ƞ‫ݧ‬ȤȒıİIJĮȓ ıİ ܻʌާ IJࠛȞ ‫ޓ‬IJȦȞ ܻȞĮįȘıȐȝİȞȠȢ, IJȠıĮȪIJȘȞ ݃ijȡȠįȓIJȘȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJ߲ ȖȜȫIJIJ߯ ‫ ݸ‬ȞİĮȞȓıțȠȢ ‫ݏ‬ȤİȚ. ‫ ݜ‬Ȗȑ IJȠȚ ʌȩȜȚȢ ݀ʌĮıĮ țİȤȘȞȩIJİȢ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ ܻțȠȪȠȣıȚȞ, ‫ݸ‬ʌިIJĮȞ įȘȝȘȖȠȡ‫ޤ‬ıȦȞ ʌĮȡ‫ޢ‬Ȝș߯… (Scyth. 11) (“If he should even only speak, he will sweep you along strung up by the ears, so great is the Aphrodite that the young man holds upon his tongue. Indeed, the whole city listens to him with mouth agape, whenever he comes forward to speak publicly…”)

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As can be seen, many references to the power of speech in Lucian are negative; they satirise or condemn bad speakers, including sophists who, unfortunately, inhabit the most important area in which culture can flourish. Nevertheless, Lucian remains a champion of oral recitation, including genres that are not normally performative. The aim of historiography in Lucian’s valuable essay on how it should be written (Quomodo historia conscribenda sit) is also, or ought to be, a performance. If nothing else, recital before an audience is the ultimate test of the quality of a historiographic work. Only a group of listeners, using their hearing to discern the qualities that eyesight allows them to detect in a statue of Phidias, can tell whether it possesses the ‫݋‬Ȟ‫ޠ‬ȡȖİȚĮ indispensable, if the recitation of history is to reach its peak: ȉȠȚȠࠎIJȠ įȒ IJȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ IJȠࠎ ıȣȖȖȡĮijȑȦȢ ‫ݏ‬ȡȖȠȞ – İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ țĮȜާȞ įȚĮșȑıșĮȚ IJ‫ޟ‬ ʌİʌȡĮȖȝȑȞĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ įȪȞĮȝȚȞ ‫݋‬ȞĮȡȖȑıIJĮIJĮ ‫݋‬ʌȚįİ߿ȟĮȚ Į‫ރ‬IJȐ țĮ‫ݼ ޥ‬IJĮȞ IJȚȢ ܻțȡȠȫȝİȞȠȢ Ƞ‫ݫ‬ȘIJĮȚ ȝİIJ‫ ޟ‬IJĮࠎIJĮ ‫ݸ‬ȡߢȞ IJ‫ ޟ‬ȜİȖȩȝİȞĮ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝİIJ‫ ޟ‬IJȠࠎIJȠ ‫݋‬ʌĮȚȞ߲, IJȩIJİ į‫ ޣ‬IJȩIJİ ܻʌȘțȡȓȕȦIJĮȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާȞ Ƞ‫ݧ‬țİ߿ȠȞ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮȚȞȠȞ ܻʌİȓȜȘijİ IJާ ‫ݏ‬ȡȖȠȞ IJࠜ IJ߱Ȣ ‫ݨ‬ıIJȠȡȓĮȢ ĭİȚįȓߠ. (Hist. conscr. 51) (“Similar is the historian’s task: arranging events that have occurred with an eye towards beauty and presenting them as vividly as possible with an eye towards impact. And whenever some listener afterwards thinks that he sees what is described and then praises this, at that precise moment the work reaches its most perfect state and claims the fitting praise for a Phidias of history.”)

The narration of actual facts is, of course, intrinsic to historiography. Nevertheless, as also occurs with bad sophists who offer the listener only the superficial appearance of a discourse of high quality, a historian can captivate an audience with a work that merely appears historical. This, Lucian claims, is in fact a common practice among those false historians and adulatory Greek writers of Roman history who infest all parts of the Empire. Such is the case with a historian from Corinth, who claimed to have witnessed with his own eyes the actions of the Roman army against the Parthians and had the gall to describe what he supposedly saw in Syria, Armenia and Mesopotamia, all without having stirred from Corinth. Whereas in the previous example we have seen Lucian appeal to the authority of the general listener, now the author laments that the public does not denounce the lack of honesty of his age. Surely the audience is carried away by the emotions that the Corinthian’s words provoke and, in some degree, loses its critical spirit: țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJĮࠎIJĮ ȀȠȡȚȞșȓȦȞ ܻțȠȣȩȞIJȦȞ ܻȞİȖȓȖȞȦıțİȞ IJࠛȞ ܻțȡȚȕࠛȢ İ‫ݧ‬įȩIJȦȞ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ ȝȘį‫ ޡ‬țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJȠȓȤȠȣ ȖİȖȡĮȝȝȑȞȠȞ ʌȩȜİȝȠȞ ‫݌‬ȦȡȐțİȚ (ibid. 29).

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(“And these things he read, although the listening Corinthians knew perfectly well that he had not even seen the war depicted as a wall painting.”)

5. Dialogue and Orality Finally, in dealing with Lucian and his idea of oral performance before an audience, I must mention his very personal transformation of another traditional feature: the dialogue. This, after all, is for posterity the defining feature of Lucian’s literary activity. One can only speculate, given the lack of evidence, on how the form of Lucian’s dialogues could be performed, read, or published. However, in view of what has been said so far, if one considers the construction of Lucian’s dialogues, it is clear, in my view, that they were intended for public recitation. Both the minores and the maiores have an undeniably dramatic character. All we lack is knowledge of how exactly they were dramatised. They were performed perhaps by one reader, or more, who may have between them handled all the roles; or by actors, such as those who performed tragic scenes, mimes and pantomimes. 28 There is an ample bibliography on the metamorphosis of the dialogue in the hands of Lucian, which takes as its starting point both the dialogues themselves and what is said about them in these or in others of Lucian’s works, particularly in the Bis accusatus 33-34. 29 Here I wish to focus on a different passage from this text, where Rhetoric, scorned, describes the current activities of her ex-student, an unnamed Syrian orator, who has abandoned her and now keeps company with Dialogue: țĮ‫ ޥ‬Ƞ‫ރ‬ț Į‫ݧ‬ıȤȪȞİIJĮȚ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȜİȣșİȡȓĮȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ܿȞİIJȠȞ IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȝȠ‫ ޥ‬ȜȩȖȦȞ ıȣȞIJİȝȫȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ ȝȚțȡ‫ ޟ‬į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬țȠȝȝĮIJȚț‫݋ ޟ‬ȡȦIJȒȝĮIJĮ țĮIJĮțȜİȓıĮȢ ‫݌‬ĮȣIJȩȞ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ܻȞIJ‫ ޥ‬IJȠࠎ ȜȑȖİȚȞ ‫ ݼ‬IJȚ ȕȠȪȜİIJĮȚ ȝİȖȐȜ߯ IJ߲ ijȦȞ߲ ȕȡĮȤİ߿Ȣ IJȚȞĮȢ ȜȩȖȠȣȢ ܻȞĮʌȜȑțȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıȣȜȜĮȕȓȗȦȞ ܻij¶ ‫ޖ‬Ȟ ܻșȡȩȠȢ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮȚȞȠȢ ‫ ݙ‬țȡȩIJȠȢ ʌȠȜީȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ܽȞ ܻʌĮȞIJȒıİȚİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ, ȝİȚįȓĮȝĮ į‫ ޡ‬ʌĮȡ‫ ޟ‬IJࠛȞ ܻțȠȣȩȞIJȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ‫݋‬ʌȚıİ߿ıĮȚ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Ȥİ߿ȡĮ ‫݋‬ȞIJާȢ IJࠛȞ ‫ݼ‬ȡȦȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝȚțȡ‫݋ ޟ‬ʌȚȞİࠎıĮȚ IJ߲ țİijĮȜ߲ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫݋‬ʌȚıIJİȞȐȟĮȚ IJȠ߿Ȣ ȜİȖȠȝȑȞȠȚȢ (Bis acc. 28) 28

Cf. Mestre (2014) where, through the analysis of textual elements, I make an attempt at understanding how the mise-en-scène of the dialogue Cataplus may have been realised. On dramatic representations under the Empire, especially pantomime, the last few years have seen a substantial bibliography, with interesting contributions: cf. Garelli (2007) with very many earlier references on pp. 9-14; Lada-Richards (2007); Webb (2008); Hall and Wyles (2008). 29 Ureña Bracero (1995); Camerotto (1998); Brandâo (2001); Gómez and Mestre (2001).

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(“He is not ashamed to curtail the liberty and license of the speeches in my domain. He limits himself to brief question-and-answers and, instead of saying whatever he wishes in a loud voice, he pleats together and sounds out some trifling words. On account of this he can meet with neither universal praise nor great applause, but instead a smile from the listeners, a moderate clapping, slight nods of assent and sighing in response to what is said.”)

Two details of this passage are of interest. The first and most obvious is that the Syrian orator, despite keeping company with Dialogue, continues to appear in public, which is to say that he has not abandoned oral performance. His dialogues, therefore, have an audience and an occasion on which they are performed. The second detail is the description of the Syrian orator’s rhetorical style and of his new performance, contrasted with the Sophistic declamation, procedures that presumably refer to Lucian’s own task as an author of dialogues. These public recitations are easier and lighter in tone, and their exchanges between characters obtain a quieter response of the audience. The passage from the Bis accusatus above, I believe, provides solid proof of the existence of an oral performance in the realisation of Lucian’s dialogues. It also provides an appropriate occasion to introduce some illuminating parallels from Lucian’s discussions of pantomime. 30 Here I do not aim to analyse the differences that the pepaideumenoi tried to establish between such ‘feminine’, ‘soft’, ‘lascivious’ and ‘ridiculous’ spectacles, and the spectacle of speech, i.e. declamation, appropriate for men of erudition, wisdom and good repute. Rather, Lucian himself stages a dialogue (De saltatione) between Crato, a strict pepaideumenos, and Lycinus, a lover of pantomime, who is clearly a mask for Lucian. In contrast to what one would expect of an educated man, Lycinus tries to convince his interlocutor of the great benefits that attendance at a pantomime offers the public. The pantomime is beautiful, educational, draws on ancient wisdom and is pleasing. On more than one occasion, Lycinus compares the preparation required of an orator with that required of a pantomime performer. Let us examine two examples: … ܻȞĮȖțĮ߿ȠȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ, ‫ݼ‬ʌİȡ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ࠍȒIJȠȡıȚ ıĮijȒȞİȚĮȞ ܻıțİ߿Ȟ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ݐ‬țĮıIJȠȞ IJࠛȞ įİȚțȞȣȝȑȞȦȞ ‫ބ‬ʌ¶ Į‫ރ‬IJȠࠎ įȘȜȠࠎıșĮȚ ȝȘįİȞާȢ ‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJȠࠎ įİȩȝİȞȠȞ« (Salt. 62)

30

Cf. Mestre (2017).

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(“It is necessary for him, as it is also for orators, to work at lucidity, so that each of the things exhibited is made clear by him and requires no interpreter…”) ‫ ݠ‬į‫ ޡ‬ʌȜİȓıIJȘ įȚĮIJȡȚȕ‫ ޣ‬țĮ‫ ݸ ޥ‬ıțȠʌާȢ IJ߱Ȣ ‫ݷ‬ȡȤȘıIJȚț߱Ȣ ‫ބ ݘ‬ʌȩțȡȚıȓȢ ‫݋‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ݏ‬ijȘȞ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ࠍȒIJȠȡıȚȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚIJȘįİȣȠȝȑȞȘ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȝȐȜȚıIJĮ IJȠ߿Ȣ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ țĮȜȠȣȝȑȞĮȢ IJĮȪIJĮȢ ȝİȜȑIJĮȢ įȚİȟȚȠࠎıȚȞ (ibid. 65) (“But the chief activity and the aim of pantomime is representation, in accordance, as I was saying, with the same things that are practiced also by orators and especially by those undertaking these so-called exercises.”)

The first example deals with clarity and ‘intelligibility’ (ıĮijȒȞİȚĮ), a key quality – as we have seen in the case of historiography – for oral expression that is always employed with the aim of enabling the audience to experience themselves what they are presented with. The second example is even more interesting: pantomime and oral recitation are both rooted to the same degree in ‘representation’ (‫ބ‬ʌȩțȡȚıȚȢ), which means that whatever one presents before a public requires a ‘dramatisation’, a ‘mise-en-scène’. In the case of pantomime, this involves movement of the body, as it also does for the orator, in addition to the use of his voice. The voice is of the greatest importance as it is the body, because they convey to the listener what the transmitter wishes to express. To this end Lycinus invokes Demetrius the Cynic, who, after viewing a (mute) pantomime performance, declares: ݃țȠȪȦ ܿȞșȡȦʌİ ܾ ʌȠȚİ߿ȢÂ Ƞ‫ރ‬Ȥ ‫ݸ‬ȡࠛ ȝȩȞȠȞ ܻȜȜȐ ȝȠȚ įȠțİ߿Ȣ IJĮ߿Ȣ Ȥİȡı‫ޥ‬Ȟ Į‫ރ‬IJĮ߿Ȣ ȜĮȜİ߿Ȟ (ibid. 63) (“I hear, sir, what you are doing: I do not only see it, but it seems to me that you speak with your very hands.”)

Indeed, pantomime’s dance ‘is heard’, as if it were the voice of the hands performing a silent oration. Conversely, an orator’s recitation depends primarily on his voice, but is also enhanced by physical expressiveness. It remains to say, in conclusion, that Lycinus / Lucian makes use of his orality and of oral communication with his interlocutor Crato, and with all those pepaideumenoi who think like him, in order to convince him of the importance and benefits of pantomime’s dance spectacles. At the same time, admirable as the genre may be as a spectacle, oral communication is still necessary to express this idea and to convince those most adamantly opposed to it.

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6. Conclusions A few brief remarks by way of conclusion: Lucian is not, for all intents and purposes, a sophist. He has other interests and other concerns. Perhaps the fact that he did not succeed as a sophist was the catalyst for his decision to pursue this alternative path, but what is important is that he indeed embarks upon it. It is possible that, had Lucian been a successful sophist, he would not have needed to express himself in so singular a manner. For Lucian, a man of adopted Greek culture and thus perhaps more demanding than others in his standards regarding it, culture is Greek and in Greek. At the same time, there is no prestigious form of public expression for language except oral. It should be heard. Why? Surely because the elite ranks of educated men cannot conceive of displaying their cultural credentials in a manner that does not involve doing so before other educated men, or before those to whom they can make an ostentatious display of their erudition and capabilities. Thus, they communicate directly with their peers using the form of communion and interaction created between transmitter and receiver in oral performances. Faced with such a context, Lucian has two forms of response that are worth investigation and together account for a large part of his output. In the first place, he laments the frequent abuse and cheapening of such supreme communicative acts, which occurs when an orator deceives and hides behind pretentiousness, or when the public is insufficiently demanding. Secondly, since declamations turn out not to be the area in which the author distinguishes himself most, he sets out to create new forms and new genres that he can present before the public, in order to entertain, educate, delight and please. Such a codependent relationship clearly shows the preeminence of oral discourse. Lucian himself stresses this point in another of his prolaliai. Having established that dipsades are terrible animals from the desert of Libya, whose bite provokes an insatiable thirst, he introduces a comparison between himself and his desire to be heard on the one hand, and, on the other, the victim of the bite of a dispsas and his unquenchable thirst: ܻȜȜȐ ȝȠȚ įȠțࠛ … ‫ݼ‬ȝȠȚȩȞ IJȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ ʌĮșİ߿Ȟ ʌȡާȢ ‫ބ‬ȝߢȢ Ƞ‫ݮ‬ȠȞ ‫݋‬țİ߿ȞȠȚ ʌȐıȤȠȣıȚ ʌȡާȢ IJާ ʌȠIJާȞ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬įȘȤșȑȞIJİȢ ‫ބ‬ʌާ IJ߱Ȣ įȚȥȐįȠȢ ‫ݼ‬ı࠙ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ܽȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ޥ‬ ʌȜȑȠȞ ʌĮȡȓȦ ‫݋‬Ȣ ‫ބ‬ȝߢȢ IJȠıȠȪIJ࠙ ȝߢȜȜȠȞ ‫ݷ‬ȡȑȖȠȝĮȚ IJȠࠎ ʌȡȐȖȝĮIJȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJާ įȓȥȠȢ ܿıȤİIJȠȞ ‫ބ‬ʌİțțĮȓİIJĮȓ ȝȠȚ țĮ‫ݏ ޥ‬ȠȚțĮ Ƞ‫ރ‬į¶ ‫݋‬ȝʌȜȒıİıșĮȓ ʌȠIJİ IJȠࠎ IJȠȚȠȪIJȠȣ ʌȠIJȠࠎ. ȝȐȜĮ İ‫ݧ‬țȩIJȦȢ ʌȠࠎ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ܽȞ Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦ įȚİȚįİ߿ IJİ țĮ‫ ޥ‬țĮșĮȡࠜ ‫ވ‬įĮIJȚ ‫݋‬ȞIJȪȤȠȚȝȚ ‫ޔ‬ıIJİ ıȪȖȖȞȦIJİ İ‫ ݧ‬įȘȤșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ țĮ‫ ޥ‬Į‫ރ‬IJާȢ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȥȣȤ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫ݘ‬įȓıIJ࠙ IJȠȪIJ࠙ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫ބ‬ȖȚİȚȞȠIJȐIJ࠙ IJࠜ įȒȖȝĮIJȚ ‫݋‬ȝijȠȡȠࠎȝĮȚ ȤĮȞįާȞ ‫ބ‬ʌȠșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ IJࠜ țȡȠȣȞࠜ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ țİijĮȜȒȞ İ‫ݫ‬Ș ȝȩȞȠȞ ȝ‫݋ ޣ‬ʌȚȜȚʌİ߿Ȟ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌĮȡ¶ ‫ބ‬ȝࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȡȡȑȠȞIJĮ ȝȘį‫ ޡ‬Ȥȣșİ߿ıĮȞ

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IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ıʌȠȣį‫ޣ‬Ȟ IJ߱Ȣ ܻțȡȠȐıİȦȢ țİȤȘȞȩIJĮ ‫ݏ‬IJȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬įȚȥࠛȞIJĮ țĮIJĮȜȚʌİ߿ȞÂ ‫ސ‬Ȣ įȓȥȠȣȢ Ȗİ ‫ݐ‬ȞİțĮ IJȠ‫ރ‬ȝȠࠎ ʌȡާȢ ‫ބ‬ȝߢȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܽȞ ‫݋‬țȫȜȣİ ʌȓȞİȚȞ ܻİȓÂ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ IJާȞ ıȠijާȞ ȆȜȐIJȦȞĮ țȩȡȠȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬įİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ IJࠛȞ țĮȜࠛȞ (Dips. 9) (“But I seem … to suffer something similar in relation to all of you as those who have been bitten by a dipsas suffer in relation to drink. For the more I appear before you, the more I grasp after the occasion, and the insatiable thirst consumes me and it seems I will never become full with this sort of drink. For how else could I ever chance upon water so translucent and pure? Thus, forgive me if bitten in my soul by this sweetest and healthiest bite I too take my fill, mouth agape, sticking my head under the spring. Only let it come to pass that what flows from you not run dry and that your eagerness for listening not have poured itself out and leave me behind, mouth agape and still thirsting. As regards my thirst in relation to you, nothing could hinder me from drinking perpetually: for according to the wise Plato there is no satiety of what is noble.”)

With these words Lucian sketches out the ultimate (Platonic) state of the activity that encompasses declamation, reading or presenting any message before an audience of listeners and observers. Here we reach the point where the relationship between active-transmitter and passivereceiver paradoxically ends up becoming inverted, as befits good sophistry: it is the transmitter who, like a victim of the dipsas, receives from his listeners (the receiver) the water to quench his thirst, namely his desire to be heard. Indeed, the initial bite, as it were, catalyses the subject’s activity, who feeds off the public’s ability and desire to listen to him. Here, then, we have a wonderful metaphor for the value that orality possesses for Lucian and his contemporaries.

CHAPTER EIGHT ‘COMIC BOOKS’ IN GRECO-ROMAN ANTIQUITY ANTONIO STRAMAGLIA

1. Grylloi The classical world has left us with numerous documents, both Greek and Roman, in which an illustration is enlivened by means of a text that records, as if during its actual performance, the vocal act of one or more characters (not necessarily human) featured in the illustration itself. This technique is used by what we nowadays call ‘comics’ and it is found on vases, mosaics, frescoes, cups, and other types of objects, produced over a geographic and chronological span ranging from 6th century B.C. Athens to the late Roman Empire and beyond. 1 But apart from handmade products of diverse nature, did Greco-Roman antiquity make use of comics in book artefacts too? In other words, were ancient Greeks and Romans (more or less) familiar with such ‘comics’? To answer this question, we need to start with the figurative arts. Pliny the Elder reports that the Alexandrian painter Antiphilus (4th century B.C.) devoted himself both to ‘major’ and to genre painting. In this latter field, among much else, idem iocosis (sc. tabellis) nomine Gryllum deridiculi habitus pinxit, unde id genus picturae grylli vocantur (NH 35.114). This passage poses many problems of interpretation. 2 Above all, it is unclear whether id genus picturae points to small pictures that involve burlesque representations of human types and so refers to the iocosae 1 For extensive surveys of the documentation so far known see Stramaglia (2005) and (2007), which I have freely drawn upon and reworked in this paper, often tacitly modifying former interpretations of mine. For the general framework, Kovacs and Marshall (2011) is now indispensable. 2 I therefore leave it intentionally untranslated. For a detailed and very well documented analysis of the passage, see Hammerstaedt (2000) 30-33, 39, 44.

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tabellae themselves, or to the typified figures acting in such tabellae. 3 Modern scholarship has traditionally preferred the former explanation, regarding gryllos as the name of an iconographic (and later also literary) genre, i.e. of a kind of caricature based on deformed characters playfully distorting figures and events, especially from myth. Paintings, sculptures and other objects related to this type of production, well attested e.g. in Pompeii and Herculaneum, were collected and studied by Wolfgang Binsfeld in 1956 in a still fundamental dissertation. 4 However, as Jürgen Hammerstaedt demonstrated in 2000 in a renewed examination of the literary, figurative and documentary sources, 5 the word gryllos did not describe a genre of caricature, but the type-character of certain representations of a grotesque kind. These representations could take the form of either paintings, small pictures and statues (such as the above-mentioned ones), or of illustrated books. This is shown by two papyrus fragments from GrecoRoman Egypt, on which I shall concentrate in what follows.

2. P.Oxy. XXII 2331 The first find at issue is an Oxyrhynchus papyrus, published in 1954 by Colin Roberts, 6 datable to the first half of the 3rd century A.D. 7 (P.Oxy. XXII 2331 = ViP 121 = LDAB 5363; pl. 1). The fragment comes from a papyrus roll and bears the remains of three columns of writing, the first of which is almost completely lost. In them, as we shall see, portions of text uttered by two characters alternate with pictures of those same characters, illustrating what they are saying. One is immediately struck by a peculiar feature, unusual in ancient books: the width of the writing column exceeds

3

Cf. Hammerstaedt (2000) 39: “Der Ausdruck id genus picturae bei Plinius ließe sich sowohl auf Witzbilder (tabellae comicae) mit Darstellungen komischer Menschentypen als auch auf das Motiv dieses gemalten Menschentypus beziehen.” 4 Binsfeld (1956) (on the items here at issue, cf. esp. 31-35 and notes); for subsequent literature see among others Gesztelyi (1992); De Martino (2008) 132-136 (in a learned survey on caricature in classical antiquity); Herchenroeder (2008) esp. 353-354; Lapatin (2011); and the further references in Nosarti (2010) 129 n. 183. 5 See Hammerstaedt (2000) for previous scholarship. 6 Cf. Roberts (1954) (regrettably, not an impeccable editio princeps). The vast subsequent bibliography on the fragment is now collected in Russo (2014). In what follows, I mention only the contributions strictly relating to the points developed here. 7 Roberts [(1954) 84] backed by Crisci (see infra, n. 26). For a digital reproduction cf. http://163.1.169.40/gsdl/collect/POxy/index/assoc/HASHa630/5cc2f806.dir/POxy. v0022.n2331.a.01.hires.jpg.

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the height of the roll. 8 This is in response to a specific bibliological demand, i.e., to the need to associate a number of images with portions of text directly related to them; this text, moreover, being in verse is subject as such to stichometric restrictions. I shall consider the graphic and material aspects of this piece later on. The ‘sketches’ drawn on it and the accompanying texts need clarification first. In regard to this matter a great deal is due to Denys Page, 9 and even more to Paul Maas. 10 These scholars showed that the metrical structure of the verses (ionic trimeters with a strong tendency to anaclasis and other variations, often making them very close to, or identical with, sotadeans) falls within a typology also known from elsewhere in the Imperial age, when the quest for novelties paved the way to many other metres in addition to the canonical. As for the texts themselves and the images associated with them, Maas explained that we have to do with an illustrated dialogue between Hercules and someone who challenges him, which in all likelihood 11 is the gryllos mentioned in II, 1. This can be identified with the rather squat and small-sized character acting in the first and third sketches, whereas the second sketch displays a figure of quite a different build, easily recognisable as Hercules. 12 Unfortunately, not even the efforts of the two great philologists resulted in a comprehensive reconstruction of the surviving remains. Various doubts have thus remained regarding both the text itself and its relationship(s) to the illustrations. In recent years, these doubts have led Gideon Nisbet to propose a ‘dissociated’ reading of text and illustrations. In his view, the illustrations do not ‘represent’ the text: they rather ‘comment’

8

For parallels in papyrus rolls with poetic texts, see Johnson (2004) 208 (tab. 3.5 A), 211 (tab. 3.5 B). 9 Page (1957) 189-191. 10 Maas (1958). 11 As Hammerstaedt (2000) 40 has subsequently shown. 12 It is uncertain, however, whether support can be found for this identification in the supposed presence, parallel to Hercules’ right leg, of the club (the club being a typical attribute of the hero, often depicted lying on the ground next to him in representations of his fight with the Nemean lion: cf. LIMC V 1990 s.v. Herakles, nos. 1811, 1819, 1823, 1855, 1870, 1876, 1882, 1885, 1920, 1955, 1962, 1964, 1967, 1971); what Roberts (1954) 85 apparently identifies as a club may in fact be a stylised landscape element, perhaps intended to recall (as Luigi Todisco tentatively suggests to me) the Tarpeian Rock. In any case, the same detail also shows up in the following sketch, again on the left side.

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on it through images that, rather than referring directly to the Greek wording, pursue a complex debunking of the labours of Hercules. 13 In fact, such a reading repeatedly forces the evidence: regardless of the text’s dialogic nature – well recognised by Maas – Nisbet maintains that it is Hercules who is depicted in all three sketches, 14 and his explanation of the sketches themselves is based on odd interpretations of various figurative elements, considered in isolation from the relevant portions of texts. 15 Furthermore, Nisbet is apparently aware of an exact parallel with another crucial papyrus fragment (P.Köln IV 179, on which see § 3), but seems deliberately to ignore it. Regrettably, this untenable reading has exerted more influence than it should have. 16 Regarding our Oxyrhynchus fragment, Nisbet concludes: “We can do no more than speculate on the narrative system of the Heracles narrative in its totality.” 17 But the potential of the human mind ought not to be underestimated. Giuseppe Russo has now thoroughly revised P.Oxy. XXII 2331 (and P.Köln IV 179), emerging with a cogent and complete reconstruction of cols II-III, which confirms the articulation already detected by Maas. Hercules’ challenger must have started speaking in col. I (apparently the first in the bookroll) and continued in col. II. His ‘agon’-like dialogue with Hercules began in col. III. All these contents are progressively referred to in the illustrations. Below is the text of P.Oxy. XXII 2331 as reedited by Russo in a now fundamental article: 18 Col. I . . . @ț . ]įҕĮҕȚ @ĮȚ ]ȣҕıȚȞ ]5 ]ĮҕȞĮțIJȦ ]ʌҕĮȚ ]. 13

Nisbet (2002) taken up and developed in Nisbet (2011). In what follows, reference will normally be made only to the latter paper. 14 See esp. Nisbet (2011) 36-39. 15 See esp. infra, nn. 22-23. 16 Most notably, on such otherwise remarkable works as Small (2003) 138-140; and esp. Squire (2009) 131-133; (2011a) 141 n. 43. 17 Nisbet (2011) 40. 18 Russo (2014). Unless otherwise specified, I refer to this work for details and bibliography on the reconstruction of the text and its exegesis.

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. .

Col. II Ș੡]Ȥҕ[Șıİ ı]șҕİȞĮȡ૵ҕ‹Ț› ʌҕȐȞIJȠIJİ ȖȡȪȜȜȦ‹Ț›3ionmi ʌ]İ[ȡ੿] ਙșȜȦȞ ਥȡȓıĮȚҕ ‹IJ›ઁҕ ʌİȡȚțȐșĮȡȝĮ. ਕȜȜ¶ Į੝IJઁȢ ਩ȡȤİIJĮȚ țĮIJĮįȚĮȕĮȓȞȦȞ țĮȡȞ઼ȡȚȢ, ਙıIJȠȝȠȢ įİȚȞȩȢ ਙȖȡȠȚțȠȢā șȡĮ@ıҕઃҕ į੽ҕ ʌȡઁȢ ਩ȝ¶ ਙȖȠ½Ȣ¾ İ>ੇı@ȚȞ ੒ IJȡȚıȑȜȘȞȠȢ5 Ƞੈ Ȟ૨Ȟ@ ȝҕȘҕį੻Ȟ ੖ȜȦȢ IJȡȑıĮȢ ȜĮȜȒıȦā µȜȑȖİ ʌĮ૙ ǽȘȞઁȢ ੗ȜȣȝʌȓȠȣ ijȡȐıȠȞ ȝȠȚ IJȓȞĮ ʌȡ૵IJȠȞ ^Ƞ`ʌİʌȠȓȘțĮȢ ਛșȜȠȞ İੇʌȠȞ țਕȝȠ૨ ȝȐȞșĮȞİ ʌȡ૵IJȠȞ ੔ ʌİʌȠȓȘțĮ¶ (imago) Col. III ‘ਥȖҕઁ ʌȡ૵IJȠȞ ȃİȝȑȘ½Ț¾ ȜȑȠȞIJĮ >ȝȐȡȥĮȢ 3ionmi țȡĮIJİȡĮ૙Ȣ Ȥݽȓ¾ȡİıȓ ȝȠȣ IJĮȪIJĮȚȢ ਕʌȑ>țIJĮȞ¶ (imago) ‘ਥȖઁ įȪıȜȘʌ½IJ¾ȠȞ ਦ>Ȝ@અ½Ȟ¾ ȤĮȝҕ>Į@ȚҕȜȑȠȞIJĮҕ{Ȟҕ} ʌȡȠıʌȞȓȟĮȢ ਕȜȩȖȦȢ ȞİțȡઁȞ IJȑș>İȚțĮ¶ (imago) Col. I (fragmentary text) Col. II [He has boasted] of systematically disputing on labours with a mighty gryllos – he, the abominable one. But there he comes himself, stepping down through, he bloody, speechless, wild, uncouth: indeed, towards me does the thrice-mooned one 19 advance, that [reckless] filth. 5 [To him now] I shall speak without the slightest trembling: ‘Speak up, you son of Zeus the Olympian, tell me, state which labour you did first and learn from me what I did first’. (drawing) Col. III ‘I, first of all, [having laid hold of] a lion in Nemea, killed it with these strong hands of mine’. 19

As is well known, Zeus tripled the length of his night of love with Alcmena, which resulted in Hercules’ conception; IJȡȚıȑȜȘȞȠȢ hints at this with mocking pompousness. See for copious parallels De Martino (2000) 339.

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(drawing) ‘I, having seized a slippery chameleon, with nonchalance 20 choked it and laid it dead’. (drawing)

The relationship between text and images is clear: the drawing at the bottom of col. II represents the gryllos pointing to Hercules’ arrival and challenging him, having assumed an appropriately bellicose attitude. In the background, two hillocks 21 clearly represent the place Hercules is coming from. This is corroborated by the precise verb of motion used in the Greek text: țĮIJĮįȚĮȕĮȓȞȦ (ǿǿ, 3: -ȕİȞȦȞ pap.), a hapax, evidently denoting the very act of coming down (țĮIJȐ) the hills by crossing (įȚȐ) them. 22 In col. III, the first illustration depicts Hercules, the second one the gryllos, as they boast of their respective first labours. What the gryllos grips in the third sketch is thus a chameleon, as greenish – not by chance – as the surrounding ground (a clear allusion to the animal’s mimetic skills). What followed in the papyrus has been lost, but the overall outline is easy to reconstruct: to each of Hercules’ fabled labours, the gryllos will have opposed a corresponding ridiculous labour of his own. In this case Hercules has strangled the mighty Nemean lion, 23 while his challenger has strangled a … chameleon, that is, a ‘lion on the ground’: no longer a leonta but a chamaileonta! This is a well-established parodic agonal pattern, 24 with a strong theatrical flavour. It can be detected, among much else, in a famous 20

For this interpretation of the problematic ܻȜȩȖȦȢ (III, 4) I follow Lapini (2008) 51-52 and Russo (2014) 349-351. 21 Already recognised as such by Kurt Weitzmann ap. Roberts (1954) 86. 22 This minute linguistic correspondence makes it yet more unlikely that the two hillocks should actually be read – as maintained by Nisbet [(2011) 36-37 post (2002) 18] – as a Stymphalian bird, which Hercules faces while holding a fishing rod in his hand. In all likelihood, the gryllos is not holding either a rod or anything else in his hand. What has so far been interpreted – since Roberts (1954) 85 and Weitzmann ibid. 86-87 – as an object or weapon wielded by the character is to be taken instead as the left ridge of the first of the two hills. 23 In the second sketch, Hercules’ right leg, his left leg, and then the lion are set on three increasingly higher ground levels, clearly signifying the mountain-like area where the event took place. Nisbet (2011) 37-38 does not seem to realise this, and agrees with a highly unlikely hypothesis communicated to him by Anton Bitel: “The lion is not standing on a ground line but on a stepped base of cut stone. In other words, this is not a real lion – it is a statue of one, and the interlocutor has caught Hercules in the act of faking his most famous Labor” (p. 38). 24 Now admirably investigated by Floridi (2013) 188-193, who makes use of an enormous amount of literary testimonies and relates them to the iconographic documentation.

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scene from the Apocolocyntosis. While talking with Hercules, Emperor Claudius – tellingly depicted throughout the pamphlet with the deformity and vileness of a gryllos – counters Hercules’ labour of the Augean stables with his own tireless activity in law courts, which had led him to get rid of far more manure than the great hero had ever had to deal with...! 25 It is crucial to ask, at this point, what sort of reader was an illustrated book like the Oxyrhynchus one intended for. The writing is an accurate semicursive, with frequent spaces between words and, on the whole, a high level of intelligibility. 26 These features have led some scholars to suggest that this kind of book was meant for school education, 27 but such a hypothesis is as problematic as it is seductive. The hand is definitely not a student’s, and the contents do not come under any otherwise identifiable part of the school curriculum. 28 We also lack information on the findspot, or cross-evidence from documentary material. In the absence of any one of these, it is virtually impossible to argue that a given written product belongs to a school environment. Besides, the production of such a volumen as this, equipped with illustrations that alternate with portions of text, needed an “expertise [that] cannot have come cheaply”, i.e. it cost an amount of money unlikely to be spent on a mere educational tool. 29 It is thus highly unlikely, and certainly unprovable, that our book belonged to a school milieu. All that 25 Cf. Sen. Apoc. 7.5: in quod (sc. listening to lawyers night and day) si incidisses, valde fortis licet tibi videaris, maluisses cloacas Augeae purgare: multo plus ego stercoris exhausi (“If you’d had experience of them yourself, as brave as you think you are, you’d have preferred to clean out the Augean sewers: I got a lot more bullshit”, trnsl. Sullivan, Penguin Classics). Among further possible parallels (see again n. 24), the following deserve special mention here: 1) Lucill. Anth. Pal. 11.95 = Ep. 25, Floridi: a tiny man “dal nome antifrastico di Macrone definisce se stesso ‘secondo Eracle’ per aver strangolato un topolino, in una rivisitazione parodica dell’impresa del leone Nemeo (o di quella di Eracle bambino strangolatore di serpenti)”, Floridi (2013) 189; on this parallel, first pointed out by M.L. West (1965) 225, see now also Floridi (2014) 192-193. 2) Plutarch’s Gryllos, a dialogue between Odysseus and a companion of his, whom Circe had renamed īȡȪȜȜȠȢ and now turned into a pig: if compared to the type-figure of the gryllos, “Plutarch’s talking pig is just such a creation […], a lowly brute rivalling the heroic speaker, Odysseus, in a sophistic contest”, as remarked by Herchenroeder (2008) 357-359. 26 See the detailed paleographic analysis by Edoardo Crisci ap. Stramaglia (2007) 622 n. 157. 27 Cf. Roberts (1954) 84-85; Cribiore (2001) 138-139. 28 The parallels adduced by Cribiore (2001) 139 n. 36 – namely, school exercises involving a dialogue between a mouse and a weasel – are not especially close in terms of contents, and show no illustrations. 29 Cf. Nisbet (2011) 39-40 (quotation from p. 40).

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the paleographic and bibliological evidence reasonably allows one to conclude is that: 1) P.Oxy. XXII 2331 does not come from a book with any pretensions to grandeur: the script is of a bureaucratic (chancery) type, suggesting “a book commissioned by a private person from a scribe who was not well acquainted with book typologies, but would adjust his professional writing to the nature of the product”; 30 2) the type of writing employed, and the devices used to ensure its intelligibility, suggest readers who might well have been eager, but who were not especially well-educated, and therefore needed some guidance in their approach to the written word. In this perspective, the high number of mistakes marring the text is a common feature in these forms of ‘unprotected’ literature: the lower the rank of a literary work was felt to be, the faultier and more precarious its textual transmission tended to become.

3. P.Köln IV 179 We are now in the position to gain a full understanding of a second papyrus witness, a few decades older than the Oxyrhynchus fragment. It consists of five scraps – a larger one plus four tiny pieces – from a papyrus roll, whose provenance is unknown. The editio princeps was produced in 1982 by Enrico Livrea, who convincingly dated the find to the end of the 2nd century A.D. 31 (P.Köln IV 179 = ViP 113 = LDAB 4706; pl. 2a). The larger fragment yields the remains of a column of writing in which an illustration, two lines of text, a second illustration and two more lines of text follow each other. In the right margin there are faded traces of two further illustrations, evidently part of a following column, all the rest of which, however, is now lost. The four minor fragments cannot be positioned. Only one of them bears scanty traces of writing and not one yields any contribution whatsoever. The state of preservation, as a whole, is poor compared with P.Oxy. XXII 2331; but the high-definition digital reproduction available today on the website of the University of Cologne32 enables significant progress over the editio

30

Trnsl. from Crisci ap. Stramaglia (2007) 621-622. Cf. Maas (1958) 171: “The handwriting, an unusual semicursive […], seems to me, for a literary text, deliberately eccentric”. 31 Cf. Livrea (1982) = (1991). Other detailed descriptions of the piece are supplied by Orsini (2005) 72-73 and Soldati (2006b); cf. Soldati (2006a) 134-136. For further bibliography, see again Russo (2014). 32 http://www.uni-koeln.de/phil-fak/ifa/NRWakademie/papyrologie/PKoeln/PK23 83.jpg.

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princeps, in regard to both the interpretation of the images on the main fragment and the reading of the text it bears. In the first illustration one distinguishes (see also pl. 2b) “a standing male figure of brick-red colour, with a dark brown outline, depicted in the act of blocking a bull’s head with his arms”. 33 The second illustration is harder to decipher: one can make out another “human figure, of the same colour and outline as the figure in the first illustration, but down on its knees and with a head too big in comparison with the body; its pose suggests interaction with another figure (whether human or not), now completely lost”.34 At least one character is thus detectable in each sketch. The one depicted in the first drawing displays a hero-like size and pose. The character represented in the second illustration shows clear signs of deformity. As for the text accompanying the images, it should be noted that the metre is apparently the same anaclastic ionic trimeter as in P.Oxy. XXII 2331, with which the Cologne fragment also shares a striking prosodic peculiarity (‫݋‬Ȗȩ instead of ‫݋‬Ȗȫ, which is certainly not a corruption, because it is required by the metre). For the understanding and assessment of the contents, Russo’s re-edition is again fundamental. I reproduce it below (including supplements given by him exempli gratia): Col. I (imago) ‘ਥ]ț ȀȡȒIJȘȢ ʌȣȡȚʌȞ{Ƞ}Ƞ૨Ȣ ਵȜĮıĮҕ IJҕĮҕ[ȪȡȠȣȢ3ionmi ȝҕȣҕțIJȒȡҕȦȞ ȤҕȪҕȝҕ’ ਦțȐıIJȠȣȢ ਕҕʌҕ[İ]ȡҕ૵[ȞIJĮȢ’. (imago) ‘ਥȖઁ IJઁȞ IJĮȣȡȠijȣ[ો țȑȡĮıȚ ȖĮ૨ȡȠȞ3ionmi? țȠȤȜҕȓҕĮҕȞҕ ıțȩȜȠʌĮ [įȚİ੿Ȣ Į੝IJȓț’ ਩ȕȡȦıĮ’. Col. ? . . . ]ȞĮ[ ]Ȧ[ . .

.

Col. I (drawing) ‘From Crete I dragged fire-breathing bulls, while each of them [disgorged] the outflow of its nostrils’. (drawing) ‘I, the bull-shaped snail [proud of its horns having pierced with] a stake, [immediately ate it up]’. 33 34

Trnsl. from Russo (2014) 351. Trnsl. from Russo (2014) 351.

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Col. ? . . . (fragmentary verse) (fragmentary verse) . . .

A brilliant intuition on the part of Hugh Lloyd-Jones, reported in the editio princeps, 35 is now confirmed beyond doubt: the first illustration and the corresponding text focus on the Cretan bull. This fearful beast, which breathed fire from its nostrils, was caught by Hercules (in what is usually reckoned as his seventh labour) in Crete, and taken to king Eurystheus in the Argolid. From there it escaped and reached Attica, where it was finally defeated by Theseus in the plain of Marathon. The bull’s opponent in the Cologne papyrus might then be either Herules or Theseus. Livrea favoured the latter, 36 but it is now hard to doubt that the hero depicted on our papyrus is Hercules. 37 The scene features one of the best-established iconographies of the fight between Hercules and the Cretan bull, 38 a pattern spanning the period from the Hellenistic times to the Middle Ages: “the scheme in which the hero grabs the bull by its horn and nostrils, keeping its head bent backwards and surrounding its neck with an arm, in the act of preventing the animal from running”. 39 In the first vignette of the Cologne papyrus, Hercules catches one of the bull’s horns with his left hand and blocks its nostrils (to stop the animal from breathing fire) with his right hand, in accordance with the most common version of this iconographic type, in which both the hero and the bull turn rightwards. 40 In representations of the scene, Hercules is often portrayed with his characteristic lion skin (taken from the Nemean lion), which either rests on his shoulders – sometimes draped on them – 41 or lies nearby; the garment worn by the hero in our

35

Cf. Lloyd-Jones ap. Livrea (1982) 126 = (1991) 287. He was even inclined to see Theseus fighting with the Minotaur: Livrea (1982) 126 = (1991) 287. 37 Now also in favour of Hercules are Soldati (2006a) 136; (2006b) 278; Floridi (2014) 193; Russo (2014) 353-354, 355. 38 This iconographic pattern was immediately recognised by Todisco (per verba), when I showed him the Cologne papyrus. 39 Trnsl. from Todisco (1982) 51; for the relevant iconographic documentation see LIMC V (1990) s.v. Herakles, nos. 2393-2404 and the commentary by Todisco (1990) 67; add now Stafford (2012) 39 and notes. 40 Cf. Todisco (1990) 64 and 67. 41 Cf. esp. LIMC V (1990) s.v. Herakles, nos. 2372, 2395, 2397, and also 2400 (where the lion skin lies on the right, behind the hero). 36

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illustration is thus certainly Hercules’ OHRQWƝ, rather than a chlamys, as was originally believed. As for the text, one should also recall that: 1) ancient sources state that the monstrous bull breathed fire (cf. I, 12) only when relating its fight with Hercules, 42 never with regard to its later contest with Theseus; 2) the plural ‘fire-breathing bulls’ (I, 1) is clearly an emphatic generalisation, 43 in line with the tone of bombastic self-praise of the context. P.Köln IV 179 is thus another witness to the systematic presentation of Hercules’ labours in the key of a burlesque contest, whose first part is clearly discernible in P.Oxy. XXII 2331. In this perspective, once it is established that the first drawing in the Cologne papyrus depicts the fight with the Cretan bull, the ratio of the comparison with the deformed character who appears in the subsequent vignette (whom we can now definitely identify as a gryllos) re-emerges. In the text connected with the second illustration, the gryllos boasts (I, 3-4) that he defeated the ‘bullshaped [...] snail’. But what do bulls and snails have in common? The horns, of course (Lloyd-Jones 44)! The gryllos had defeated the... horned snail, just as Hercules had prevailed over the terrible bull. And the inflated epithet IJĮȣȡȠijȣȒȢ (I, 3), which balances ʌȣȡȓʌȞȠȠȢ (ǿ, 1), emphasises by contrast the banality of the gryllos’ deed. The gryllos claims that he has passed a ‘stake’ 45 (I, 4: ıțȩȜȠȥ) through the snail, but in reality he will have done no more than pierce it with a (tiny) stick and eat it up, as one does at table. 46 There is, in sum, a mock contrast completely analogous to that between the lion and the chameleon in P.Oxy. XXII 23311: a contrast that, in this case, hinges on the one feature shared by a bull and a snail, i.e. the ‘horns’. 47 42

Cf. Anon. App. Plan. 92.8; Quint. Sm. 6.236-237; Claud. Carm. spur. vel susp. 2.120-137; Serv. auct. ad Verg. Aen. 8.294. 43 Cf. Lucill. Anth. Pal. 11.239 = Ep. 93, Floridi, 2 (in a list of foul-smelling monsters from myth): ܻȖȑȜȘ IJĮȪȡȦȞ, ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ ݸ‬ȜȩȖȠȢ, ʌȣȡȓʌȞȠȣȢ (“the fire-breathing drove of bulls of which they tell”). The reference here may be either to the Cretan bull or to the two bulls yoked by Jason during the quest for the Golden Fleece (cf. Eur. Med. 478-479: ʌİȝijșȑȞIJĮ IJĮȪȡȦȞ ʌȣȡʌȞȩȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚıIJȐIJȘȞ / ȗİȪȖȜĮȚıȚ, “when you were sent to master fire-breathing bulls with a yoke”; Apoll. Rh. 3.1299ff. etc.); in either case, in Lucillius “la pluralizzazione obbedirà a scopi enfatici”: cf. Floridi (2014) 432. 44 Ap. Livrea (1982) 126-127 = (1991) 287. 45 Perhaps a mock counterpart, in its turn, of Hercules’ club (Todisco per verba). 46 Pompous periphrases concerning snails had a tradition of their own: cf. Cic. Div. 2.133, with Pease (1923) 378 = (1963) 560. 47 As shown by Guida (1985), the Cologne papyrus dates the motif of the fight between a (vile) braggart and a snail all the way back to classical antiquity. This subject

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Whereas the parallels are precise in terms of contents, various bibliological differences between P.Köln IV 179 and P.Oxy. XXII 2331 stand out. First of all, the mutual disposition of text and images is inverted: in the Oxyrhynchus papyrus the text comes first each time and is followed by the corresponding image; in the Cologne fragment, the order is reversed. Moreover, the images in the Cologne papyrus are considerably more elaborate, 48 and the text, rather than in an informal hand, 49 is written in a canonised book script, the so-called ‘biblical majuscule’. 50 Despite these clues that suggest a higher graphic and material level, however, P.Köln IV 179 appears to have been “produced for wealthy but intellectually modest clients”. 51 This is exactly the same kind of readership – well off, but of limited education – that can be discerned behind P.Oxy. XXII 2331: a freature which confirms yet further the close relationship between the two papyri.

4. Conclusions In spite of their outward differences in ‘mise en page’, figurative technique and script, P.Oxy. XXII 2331 and P.Köln IV 179 are clearly two different copies of one and the same illustrated text. This is a systematic parodic contrast between the labours of Hercules and the mock-labours of a gryllos, suitably developed in a desultory metre akin to the licentious sotadean. 52 The Oxyrhynchus fragment carries the beginning of the work and the first labour plus mock-labour, with the corresponding illustrations. The same goes in the Cologne fragment for a subsequent labour (almost certainly the was previously thought to be no earlier than the Middle Ages, when it inspired both an ‘elegiac comedy’ – the pseudo-Ovidian De Lombardo et lumaca, from about the 12th century: ed. Bonacina (1983) – and the habit, attested by the jurist Odofredus, of reproducing that little story in… charcoal sketches. On this habit cf. Guida (1985) 22-23; on De Lombardo et lumaca see now extensively Voce (2009). 48 The employment of greater care is self-evident, in comparison with the “carattere assai cursorio e compendiario” – as pointed out by Settis (2006) 54 – of the drawings in P.Oxy. XXII 2331. Moreover, the illustrations in the Cologne papyrus, now worn out and faded, are likely to have been originally far more colourful. The surviving portions appear to be “di colore rosso mattone e marrone scuro”, but “tracce di giallo e azzurro si osservano nel margine destro”; cf. Orsini (2005) 72. 49 See again § 2. 50 For a careful paleographic analysis see Orsini (2005) 73. 51 Trnsl. from Cavallo (1996) 40 = (2005) 230. 52 Sotadeans could in fact be shaped as backward hexameters, and inversion was a hallmark of the sotadean, in sexual as well as in literary terms: see esp. Bettini (1982) 66-69, 86.

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seventh: cf. § 3) plus mock-labour. Both finds thus are examples of one and the same genre of illuminated book. This genre was not called gryllos, but revolved round such a character. To revert to the question with which this paper was opened (§ 1), it was a genre closer to modern ‘comic books’ than anything that classical antiquity has handed down to us. 53 Just like modern comics, these ancient books were ‘letteratura di consumo’ 54 targeting a motley audience: such an audience certainly enjoyed much of that ‘subliterature’ through the lively channels of orality, but it also included readers with a variegated – not necessarily high – culture. And it was precisely those ‘common readers’ who made up the bulk of the literate in Greco-Roman society in the first centuries of our era. 55

Pl. 1. P.Oxy. XXII 2331: Parodic contrast between Hercules and a gryllos

53

It should, however, be stressed – with Hammerstaedt (2000) 40 and n. 83 – that in both papyri images play a role subordinate to text, whereas in proper comics it is more common (although not mandatory) for the text to ‘explain’ the images, and for the images to play the leading role. Not by chance does De Martino (2003) 33 prefer to call our finds ‘vignettes’, rather than ‘comics’. 54 On this concept, and its application to the Greco-Roman world, see Pecere and Stramaglia (eds) (1996). 55 For the use and definition of this category in relation to the Greco-Roman world, see Cavallo (2007).

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Pl. 2a. P.Köln IV 179: Parodic contrast between Hercules and a gryllos

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Pl. 2b. P.Köln IV 179 (detail, digitally reworked): Hercules struggling with the Cretan bull

CHAPTER NINE JOKES BETWEEN ORALITY AND WRITING: THE CASE OF THE PHILOGELOS MARIO ANDREASSI

1. Telling (and Writing) Jokes The practice of telling jokes is as widespread in modern societies as it was in Greek and Roman civilisation. From the Archaic period onwards, convivial occasions seem to have been the chosen setting for these ephemeral forms of humour strongly linked to orality. 1 Despite Plautus’ references to jest books owned by parasites 2 and the anecdote about Philip of Macedon’s request for a collection of jokes from the club of the Sixty Humorists, 3 the Philogelos is, to date, the only anthology of humour handed

1 For the relevant passages cf. Andreassi (2004) 9-12, 19-25. Plutarch, in one of his convivial ʌȡȠȕȜȒȝĮIJĮ (Mor. 629E4-5), examines which forms of scommatic humour are appropriate ʌĮȡ‫ ޟ‬ʌȩIJȠȞ. A sympotic context is also the original setting of an anonymous elegy (fr. 27, M.L. West2) datable to the first half of the 3rd century B.C. and preserved in the Elephantine papyrus [P. Berol. 13270; see the edition by Ferrari (1988), to which the reader is referred for further passages on sympotic humour (p. 221)]. Here the poet programmatically considers jokes and convivial laughter as moments closely connected to more serious conversation (ȖİȜߢȞ ʌĮȓȗİȚȞ ȤȡȘıĮȝȑȞȠȣȢ ܻȡİIJ߱Ț / ‫ݜ‬įİıșĮȓ IJİ ıȣȞȩȞIJĮȢ ‫݋‬Ȣ ܻȜȜȒȜȠȣȢ IJİ ij[Ȝ]ȣĮȡİ߿Ȟ / țĮ‫ ޥ‬ıțȫʌIJİȚȞ IJȠȚĮࠎIJĮ Ƞ‫ݮ‬Į ȖȑȜȦIJĮ ijȑȡİȚȞ / ‫ ݘ‬į‫ ޡ‬ıʌȠȣį‫݌ ޣ‬ʌȑıșȦ, ܻțȠȪȦȝİȞ̙ į̙‫ ̙ޡ‬Ȝ̙İȖȩȞIJȦȞ / ‫݋‬Ȟ ȝȑȡİȚ, “we ought to laugh and joke, behaving properly, take pleasure in being together, engage in foolish talk with one another, and utter jests such as to arouse laughter. But let seriousness follow and let us listen to the speakers in their turn, 4-8). On the link between symposium and humour see most recently Schatzmann (2012) 77-82. 2 Plaut. Capt. 482-483, Persa 391-395, Stich. 221, 383-400, 454-455: see Andreassi (2004) 21-22. 3 Ath. 6.260a-b, 14.614d-e: see Andreassi (2004) 18-19.

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down to us from Greek and Latin antiquity. 4 It is the only written evidence of a centuries-old practice whose perennial chief strength is orality. 5 The text, approximately datable to the 4th-5th centuries A.D. and characterised by a complex manuscript tradition, is ascribed to Hierocles and Philagrius and comprises 265 short jokes. The target of the humour is the foolish behaviour of specific human types. The undisputed main character is the scholastikos, but targets also include characters already stereotyped in the comic and epigrammatic tradition, such as the miser, the coward, the ill-tempered, the incompetent, the lazy person, the glutton, the inhabitants of Abdera, Cyme, Sidon, and so on. No more than hypotheses and suggestions can be made regarding the initial formation of what scholars have named Ur-Philogelos, the initial core of the anthology. 6 We can imagine, for example, that someone, perhaps a parasite, a humour enthusiast or a gelotopoios, started to put in writing and gradually collect the varied humorous materials that circulated in banquets and on different everyday occasions. This would have been an amateur’s project, lacking, at least originally, any editorial strategies and far removed from any standard concept of authorship and scholarly rigour. Its aim, if such it had, would have been to provide a handy set of jokes otherwise destined for oblivion. Only later, in the course of a stratigraphic process consisting of additions, deletions, and changes, might the original collection have undergone intentional elaboration and selection. 7 At any rate, the extant Philogelos, the version on which we can conduct a critically founded investigation, was written down in the Imperial period, and its writing itself proves that the intention was to save this clearly appreciated humorous material from the volatility of oral circulation, at least temporarily. In this respect, the prevalent scholarly hypothesis remains valid, namely that the Philogelos was a repertoire, a useful reference tool for humour professionals, such as the parasites mentioned by Plautus, or, 4 “Il Philogelos resta … per noi privo di paralleli (tanto meno bizantini), un unicum che nulla autorizza a considerare, come si dice a volte in questi casi, ‘la punta di un iceberg’”: Maltese (2007) 218. 5 According to Zucker [(2008) 79]: “[L]es histoires drôles ont une préhistoire souterraine, et leur vie littéraire est un pis-aller, souvent tardif, après une longue existence entre la bouche et l’oreille”. 6 Most recently Schatzmann [(2012) 111] confirmed that “bleibt die Entstehungsgeschichte des Philogelos trotz verschiedener Forschungsbemühungen weitestgehend in Dunkel gehüllt”. 7 The Philogelos jokes – as Zucker [(2008) 84] notes – “ont été sélectionnées par une succession de scribes et d’amateurs lettrés qui au fil des siècles les ont recopiées et jugées dignes de passer à la postérité”.

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more generally, for whomever needed humorous ideas for conversation or even correspondence. 8 To this interpretation, which clarifies the ultimate function of the text, I will now attempt to add another explanation, in order to demonstrate that in the genesis of the Philogelos, that is, in its transition from a mainly oral tradition to a written form, the compiler’s social and cultural provenance played a crucial role: and his provenance, as we will see, cannot be traced tout court to the popular aesthetics that the text undoubtedly reflects.

2. The Authors of the Philogelos Leaving aside the isolated and unverifiable information preserved by the Suda lexicon (according to which the mimographer Philistion was the author of the Philogelos) 9 and John Tzetzes (who quotes an otherwise unknown quip by an author named Philogelos), 10 I believe it is more useful to follow the indications offered by the manuscript tradition. The two main codices (A and M) 11 ascribe the origin of the Philogelos to the ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ Philagrius and Hierocles (perhaps a grammarian as well, but sometimes confused with the Neoplatonist philosopher of the same name). 12 The title

8 Baldwin (1983) XI: “the Philogelos … may be thought of as a low level collection of exempla, to be drawn on for conversation if not always for polite letters”; Hansen (1998) 273: “The Greek jokebook (sc. Philogelos) gives only the essence of the joke, which the reader can work up for retelling upon a future occasion”. It has also been suggested that the Philogelos may be an “esemplificazione pratica di qualche trattato di logica o di grammatica” [Cataudella (1971) XXVII] or even an attempt to compile a ‘motif-index’ for the study of forms of humour [S. West (1992) 288]: “Obviously, the collection was not intended for continuous reading. But it seems worth raising the question whether it was really intended as a joke-book, or whether it embodies an attempt at a motif-index, compiled, perhaps, to assist an analysis of various forms of wit and humour”). See also, most recently, Schatzmann (2012) 112 and Floridi (2012) 659-660. 9 Suid. ij 364, Adler: ĭȚȜȚıIJȓȦȞ […]. Ƞ‫ފ‬IJȩȢ ‫݋‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ ݸ‬ȖȡȐȥĮȢ IJާȞ ĭȚȜȩȖİȜȦȞ ‫ݛ‬ȖȠȣȞ IJާ ȕȚȕȜȓȠȞ IJާ ijİȡȩȝİȞȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ȀȠȣȡȑĮ; see Andreassi (2004) 31-32 and (2011-2012) 68-69. 10 Tzetzes H. 8.969, p. 337, Leone: īȑȖȡĮijİ ʌȠࠎ ĭȚȜȩȖİȜȦȢ IJࠜ ‫݌‬ĮȣIJȠࠎ ȕȚȕȜȓ࠙; see Andreassi (2004) 63-65. 11 A (Parisinus sup. Gr. 690, XI century) and M (Monacensis Gr. 551, XV century). For the sigla and the Greek text of the Philogelos I follow the edition of Dawe (2000). 12 On the frequent and wrong attribution of the Philogelos to the philosopher Hierocles see Andreassi (2004) 29.

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‫݋‬ț IJࠛȞ ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ĭȚȜĮȖȡަȠȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠࠎ, preserved in A 13 (and also in M, with slight variation), 14 suggests that our Philogelos derives “from the books” (‫݋‬ț IJࠛȞ) of the obscure Hierocles and Philagrius, who might have been the authors or just anthologisers of someone else’s jokes. I do not intend to identify Hierocles and Philagrius, nor to throw light on the question of whether the whole extant Philogelos or just a part of it should be ascribed to them. 15 My hypothesis, instead, rests on the label ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ which the manuscripts attach to Philagrius (and perhaps Hierocles). This label would allow us to ascribe the writing of the text to a very particular cultural context, that of the pepaideumenoi, the world of school, of rhetorical training, and, more broadly, of official culture (the great tradition discussed by Redfield and Burke 16). This environment and that of popular culture (the little tradition) intersect more often than one might think and establish a dialectic relationship with each other. Their osmosis is underestimated by the traditional Quellenforschung in favour of 13 According to Reich [(1903) 455] and, more recently, Kaster [(1988) 333, n° 117], the title of the Paris codex A reads the plural ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ and therefore Hierocles too would be a grammarian like Philagrius. The hypothesis remains valid (as the singular ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠࠎ may be extended to ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ without changing it to ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ), although ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ is attested not in A but in z, the apograph of A made by Minoides Minas for fraudulent lucrative purposes, after buying A from a Mount Athos monastery between 1841 and 1842, and before giving it to the National Library of Paris (on this episode cf. Dawe [(2000) 83-84] with further bibliographical references). Minas, who “hat den Text an manchen Stellen eigenmächtig verändert oder ergänzt” [Thierfelder (1968) 131], corrected the title by changing ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠࠎ to ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ. This explains why Boissonade [(1848) 263] and, in his wake, Eberhardt [(1869) 7], who both based their text on z, still report the lectio ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ to which Reich and Kaster refer, but which more recent editors [Thierfelder (1968) and Dawe (2000)] do not even mention in the apparatus. 14 In M the title reads ‫݋‬ț IJȠࠎ ĭȚȜȠȖ‫ޢ‬ȜȠȣȢ: ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬ȈȤȠȜĮıIJȚțࠛȞ, with the marginal addition ‫݋‬ț IJࠛȞ IJȠࠎ ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ĭȚȜĮȖȡަȠȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠࠎ. Among the other codices, E simply reads ‫݋‬ț IJȠࠎ ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ. P originally had only ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ (repeated by another hand in a larger format), but an explanatory note was later added in the upper margin: ıȘȝİަȦıĮȚ ܻıIJİ߿Į IJȠࠎ ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ IJȚȞ‫ޠ‬. V reads ‫݋‬ț IJȠࠎ ‫ݰ‬İȡȠțȜ‫ޢ‬ȠȣȢ ıȣȞIJ‫ޠ‬ȖȝĮIJĮǜ Ƞ‫ݮ‬ıʌİȡ ‫݋‬ȞIJȣȤެȞ IJȚȢ ıȦijȡިȞȦȢ ȝİȚįȚ‫ޠ‬ıİȚ, while C and G preserve no title. 15 For a careful status quaestionis on these aspects see Vergara (2011) 14-28. 16 The expressions great tradition and little tradition, coined by the American anthropologist Robert Redfield (1956) and later used by the British historian Peter Burke (1978, 20093)], have been recently reappraised by Kurke (2010) and, in her wake, Avlamis (2010), in the study of ancient ‘popular’ literature (particularly of the Imperial period).

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unidirectional relationships in which ‘popular’ culture is seen as passively subordinate to élite culture. 17

3. The Grammatikos in the Imperial Period If we trust the titles preserved in the manuscripts, the Philogelos was written or at least ‘assembled’ by one or two grammarians (for the sake of convenience I will henceforth refer to ‘the grammatikos of the Philogelos’). In the Imperial period, when the humorous anthology was assembled, the grammatikos plays a significant role in the educational system: 18 he is the high school teacher and, in a broader sense, the ‘critic’, the ‘man of letters’. He is the master in charge of the delicate task of teaching grammar, metre, and literature 19 to students who, already initiated into the skills of reading and writing by the grammatistes, are now moving to the second level of their curriculum, in order ultimately to reach the third and most important educational goal, the knowledge of rhetoric, 20 entrusted to the rhetor or 17 “[T]his kind of traditional Quellenforschung assumes that influence or borrowing only ever goes one way—from the top down; from the products of élite culture to the popular … I suspect it derives from a subliminal conviction that the ‘popular’ can only be derivative and parasitic on high culture, not creative in its own right. That is to say, this model recognizes no dialectic between the common culture and élite culture, or between oral traditions and textual instantiations” [Kurke (2010) 27]. Similar reflections, with focus on Roman society, can already be found in Toner [(2009) 5]: “the two traditions (sc. great and little) were interdependent and frequently affected each other. Cultural influence flowed both ways and served to create new traditions. It did not just trickle down from above to a people below who were grateful for the opportunity to have something to imitate”. 18 “Für die ganze nachalexandrinische Epoche ist und bleibt der grammaticus entweder der ‘Fachgrammatiker’ oder aber, bei den Römern allerdings seltener als bei den Griechen, ist er der allseitige Schriftstellerinterpret, dem die sachliche nicht minder als die linguistisch-rhetorische und stilistische Erklärung obliegt”: Gudemann (1912) 1811. For a general profile of grammarians (in Greece and/or Rome) and their role in the educational system the reader is referred to Kaster’s monograph on the topic (1988) and the main studies of education in antiquity: Marrou (19646), Bonner (1977), T. Morgan (1998), Cribiore (2001). On the positive and, more often, negative portrayal of schoolmasters in Greek and Roman society, see Booth (1976). Finally, for a historical analysis of the grammaticus’ activity in Rome see Booth (1978). 19 Recte loquendi scientiam et poetarum enarrationem, in Quintilian’s synthesis (Inst. 1.4.2). 20 But notice that the tripartition of the educational curriculum, though “canonical in the modern literature” [Harris (1989) 234], draws upon a theoretical schematisation

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sophist. 21 Starting from the 2nd century B.C., the word ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ /grammaticus indicates possession of a well-defined technical competence, 22 but the grammatikos’ social status varies and in the 4th and 5th centuries still ranges, case by case, from modest to highly prestigious levels. 23 Overall, however, the grammatikos of the Imperial period occupies an intermediate social position or, more often, a high place in society: he is active in major urban centres; he comes from an at least respectable family (often being the son of another grammarian); if married, he has a wife from the same social class and with a dowry (who contributes to the family’s well-being); his earnings from the practice of his profession are significant; 24 he may benefit from tax exemptions and, thanks to his merits and the respect he enjoys, has important and fruitful contacts with the city’s most prominent personalities. 25 The grammatikos is aware of the specificity of his knowledge 26 and of the solid tradition of which he presents himself as inflexible ‘guardian’ (to allude to the title of Robert Kaster’s monograph that does not always respect the specificities attested in extant sources: “the tripartite sequence … does not accurately reflect what our sources tell us”: Kaster (1983) 323. 21 But a clear-cut division of didactic competences is only theoretically possible: on this aspect cf. Pordomingo Pardo (2007) 411-413; in Rome, for example, veteres grammatici et rhetoricam docebant (Suet. Gramm. 4.6). At any rate, that grammarians and rhetors were together considered part of a broader educational process is confirmed, among others, by a passage of the Vita Aesopi (36) where the pretentious philosopher Xanthus, while flaunting his Athenian studies, mentions grammarians together with philosophers and rhetors among those who contributed to his intellectual growth: ‫݋‬Ȟ ݃șȒȞĮȚȢ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫݋‬ıȤȩȜĮıĮ ʌĮȡ‫ ޟ‬ijȚȜȠıȩijȠȚȢ ࠍȒIJȠȡıȚ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠ߿Ȣ 22 “[F]rom the 2nd century B.C. onward anyone who is called ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ or grammaticus is believed to possess a readily definable expertise that he holds in common with anyone else bearing the same title”: Kaster (1988) 453. 23 On the grammarian’s social condition see Kaster (1988) 132-134, and more recently Laes (2011) 132-137. 24 Diocletian’s price edict, issued in A.D. 301, sets the highest remuneration for a grammatikos at 200 denarii per month, much more than for paidagogoi and chamaididaskaloi (50 denarii), arithmetic masters and tachygraphy teachers (75 denarii), and lower only than rhetors (250 denarii): cf. Lauffer (1971) 124-125; see also Bonner (1977) 150-154. 25 Lollianus, appointed įȘȝȩıȚȠȢ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ in Oxyrhynchus, does not hesitate to write directly to emperors Valerian and Gallienus between 253 and 260, to claim the salary that the city had decreed for public grammarians, but which, he says, was being inadequately remitted (P.Oxy. XLVII 3366). 26 Around the 2nd century A.D., the grammarian Ammonius, author of several scholia on Iliad 21 preserved on the verso of P. Oxy. II 221, adds his ‘seal’ (and signature) in the margin between the tenth and the eleventh columns of the papyrus: ݃ȝȝȫȞȚȠȢ ݃ȝȝȦȞȓȠȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțާȢ ‫݋‬ıȘȝİȚȦıȐȝȘȞ.

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or, long before, to Seneca’s grammatici, custodes Latini sermonis [Epist. 95.65]). In a mutually beneficial relationship, the tradition invigorates the grammarian’s role and makes it essential, while the grammarian, in turn, protects and reinforces the tradition. It is precisely this strenuously sheltering behind educational certainties, this ne varietur of grammatical orthodoxy, that increases the distance between grammarians and society, between the (real or presumed) holders of that technical knowledge and its outsiders. 27

4. Grammarians, Pedants, School, and Jokes Thus, if the grammatikos of the Imperial period is a well-defined figure, both socially and culturally, and if, as the manuscript tradition indicates, some grammatikos was responsible for the writing of the Philogelos, it is appropriate to examine the several clues that reveal a closeness, odd at first sight, between the world of jokes and the activity of a grammatikos. [a] The school in the Philogelos. A first, general argument is the frequent reference in the Philogelos to school themes, situations and figures or, more broadly, intellectual activity: a teacher (scholastikos), for example, looks for a book in vain (Facet. 16), another one defends the library from a hungry mouse (Facet. 8), and yet another one forgets to buy a book on behalf of a friend (Facet. 17); 28 a student of rhetoric (scholastikos) sells his books to pay for his studies (Facet. 55); an elementary teacher (chamaididaskalos) accuses a pupil who has not arrived at class yet of indiscipline (Facet. 61); another didaskalos happens to listen to a silly parent who is taking the trouble to justify the absence of his just-deceased son (Facet. 77); a gymnastic master (paidotribes), upon hearing of a pupil’s death, considers it just another counter-educational excuse invented by his father (Facet. 258); finally, other masters and grammarians show an insatiable voracity (Facet. 220) or an ignorance inferior only to their foolishness (Facet. 136, 140, 196, 197). This argument is certainly not 27

In the Imperial period, grammarians occupied an “awkward liminal position”, since – as Eshleman [(2013) 147] notes adding an updated bibliography on the topic – they are “gatekeepers of élite culture but socially marginalized within it”. 28 For scholastikos meaning both the teacher and the schoolmaster, see below. The schoolmasters featured in the Philogelos are familiar with books and libraries, as appears from jokes 8, 16, and 17. This is concretely reflected in the biography of the 1st century A.D. grammarian Epaphroditus preserved in Suda İ 2004, Adler), who bought books compulsively and owned more than three thousands of them; for a discussion of the Suda passage and on the life of Epaphroditus in general see Braswell and Billerbeck (2008) 25-27 and 63-72.

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conclusive, but it could be a symptom of a sort of self-referentiality typical of didactic activities: as well known, Greek and Latin grammarians did not hesitate to use the school vocabulary and the daily school experience for their examples,29 and even resorted to jokes and humorous complicity with their students,30 “fino ai limiti di un’istrionica bouffonnerie”.31 [b] Chreia and joke. A second, more interesting clue concerns the structure of several Philogelos jokes. In fact, there is a clear similarity between such jokes and the chreia, the literary form which, according to the definition offered by the Alexandrian rhetor Aelius Theon, consists in “a short statement or action opportunely ascribed to a specific character or someone analogous to a character” (ȋȡİȓĮ ‫݋‬ıIJ‫ ޥ‬ıȪȞIJȠȝȠȢ ܻʌȩijĮıȚȢ ‫ ݙ‬ʌȡߢȟȚȢ ȝİIJ’ İ‫ރ‬ıIJȠȤȓĮȢ ܻȞĮijİȡȠȝȑȞȘ İ‫ݫ‬Ȣ IJȚ ‫ސ‬ȡȚıȝȑȞȠȞ ʌȡȩıȦʌȠȞ ‫ܻ ݙ‬ȞĮȜȠȖȠࠎȞ ʌȡȠıȫʌ࠙, 96, 19-21, Spengel = p. 18, Patillon). As is well known, the chreia as part of scholastic ʌȡȠȖȣȝȞȐıȝĮIJĮ appears in the first stages of education, 32 but acquires particular importance between the second and third level of the cursus studiorum, that is, between the learning phase entrusted to the grammatikos and the one under the rhetor’s competence.33 29 Several examples (and further bibliographical references) can be found in De Nonno (2010) 172-178. He mentions, among others, the case of Servius, who, in commenting on a line of the Aeneid (1.185), uses an example with the word scholasticus to explain the difference between totus and omnis. 30 Sedley [(1998) 135] underlines the humorous skills of grammarians, who “really did enjoy the occasional joke, even though they ruthlessly excluded any hint of humour from their formal grammatical treatises”. He also identifies “a grammarians’ in-house joke” as the origin of two distinct chreiai (p. 132). 31 The phrase is used by De Nonno [(2010) 181] for Pompeius, a grammarian and commentator of Donatus who lived between the 5th and the 6th century A.D. On this figure see also Kaster (1988) 139-169. 32 Reviewing the results of the most recent studies, Hock and O’Neil [(2002) 4] conclude that “chreiai belonged to the core of the primary curriculum and hence were familiar to most students”. 33 Quintilian not only includes the chreiae among the exercises falling within the competence of the grammaticus (sententiae quoque et chriae et aetiologiae subiectis dictorum rationibus apud grammaticos scribantur, quia initium ex lectione ducunt [“aphorisms, chriae, and ethologiae may also be written under the grammatici, so long as the arguments are supplied, because the themes can come out of reading”, Inst. 1.9.3]), but also believes that Latin grammatici are in charge of didactic tasks that in the Greek system are assigned to rhetors (Cetera maioris operis ac spiritus Latini rhetores relinquendo necessaria grammaticis fecerunt; Graeci magis operum suorum et onera et modum norunt [“Larger and more ambitious exercises have been forced on the grammatici by Latin rhetors who have abandoned them; the Greeks know the burdens and the limits of their work better”, Inst. 1.9.6]). On these aspects see also Holtz (1979), Hock (1986) 21, and Wouters (2007), especially 141-147.

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Particularly appreciated in the 4th century A.D., 34 the chreiai share with the Philogelos jokes the following characteristics listed by Theon: they are witty, 35 concise, 36 and indifferently based on word or action. 37 Only one pronounced difference seems to distance the chreiai from the Philogelos short stories: if the characters of the humorous anthology are completely anonymous, those of the chreiai are, by definition, historical figures. 38 However, the difference is only apparent, because the strong typification of the Philogelos characters makes them very easily recognisable; to use Theon’s terminology once again, they may be considered ‘analogous to a character’. The ‘consanguinity’ between the chreiai and the Philogelos jokes is also evident from Theon’s detailed classification of the chreiai in three groups (ȜȠȖȚțĮȓ, ʌȡĮțIJȚțĮȓ, ȝȚțIJĮȓ): (1) Among the ȜȠȖȚțĮȓ chreiai, that is, the ones based exclusively on words, Theon quotes the following example: ǻȚȠȖȑȞȘȢ ‫ ݸ‬ijȚȜȩıȠijȠȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ‫ބ‬ʌȩ IJȚȞȠȢ ʌࠛȢ ܽȞ ‫ݏ‬ȞįȠȟȠȢ ȖȑȞȠȚIJȠ ܻʌİțȡȓȞĮIJȠ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ ‘‫ݜ‬țȚıIJĮ įȩȟȘȢ ijȡȠȞIJȓȗȦȞ’ (“The philosopher Diogenes, upon being asked by someone how to become famous, replied: ‘By worrying about fame as little as possible’”, 97, 14-16, Spengel = p. 19, Patillon). The narrative mechanism of the chreia, introduced by the combination subject + participle ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİȓȢ, is echoed in several Philogelos jokes, such as joke 197, focused on a grammatikos and entirely based on words: “An incompetent grammarian, when asked ‘What was the name of Priam’s mother?’, being at a loss replied: ‘We call her ‘lady’ as a sign of respect’” (݃ijȣ‫ޣ‬Ȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİަȢÂ ‫ ݘ‬ȝ‫ޤ‬IJȘȡ ȆȡȚ‫ޠ‬ȝȠȣ IJަȢ ‫݋‬țĮȜİ߿IJȠ ܻʌȠȡࠛȞ ‫ݏ‬ijȘǜ ‫ݘ‬ȝİ߿Ȣ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJȚȝ‫ޣ‬Ȟ țȣȡަĮȞ Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ țĮȜȠࠎȝİȞ). 39

34

“The fourth century … represents the flowering of this genre”: Hock (1986) 11. IJࠜ ȤĮȡȚİȞIJȓȗİıșĮȚ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȤȡİȓĮȞ ‫݋‬ȞȓȠIJİ ȝȘį‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȣıĮȞ ȕȚȦijİȜȑȢ [“the chreia is witty, sometimes containing nothing useful for living”] (96,29-30, Spengel = p. 18, Patillon). 36 ‫ ݘ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ıȪȞIJȠȝȠȢ (2, p. 97,4, Spengel = p. 19, Patillon). 37 ‫ ݘ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ ȤȡİȓĮ ʌȡߢȟȚȢ ‫ ݙ‬ȜȩȖȠȢ ‫ބ‬ʌȐȡȤİȚ (97,1-2, Spengel = p. 18, Patillon). 38 But the historicity of the main character does not ensure the authenticity of the quotation: a chreia – as Sedley [(1988) 133] observes – “could readily travel from one historical figure to another”; on the little ‘historical reliability’ of the chreia see also Hock (1986) 41-46. 39 Notice that the motif of the ‘examined teacher’ is well attested in the school practice and reflected in literary sources: see De Nonno (2010) 185-205. A grammatical exercise consisting in the declension of the name Priam (and Helen) is catalogued by Cribiore (1996b) 267, n° 372. 35

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(2) For the ʌȡĮțIJȚțĮȓ chreiai, which are based only on an action, Theon offers a specimen featuring, again, Diogenes: ǻȚȠȖȑȞȘȢ ‫ ݸ‬ȀȣȞȚțާȢ ijȚȜȩıȠijȠȢ ‫ݧ‬įޫȞ ‫ݷ‬ȥȠijȐȖȠȞ ʌĮ߿įĮ IJާȞ ʌĮȚįĮȖȦȖާȞ IJ߲ ȕĮțIJȘȡȓߠ ‫ݏ‬ʌĮȚıİ (“The cynic philosopher Diogenes, upon seeing a glutton boy, beat his pedagogue with his stick”, 98, 34-99.1, Spengel = p. 21, Patillon). In this case too, the structure of the chreia, hinging on the combination subject + participle ‫ݧ‬įެȞ, has several parallels in the Philogelos, for example in joke 19: ȈȤȠȜĮıIJȚțާȢ ‫ݧ‬įޫȞ ʌȠȜȜȠީȢ ıIJȡȠȣșȠީȢ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬į‫ޢ‬ȞįȡȠȣ ‫݌‬ıIJࠛIJĮȢ ܼʌȜެıĮȢ IJާȞ țިȜʌȠȞ ‫ݏ‬ıİȚİ IJާ į‫ޢ‬ȞįȡȠȞ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫ބ‬ʌȠįİȟިȝİȞȠȢ IJȠީȢ ıIJȡȠȣșȠުȢ (“A scholastikos, having seen several sparrows sitting on a tree, stretched out his cloak and started shaking the tree to collect them”). (3) Finally, in Theon’s classification the chreiai ȝȚțIJĮȓ are those which combine the characteristics of the previous two and take place through action: ȆȣșĮȖȩȡĮȢ ‫ ݸ‬ijȚȜȩıȠijȠȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ʌȩıȠȢ ‫݋‬ıIJ‫ޥ‬Ȟ ‫ ݸ‬IJࠛȞ ܻȞșȡȫʌȦȞ ȕȓȠȢ ܻȞĮȕ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJާ įȦȝȐIJȚȠȞ ʌĮȡȑțȣȥİȞ ‫ݷ‬ȜȓȖȠȞ įȘȜࠛȞ įȚ‫ ޟ‬IJȠȪIJȠȣ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȕȡĮȤȪIJȘIJĮ (“The philosopher Pythagoras, having been asked how long is the life of men, went up onto the roof and peeped out for a moment, thus showing its brevity”, 99,7-10, Spengel = p. 21, Patillon). Joke 196 of the Philogelos has a similar structure, characterised by the combination subject + ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİȓȢ. In it, an introductory description is followed by a response consisting only in an action: ݃ijȣ‫ޣ‬Ȣ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțާȢ ‫݋‬ȡȦIJȘșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ ȆࠛȢ įİ߿ Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖİȚ IJȠ߿Ȣ įުȠ ‫ ݙ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ įȣıަ; ‫ ݸ‬į‫ ޡ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Ȥİ߿ȡĮ ʌȡȠIJİަȞĮȢ IJȠީȢ įުȠ ‫ބ‬ʌİįİަțȞȣİ įĮțIJުȜȠȣȢ (“An incompetent grammarian, upon being asked, ‘How does one say two, in the dual or in the plural?’, stretched out his hand and showed two fingers”). But the proximity of chreiai and Philogelos jokes goes beyond the narrative structure and involves further aspects. Theon, for example, while enumerating the twelve ways in which a chreia might be expressed, notes that it can be said țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬ȤĮȡȚİȞIJȚıȝިȞ, that is ‘wittily’, ‘with humour’. 40 Even more interesting is what the Alexandrian rhetor Theon states when, among the eight exercises that can be made up of chreiai, mentions the school practice of “lengthening” or “augmenting” a chreia (‫݋‬ʌİțIJİަȞİȚȞ): the same technique must have been applied to the Philogelos jokes, which were likely to grow ad libitum in oral performance, according to the raconteur’s ability. But a chreia can also sharpen the ability to synthesise and Theon, right after the ‫݋‬ʌİțIJİަȞİȚȞ, inserts an example of ıȣıIJ‫ޢ‬ȜȜİȚȞ (‘summarise’): the Philogelos jokes too seem extremely concise and essential in their written form, and when we can compare them to the parallel versions transmitted 40

For the use of the chreia țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬ȤĮȡȚİȞIJȚıȝިȞ in Plutarch’s Coniugalia praecepta see Bellu (2007).

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by literary sources, we note that the anthology joke constitutes a sort of zero grade of the humorous account attested in the other source. 41 Moreover, all chreiai, precisely like the short stories of the Philogelos, are ‘self-standing’, capable of conveying their message without a supporting narrative frame. And, finally, we should not neglect the fact that both the Philogelos jokes and the chreiai have come down to us through a gradual process of anthologisation 42 which has fixed in written form an oral heritage that had inevitably undergone changes and rephrasing. 43 [c] Character typification. The similarity with the chreia is not the only point of contact between the Philogelos and the scholastic and rhetorical practice. 44 Another common trait can be detected in the strong typification of the characters targeted in the anthology. Lacking a name and historical identity, they are ‘masks’ (the scholastikos, the ill-tempered, the incompetent, the coward, etc.), 45 proper ‘types’ who have in common an unshakeable stupidity. 46 The identification of character types (‫ݛ‬șȘ) is, again, one of the specific objectives of scholastic and rhetorical training, the didactic context in which the grammatikos operates. Several Greek and Latin testimonies, albeit with many and sometimes unclear terminological 41

See Andreassi (2004) 71-73. Hock [(1986) 8] mentions examples of “personal collections of chreiai … gathered from various literary sources”. 43 “Oral transmission was one way that chreiai survived the centuries, but preservation was more assured if chreiai were written down, either in informal personal collections for later use or in formal compositions like ‘Lives’, ‘Reminiscences’, and Chreiai”: Hock (1986) 9. 44 We should keep in mind that another apparently popular text, the Vita Aesopi (transmitted by the codex G alongside some of the Philogelos jokes), is clearly inspired, in several passages, by rhetorical handbooks and scholastic progymnasmata, as recently showed by Ruiz-Montero (2014b). 45 The manuscripts already use specific titles for typological sections of the anthology: ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȠȓ (Facet. 1-103), ijȚȜ‫ޠ‬ȡȖȣȡȠȚ (Facet. 104-105), ݃ȕįȘȡ߿IJĮȚ (Facet. 110-127), ȈȚįިȞȚȠȚ (Facet. 128-139), İ‫ރ‬IJȡ‫ޠ‬ʌİȜȠȚ (Facet. 140-153, 262-264), ȀȣȝĮ߿ȠȚ (Facet. 154-182), įުıțȠȜȠȚ (Facet. 183-195), ܻijȣİ߿Ȣ (Facet. 196-205), įİȚȜȠȓ (Facet. 206-210), ‫ݷ‬țȞȘȡȠȓ (Facet. 211-213), ijșȠȞİȡȠȓ (Facet. 214-216), ȜȚȝިȟȘȡȠȚ (Facet. 219-226, 260), ȝ‫ޢ‬șȣıȠȚ (Facet. 227-230), ‫ݷ‬ȗިıIJȠȝȠȚ (Facet. 231242), Ȝ‫ޠ‬ȖȞĮȚ ȖȣȞĮ߿țİȢ (Facet. 244-245), and ȝȚıȠȖުȞĮȚțȠȚ ܿȞįȡİȢ (Facet. 246-251). The few jokes not mentioned in this list, as they lack a heading in the manuscripts, can however be traced to specific types: ܻȜĮȗȩȞİȢ (Facet. 106-108), ȝȦȡȠȓ (Facet. 109), įİȚȜȠȓ (Facet. 217-218), ȜİȓȟȠȣȡȠȚ (Facet. 243), ܻIJȣȤİ߿Ȣ (Facet. 252), and ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȠȓ (Facet. 253-259, 265). 46 The only exception are the İ‫ރ‬IJȡ‫ޠ‬ʌİȜȠȚ (Facet. 140-153, 262-264), individuals always ready with a repartee, who stand out for their witticism and verbal brilliancy: see Andreassi (2004) 54-56. 42

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differences (ȤĮȡĮțIJȘȡȚıȝȩȢ, 47 ‫ݗ‬șȠʌȠȚȓĮ, 48 descriptio, 49 notatio, 50 etc. 51 ), document the importance, for prospective rhetors, of learning to outline the traits of human characters through specific exercises or figures of speech. Even Theophrastus’ Characters (ȋĮȡĮțIJ߱ȡİȢ) were probably aimed at rhetorical training, 52 at least according to one view. 53 The work, produced in a Peripatetic environment but transmitted and preserved in manuscripts containing rhetorical works, 54 shows significant similarities to the Philogelos in that it outlines human flaws and highlights the comic side of stupidity: “Some of Theophrastus’ episodes depend for their comic point upon stupidity. They are in fact nothing but ȖİȜȠ߿Į”, noted Trenkner [(1958) 150], after indicating precise and systematic correspondences between Theophrastus’ characters and the Philogelos jokes. 55 Further typological correspondences may be identified in literary and scholastic ethopoiiae. 56 Even more relevant 47

Rut. Lup. 2.7, Barabino; Sen. Epist. 95.65. Aphth. 34.2-5, Rabe (2, p. 44.20, Spengel). 49 Cic. Top. 83. 50 Rhet. Her. 4.63-65. 51 Several definitions of ethopoeia, in the context of theorisations of the Imperial and Byzantine periods, are edited in a rich collection (with introductions and translations) by Ventrella (2005). 52 On the connection between the Characters and Theophrastus’ attention towards rhetoric cf. Fortenbaugh (1994). 53 A status quaestionis and bibliography can be read in Diggle (2004) 13 and n. 41. 54 Rusten (20023) 22: “indeed it owes its very survival to its inclusion among the handbooks of the schools”; Diggle (2004) 13 n. 42: “They survive because, in the Byzantine period, they were incorporated with the treatises of Hermogenes and Apthonius, whose discussions of ‫ݝ‬șȠȢ and ‫ݗ‬șȠʌȠȚȓĮ they were taken to illustrate”. 55 The scholar observes that in Theophrastus “the anecdotes are predominantly concerned with the types of the foolish and the absent-minded” [(1958) 150], the types impersonated by the scholastikos in the Philogelos. Further, according to the biographical testimony of Hermippus, reported by Athenaeus (1.21a), Theophrastus would read his Characters in public exploiting the gestural and mimic dimension of oral performance to its full potential, like jokesters. We should also keep in mind, to confirm Theophrastus’ interest in humour, that according to Diogenes Laertius (5.46) he wrote a treatise Ȇİȡ‫ ޥ‬ȖİȜȠȓȠȣ. On ancient treatises on humour see Andreassi (2004) 13-17, with further bibliography; on the analogies that link Theophrastus’ Characters, the Philogelos, and Nicarchus’ scommatic epigrams, see Schatzmann (2012) 100-101. 56 The rich collection edited by Amato and Ventrella (2005) includes ethopoiiae on eunuchs (Ps.-Lib. Eth. 26, Foerster), cowards (Ps.-Lib. Eth. 19 and 20, Foerster; Nicol. 64.8, Felten), and misers (Ps.-Lib. Eth. 20, Foerster), anonymous but welldefined characters also featured in the Philogelos (eunuchs: Facet. 114-116, 252; cowards: Facet. 206-210, 217-218; misers: Facet. 104-105). The miser type is also the main character of a set of four declamations by Libanius (31-34, Foerster). 48

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to our investigation is a passage in which Quintilian maintains that one may define as ‫ݛ‬șȘ exercises done “in schools” (in scholis) and intended to portray stock characters such as rustics (rustici), superstitious persons (superstitiosi), misers (avari), and cowards (timidi). 57 The types mentioned by Quintilian are undoubtedly similar to those found in the Philogelos, 58 and this suggests the possibility that prospective rhetors had to learn to elaborate on descriptions of human types quite early in school. In the course of the curriculum, these descriptions were then directed to a more sophisticated rhetorical use: “[p]erché, infatti, possa essere elaborata un’etopea e venga messo in bocca alla persona loquens un discorso adatto ai suoi costumi, è necessario che lo studente abbia già classificato, studiato e costruito il personaggio. Queste descrizioni tipologiche possono fungere da supporto per la costruzione della persona ed è verosimile che i ragazzi fossero talora chiamati a stendere i ritratti di diversi tipi umani prima di cimentarsi nella simulazione del discorso, ovvero prima di affrontare la più complessa etopea” (Berardi [2013] 133). 59 Whoever designed the current articulation of the Philogelos jokes by character type, whether he was its author or simply someone in charge of its arrangement, must have had some familiarity with the rhetoric and scholastic technique and, highly probably, a professional knowledge of it: this profile is compatible, again, with the grammatikos. [d] The derision of the scholastikos (and the grammatikos). In defining the relationship between grammarians and jokes, a fourth and perhaps conclusive piece of evidence concerns the scholastikos, the most 57

Quint. Inst. 6.2.17: Non parum significanter etiam illa in scholis ‫ݛ‬șȘ dixerimus, quibus plerumque rusticos superstitiosos avaros timidos secundum condicionem positionum effingimus; nam si ‫ݛ‬șȘ mores sunt, cum hos imitamur ex his ducimus oratione (“It is quite right also to use the word ƝWKRV of the sort of school exercises in which we often represent countrymen, superstitious men, misers, and cowards according to the terms of our theme. For if ƝWKRV means mores, then when we imitate mores we base our speech on ƝWKRV´  58 There are clear equivalences between avari ~ ijȚȜ‫ޠ‬ȡȖȣȡȠȚ and timidi ~ įİȚȜȠȓ, while rustici can be equated to įުıțȠȜȠȚ and ܻijȣİ߿Ȣ, according to the different meanings of the Latin word. The category of superstitiosi, absent in the Philogelos, is indirectly attested in jokes on fortune-tellers and astrologers (Facet. 187, 201-205). Avari, timidi, and superstitiosi (as well as asperi, which correspond to įުıțȠȜȠȚ) are also mentioned in Quint. Inst. 3.8.51, alongside other types, among the characters that prospective orators must impersonate in prosopopoeiae; finally, the long list of characters to impersonate secundum condicionem controversiarum in Inst. 10.1.71 recalls the practice of the rhetorical exercise. 59 Rusten (20023) 18: “Called ȤĮȡĮțIJȘȡȚıȝȠȓ or ‫ݗ‬șȠȜȠȖȓĮȚ, these seem to have been standard exercises in all rhetorical training”.

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frequent target in the entire Philogelos. In the 1st – 2nd centuries A.D., the word indicates both the ‘student’ and the ‘schoolmaster’, with specific reference to rhetorical and juristic studies, 60 and later designates, generically, the ‘cultivated man’, the ‘intellectual’, or the ‘man of letters’. 61 Both meanings – student and schoolmaster – are attested in the Philogelos, but they are not the only ones, and indeed the profile of the scholastikos in the anthology varies by profession, age, and social condition. It is, however, certain that in the Philogelos the word is a synonym of ‘stupid’, ‘idiot’: the scholastikos is now a comic mask whose actions appear absurd even before being accomplished. 62 In deriding the scholastikos, the Philogelos places itself in a wellestablished cultural and literary tradition (one need only think of the portrayal of Socrates in Aristophanes’ Clouds); but it is in the Imperial age that this tradition becomes stronger and especially targets rhetorical teaching and, more broadly, any alleged pseudo-intellectual. 63 As early as the 1st century B.C., the author of the Catalepton polemically dismisses the pretentious masters of rhetoric, calling them “tribe of scholastici dripping with fat”. 64 And the Vita Aesopi calls scholastikoi the modest pupils of the even more mediocre philosopher Xanthus, 65 while in Tacitus’ Dialogus de 60

Scholastikos also becomes a judicial word to indicate the defence lawyer (even in religious contexts): on the scholastikos in general see Claus (1965). 61 Aug. Dialect. 10. 62 The semantic shift from ‘rhetor’ to ‘pedant’ and hence to ‘stupid’ has been well described by Valmaggi (1892) 504-505: “scholasticus servì a denotare così lo studente, come, anzi più spesso e regolarmente, il maestro medesimo, il professore d’eloquenza, ossia il retore. Però, badiamo, non il valoroso retore d’una volta, maestro di ben parlare in teoria quanto in pratica, … ma sì bene il retore nuovo, il retore parolaio della latinità imperiale, … rigidamente chiuso nel formalismo stereotipo del suo mestiere e della sua scuola … [È] appunto per via di quest’ultima accezione che nel vocabolo si sviluppa un cotal senso di sollazzevole scherno, che poi lo trae alla significazione generica di ‘pedante’ e ‘sciocco’”. 63 The polemic against philosophers and mediocre intellectuals is typical of the Antonine age and, as observed by Keulen [(2004) 231], can even have self-ironic implications: in Gellius and Apuleius, for example, “the stock elements of satirical attacks on personae non gratae seemed to have been so familiar and well worn that they could also be used in certain witty form of self-portrayal …, which displayed a self-conscious sense of humour.” 64 Catal. 5.4: scholasticorum natio madens pingui. 65 The meaning ‘young student’, ‘inexpert’, ‘naïve’, also surfaces in the vocative scolastice with which Photis pushes away the excited Lucius in Apuleius (Met. 2.10). The use of scholasticus in Pliny the Younger is more benevolent, almost sympathetic: the rhetor Isaeus, who has always remained in the safe context of

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oratoribus Messalla harshly criticises the oratorical training of boys who “are taken to the schools of the so-called rhetors”, the scholastici. 66 As early as the Augustan age, the fear of being considered a scholasticus, a school declamator lacking the skills of the vir forensis, seizes the rhetor Gaius Albucius, who strives to lower the quality of his eloquence in order to make it more ordinary. 67 Between the 1st and the 2nd century, Epictetus exhorts his interlocutor to study philosophy, without being afraid of becoming a scholastikos, that is, “a being that everyone ridicules”. 68 He thus shows awareness of the general hostility towards those who devote themselves to study (the same feeling that led the less cultivated Romans to call Cicero ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ according to Plutarch [Cic. 5.2]). Elsewhere, he stigmatises the attitude of those who, once out of school, put aside philosophical reflections deeming them worthy of “scholastikoi and stupid people”. 69 In the same period, the scholastikos’ poor reputation is confirmed by Marcus Aurelius, who notes that his adoptive father Antoninus Pius was never accused “of being a sophist, a buffoon, or a scholastikos”. 70 Finally, a passage of Galen’s De methodo medendi is very relevant here: according to Galen, those who state that ‘warm’ and ‘cold’ (șİȡȝȩȞ and ȥȣȤȡȩȞ) are words for bath attendants, not for physicians, simply want to play the buffoon and make people laugh with stories about stupid persons, Phrygians, or rhetorical school, at the age of sixty is adhuc scholasticus tantum (Ep. 2.3.5); and his friend Suetonius – as Pliny writes to Baebius Hispanus (Ep. 1.24.4) – needs help in the purchase of a plot of land just outside Rome because he is a scholasticus, a man of letters with no common sense, a scholar “who bore the mark of the schola in his interests, learning, and speech”: Kaster (1995) XXI-XXII. 66 Tac. Dial. 35: deducuntur in scholas istorum qui rhetores vocantur (the definition of scholastici is found at § 26). In another text that harshly criticises the empty bombast of Imperial rhetoric – Petronius’ Satyrica – the lebel scholastici is applied to declamation enthusiasts, as shown by Kennedy (1978) [an interpretation recently embraced by Schmeling (2011) 10]. According to Kennedy, the word scholastici is used for “those people who thronged to declamations as though to athletic events, but who were not themselves students and not necessary teachers. They are the declamation-buffs, the aficionados, for the most part enthusiastic amateurs” (p. 175). 67 Albucius “was afraid of being thought a scholasticus” (timebat ne scholasticus videretur), Seneca states (Contr. 7, praef. 4), our main source on Albucius alongside Suetonius (Rhet. 30.3). In Seneca’s usage, as Kaster [(1995) 320] notes, the scholasticus was “a person whose oratory was formed entirely by the declamations of the schola, hence liable to be criticized for preciosity and abstraction from the everyday, practical world of the forum; cf. the modern epithet ‘academic’”. 68 Arr. Epict. 1.11.39: IJȠࠎIJȠ IJާ ȗࠜȠȞ Ƞ‫ ފ‬ʌȐȞIJİȢ țĮIJĮȖİȜࠛıȚȞ. 69 Arr. Epict. 4.1.138: ‫݋‬țİ߿ȞĮ IJ‫ ޟ‬IJࠛȞ ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțࠛȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ ȝȦȡࠛȞ 70 M. Ant. 1.16.4: ȝȘį‫ܿ ޡ‬Ȟ IJȚȞĮ İ‫ݧ‬ʌİ߿Ȟ ȝȒIJİ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ ıȠijȚıIJ‫ޣ‬Ȣ ȝȒIJİ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ Ƞ‫ރ‬İȡȞȐțȜȠȢ ȝȒIJİ ‫ݼ‬IJȚ ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ

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scholastikoi. 71 The very poor reputation of the scholastikos is here explicitly associated with ridiculous narrations. This is clear from the verbs used (ȕȦȝȠȜȠȤİȪȠȝĮȚ and ȖİȜȦIJȠʌȠȚȑȦ) and the stock characters mentioned alongside the scholastikoi (namely the ȝȦȡȠȓ, ‘stupid persons’, the label of some characters of the Philogelos, and the Phrygians, victims of an ethnic humour also attested in the Philogelos for the inhabitants of Cyme, Sidon, and Abdera). Even the argument to which Galen alludes (‘warm’ and ‘cold’ understood as words from world of bathing) is exploited in the colourless joke 58 of the Philogelos, where a scholastikos reproaches a bath attendant for pouring warm (șİȡȝȩȞ) water on him while he is still cold (ȥȣȤȡȩȢ, here to be understood in the meaning of ‘dull’, ‘stupid’). And that the scholastikos of the Imperial age was a symbol of stupidity is conclusively confirmed by a couple of Philogelos jokes in which he appears completely aware of this reputation: he states “they are right to call us stupid” (or: “it is natural that they would deem us stupid”) 72 when, right before indulging in the next idiocy, he stigmatises the stupid act of another scholastikos. But in the Imperial culture and society the scholastikos is not the only target of derision and sarcasm: alongside him stands the grammatikos, and the closeness of their identities is confirmed by both Latin glosses (which interpret grammaticus as scolasticus vel litteratus) 73 and papyrological evidence. 74 In fact, it is well known that a significant and varied satirical trend diminishes Greek grammatikoi and Latin grammatici to the status of pedantic, quick-tempered, underpaid figures of dubious morality always eager for food and wine. 75 This longstanding polemical attitude was 71

Gal. X, p. 111, Kühn: Ƞ‫ ݨ‬IJާ șİȡȝާȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȥȣȤȡާȞ ȕĮȜĮȞȑȦȞ, Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫ݧ‬ĮIJȡࠛȞ ‫ݷ‬ȞȩȝĮIJĮ ijȐıțȠȞIJİȢ İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ ȕȦȝȠȜȠȤİȪıȠȞIJĮȚ įȘȜȠȞȩIJȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖİȜȦIJȠʌȠȚȒıȠȣıȚȞ ‫ ݙ‬ȝȦȡȠީȢ ‫ݙ‬ ĭȡȪȖĮȢ ‫ ݙ‬ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȠީȢ įȚȘȖȠȪȝİȞȠȚ 72 Facet. 15: ǻȚțĮަȦȢ … ȝȦȡȠ‫ ޥ‬țĮȜȠުȝİșĮ; Facet. 43: Ǽ‫ݧ‬țިIJȦȢ … ȝȦȡȠ‫ ޥ‬ȞȠȝȚȗިȝİșĮ. 73 CGL 4, p. 598, 28. 74 Between A.D. 253 and 260, in Oxyrhynchus, Lollianus calls himself, in the same letter, both ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ and ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ [P.Oxy. XLVII 3366, 29 and 36; see Kaster (1988) 365-366, n° 150]; in 398, at Hermopolis, Aurelius Theodorus is labelled ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțާȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ [P. Lips. I 56,7-8 and 23-24; see Kaster (1988) 304305, n° 90]; Claus [(1965) 57-58] mentions Ophelius, a correspondent of Isidore of Pelusium in the 5th century A.D., who is called both ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ and ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ in the saint’s letters; see Kaster (1988) 321-322, n° 109: “Die Verbindung der Grammatik mit der Rhetorik” – Claus (1965) 58 notes – “ist durchaus naheliegend”. 75 In particular, grammarians are ruthlessly attacked by epigrammatic poets, who however, despite surprising analogies with the Philogelos jokes [see most recently Schatzmann (2012) 109-111 and Floridi (2012)], spare the scholastikos: the latter’s comical side, based on an absolute inability to face daily life, “im Spottepigramm

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probably born around the 2nd century B.C., in the context of the thorny erudite controversies between Alexandrian and Pergamene grammarians. 76 Over the course of time, once the most ideologically-driven reasons behind such controversies had disappeared, 77 the polemic targeted the grammarians involved in school education, possessors and epigones of a professional techne that tended to verge on pedantry, vacuity, and the fraudulent mystification of knowledge. 78 A joke reported by Athenaeus aptly portrays the reputation of stupidity surrounding the grammatikos: “if there were no physicians” – states one of the deipnosophistae – “there would be nothing more stupid than grammarians”. 79 In the stupidity stakes, then, the grammatikoi hold second place, a far from dishonourable position if one considers that physicians were the target of a deeply-rooted scommatic tradition of which the Philogelos itself collects several examples. 80

5. ‘Umorismo Autodelatorio’ In the light of all the information above considered as a whole, the manuscript tradition seems to deserve credit, and it appears likely that the writing of the Philogelos may have been the work of a grammatikos. One last important aspect still remains to be understood: it is strange, if not selfcontradictory, that a grammatikos could have written down a text that, generell keinen vergleichbaren Niederschlag gefunden hat”: Schatzmann (2012) 108. 76 For the motif of the attack and/or derision of grammarians, especially frequent in the epigrammatic tradition, see Brecht [(1930) 30-37] and Sbordone (1962), Sluiter (1988), Mazzoli (1997), and Manetti (2002). 77 Cynic and sceptic philosophy were not fond of grammarians either. Diogenes the Cynic was astounded that grammarians occupied themselves with Odysseus’ misadventures rather than their own (Diog. Laert. 6.27); and according to Diogenes Laertius (6.101), Menippus wrote a book Against Physicists, Mathematicians, and Grammarians, while Sextus Empiricus, in the 2nd century A.D., entitled Against Grammarians a section of his work Against Mathematicians. 78 Particular hostility towards the grammarians who pride themselves on a false expertise is repeatedly evident in Gellius, an author who, though being “purveyor of much grammatical information, despises professional grammatici both intellectually and socially”: Holford-Strevens (20032) 172: see Kaster (1988) 50-51, Vardi (2001) and De Nonno (2010) 192 and n. 70 (with further bibliography). 79 Ath.. 15.666a: İ‫ ݧ‬ȝ‫ݧ ޣ‬ĮIJȡȠ‫ݝ ޥ‬ıĮȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܽȞ ‫ݝ‬Ȟ IJࠛȞ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțࠛȞ ȝȦȡȩIJİȡȠȞ 80 The iatros acts in several jokes (Facet. 3, 6-7, 27, 79 bis, 107, 112, 142-143, 151 bis, 174, 186, 189, 222, 235, 253) or becomes the target of a joke in the role of a scholastikos (Facet. 3), an inhabitant of Sidon (Facet. 139) or Cyme (Facet. 175177, 182-185), or a glutton (Facet. 221).

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although it draws humorous material from a heterogeneous cultural tradition, is nevertheless centred firmly upon the derision of intellectuals. The case of the scholastikos is paradigmatic in this respect. Although reduced to an unhistorical hypostasis of stupidity, he must still be included among the pepaideumenoi 81 and he still is a representative of the same world of rhetorical teaching of which the grammatikos himself must have felt part 82, or at least wanted to feel part. 83 As observed by Bettini [(2008) 19] “in altre parole, ci troviamo di fronte al paradosso di un filosofo o grammatico o comunque intellettuale che, deridendo gli scholastikoí, in pratica deride anche se stesso”. However, the contradiction is apparent rather than real, as I believe that the grammatikos of the Philogelos does not intend self-destructively to discredit the intellectual class or, more broadly, the official and élite culture represented by school and rhetorical teaching. Nor do I think that the grammatikos wants to deride the other pepaideumenoi (the scholastikoi), in order to parade his own superiority to this group and thus his exclusion from the stupidity attributed to intellectuals. 84 Rather, I believe that, aware, as he is, of belonging to traditional culture, he chooses to confront the little tradition (to use again Redfield’s and Burke’s terminology), the unofficial, popular culture that spreads effortlessly in cities of the Empire, in places such as public baths, taverns, barbershops, markets, harbours and streets. 85 81

“[T]he ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ is only an exaggeration of the ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝȑȞȠȢ”: Avlamis (2010) 193. 82 Hesychius, who was himself a grammarian and roughly contemporary with the writing of the Philogelos, glosses ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ as ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝȑȞȠȢ ī 897, Latte). On the semantic proximity between pedaideumenos and grammatikos see also Ael. NA 2.11: the eyes of a trained elephant look ʌİʌĮȚįİȣȝȑȞȠȣȢ … țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȠȪȢ 83 As Booth [(1978) 118-119] has noted, “The scholarly grammatici regarded themselves more as twins of philosophers than elder brothers of grammatistai”; but it is also true that “the grammarian’s approach to literature stood in paradigmatic opposition to the philosopher’s—according to philosophers, at least”: Eshleman (2013) 149 with n. 13. 84 Bettini (2008) 20: “L’autore, concentrando il focus della sua raccolta sulla figura dello scholastikòs, intende deridere tutti quelli ‘come lui’ (cioè intellettuali) che però non sono ‘come lui’, perché sono intellettuali stupidi”. Zucker [(2008) 86] suggests that the compiler of the Philogelos was a ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ who wanted to entertain other ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȠȓ by joking on their profession: “quel qu’il soit, le compilateur du Philogelos en était un, et son plaisir assurément, lorsqu’il rencontrait un autre scholasticos, était de raconter des histoires de scholasticoi, comme les clercs médiévaux et leurs histoires de clercs”. 85 “[T]he streets, theatres, baths, market-places, barbershops, and ports of the ancient city were not universally deplored and marginalized as something outside élite

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It is precisely in these urban spaces (the setting, incidentally, of many of the Philogelos jokes) that the pepaideumenoi come into contact with a culture that is ‘other’, non-institutional and even centrifugal with respect to the tradition. Here they inevitably experience different socialisation dynamics and intercept forms of humour that are external, or even hostile, to the traditional school circuit. 86 The derisive deminutio of the scholastikos is indeed among the clearest manifestations of a popular humour that aims to construct a ‘we’ in opposition to an ‘other-than-us’, according to procedures already used in the Archaic symposium, in different forms but with comparable goals. 87 The grammatikos of the Philogelos does not ignore at all the scholastikos’ social debasement. On the contrary, he understands popular humour and its anti-intellectual tendency, but at the same time he does not censure or question the now widespread communis opinio. Rather, he decides to play an active role in the humorous game and, with the self-irony typical of the category, 88 underwrites and appropriates a humorous tradition identity. They were also felt to formulate a situational identity for literate individuals that surreptitiously absorbed them and recast them as part of the mass”: Avlamis (2010) 21. Toner [(2009) 5] speaks of “significant ‘grey areas’ along the division between the popular and élite cultures”: areas, that is, where élite and non- élite find points of contact. 86 “[L]o scholastikòs è anche un tipo destinato a destare soggezione, imbarazzo e perfino ostilità fra le classi non colte della comunità. … Forse fu proprio sull’onda di questa ostilità, indirizzata dal basso verso l’alto, che il termine scholastikòs divenne a un certo punto sinonimo di persona che, proprio perché troppo presa dalla propria presunzione di sapiente, è capace di enormi stupidaggini”: Bettini (2008) 1314. 87 Avlamis [(2010) 245-246] underlines the cogent similarity between the socialising function of the symposium and that of a popular chronotope par excellence such as the barbershop: “A heightened, tribal sense of ‘us’ and ‘them’ conceives of the world of the barbershop – like the world of the symposium or the world of democratic male citizenry in classical Athens – as a unit whose internal cohesion is formed through the domination of the outside and the passer-by”. 88 In addition to Gellius and Apuleius, intellectuals who “share a taste for satire and paradoxical self-irony” [Keulen (2004) 245], one need only mention Palladas and Ausonius, poets and grammarians roughly contemporary with the probable date of the Philogelos, who often show a derisive irony (or self-irony) when referring to colleagues and their profession. Palladas “proves to be a ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȩȢ prepared to indulge in linguistic jokes about the practices of his own profession”: Sedley (1998) 136. This is indicated, among many others, by epigram 9.489 of the Anthologia Palatina, where we read about the daughter of a grammatikos, who gave birth to three children: one of masculine gender, one of feminine gender, and the third of...

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that had long chosen him as a target. This overturning of perspective is all the more striking if – as we may assume, not without grounds – the Philogelos jokes also circulated in erudite and often pedantic convivial contexts, 89 as Lucillius’ muttering indicates: 90 telling jokes about scholastikoi and grammatikoi, while ascribing them to a grammatikos, must have turned out to be a fulfilling form of socialisation, especially in light of the fact that both the lower classes and even members of the social elite tended to look condescendingly at grammarians.91 In writing (or just collecting) jokes ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬ȈȤȠȜĮıIJȚțࠛȞ (as we read in the title preserved by the codex M), the grammatikos of the Philogelos thus appropriates anti-scholastic humour, remodulates it and weakens its roots by turning the loser into the winner, the victim into the main character. And it is precisely while becoming an accomplice of this anti-intellectual and popular humour that the grammarian defuses its original aggressive charge: neuter gender. Ausonius too, who echoes Palladas’ Witz in epigram 56, reveals not only a bluntly sarcastic vein (like in the Grammaticomastix or in epigrams 44-52 and 81, Green), but also, especially in the epigrams, a fine sense of humour, a fervid “ironia, assolutamente inattesa in un personaggio tutto sommato serioso e ingombrante, quale Ausonio in fondo doveva essere”: Canali (2007) 10-11. 89 Erudition also characterises the participants in the literary symposia that constitute the frame of Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae and, at the time of the Philogelos, Macrobius’ Saturnalia: in these works erudition goes hand in hand with a certain interest in humour. An erudite like Aulus Gellius describes in his Noctes Atticae (18.2) the possible ‘entertainments’ of learned men as they gather at the table during the Saturnalia. 90 See AP 11.10 (against the ʌȡȐȖȝĮIJĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȚțȐ that weigh symposia down) and 140 (against the ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȠȜȚțȡȓįİȢ who discourse on literary quibbles during symposia). The cultivated man’s inability to make a good impression at the most hilarious moments of a symposium is effectively described by the pepaideumenos whom Lucian pities in his Ȇİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬ȝȚıșࠜ ıȣȞȩȞIJȦȞ: he in fact admits to be ܻȤȐȡȚıIJȠȢ … țĮ‫ݜ ޥ‬țȚıIJĮ ıȣȝʌȠIJȚțȩȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬į¶ ‫ݼ‬ıȠȞ ȖȑȜȦIJĮ ʌȠȚ߱ıĮȚ įȣȞȐȝİȞȠȢ (30). From this point of view, the social status of grammarians in the Imperial period is paradoxical, as observed by Eshleman [(2013) 145-146]: “While grammatical knowledge forms the foundation of élite paideia, the grammarian and his school are regarded as antipodal – indeed, antithetical – to the atmosphere of the learned symposium” (the reader is referred to the whole work of Kendra Eshleman for further remarks on the low respect for grammarians at symposia and, at the same time, on Plutarch’s attempt to “demonstrat[e] how to accommodate them productively and politely” [p. 165]). On grammarians see also the Introduction to this book, pp. 21-22. 91 Eshleman (2013) 148-149: “while grammatical teaching was foundational to élite paideia, it was often scorned by members of the educated élite as merely elementary, childish, and banal, boring to everyone but grammarians”.

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the derision of the pepaideumenoi is harmless and innocuous, if a pepaideumenos writes it down and becomes its author. However, there is no defence of the scholastikos, no intent of redemption or cultural compensation: the Philogelos jokes do not modify the stereotypical and grotesque image of the intellectual as portrayed by popular tradition and as surfacing, crystallised, in literary sources. What happens is rather a rapid and crucial change of perspective, which effectively operates from inside the mechanism of the humour: we still laugh, as always, at the ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ but now we also laugh with the ıȤȠȜĮıIJȚțȩȢ, 92 according to an intentionally self-deprecating humour (ultimately a winning one), an ‘umorismo autodelatorio’ comparable to that of Jewish wits, which – as a Jewish intellectual wittily said – are none other than “storielle antisemite raccontate da un ebreo”. 93

92 This mechanism is comparable with the one that Bettini [(2002) 246] referring to Plautus’ parasites, defines as ‘umorismo di minoranza’: “il personaggio ci si presenta come qualcuno ‘di cui’ si ride ma, contemporaneamente, ‘con cui’ si ride, visto che è lui il primo a parlare così di se stesso”. However, according to Bettini [(2008) 22 n. 12] this ‘minority humour’ differs from that of the Philogelos because “in casi del genere, alla comicità e all’umorismo si accompagna anche lo spettro, o la pratica, della violenza”. 93 The acute formulation is by Moni Ovadia, in an interview with Oliviero Ponte di Pino (‘Manifesto’, 30 October 1997). Ovadia himself uses the expression ‘umorismo autodelatorio’ to explain the nature of a minority humour such as the Jewish one, a humour that “ben di più e ben altro che un modo per divertirsi e ridere, è stato una Weltanschauung, una filosofia, uno strumento ermeneutico e una delle forme del pensiero sociale che ha permesso agli ebrei di attraversare i momenti più tragici della loro esistenza senza che la loro identità ne venisse demolita”: Ovadia (2010) 9.

CHAPTER TEN ORAL AND MATERIAL ASPECTS OF SANCTUARIES IN ROMAN GREECE: DELPHI, PLUTARCH AND PAUSANIAS ALEXIA PETSALIS-DIOMIDIS

Introduction This chapter investigates the connections between orality and material and visual culture in sanctuaries in Greece in the Imperial period. It argues that there is a complex web of interconnections between orality and materiality in the experience of visiting sacred space, that is, sacred travel or pilgrimage as conceived by some scholars. 1 My starting point is the archaeological evidence of sanctuaries, including the spatial layout, architecture, decoration, inscriptions and votive offerings; in order to understand the meanings of this material evidence a ‘pilgrim’s progress’ through the space is needed to animate it. This involves analysing the stages of the journey, the activities and rituals, sights and sounds, effectively a re-tracing of the sensory experience of sacred travel. It draws on important recent scholarship on the

My thanks to Consuelo Ruiz-Montero and all the participants in the conference in Cartagena for their helpful and generous responses to my paper, in particular to Ewen Bowie, Lucia Athanassaki, Ian Rutherford and Larry Kim. I would also like to thank the audience at the King’s College London Classics Research Seminar for feedback when I delivered a version of the paper in the autumn 2014, in particular Giambattista D’Alessio and Will Wootton. I am grateful to Jas’ Elsner for his critical reading of the paper before publication. All errors are my own. My engagement with the site of Delphi was revivified by a visit there in the spring of 2014, with my husband Harry and children Nikolas, Julia and Thomas – my thanks also go to them. 1 For a recent succinct analysis of the issue of the use of the term ‘pilgrimage’ in ancient Greek religion with further bibliographic references see Rutherford (2013) 12-14.

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senses in antiquity.2 I argue that the oral dimension was a central – and under-explored – feature of the experience of pilgrimage in establishing and reinforcing the meanings of the physical sanctuary. My case study is the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. I do not claim that this sanctuary is typical of all sanctuaries in Roman Greece: it was particular in its oracular function, and exceptional in its panhellenic significance and status as the navel of the Greek world. But beyond the basic features of altar, cult image and temple and some form of ritual practice, every sanctuary was particular in its geographical location in relation to the natural and built landscape, its architecture, rituals and local traditions. In its very particularity, Delphi can be seen as typical of the rich range of sanctuaries in Roman Greece. The evidence discussed includes archaeological remains and texts related to Delphi in the Roman period, specifically Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis, written sometime after A.D. 95 and Pausanias’ Description of Greece 10.1.1-10.32.7, written sometime between the early A.D. 160’s and the mid 170’s.3 Delphi features as the setting and, to a degree, the subject of a number of Plutarch’s dialogues, while in the Description of Greece Pausanias places Delphi at the end of the tour and literary work, neatly balancing the highly charged sites of Athens at the opening and Olympia in the central books.4 These two texts straightforwardly refer to oral events occurring in sanctuaries, including conversations about religious matters, guiding around the sanctuary, reading aloud of votive inscriptions and more formal performances of written works in poetry or prose in honour of the god. In conjunction with the archaeology of the sanctuary the texts are used to establish the kinds of oral events taking place in Delphi and their significance. In addition to these straightforward oral events which took place at Delphi a more complex phenomenon is explored in which oral events of the past, such as victorious performances of hymns and oracular encounters with the god, became stone monuments of image and inscribed text and in turn gave rise to viewing, reading, discussion and exegesis, in other words, further ‘secondary’ oral events in the sanctuary. In addition to 2 For recent work on the senses in antiquity see Jütte (2005). Butler and Purves (2013), Bradley (2015), and Squire (2016). 3 Weir (2004) 104-107. On the dating of Plut. De Pythiae oraculis see Jones (1966) particularly 63-65 (arguing against earlier beliefs in a Hadrianic date) and 72 (“after 95”). On the date of Pausanias’ text see Hutton (2010) at 425 n. 3, with further bibliographic references. Texts of Plutarch and Pausanias are from the TLG, and translations from the Loeb editions with some alterations. 4 On the narrative importance of Delphi at the end of the Description of Greece see Hutton (2010) in particular 428-429 and 449-454, and Sidebottom (2002).

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the evidence for primary and secondary oral events to be found in Plutarch’s and Pausanias’ texts about Delphi these literary works can be seen as originating in the oral traditions of sanctuary life, for instance Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis in learned discussions on religious matters, and Pausanias’ Description of Greece in the oral guided tours and ekphrastic descriptions of votives.5 It is argued that the form as well as the content of Plutarch’s and Pausanias’ texts reflect oral events in Delphi.

1. Acoustic and Oral Experience of Pilgrimage to Delphi Delphi is visually impressive today (Fig. 3 and Fig. 4). This is due in part to its beautiful mountainous landscape and in part to its extensive reconstructed archaeological remains. In antiquity the visual impact of the living sanctuary and landscape of Delphi is conveyed in a number of texts including Euripides’ Ion (late 5th century B.C.), Strabo’s Geography (written under Augustus and revised under Tiberius) and Heliodorus’ Aethiopica.6 An important body of recent scholarship has explored the rich significance of visuality and material culture in Graeco-Roman religion.7 But this visual aspect would have been supplemented by acoustic experiences in the sanctuary. Any analysis of such experiences needs to take account of the variety of pilgrims in terms of place of origin, ethnicity, gender, age, social status, the degree of familiarity with the sanctuary and personal attitude. While such detailed evidence for individual visitors is scarcely recoverable, it is important to note the way that such variables would have coloured the experience of the sanctuary. One group that can be distinguished is theoroi, delegates sent to the sanctuary as representatives of a city.8 In addition to the variety within the pilgrim body which would have affected the experience of the sanctuary, there was variety in the spectacle and events 5

A comparison can be made with Aelius Aristides’ prose hymns and with the Hieroi Logoi which were read to an audience in the Asclepieion of Pergamum. Moreover, as Janet Downie has argued recently (2013), the innovative style and format of the Hieroi Logoi originate in the prose hymn, designed, of course to be delivered orally. 6 Eur. Ion 184-218 (the temple), 1122-1170 (votive dedications); Str. 9.3.2-3; Paus. 10.8.6 (first view of Delphi), 10.8.10 (city and sanctuary of Delphi), and Hld. 2.2627 (on which see below). See Weir (2004) in particular 77-107, “The visitor’s experience of Delphi”, which focuses on views and visual experience. 7 Kindt [(2012) 39-54] on the importance of visuality in the experience of Greek religion; also Elsner (2007), Petsalis-Diomidis (2005) and (2007), Platt (2011), Squire (2011b) 154-201. 8 Rutherford (2013).

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Figure 3.

taking place: the time of year, time of day and the ritual or festival context would have had a significant impact on the pilgrims’ sensory experiences at the sanctuary. The focus of the cult of Apollo at Delphi was of course the famous oracle, and consultation was permitted once a month;9 it is fair to assume that on those days the sanctuary would have been more crowded, with the concomitant noise, including that of goats brought to be sacrificed. Every four years the Pythian crown games took place, a festival which continued to flourish in the Imperial period. 10 In this context acoustic dimensions included the noise made by animals (pigs and goats) brought for sacrifice, and drunken revelry at night, as implied by a marble kioniskos 9 Evidence for consultation of the oracle once a month: Plut. De E apud Delphos 391D, and De defectu oraculorum 414C. The privilege of promanteia suggests that the sanctuary could be crowded on days when it was possible to consult the oracle. 10 On the thriving festival culture of the Roman Empire see: F. Graf [(2015) 11-60] on continuity, restorations, invented traditions and heightened visuality of Greek city festivals in the Imperial age; Remijsen [(2015) 33-63] on athletics in Late Antiquity in Greece; and Rutherford (2013) 68.

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Figure 4.

found in the vicinity of the theatre with an inscription forbidding such noise.11 There are also references to performers, acrobats, conjurers, a harp

11

See Rougemont (1977) 11-15 and Weir (2004) 80 n. 525.

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singer and voice coaches (ijȦȞȐıțȠȚ).12 In addition to such unofficial, and even prohibited noises, pilgrims at the Pythian festival would have heard prayers at animal sacrifice at the altar of Apollo, dramatic and musical competitions in the theatre which held 4200-4800 spectators, and applause and cheering of athletes in the stadium which held 6500 spectators after its refurbishment by Herodes Atticus ca. A.D. 170. 13 At the heart of the sanctuary, in the abaton of the temple which was accessed by very few, an oral event took place: the consultation of the god by means of an oral exchange between the Pythia and the pilgrim.14 As Plutarch writes “the god of this place employs the prophetic priestess for men’s ears just as the sun employs the moon for men’s eyes”, IJާȞ ‫݋‬ȞIJĮࠎșĮ șİާȞ ȤȡެȝİȞȠȞ IJ߲ Ȇȣșަߠ ʌȡާȢ ܻțȠ‫ޤ‬Ȟ, țĮșޫȢ ‫ݜ‬ȜȚȠȢ Ȥȡ߱IJĮȚ ıİȜ‫ޤ‬Ȟ߯ ʌȡާȢ ‫ݻ‬ȥȚȞ.15 Heliodorus’ description in the Aethiopica of Calasiris’ arrival in Delphi emphasises and indeed intertwines the visual, acoustic and oral elements of pilgrim experience. Calasiris’ response to the Delphic space is figured in acoustic terms (‫ݑ‬ʌİ‫ ޥ‬į‫݋ ޡ‬ʌȑıIJȘȞ ‫ݷ‬ȝijȒ ȝİ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ܻȜȘșࠛȢ șİȓĮ ʌȡȠıȑȕĮȜİȞ Į‫ރ‬IJȩșİȞ, “[As I entered the town, the place’s own oracular voice sang in my ears in tones that truly were heaven-sent”) and this statement is sandwiched between two visual evocations of landscape, arrival by ship at Cirrhaia and ascent to Delphi, and a description of Parnassus’ foothills embracing the town.16 The viewing of buildings in the town is followed by a consultation of the oracle – ܻȞİijșȑȖȟĮIJȠ ‫ ݘ‬ȆȣșȓĮ IJȠȚȐįİ (“the Pythian

12 On sideshow performers at Delphi see Robert (1970) 18, n.1 (for a bibliography); also Weir (2004) 81 (performers), 43 (harp singer) and 121-123 (voice coaches). 13 See Weir (2004) 79. On choral performances at festivals in this period see Bowie (2006). Compare oral dimensions at Asclepieia in this era: there is evidence in Aelius Aristides’ Hieroi Logoi (4.43-44) of a chorus of boys and men performing Aristides’ hymns in the sanctuary; the presence of specially constructed libraries at all the major Asclepieia – Epidaurus, Cos and Pergamum – suggest that reading aloud regularly occurred here. See Petsalis-Diomidis (2010) 192 and 207-220. 14 Primary literary evidence for the oral nature of the consultation: Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 397C (oracles at Delphi are delivered orally and not in writing), Paus. 10.5.7-8 and 10.12.1-3, and Hld. 2.26. On the functioning of the Delphic oracle see Suárez de la Torre (2005) and Arnush (2005). More specifically on whether writing was ever part of the oral consultation see Rutherford (2013) 104-105 (on oral or written responses) and 106-109 (on fraud and attempts to stop it including writing down responses and sealing); Fontenrose (1978) 196-232, esp. 217-218 with n. 27 (arguing that official theoroi at Delphi used sealed envelopes), Maurizio (1995) 6986, Dillery (2005) 215-216, Flower (2009) 218. 15 Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 404E. 16 Hld. 2.26.1 and 2.26.2; trnsl. by B. P. Reardon.

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priestess broke into speech”) – and her words are quoted. 17 This oral oracular response directly gives rise to further oral events, the crowd’s loud praises and blessings, and Calasiris’ discussions with philosophers as he is judged to be favoured by the god and allowed to set up home in the temple precinct.18 The spatial context of the sanctuary is thus repeatedly animated and intertwined with oral elements in Heliodorus’ text. The intertwining of orality and the material sanctuary, crucially its votives and buildings, also occurred in oral guiding of pilgrims at Delphi. In Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis a character, Philinus, recounts a dialogue between himself and the visitor Diogenianus which occurs ‘on the move’ through the sanctuary with the accompaniment of guides. Plutarch does not give direct speech to these guides but refers to their ‘speeches’ (ࠍȒıİȚȢ). These, he implies, are set pieces which they were unwilling to alter: ‫ݑ‬ʌȑȡĮȚȞȠȞ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ʌİȡȚȘȖȘIJĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬ıȣȞIJİIJĮȖȝȑȞĮ, ȝȘį‫ޡ‬Ȟ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ ijȡȠȞIJȓıĮȞIJİȢ įİȘșȑȞIJȦȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚIJİȝİ߿Ȟ IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ࠍȒıİȚȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȠȜȜ‫ ޟ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȖȡĮȝȝȐIJȦȞ (“The guides were going through their prearranged programme, paying no heed to us who begged that they would cut short their harangues and their expounding of most of the inscriptions”, Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 395AB). Conversely at one point they are asked a question and are silent, and Philinus interprets this as due to ܻʌȠȡȓĮ.19 In the past it has been held that these guides were not members of the elite, but more recently Christopher Jones has put forward a strong argument that these guides were “respectable local antiquarians”, educated, if not learned.20 In his Description of Greece Pausanias also mentions guides at sanctuaries and shrines. For example he mentions “the local guide” (‫ ݸ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚȤȦȡȓȦȞ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ ‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJ‫ޣ‬Ȣ) taking him from the tomb of Alcmena in Megara to the tomb of Hyllus,21 and he mentions three expounders (‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJĮȓ) by name: Lyceas of Argos, Iophon of Cnossus and Aristarchus of Elis, the latter at Olympia.22 In addition to explicit references to local guides Pausanias’ frequent use of phrases such as “they say” and “I have heard” further implies a hinterland of local guides. 23 Maria Pretzler has argued that local oral

17

Hld. 2.26.5. Hld. 2.27.1-3. 19 Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 400D-E. 20 Jones (2001) 39. 21 Paus. 1.41.1-2 (guided tour of tombs of Alcmena and Hyllus). 22 Paus.1.13.8 (Lyceas of Argos), 1.34.4 (Iophon the Cnossian) 5.20.4 (Aristarchus of Elis). 23 Paus. e.g. 10.5.9: “The Delphians say”. References to guides (‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJĮަ) who narrate stories of local significance in Pausanias’ Description of Greece include: 18

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histories and information underlie Pausanias’ text as a whole.24 Pausanias can be understood to transform such oral accounts into his literary monument, perhaps for reading aloud, in other words for further oral enactment. Elsewhere, conversely, he appears to withhold information about very sacred matters in his statements that he will not write about things he has heard which are only for the initiated.25 In these instances oral and visual information is indicated and retained by the author. This trope can be compared to the passage in Plutarch De E apud Delphos where Nicander, the priest of Apollo, says that the reason for the way a ritual is conducted must not be told to others – it is ܿȡȡȘIJȠȢ.26 Plutarch uses the term ʌİȡȚȘȖȘIJĮȓ while Pausanias uses the oldfashioned ‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJĮȓ to describe these local guides.27 The use of these terms in context clearly indicates that they refer to people who orally guided pilgrims around the physical sanctuary and offered stories and explanations for the material objects on display, especially the votive dedications. In this way the material and oral aspects were intimately connected in the pilgrim’s experience of the sanctuary. In turn the pilgrim’s role in listening to the guides is implied. In Plutarch’s dialogues in particular there are comments about the pilgrims’ attentiveness (or lack of attentiveness) to the guides. In De Pythiae oraculis Basilocles praises Diogenianus saying that “our visitor is certainly eager to see the sights (ijȚȜȠșİȐȝȦȞ), and an unusually eager listener (ijȚȜȒțȠȠȢ)”.28 There is also inscriptional evidence from Olympia which refers to ʌİȡȚȘȖȘIJĮȓ (guides) and ‫݋‬ȟȘȖȘIJĮȓ (expounders) at sacrifices between 30 B.C. and A.D. 275.29 The prevalence and importance of oral guiding in the experience of ancient sanctuaries finds parallels in pilgrimage shrines cross culturally: comparative anthropological evidence from modern pilgrimage shrines suggests that overwhelmingly pilgrims find out what to do and how to behave from oral communication, either informally

1.13.8, 1.41.2, 5.6.6, 5.10.7. See also 6.3.8 where he writes that he will not believe all that he “hears” and “sees”. 24 Pretzler (2005); see also Pretzler [(2007) 39, 40, 80-82] on Pausanias’ method of investigation, particularly using literature and material evidence (inscriptions, art and architecture) in conjunction with (and sometimes against) oral traditions. 25 On Pausanias withholding information see Elsner (1995) 144-150, particularly on aporrhetos, ‘away from speech’, 147 n. 65. 26 Plut. De E apud Delphos 391D-E. 27 Jones (2001). 28 Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 394F. 29 See Dittenberger and Purgold (1896) nrs 59-141, Kunze (1956) 173-175, and Jones (2001) 37.

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from more experienced pilgrims or more formally from authorities at the shrine.30 How did the oral speeches and stories of guides intersect with the materiality of the sanctuary and its experience by pilgrims as presented in the texts of Plutarch and Pausanias? The actual spatial arrangement of the sanctuary clearly necessitates a walk along the Sacred Way past important buildings and votive offerings in order to get to the altar and temple, the site of heightened ritual activity. Pausanias and Plutarch trace this movement through the Delphic sanctuary in their texts: in Plutarch’s dialogue there are several references to the group moving along,31 while Pausanias’ description also follows the upward journey from the entrance to the temple and beyond. But it is not simply a matter of noting a particular trajectory through space: the physical sanctuary is a fundamental subject of these texts. Central here is the idea that looking at the sights (șİȦȡȓĮ and șȑĮ) was an integral part of ancient Greek pilgrimage, as has been argued by Jas’ Elsner and Ian Rutherford. 32 Indeed Rutherford has recently argued that in the Imperial period the term șİȦȡȩȢ is used more broadly than the strict sense of religious delegate in the sense of sightseer or spectator, perhaps implying the increased importance of looking at the material spectacle of the sanctuary.33

2. Orality, Buildings and Votives To this point I have drawn out implicit underlying connections between oral and material elements in the pilgrim experience of the sanctuary of Delphi. There is also an explicit statement towards the end of Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis about this connection: a direct causal link between the voice of the Pythia and the abundant votive offerings and buildings at Delphi is clearly expressed:

30

See Eade (1991). De Pythiae oraculis 394E (linking of slow movement in the sanctuary with the conversation, using the mythological analogy of sewing dragons’ teeth), 397E (they had proceeded until they were opposite the statue of Hiero), 398C (“for when we halted as we reached a point opposite the rock which lies over against the councilchamber”), 399E (“During this conversation we were moving forward”), 400F (reference to passing the house of the Acanthians and Brasidas). 32 On theoria see Rutherford (2013) especially 4-6 for a definition. 33 Rutherford (2013) 68-69 (on the term theoros), and 142-155 (on theoria, viewing and elite sightseeing). 31

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‫ ݘ‬į‫ ޡ‬IJ߱Ȣ ȆȣșަĮȢ įȚ‫ޠ‬ȜİțIJȠȢ, ‫ޔ‬ıʌİȡ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȝĮșȘȝĮIJȚțȠ‫ ޥ‬ȖȡĮȝȝ‫ޣ‬Ȟ İ‫ރ‬șİ߿ĮȞ țĮȜȠࠎıȚ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȜĮȤަıIJȘȞ IJࠛȞ IJ‫ ޟ‬Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌ‫ޢ‬ȡĮIJ߫ ‫݋‬ȤȠȣıࠛȞ, Ƞ‫ވ‬IJȦȢ Ƞ‫ ރ‬ʌȠȚȠࠎıĮ țĮȝʌ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޡ‬ țުțȜȠȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ ޡ‬įȚʌȜިȘȞ Ƞ‫ރ‬į߫ ܻȝijȚȕȠȜަĮȞ ܻȜȜ߫ İ‫ރ‬șİ߿Į ʌȡާȢ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ܻȜ‫ޤ‬șİȚĮȞ Ƞ‫މ‬ıĮ ʌȡާȢ į‫ ޡ‬ʌަıIJȚȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚıijĮȜ‫ޣ‬Ȣ țĮ‫ބ ޥ‬ʌİުșȣȞȠȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬į‫ޢ‬ȞĮ țĮș߫ Į‫ބ‬IJ߱Ȣ ‫ݏ‬ȜİȖȤȠȞ ܿȤȡȚ ȞࠎȞ ʌĮȡĮį‫ޢ‬įȦțİȞ, ܻȞĮșȘȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ į‫ ޡ‬țĮ‫ ޥ‬įެȡȦȞ ‫݋‬ȝʌ‫ޢ‬ʌȜȘțİ ȕĮȡȕĮȡȚțࠛȞ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫ݒ‬ȜȜȘȞȚțࠛȞ IJާ ȤȡȘıIJ‫ޤ‬ȡȚȠȞ, Ƞ‫ݧ‬țȠįȠȝȘȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ į߫ ‫݋‬ʌȚțİțިıȝȘțİ ț‫ޠ‬ȜȜİıȚ țĮ‫ޥ‬ țĮIJĮıțİȣĮ߿Ȣ ݃ȝijȚțIJȣȠȞȚțĮ߿Ȣ. (Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 408F-409A) (“And as for the language of the prophetic priestess, just as the mathematicians call the shortest of lines between two points a straight line, so her language makes no bend nor curve nor doubling nor equivocation, but is straight in relation to the truth; yet in relation to men’s confidence in it, it is insecure and subject to scrutiny, but as yet it has afforded no proof of its being wrong. On the contrary, it has filled the oracular shrine with votive offerings and gifts from barbarians and Greeks, and has adorned it with beautiful buildings and embellishments provided by the Amphictyonic Council.”)

This statement directly attributes the material votives and buildings of the sanctuary to the oral prophecies of the Pythia. In a sleight of hand, the relationship between the (oral) oracle and the materiality of the sanctuary is then inverted in the statement that the recent material success visible at the sanctuary is proof that the god is the inspiration for the oracle: ܻȜȜ߫ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț ‫ݏ‬ıIJȚȞ ܿȜȜȦȢ ʌȠIJ‫ ޡ‬IJȘȜȚțĮުIJȘȞ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠıĮުIJȘȞ ȝİIJĮȕȠȜ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬Ȟ ‫ݷ‬ȜަȖ࠙ ȤȡިȞ࠙ ȖİȞ‫ޢ‬ıșĮȚ įȚ߫ ܻȞșȡȦʌަȞȘȢ ‫݋‬ʌȚȝİȜİަĮȢ, ȝ‫ ޣ‬șİȠࠎ ʌĮȡިȞIJȠȢ ‫݋‬ȞIJĮࠎșĮ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ıȣȞİʌȚșİȚ‫ޠ‬ȗȠȞIJȠȢ IJާ ȤȡȘıIJ‫ޤ‬ȡȚȠȞ. (Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 409C) (“But it is not possible that a change of such sort and of such magnitude could ever have been brought about in a short time through human diligence if a god were not present here to lend divine inspiration to his oracle”.)

This explicit connection between the oral oracle and the materiality of the sanctuary is compounded by other oral-material connections with regard to buildings and votives. I examine these two categories, buildings and votives, in turn.

(a) Buildings and Sculptural Decoration I argue that orality is embodied in material buildings and their sculptural decoration. Two buildings are considered in detail: the Treasury of the Athenians as an example of a treasury encountered on the way up the Sacred Way, and the temple of Apollo itself.

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(i) The Treasury of the Athenians The Treasury of the Athenians is dated ca. 510-490 B.C.34 (Fig. 5). It is of Parian marble and takes the form of a Doric temple with two columns in antis. Although its form resembles a temple, its function is very different: instead of housing a cult image it is a votive offering itself and houses further votive offerings on behalf of the democratic polis of Athens. Its function is clearly religious and at the same time political in displaying the wealth and power of Athens within a panhellenic setting. Only fragments of the pedimental sculpture survive, but metopes from the Doric frieze are fairly well preserved.35 The metopes, sculpted in the Late Archaic period, are in high relief and fairly conservative in style. The pilgrim would first have encountered the South side of the Treasury decorated with metopes depicting the labours of the Athenian hero Theseus, then the East side (the façade) with metopes displaying an Amazonomachy. The North and West sides showing the labours of the panhellenic hero Hercules were only visible later once the pilgrim had proceeded to the level of the temple. The metopes were brightly painted and would have been clearly visible to pilgrims in antiquity. In addition to this architectural sculpture, from the 3rd century B.C. onwards, the East wall of the treasury was inscribed with honorific and commemorative inscriptions. There is evidence in the design of the treasury to suggest that in addition to the practical purpose of storing precious votives it also functioned as a display piece: the steps of the krepis are too narrow to tread and too high to ascend, suggesting that visitors were not meant to enter, but rather to admire the building from the exterior. Elena Partida has also suggested that the two triangular terraces located on the South side and façade of the building could have been used for the display of booty and votives during the Pythian festival;36 if this is correct, it would have given further emphasis to the sculptural and inscribed decoration of the treasury as a striking visual backdrop to the displayed pieces, the whole ensemble embodying the power and prowess of Athens.

34 Poulsen (1920), 158-197, de la Coste-Messelière (1957), Partida (2000) 48-70 and Neer (2004). On the restoration of the Treasury of the Athenians see Maass (1996) 56-59. For Pausanias’ reference to the treasury of the Athenians see 10.11.5. 35 On the arrangement of the metopes see Hoffelner (1988) 77-117. 36 Partida (2000) 49.

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Figure 5.

How was this visual panorama of the mythical past received in the Imperial period? The oral hinterland of pilgrims was brought into the sanctuary with them and activated in the presence of relevant material objects. This process would have operated on the level of private recall of

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oral stories, and communal oral recall and even quoting of literature. In the process of viewing the sculptural decoration of the treasury pilgrims would have activated their knowledge of myths about Theseus and HerFXles, initially learned in childhood in the form of oral stories and tales. Literary and theatrical versions of these myths, known from oral sources such as reading aloud and performances at festivals, would also have been activated during șİȦȡȓĮ. For example, Euripides, now in the Imperial era a revered tragedian in the Classical canon, wrote several plays which feature Hercules and Theseus, including Hercules )XUHQV, Hippolytus and the Alcestis; these plays and specific passages could have been brought to mind and even quoted aloud in view of the Athenian treasury. Evidence for quoting passages in front of monuments is to be found throughout Pausanias’ description of Delphi, for instance quoting Homer and Phrynichus in his description of the paintings of Polygnotus in the Cnidian Lesche, and also at various points in Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis. 37 Classical texts matched the period of the building, the Late Archaic style of the sculptures and the association of the building with the celebration of the Persian wars. Guides and learned conversation might also have explored the particular association of Hercules with the locality of Delphi, pointing out that Hercules had consulted the oracle after his episode of madness and the Pythia had ordered him to serve Eurystheus which gave rise to the labours depicted.38 In addition to the sculptural decoration referencing the mythical past, inscriptions honouring contemporary Athenians were carved into the building itself. Honorific inscriptions were put up on the South wall of the Treasury, including records of the participants in the Pythais, the official Athenian delegation to Delphi in 138/7, 128/7, 106/5 and 98/7 B.C.39 The lists consist of the names and also the capacities in which these individuals 37

Paus. 10.25.1 and 10.29.10 (quoting Homer), and 10.31.4 (quoting Phrynichus). Other examples of quotations in the section on Delphi include 10.5.12 (Pindar), 10.8.9 (Panyassis son of Polyarchus), 10.25.1, 10.28.2 (Minyad poem), 10.29.10, 10.31.4. Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 395D, quotation (comic Attic fragment), 396B, quotation (Homer), 397B, quotation (Heraclitus), 397B, quotation (Pindar), 402AB, quotation (Scythinus), 402C-D, quotation (Simonides), 404D, reference to words of Heraclitus about the oracle of Delphi), 405A, reference to what Homer says, quotation of phrase, 405B, quotation (Pindar), 405F, quotation (Euripides and Pindar), 406B, quotation (Chairemon), 406C, quotation (Pindar), 406F, quotation (Sophocles), 407D, quotation (Euripides), 408E, (adaptation of line of Homer), 409B, quotation. 38 Eur. Herc. Furens (1000 ff.) and Paus. 9.11.1. 39 See Daux (1936). On the Athenian Pythais see Boëthius (1918) and Rutherford (2013) 222-230.

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represented their city – for example, paides, magistrates, delegates from the gene and tribes, those performing religious functions such as Pythaistai and kanephoroi. Ian Rutherford has recently described the Pythais as “a travelling image of the Athenian state”; 40 in addition to their one-off representation of Athens through their physical bodily presence and voice in the sanctuary they also fulfilled this role thereafter through their inscribed presence on the Treasury. The citizen body of Athens was reanimated through orality by later pilgrims reading aloud their names and functions. The text and musical notation for instrument and voice of two paeans to Apollo are also preserved here.41 Members of the Pythais of 128/127, the ‘Artists of Dionysus’, performed these paeans and were victorious at the music contest of the Pythian festival. The paeans praise Apollo, Delphi and the mountain Parnassus. The inscription, which is part of the material fabric of the treasury, then, commemorates a specific oral performance which took place in the sanctuary itself. If later pilgrims read or even sang parts of it aloud the monumentalisation of the oral performance would have given rise to further, secondary oral events in the sanctuary. While praise of the god is an unremarkable feature of a religious hymn the emphasis on the locality of Delphi and Parnassus suggest, to my mind, the complex interconnectedness of the material and oral, enhanced by the physical location of the performance(s). (ii) The Temple of Apollo The Sacred Way directed the pilgrim onwards and upwards towards the temple of Apollo. I now consider the oral dimensions of this building in a twofold argument: first, that here too, the architectural sculpture embodies oral dimensions, and secondly, that Pausanias’ account of the temple reflects an oral guided experience of the treasury. The peripteral Doric temple which Plutarch and Pausanias saw in the Imperial period was an Archaic foundation rebuilt and redecorated in the 4th century B.C. following a serious earthquake in 373 B.C. (Fig. 6). Fragments of the pedimental sculpture survive and in 1999 they were re-examined, identified and displayed in the new museum at Delphi.42 The East pediment showed Apollo between Leto and Artemis amongst the Muses (Fig. 7), 40

Rutherford (2013) 230. Colin (1909-1913), Bousquet (1963) esp. 193-196: “Deux affranchissements de la terrase du Trésor des Athéniens”, and Bélis (1992). For comparative material on the inscribed choruses at Epidaurus see Wagman (1995). 42 On the recent archaeology of the temple see Croissant (2003) and Amandry and Hansen (2010). 41

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Figure 6.

while the West pediment is unique in honouring not the god to whom the temple is dedicated, but a different god altogether: Dionysus amongst his Thyiades (Fig. 8). The function of pedimental sculpture included aesthetic decoration and the display of the wealth – and by implication efficacy – of the god and his sanctuary; but more fundamentally its function was to prepare pilgrims to meet the god inside the temple. What choices were made on the East pediment, the first to be encountered by the pilgrim? Apollo is depicted in a himation which leaves his chest bare; he sits on a tripod and holds a branch of laurel and a phiale. Apollo is here displayed as lord of his oracle, which was located beyond and inside the temple. The iconography polemically asserts that it is Apollo who is the source of prophecy in the interior, and the Pythia is merely his mouthpiece. The East pediment celebrates, references and materialises in stone the oral Apolline oracle within. The reception of this pediment by visitors in the Imperial period may have included the activation of the oral hinterland and Classical textual enunciation of stories related to Apollo, Leto, Artemis and the Muses, as well as a proleptic sense of the oral consultation to come. The sculptural programme on the West pediment, depicting Dionysus amongst Thyiades may have evoked the oral aspects of Dionysiac revelry on Parnassus and passages from Euripides’ Bacchai.

Oral and Material Aspects of Sanctuaries in Roman Greece

Figure 7.

Figure 8.

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Pausanias’ account of the temple also preserves elements of an oral guided tour of the kind referred to in Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis.43 He begins on the exterior by naming the subjects of the pedimental sculpture and the sculptors themselves, and referring to the shields hanging on the architraves, spoils taken by the Athenians from the Persians at Marathon and by the Aetolians from the Gauls. He then offers an excursus of four chapters on the Gallic invasion of the 3rd cent. B.C. Following this Pausanias ‘returns’ to enter the forecourt of the temple, quotes and discusses the maxims of the sages inscribed here (ȖȞࠛșȚ ıĮȣIJȩȞ and ȝȘį‫ޡ‬Ȟ ܿȖĮȞ, ‘know thyself’ and ‘nothing in excess’, Paus.10.24.1) and mentions a bronze statue of Homer and the inscribed oracle he was said to have received. He then ‘enters’ the temple proper, mentioning the altar to Poseidon, some sculptures, the hearth on which the priest of Apollo killed Neoptolemus and the iron chair of Pindar, giving brief explanations of their significance. He ends with a reticent statement: ‫݋‬Ȣ į‫ ޡ‬IJȠࠎ ȞĮȠࠎ IJާ ‫݋‬ıȦIJ‫ޠ‬IJȦ, ʌĮȡަĮıަ IJİ ‫݋‬Ȣ Į‫ރ‬IJާ ‫ݷ‬ȜަȖȠȚ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȤȡȣıȠࠎȞ ݃ʌިȜȜȦȞȠȢ ‫ݐ‬IJİȡȠȞ ܿȖĮȜȝĮ ܻȞ‫ޠ‬țİȚIJĮȚ. (Paus. 10.24.5) (“Into the innermost part of the temple there pass but few, but there is dedicated in it another image of Apollo, made of gold.”).

He then ‘leaves’ the temple and the narrative follows the path towards the theatre, making a long and famous stop at the Lesche of the Cnidians.44 The treatment of the temple clearly reflects Pausanias’ interests and priorities: it follows a physical pathway from the exterior to the interior and out again, and arguably reflects an oral guided tour in the following way. After the identification of the subject of the pediments and sculptors the guide would have pointed out the shields hanging from the architrave and launched into a description of the Gallic invasions, the culminating events of which took place at Delphi. The roots of the absence of detailed ekphrastic description of the pediments and shields may be found, I suggest, in the oral guided tour in which there was no need to describe what was physically in front of the group. Instead it is explanations of the origins and meanings of votives and mythological relics (for example, the hearth where Neoptolemus was killed), and the reading aloud of inscriptions, that take centre stage in the tour, and this is reflected in Pausanias’ text. 43

Paus. 10.5.9-13 (former versions of the temple, the architect of the present temple), 10.19.4 (architectural sculpture, exterior view), 10.24.1 (the pronaos), 10.24.4-5 (inside the temple), 10.24.6 (leaving the temple). Contrast Plutarch’s brief reference in De Pythiae oraculis 402C. 44 On the description of the Lesche of the Cnidians see Stansbury-O'Donnell (1989), (1990) and (1992).

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So Pausanias’ text is shaped by a realistic trajectory through the sanctuary, into the temple, and the stories relayed in turn evoke and reinforce the meanings of the material sanctuary. Earlier on in the description of Delphi, the temple of Apollo has been mentioned in this way: “they say that the most ancient temple of Apollo was made of laurel” (ʌȠȚȘș߱ȞĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬IJާȞ ȞĮާȞ IJࠜ ݃ʌިȜȜȦȞȚ IJާ ܻȡȤĮȚިIJĮIJȠȞ į‫ޠ‬ijȞȘȢ ijĮıަ, 10.5.9). Pausanias goes on to explain that there were three further incarnations of the temple (made of beeswax and feathers, bronze and finally stone) before the one standing before him, remnants of which survive today. 45 This passage suggests that pilgrims engaged not only with what was physically before their eyes but also with stories about what was believed to have been there in the past. Older forms of the temple were evoked orally in guided tours and visually superimposed on the existing structure in the pilgrim’s eye, creating further layers of meaning and connections to the past. So the experience of the temple in the Imperial period was also coloured by highly charged stories told in situ of its wondrous past incarnations.

(b) Votives (i) Oral Engagement with Votives Greek sanctuaries were packed with votive dedications, and Delphi is no exception; equally interesting is the way that the texts of Pausanias and Plutarch are teeming with references to them. This reflects how meaningful they were in the Imperial period and establishes that they had a presence in literary discourses on sanctuaries as well as a material presence in space. A plethora of connections between material votives and orality existed. The fundamental connection between votives and orality is that visual engagement with votives also invited oral engagement in the form of explication and discussion of the significance of the votive, including symbolic interpretations, and the use of literary quotations in discussion.46 It is through guiding and discussion that highly charged votives which no longer exist are evoked, or existing damaged ones are restored to their original grandeur. For example in a similar vein to Pausanias’ account of the Delphians’ story of ‘pre-incarnations’ of the temple of Apollo, in Plutarch’s text the guide points out the site where the votive offering of iron 45

Paus. 10.5.9-13. E.g. Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 398B (Boethus’ skepticism about the sympatheia of votives). Symbolic meanings of votives: Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 399F-400D (palm-tree) and 400A (quoting Homer within this discussion); Paus.10.18.5 (votives representing something else). 46

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spits by ‘Rhodopis the hetaera’ were once displayed.47 Discussion of the meaning of votives is dramatised as an oral conversation in Plutarch’s dialogue; the literary form of the work, then, encapsulates and re-enacts an oral exchange. This is not the case in Pausanias’ text, though it is implicit at points through references to the stories of guides. In one instance the interpretation of a votive gives rise to his quoting an oral saying.48 Oral engagement with votives could also take the form of reading aloud inscriptions, which usually identify the dedicant and reason for dedication. In Plutarch’s dialogue the protagonists discuss votives in this way and they also listen to the guides giving their set speeches, including reading the inscriptions.49 A vast number of votive dedications are in the form of X [dedicated] to Y for Z person or reason, and the reading aloud of such simple statements recalls not just the identity of the dedicator but also the moment and act of setting up the dedication at which the inscription may also have been read aloud. 50 The later pilgrim’s reading aloud of the inscription is thus an example of secondary orality. Pausanias’ ascent through the sanctuary is structured by references to, and discussion of, the meaning of votives along the Via Sacra. He frequently refers to the oral stories told about the votives by the Delphians. For example, IJȠࠎ ȕަıȦȞȠȢ į‫ ޡ‬IJ߱Ȣ țİijĮȜ߱Ȣ țĮIJĮȞIJȚțȡީ IJ߱Ȣ ȤĮȜț߱Ȣ ܻȞįȡȚ‫ޠ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬ıIJȚ șެȡĮț‫ ޠ‬IJİ ‫݋‬ȞįİįȣțޫȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȤȜĮȝުįĮ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJࠜ șެȡĮțȚǜ ݃ȞįȡަȦȞ į‫ܻ ޡ‬Ȟ‫ޠ‬șȘȝĮ Ƞ‫ݨ‬ ǻİȜijȠ‫ ޥ‬Ȝ‫ޢ‬ȖȠȣıȚȞ ݃Ȟįȡ‫ޢ‬Į İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ IJާȞ Ƞ‫ݧ‬țȚıIJ‫ޤ‬Ȟ (“Opposite the bronze head of the bison is the statue of a man wearing a breastplate, on which is a cloak. The Delphians say that it is an offering of the Andrians, and a portrait of Andreus, their founder”, Paus.10.13.4).51 Here material and spatial aspects, such as the relative positions of dedications in space and the material and iconography of the votives, are related to the story told to Pausanias by the Delphians, no doubt in front of the object: material and oral dimensions of engagement with votives are seamlessly woven together in Pausanias’ text. 47

Plut. De Pythiae oraculis (400F). Paus. 10.14.4. 49 References to reading aloud of inscriptions in Plut. De Pythiae oraculis include 395A-B (guides giving speeches and reading out inscriptions), 408E (inscribed maxims of sages are quoted). Reading inscriptions on votives in Pausanias: 10.7.6, 10.9.10, 10.11.6, 10.12.6, 10.18.1, 10.24.1, 10.24.2, 10.25.4ff (description of the paintings and inscribed names in the Cnidian Lesche), 10.27.4, 10.31.9. For the practice of reading aloud inscriptions on votive offerings see also earlier Hellenistic texts such as Herondas fourth Mimiamb and Hellenistic dedicatory Epigram. 50 See Ma [(2013) 15-63] on the meaning of formulae and grammar of dedication. 51 See also 10.28.7 (guides at Delphi saying that Eurynomus is one of the demons of Hades). 48

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Typically Pausanias lists the subject, dedicator, artist and reason for dedication; arguably this reflects his reading of inscriptions and oral guided tours on the ground. In Plutarch’s dialogue the movement of the group in the physical sanctuary is also conceived of by reference to the variety of votives on display. Diogenianus’ guided visit to the Delphic sanctuary is described in terms of Philinus įȚ‫ ޟ‬IJࠛȞ ܻȞĮșȘȝȐIJȦȞ ʌĮȡĮʌȑȝʌȠȞIJİȢ IJާȞ ȟȑȞȠȞ (“escorting the foreign visitor around among the statues and votive offerings”, Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 394E). The tour, described as a șȑĮ (sight-seeing), is deemed to begin not at a particular time of day but by reference to a spatial location – in front of the bronze statues of sea-captains.52 In addition to references to movement within the sanctuary Plutarch’s De Pythiae oraculis links the physical space and votives to the direction of the protagonists’ conversation. The bronze sea captains just mentioned give rise to a discussion of “the appearance and technique of statues” (Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 394E.). The physical environment of Delphi, in particular its air quality, is a topic of conversation as a factor in the appearance of the bronze patina of the statues, thereby exploring the relationship between the built and crafted environment and the natural aerial one.53 At several points in the dialogue the group stops before a particular votive or building and the direction of the discussion is affected. Topics discussed include votives physically reflecting the fates of their dedicants at the statue of Hiero, the symbolic meaning of a bronze votive palm, the appropriateness of a votive statue of the hetaira Phryne and other votives and their inscriptions, and the reason why the treasury of Cypselus is known as the treasury of the Corinthians.54 The significance of movement and visual engagement with the built environment on the direction of the conversation is highlighted by the fact that the group eventually decides to stop the sightseeing tour (șȑĮ) in order better to concentrate on the topic at hand – the change in form of oracles from verse to prose.55 They sit down on the steps of the temple and one remarks on the ongoing link between the discussion and the material environment: ‫ޔ‬ıIJ߫ İ‫ރ‬șީȢ İ‫ݧ‬ʌİ߿Ȟ IJާȞ ǺިȘșȠȞ, ‫ݼ‬IJȚ țĮ‫ ݸ ޥ‬IJިʌȠȢ IJ߱Ȣ ܻʌȠȡަĮȢ ıȣȞİʌȚȜĮȝȕ‫ޠ‬ȞİIJĮȚ IJࠜ ȟ‫ޢ‬Ȟ࠙ (“the place itself proffered assistance to the visitor in the solution of the question”, Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 402C). 52

Plut.De Pythiae oraculis 395B. Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 396A-B. 54 Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 397E-398A (statue of Hiero and responsiveness of votives to the fate of their dedicants); 399F-400D (palm-tree); 400D-E (name of the treasury of the Corinthians); 401A-402B) dedication of Phryne and appropriateness of votives). 55 Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 402B. 53

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(ii) Orality in the Form of Votives In addition to these deep-rooted oral aspects of engagement with votives which are reflected in the two texts, certain votives at Delphi were set up in thanks for oral events such as victory in musical and dramatic competitions. The event celebrated, and sometimes the form itself of the votive, then, reflect an oral element. The importance of musical events, including the singing of songs, is reflected in Pausanias’ statement that the oldest contest and the one the Delphians first offered prizes for was the singing of a hymn to the lyre-playing god.56 Lists of victors at the Delphic games which were still on display in the Imperial period could have been read aloud and evoked the idea of musical, aural and oral performance; Pausanias’ dismissive statement that they are not worthy of serious attention may not have been a universal sentiment.57 This theme also operates in the case of a dedication in the temple of Apollo described by Pausanias: ܻȞ‫ޠ‬țİȚIJĮȚ į‫ ޡ‬Ƞ‫ ރ‬ʌިȡȡȦ IJ߱Ȣ ‫݌‬ıIJަĮȢ șȡިȞȠȢ ȆȚȞį‫ޠ‬ȡȠȣǜ ıȚį‫ޤ‬ȡȠȣ ȝ‫ޢ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ıIJȚȞ ‫ݸ‬ șȡިȞȠȢ, ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬į‫ ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJࠜ ijĮıȚȞ, ‫ݸ‬ʌިIJİ ܻijަțȠȚIJȠ ‫݋‬Ȣ ǻİȜijȠީȢ, țĮș‫ޢ‬ȗİıșĮަ IJİ IJާȞ ȆަȞįĮȡȠȞ țĮ‫ޱ ޥ‬įİȚȞ ‫ݸ‬ʌިıĮ IJࠛȞ ޭıȝ‫ޠ‬IJȦȞ ‫݋‬Ȣ ݃ʌިȜȜȦȞ‫݋ ޠ‬ıIJȚȞ (Paus. 10.24.5) (“Not far from the hearth has been dedicated a chair of Pindar. The chair is of iron, and on it they say Pindar sat whenever he came to Delphi, and there composed his songs to Apollo”).

Not only was this material votive engaged with orally (“they say”) but Pindar’s poems could have been recited before the chair, and the process of their composition explored in conversation. By far the most common motivation for votive dedications in Delphi was to thank the god for the granting of an oral oracular pronouncement through the Pythia.58 The form of some votives recalled the specifics of the oral prophecy, for example: ȀȜİȦȞĮ߿ȠȚ į‫݋ ޡ‬ʌȚ‫ޢ‬ıșȘıĮȞ ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬IJާ Į‫ރ‬IJާ ݃șȘȞĮަȠȚȢ ‫ބ‬ʌާ ȞިıȠȣ IJ߱Ȣ ȜȠȚȝެįȠȣȢ, țĮIJ‫ ޟ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȝ‫ޠ‬ȞIJİȣȝĮ ‫݋‬ț ǻİȜijࠛȞ ‫ݏ‬șȣıĮȞ IJȡ‫ޠ‬ȖȠȞ ܻȞަıȤȠȞIJȚ ‫ݏ‬IJȚ IJࠜ

56

Paus. 10.7.2. Paus. 10.2-8 and 10.9.2; see Weir (2004) 13 and 34-35. 58 Compare more intimate conversations between god and pilgrim in epiphanic dreams in Asclepieia. For example, in the inscription set up in the Asclepieion at Epidaurus in ca. A.D. 160 by Julius Apellas from Mylasa it is mentioned that “in the course of my sea voyage, in Aigina, the god told me not to be so irritable”, IG IV21.126,4-5. For a discussion see Petsalis-Diomidis (2010) 110 and 264, and more generally 238-275. 57

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‫ݘ‬Ȝަ࠙, țĮ‫—ޥ‬İ‫ވ‬ȡĮȞIJȠ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ȜުıȚȞ IJȠࠎ țĮțȠࠎ—IJȡ‫ޠ‬ȖȠȞ ȤĮȜțȠࠎȞ ܻʌȠʌ‫ޢ‬ȝʌȠȣıȚ IJࠜ ݃ʌިȜȜȦȞȚ. (Paus. 10.11.5) (“The inhabitants of Cleonai were, like the Athenians, afflicted with the plague, and obeying an oracle from Delphi sacrificed a he-goat to the sun while it was still rising. This put an end to the trouble so they sent a bronze he-goat to Apollo.”)

While inscriptions on votives and their reading aloud has already been mentioned, oracular inscriptions perhaps form a separate category. They gave material status to fleeting oral prophecies; their reading aloud gave voice not only to the Pythia but to the god himself and recalled the moment of divine revelation in oral form. The inscription of the oracle – said to have been received by Homer – beneath a bronze statue of the poet alludes both to the orality of the oracular consultation and that of the Homeric poems themselves.59 Pausanias quotes this oracle, and explicitly states that he has read it, presumably in the sanctuary. In the Imperial period, then, oral dimensions of such oracular inscriptions were present in the sanctuary but also beyond that sacred space in elite domestic environments where Pausanias or Plutarch’s texts were then read, perhaps aloud. 60 Oral and material dimensions would have been interwoven in this sort of pattern: the initial oral prophecy, translated into stone, read aloud in the sanctuary perhaps by a guide and transcribed onto papyrus by Pausanias or Plutarch, to be read aloud in an elite home. Finally a number of votives mentioned in the texts allude to oral events independent of the reasons for their dedication. A good example of this is the depiction of Orpheus in the paintings by Polygnotus in the Cnidian Lesche.61 A number of references in the texts as to whether an artist has followed a particular poet’s version of the myth in the creation of the votive suggests that the literary and oral hinterland of poetry was brought to bear on the viewing of dedications on the ground.62

59

Paus. 10.24.2. Oracles quoted or paraphrased in Paus. 10.5.6, 10.5.8, 10.6.7, 10.9.11, 10.10.6, 10.12.3, 10.12.10, 10.12.11 (statement that he has read the oracles of all listed prophets), 10.13.8, 10.14.5, 10.14.6, 10.15.3, 10.18.2, 10.24.2, 10.24.3. Oracles quoted in Plut. De Pythiae oraculis 396C (guides recite an oracle), 399B (quotation of oracle about the lameness of Agesilaus), 399C (quotation of oracle about the war of Philip and the Romans), 408A (oracles quoted). 61 Paus. 10.30.6-8. 62 E.g. Paus.10.31.10 (Polygnotus has followed Archilochus’ version). 60

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3. Conclusion I have traced oral aspects of the experience of visiting the sanctuary of Delphi in the Imperial period. This has included straightforward oral events in the sanctuary, such as ritual performances, guided tours, discussions among pilgrims, including the evocation of oral knowledge of myths in viewing buildings and votives; oral engagements with votives and the monumentalisation of oral events in votives; and the reading aloud of votive and oracular inscriptions in acts of secondary orality. It has also involved the close scrutiny of two texts not only for the evidence they offer about ‘the reality on the ground’ but for the way that they intertwine materiality and orality in their literary discourses. This approach could be fruitfully applied to other sanctuaries, and indeed to other periods of Classical antiquity. What distinguishes orality in this Imperial period is its role in the hugely influential trend of engagement with and recreation of the Classical past, both in unscripted retelling of Classical stories and description of destroyed buildings, and in recall of Classical literature.63 More broadly, an important scholarly context within which this paper has arisen is that of sensory approaches to the ancient world. Life is not lived through the written word today and was even less so in antiquity, when levels of literacy can be confidently assumed to have been lower. Life, including oral exchanges, was lived in three dimensions, in space and within the physical architecture which structured movement. Although it may stand to reason that these sensory aspects of pilgrimage and life more generally were important, the intricate ways in which the material and non-material worlds are connected is rarely explored. While lack of evidence is an impediment this situation is due not least to the state of the discipline in which the material and literary sides of antiquity are still often studied in isolation. Orality, of course, is not the written word, but paradoxically it may well be a route through which to bring these areas of scholarship into dialogue. The application of an embodied ideology to the concept of orality, then, though apparently perverse, is far from being so.

63 On Greece, its past and the politics of memory in the Roman present see Bowie (1970), Alcock (1996) and Galinsky (2014).

CHAPTER ELEVEN EGYPTIAN LITERATURE AND ORALITY IN THE ROMAN PERIOD JACQUELINE E. JAY

In 4 B.C., Gaius Turranius, the Roman prefect of Egypt, issued the following edict: “I order [the temples] to register their hereditary priests and acolytes and all the others belonging to the temples and their children, and to make clear what functions they perform. I will then scrutinize the list of the current 26th year of [Augustus] Caesar, and those not of priestly origin I will forthwith remove.” 1

This registry of Egyptian priests was only one facet of a broader effort on the part of the Roman authorities to curb the power and influence of the native priesthood, continuing long after the reign of Augustus. In 23 B.C., with the death of the last high priest of Memphis, temple affairs were placed under the control of the imperial ‘private account’. 2 The highest levels of the priesthood were prohibited from holding any other office or carrying out other types of activity, and only individuals who could prove their priestly heritage could enter divine service. Furthermore, the Romans put into law several pre-existing customs of the Egyptian priesthood (shaving the head, wearing linen not wool, circumcision) in order to ensure that priests were distinguished physically from the rest of the population. Such visible marking was, according to Naphtali Lewis, intended to curtail the native priesthood’s ability to raise a revolt against the Roman authorities. 3 Thus, to use the words of Robert Ritner, “For [the elite Egyptian class] the formal 1

BGU 1199; trnsl. by Lewis (1983) 92. Lewis (1983) 92; Ritner (1998) 7. 3 Lewis (1983) 92. Admittedly, there were also certain benefits that accompanied priestly status: “In return for such social isolation, the temple hierarchy was provided with a government subvention (syntaxis), and the upper echelons were exempt from taxation and compulsory public service”: Ritner (1998) 8. 2

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custodians of native Egyptian culture, the change from Ptolemaic to Roman authority was surely notable, dramatic and a cause for mourning.”4 In contrast, change at the village level was far less marked. As Rana Salim notes, while the Romans may have made it illegal for the highest priests to hold offices outside the temple, “this affected only the priests in the top offices. Lesser offices were usually held by ordinary people who combined serving the temple with farming and other activities.” 5 Thus, village priests were by no means isolated within temple walls but, as part of the rotational phyle system, spent significant portions of their time outside of the temple. 6 There was also contact between different sites: for example, priests from Narmuthis (Medinet Madi) in the Fayum are known to have carried out religious activity in shrines at smaller sites throughout the region. 7 And, according to Clarysse’s analysis of the papyri documents, an extremely high proportion of the adult male population of the Fayum sites of Tebtunis and Soknopaiou Nesos (Dime) was engaged in priestly activity, especially at the smaller site of Soknopaiou Nesos. 8 As a result, when we turn to issues of orality and literacy in Roman Egypt, the evidence does not suggest a separation between textual material produced in temple libraries and the popular oral tradition that must have existed in the surrounding village society. Indeed, I would argue instead that the two spheres exerted a mutual influence on one another. Much of our evidence for life in Roman Egypt comes from the Fayum, and the extant documentation reveals that the scriptoria of the native temples of this region continued to be highly active well into the Roman Period. Both licit and illicit excavations at the site of Tebtunis in particular have produced a wealth of material. Significantly, while documentary contracts were no longer written in Demotic at either Tebtunis or Soknopaiou Nesos by the end of the 1st century A.D., 9 the script continued to be a key medium for the production of religious and literary texts into the 3rd century A.D. Kim Ryholt’s preliminary survey of material from the Tebtunis temple library (now for the most part in Copenhagen and Florence) suggests that 50% of the library was cultic in nature, 25% non-cultic, and 25% narrative, written predominately in the Egyptian scripts of Demotic

4

Ritner (1998) 4. Salim (2013) 101 and n. 440. 6 Quack (20092b) 12; Clarysse (2010) 288. 7 P. Gallo (1992) 119-123. 8 Clarysse (2005) 22. 9 Muhs (2005) 93. Muhs ascribes this shift in practice to the new custom of requiring Greek subscriptions from the contracting parties. 5

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(63%) and Hieratic (32%). 10 Within the corpus of material analysed by Ryholt, Greek texts comprise only 1%. More recently, however, Todd Hickey has argued that the library contained a significantly higher proportion of Greek material, examples of which were excavated either by fellahin or by Grenfell and Hunt in 1899 (the latter now being in Berkeley). 11 Such a mix of Egyptian and Greek fits far better the multicultural nature of Egypt at the time, and we have ample evidence to suggest that Egyptian priests were taught to read and write Greek. According to Luigi Prada, for example, “The evidence from the Demotic and Greek ostraca of Narmouthis, found in an Egyptian temple in the Fayum, and from the 2nd / 3rd centuries A.D., proves in fact that priests in traditional Egyptian temples not only could write Greek, but were taught composition in that language, and could create complex texts and master unusual, selected vocabulary.” 12 Also extremely significant in this respect are a number of fragments of Homer from Tebtunis, which Todd Hickey interprets as school texts used in a temple context. 13 As this opening discussion suggests, Roman Period Egypt has produced a wealth of material that may be used to shed light on questions of orality, literacy, and multi-culturalism. From among the many possibilities, I have chosen here three quite different groups of texts as a lens through which to explore these broader issues: animal fables, the tales of the ‘Inaros Cycle’, and the Sesonchosis novel (this last surviving in Greek fragments from Oxyrhynchus). 14 As we will see, each of these groups engages with the Greco-Roman world in key ways, the most obvious and profound, of course, being the reworking of the Sesostris legends into a Greek novel. In contrast, the corpus of Demotic narrative literature exhibits relatively little 10

Ryholt (2005) 143, and 147. Hickey (2009) 71-72. The Demotic material in Copenhagen stems from fellahin activity, while that in Florence was excavated by Anti and Bagnani in 1931. Although Ryholt continues to stress that the “vast majority” of texts in the Tebtunis temple library “were written in the native scripts,” he too has more recently highlighted the presence of Greek scientific literature in its collection: see (2013b) 235-238. Here he provides a survey of Greek texts securely associated with the library and notes that “It is possible that other Greek texts of scientific nature found without the temple enclosure at Tebtunis, but lacking a more specific context, also derive from the temple library” (p. 237). 12 Prada (2012) 632. Admittedly, not all village priests of the Fayum necessarily had the same facility in written Greek. To van Minnen [(1998) 155] the evidence suggests that the priests of the smaller site of Dime had a lesser degree of competence than those of Tebtunis. 13 Hickey (2009) 78. 14 All of these texts are discussed more fully in my monograph (2016). 11

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in the way of direct outside influence, using very few Greek loan words and retaining traditional Egyptian themes and characters. Ultimately, the story that emerges of Egyptian literature in the Roman Period is one far more of continuity than of change.

1. Animal Fables Although the genre of animal fables as a whole originated in the realm of oral folktale, our extant Egyptian animal fables occur in contexts fully embedded in the written tradition. This phenomenon highlights the blend of orality and literacy characterising ancient Egyptian society in general. One fable, The Fable of the Swallow and the Sea (paleographically dated to the late Ptolemaic/ Roman Period), was recorded as writing practice on a clay jar. 15 For the most part, surviving Demotic scribal exercises tend to comprise lexical and grammatical lists, not literary narratives, and thus this example serves as an important exception to the general rule. 16 The fable is framed as “The [petition of] Ausky, the chief of the land of Arabia, before Pharaoh,” and by recounting it the chief of Arabia attempts to dissuade Pharaoh from “devastating” the land of Arabia. 17 In the fable itself, the sea takes the young of a swallow despite the swallow’s plea that the sea watch over them while she is seeking food; in retaliation, the swallow slowly fills the sea with sand and shifts its water away – a clear threat against Pharaoh in the context of the petition. To Ritner, this kind of literary satirisation of Pharaoh has a number of earlier Egyptian parallels, such as the negative presentation of the pyramid builder Khufu in the Middle Egyptian tale of Papyrus Westcar (which likely dates to the Second Intermediate Period). 18 The fable itself, however, may well have originated in India, for the Egyptian version has a close parallel in an Indian collection of fables, the Panchatantra, whose origins have been dated as early as the 5th or 4th century B.C. 19 Strengthening this possibility is Betrò’s suggestion that the Ausky (AwSky) of the fable refers to Ashoka, the powerful early 3rd century B.C.

15 The editio princeps is Spiegelberg (1912) 8-11, 16-17, 50-51, pls. 2-4. An important recent study is Collombert (2002) 59-84. Collombert assigns a late Ptolemaic date to the text rather than the Roman date proposed by Spiegelberg. 16 For fuller discussion, see Ryholt (2010) 429-437. 17 For a full English translation of the text, see Ritner (2003b) 494-496. As Ritner [(2003b) 495, n. 4] notes, the verb translated as ‘devastate’ literally means ‘to cut out/away’. 18 Ritner (2003b) 494. 19 Spiegelberg (1912) 8-11; Hoffmann (2009) 363.

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ruler of India. 20 Further speaking to the fable’s cross-cultural nature is a later manifestation in 4th century A.D. rabbinical literature, already noted by Wilhelm Spiegelberg in the editio princeps. 21 Several animal fables also occur as part of a text conventionally called the Myth of the Sun’s Eye or Mythus by modern scholars. The fullest extant version of this text appears on P. Leiden I 384, which is from Thebes and is dated paleographically to the 2nd century A.D. 22 Far more fragmentary 2nd century A.D. versions are held in the collections of Oxford and Lille, the former from the Tebtunis temple library and the latter probably from either Tebtunis or Soknopaiou Nesos. 23 Although none of these versions preserves the beginning of the story, the basic plot is clearly one of a number of variants of the myth of the ‘Distant Goddess’, in which the Eye of Ra (that is, the sun god Ra’s daughter) becomes angry and runs away. 24 In the Demotic Mythus version, this goddess is identified as Tefnut and described as a ‘Nubian cat’ (elsewhere she is associated with other goddesses, particularly Hathor and Sekhmet); as preserved, the Leiden manuscript begins with a speech by a ‘little dog-ape’, identified by the text as the son of Thoth, who has gone to Nubia to convince her to return to Egypt. 25 Around the basic elements of this seemingly straight-forward narrative, the text incorporates complex (and often tangential) discussions on a wide range of topics. In the words of Mark Smith, “there are contained, in the exchanges between [the dog-ape and the goddess], lengthy expositions of Egyptian views on such subjects as justice and retribution. Along with much else, these portions of the myth provide explanations of Egyptian hieroglyphs which anticipate those of Horapollo, furnish an account of the natural history of the honey bee, and acquaint us with a rudimentary system of zoological classification, according to which all

20

Betrò (1999) 115-125, cited in Ryholt (2012) 82, n. 66. Spiegelberg (1912) 8-11. 22 For a concise bibliography of the versions of this text, see Hoffmann (2009) 375376. 23 For a summary of the difficulties in identifying the precise findspot of the group of manuscripts sharing the handwriting of the Lille version of Mythus, see Ryholt (2012) 44-145. While the presence of this hand on manuscripts in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek in Vienna (see n. 56 below) might seem to be indicative of a Soknopaiou Nesos provenance, given that the collection possesses material securely assigned to that site, Ryholt has identified this hand on papyri in the Copenhagen collection stored together with material known to have come from Tebtunis. 24 For a brief summary, see Pinch (2004) 93-95. 25 For this identification of the ‘dog-ape’, see Quack (2009a) 341-342. 21

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creatures on earth are divided into five distinct groups.” 26 The extant manuscripts also contain numerous explanatory glosses, another phenomenon that gives the text as it survives the air of an intellectual theological exercise carried out in written form. Significantly, however, these glosses reveal that the text had a long transmission history, 27 and its origins seem to lie in the realm of ritual performance. On the one hand, the phrase xrw=f/s mi tAy “his/ her voice likewise,” which is included as a marker of direct speech, may well have indicated when different ritual ‘actors’ were to speak; on the other, the use of the first person at certain points suggests a single speaker. 28 It seems to me most probable, then, that the existing versions merge different types of performed ritual. Regardless of the specific form this ritual took, it was likely associated with the annual ‘Festival of Drunkenness’ celebrated throughout Egypt to mark the return of the ‘distant goddess’. 29 In contrast to some of the text’s more dense theological material, it is easier to suppose that the animal fables incorporated into its extant written versions played a role in its oral recitation, for they are told by the dog-ape to Tefnut to make a variety of points. The most famous of these fables is indubitably ‘The Lion in Search of Man’ (as it is titled in Miriam Lichtheim’s anthology of ancient Egyptian literature 30). In this fable, a lion encounters a series of animals who have suffered at the hands of mankind. The lion vows to avenge his fellow animals by inflicting pain on man and, while in search of him, encounters a mouse who promises to save the lion if spared. Despite the lion’s skepticism, he lets the mouse go, and is indeed repaid when the mouse frees him from a hunter’s net. This fable has clear relevance within its current context in Mythus, for the little dog-ape promises to save Tefnut just as the mouse saves the lion (see P. Leiden I 384, 13/18-19). It would also, however, be completely meaningful on its own, and I think it highly likely that here we have a pre-existing didactic fable that has been inserted into Mythus. Although our only surviving Egyptian written animal fables date to the Roman Period, the tradition itself seems to have gone back far earlier, for illustrations of animals (often 26

Smith (1984) 1085. As Hoffmann and Quack note, the mix of older and new grammatical forms exhibited by Mythus and its inclusion of variant readings from different sources also attest to the accrual of layers over time. Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 195; 198. I provide specific examples of these phenomena in my monograph: Jay (2016) 236, n. 89. 28 Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 198. 29 For discussion, see Jasnow and Smith (2010/2011). 30 Lichtheim (1980) 156-159. 27

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performing human activities) appear on New Kingdom ostraca and papyri. 31 Moreover, the fable of the lion and the mouse also appears independently as one of the Greek fables ascribed to Aesop, 32 while another Mythus fable, about a mother cat and mother vulture, has Babylonian, Assyrian, Greek, and Latin parallels. 33 These fables clearly had cross-cultural appeal and, given the relative antiquity of the ancient Near Eastern traditions, it seems most probable to me that in these cases the Egyptian and/or Mesopotamian version inspired the Greek. 34 As noted above, all of the Demotic versions of Mythus have been dated to the 2nd century A.D. We know that the text had been translated into Greek not long after, for we possess a substantial portion of a Greek version dated to the late second/ early 3rd century A.D. (P. Lit. London 192). 35 It has been traditional to view this Greek translation as intended and designed for a Greek audience. Betrò, for example, proposes that the translation process took place in two stages, with an initial rough translation produced by an Egyptian scribe then being polished by someone educated in Greek. 36 As noted above, however, native Egyptian priests of the Roman Period had a strong mastery of written Greek. As a result, Luigi Prada suggests that the Greek translation of Mythus could well have been produced by Egyptian priests, for Egyptian priests. Prada also stresses the many similarities between the two versions rather than their differences, ultimately concluding that Egyptian priests produced the Greek translation for their

31

It may even be that one New Kingdom ostracon depicts the little dog-ape telling a fable to the goddess, for it bears an image of a cat and a monkey, with a bird sitting on her nest floating above them. The proposal, first suggested by Spiegelberg [(1917) 7, Fig. 2], has been repeated a number of times; see, for example, BrunnerTraut [1984 (1959)] 34, Fig. 10; Flores (2004) 251, 23b. Both von Lieven and Loeben, however, doubt any connection between the New Kingdom figural ostracon and the much later Roman Period version of Mythus, noting the many differences between the two. Von Lieven (2009) 147; Loeben (2009) 34 and n. 11 (p. 39). All of these sources provide useful general surveys of New Kingdom animal illustrations. 32 For a translation, see Perry (1965) 136-139 (fable 107). This fable is included in Babrius’s 1st century A.D. collection of ‘Aesop’s fables’. 33 S. West (2013) 83-84. For the Latin, see Perry (1965) 222-225 (I 28). 34 Ritner [(2003b) 494-495] too sees the fable of the lion and the mouse as Egyptian in origin. 35 For a summary of the modern history of this manuscript, see Prada (2012) 627. Prada discusses its dating on p. 628. 36 Betrò (1984) 1359-1360, as cited by Prada (2012) 632. For an even more recent presentation of the traditional view, see S. West (2013) 87-89.

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own use as their ability to manipulate the native scripts declined. 37 This hypothesis does not necessarily mean, however, that the text never reached an outside audience; given the known fascination that the Greeks and Romans had for Egyptian priestly knowledge in the Roman Period (as evidenced by texts like Apuleius’s Golden Ass and Thessalus’ De virtutibus herbarum 38 ) such a possibility seems quite likely. The very process of translation would have made the text far more accessible to a foreign audience. On the surface, the genre of animal fables as a whole would seem to be an extremely unsophisticated one, and a modern reader might be excused for assuming that it represents a ‘simple’ tradition of oral folktale. Indeed, when we consider the kind of cross-cultural transmission experienced by the fables discussed above, issues of language and literacy make it highly likely that they were disseminated from place to place in oral form. But, it is also important to note that these fables clearly had a deep significance for even the most literate Egyptians well into the Roman Period. In fact, they survive precisely because they were recorded in written form, with (as we have seen) one specific example being used for the purpose of scribal education and several more incorporated into an extremely complex theological composition.

2. The Inaros Cycle The ‘Inaros Cycle’ is a modern designation for a series of Demotic stories grouped together based on the appearance of a number of recurring characters, with the figure of Inaros lying at the core of a network of family, friends, and enemies. Inaros himself has been identified as a real historical individual who served as king of the Delta city of Athribis at the very end of the Third Intermediate Period, at a time when Ashurbanipal of Assyria claimed control of Egypt. 39 In fact, one tale of the cycle (the ‘Inaros Epic’) presents Inaros and several of his known historical contemporaries fighting 37

Prada (2012) 632. The bibliography on the Golden Ass is vast; for a recent series of studies, see Paschalis, Frangoulidis, Harrison and Zimmerman (eds) (2007). The most recent commentary of Apuleius Book 11 (The Isis Book) is Keulen, Tilg, Nicolini, Graverini, Harrison, Panayotakis and van Mal-Maeder (2015). Here, the important point is made that “religion in the Isis Book acquires literary qualities; it is being fictionalised and rhetoricised in Apuleius’ text” (p. 8). For a detailed and nuanced discussion of De virtutibus herbarum, see Moyer (2011) 208-273. 39 For the identification of the historical Inaros, see Ryholt (2004) 489; Quack (2006) 501-502. 38

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the Assyrians. Historical records reveal that Assyrian vassal kings of the Delta did indeed rise up against Ashurbanipal around 667 B.C., a rebellion that likely led to the execution of the real King Inaros, and the cycle as a whole names a number of very minor rulers of the late Third Intermediate Period. As a result, it seems most likely that the oldest forms of the cycle arose not long after the time in which they are set, probably during the 7 th century B.C. under Egypt’s Twenty-Sixth Dynasty (often called the ‘Saite Dynasty’ after Sais, its city of origin). But, while the stories of the ‘Inaros Cycle’ clearly found their inspiration in real historical events, they also deviate in significant ways from the evidence provided by the historical inscriptions. In the ‘Inaros Epic’, for example, the opposing Assyrian king is, anachronistically, the earlier Assyrian king Esarhaddon, not Ashurbanipal, and the conflict occurs beyond the borders of Egypt rather than in Egypt itself. The cycle thus had a long history by the Roman Period, which (likely due to the chances of survival 40) has produced the largest proportion and the best-preserved of the extant Inaros manuscripts. 41 The year 1897 saw the first modern publication of an Inaros text, P. Krall, conventionally named after its first translator. 42 This papyrus, now in the collection of the Austrian National Library (Österreichische Nationalbibliothek) bears a story often called The Armour of Inaros (henceforth Armour) by modern scholars, and includes a colophon that dates it to year 22 of Hadrian (A.D. 137/138) or, somewhat less likely, year 22 of Antoninus Pius (A.D. 158/159). 43 Its dialect is certainly that of the Fayum, and, according to Reymond, it was an accidental surface find at either Crocodilopolis or Soknopaiou Nesos, purchased in the 1870s or 1880s. 44 Although P. Krall is broken into many fragments, twenty-six columns of text have been identified, many quite substantial. Moreover, Kim Ryholt has identified a second manuscript version in the Copenhagen collection. 45 At the core of Armour lies a quarrel between the nobles Pami of Heliopolis and Wertiamonniut of Mendes over the now-deceased Inaros’ 40 The accounts of Herodotus, Manetho, and Diodorus Siculus all draw upon native priestly knowledge, suggesting that ‘historical’ material had always been a key component of Egyptian temple libraries. 41 The one major exception is P. Spiegelberg from Akhmim, which is dated paleographically to the 1st half of the 1st century B.C. and bears a tale conventionally titled the Battle for the Prebend of Amun. Its editio princeps (still unsurpassed) is Spiegelberg (1910). 42 Krall (1897). The most recent text edition is Hoffmann (1996). 43 Hoffmann (1996) 22, 398, n. 2541. 44 Reymond (1976) 21; 24-25; Reymond (1983) 43. 45 Ryholt (1998); Ryholt (2012).

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armour. The tale’s very rough temporal setting would thus seem to be the period between 664 B.C., when Ashurbanipal left Egypt for the last time, and 656 B.C., when Psammetichus I of Sais completed his reunification of the country. 46 In fact, to Kitchen, the tale reflects quite accurately the real historical situation of that period, specifically the known rivalry between the west Delta (represented by Pami in the tale) and the east (represented by Wertiamonniut). 47 As a result, it seems to me quite likely that the basic story of Armour originated very early, perhaps even during the Saite Period. If so, it is clear that the tale did not survive in fixed form, for its extant Roman Period versions include elements that must post-date the Saites: Kitchen provides as examples anachronistic references to the Medians and Meroe.48 Armour also possesses several features that may well reflect the influence of the Homeric tradition, a phenomenon which, if true, I would also see as part of a gradual reworking of the tale over time. The many handto-hand combats of the ‘Inaros Cycle’ in general have been compared to the battle-style of the Homeric epics since the earliest modern scholarship, with some scholars going so far as to argue that the Inaros tradition could only have arisen under direct outside influence. 49 More recent scholarship has, however, revealed the age of the cycle (extending back at least as far as the 5th century B.C. 50), and thus I would argue that its appearance is best viewed as a completely indigenous development. Significantly, however, such an argument does not preclude the possibility that the later manifestations of the cycle might have been influenced by the Homeric epics; indeed, given the prevalent use of Homer as a teaching tool in Greco-Roman Egypt, even among the native priestly elite (as discussed above), such a possibility is more likely than not. In Armour, there are two moments in particular that would seem to be extremely strong candidates for such Homeric influence. The first is a scene in which a group of warriors arrives at the place of battle, the opening lines of which reads as follows:

46

For details on this period, see Kitchen [1995 (1986)] 400-404; Onasch (1994) timeline p. 169. 47 Kitchen [1995 (1986)] 458. 48 Kitchen [1995 (1986)] 460, 461. 49 For a summary of arguments for direct Homeric influence, see Thissen (1999). Hoffmann (1996) is the most powerful voice against this stance. 50 The earliest known Inaros tale is a 5th century B.C. Aramaic dipinto written in an older tomb. Porten and Yardeni (1993) 286-299, foldout 5-8. Linguistic criteria have been used to date the composition of this text to the 7th century B.C.: Lemaire (1995) 110.

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They gave landing place to their mlA-ships. They gave landing place to the mlA-ship of Ankhhor son of Panehka. They gave landing place to the mlA-ship of those of Heliopolis and those of Sais. They gave landing place to the mlA-ship of Minnemei, the bull of the people of Elephantine. They gave landing place to the mlA-ship of Parameni son of Tjaynefer and the people of Permeneshre … (Armour, 17/24-29)

This passage represents roughly the first half of what is obviously a very long list. The parallel here to the Iliad’s Catalogue of Ships is of course striking, and it seems quite probable that we do have in this case a conscious allusion to the Iliad. 51 A second likely possibility for Homeric influence in Armour is a scene in which the warrior Pami is armed for battle. Arming scenes in general are a characteristic feature of the ‘Inaros Cycle’, typically using the same phraseology from tale to tale, and thus I would not see the basic scene type itself as a borrowing from Homer. The arming of Pami is, however, the longest and most detailed example of the type, as even a short excerpt reveals: Pami sent his hand after an example of a kilt of first-class byssus-linen and mny-stones that were spread out … navel, while they reached to the thigh, while they were worked with gold, while their ? … while their edges were of red leather, while their centers were worked with …, where the 10 flowers of silver and gold came to the … of his back. He girded himself with it. (Armour, 12/25-13/19)

To Justin Mansfield, this scene is highly reminiscent of the extended description of the shield of Achilles in the Iliad, Book , both being notable for their extreme delight in detail. 52 The two scenes are of course quite different, for the Homeric example describes a single piece of armament while the Egyptian example covers Pami top-to-bottom. Nevertheless, it seems possible that the length and attention to detail in the Egyptian example might have been impacted by the Greek tradition. An even stronger case for outside influence can be made for a second Inaros story, the so-called ‘tale of the Amazons’. 53 Like Armour, this tale survives only in Roman Period versions; unlike Armour, however, Amazons as a whole possesses features that suggest that its core was a fairly recent development. The tale focuses on the adventures of Petikhons, the son of Pekrur, in foreign lands: he first fights Serpot, ‘queen of the land of women’, in Syria, and the two then ally together to invade India. To Hoffmann, it is 51

Volten [(1956) 149, n. 7] citing Jacques Schwartz (1949). I thank Justin for sharing with me the text of an unpublished conference paper. 53 The most recent edition is Hoffmann (1995a). 52

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this mention of India that marks the tale as relatively late, and he proposes a date of origin around 50 B.C. given the development of direct trade connections between Egypt and India at that time.54 The primary two surviving manuscripts themselves are dated to the 1st century A.D. on the basis of paleography. 55 Their distinctive dialectical features are indicative of a Fayumic origin, perhaps at Tebtunis or Soknopaiou Nesos. 56 The modern designation of the story as the Tale of the Amazons clearly speaks to the common assumption made about the origins of the motif of a land ruled and defended by women. The Demoticist Aksel Volten was the first to note the similarities between the plot of Amazons and the Epic Cycle’s conflict between Achilles and Penthesilea as described in Proclus’s Chrestomathy. 57 Admittedly, this specific comparison may push the parallels too far, as Hoffmann argues, for while the Egyptian Petikhons falls in love with a living queen, Achilles is carried away by the beauty of his slain enemy. 58 It is clear, however, that legends of the Amazons in general had acquired broad currency in the Hellenistic world, as attested by their incorporation into the $OH[DQGHU 5RPDQFH (3.25-27). Ryholt has in fact identified Amazons as an explicit imitatio Alexandri representing a direct Egyptian response to the Alexander legends, and indeed, as he notes, “there are striking similarities between Alexander’s and Petechons’ encounters with the Amazons and their queen.” 59 Significantly, however, such foreign influences do not extend to the level of the style of Amazons. In this respect, the tale is completely Egyptian, using the same stock scenes and formulaic phrases characterising the corpus of Demotic narrative literature as a whole. 60

54

Hoffmann (1995a) 30. Hoffmann [(2009) 372] superseding Hoffmann [(1995a) 29] which gives a terminus ante quem of ca. A.D. 200. 56 These two manuscripts (P. Vindob. D 6165 and P. Vindob. D 6165A) are held in the collection of the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek in Vienna, which also possesses a number of papyri that can be securely associated with Soknopaiou Nesos. The distinctive hand, however, is the one shared by the Lille manuscript of Mythus, thus complicating the picture (see n. 23 above). Hoffmann has identified a further fragment of Amazons in Heidelberg (1995b). 57 Volten (1956) 150. Volten’s suggestion is picked up by Miriam Lichtheim [(1980) 152] in her introduction to a partial translation of the tale: “certain themes [of the cycle] are clearly inspired by Greek models, notably the tale Egyptians and Amazons, which echoes the story of Achilles and Penthesilea.” 58 Hoffmann (1995a) 23. 59 Ryholt (2013a) 74. Here Ryholt provides a list of specific parallel plot points. 60 These elements are explored in detail in my 2016 monograph. 55

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According to Ryholt, stories from the ‘Inaros Cycle’ “make up about one third of the narrative material so far inventoried” from the Tebtunis temple library material in Copenhagen, with 20-25 distinct manuscripts having been identified. 61 Inaros manuscripts have, moreover, been discovered elsewhere (important examples stemming from Akhmim and, likely, Soknopaiou Nesos 62), facts which all suggest that the stories of the cycle were the most popular, or deemed the most important, native Egyptian fictional narratives in the Roman Period. In fact, I would argue that it is appropriate to describe these tales as both ‘popular’ and ‘important’. But, while these two phenomena are clearly interconnected, I do think that it is important to differentiate distinct contexts of use. In the temple library, the tales were obviously deemed important enough to copy and recopy in written form. But why? To Ryholt, their importance in a priestly context stemmed not so much from any perceived value as ‘entertainment literature’; instead, he suggests that they were “selected and kept as a record of Egypt’s past,” a reasonable assumption when we consider the seemingly fantastical ‘histories’ reported by Herodotus, Manetho, and Diodorus Siculus. 63 It cannot be denied, however, that the Inaros tales would have made for good storytelling, and I consider it highly likely that they played an important role in the popular oral tradition of the Roman Period as well. This assumption is supported by the fact that the names of characters from the ‘Inaros Cycle’ were common onomastics in the Late and Greco-Roman Periods, particularly the name of Inaros himself, which had not been used before the 7th century B.C. 64 There was clearly a market for tales of travel to exotic lands such as Amazons, as attested by the extreme popularity of the $OH[DQGHU 5RPDQFH. Admittedly, tales focusing on rivalries between petty princes of the Delta (Armour being only one example of many) would seem to have less relevance to the political circumstances of Roman Egypt. Such tales would, however, have maintained a more general entertainment value as stories of battle and war. And, as Rana Salim notes, many of the inhabitants of the Fayum were from military families themselves, for in the late 2nd century B.C. the Ptolemaic rulers had parcelled out land in that

61 Ryholt (2005) 154-155. Here Ryholt provides a brief summary of the most important texts. He has since published several more Inaros stories, all quite fragmentary, in his 2012 monograph. 62 See nn. 41, 44, and 56 above. 63 Ryholt (2004) 505-506. 64 Ryholt (2010) 436-437. The Demotisches Namenbuch gives 47 example writings, from both Upper and Lower Egypt: Lüddeckens et alii (1980) 72-73.

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region to Egyptians who had served in the Ptolemaic army. 65 In the villages of the Fayum, then, we must imagine a culturally and socially blended audience for oral performances of the tales of the ‘Inaros Cycle’. Significantly, if such oral circulation was in fact common in Roman Period Egypt, the many manuscript copies made and preserved in the temple libraries cannot have been intended to preserve a tradition dying out in the face of foreign pressure, but rather reflect ongoing, living practices very much in line with long-standing local traditions. 66

3. The Sesonchosis Novel Thus far, I have discussed texts that certainly show the effects of the multicultural nature of Egypt in the Roman Period but nevertheless remain fundamentally Egyptian at their core. In contrast, the 2nd-3rd century A.D. Greek Sesonchosis fragments from Oxyrhynchus represent an obvious merging of Egyptian and Greek tradition. 67 P.Oxy. XV 1826 concerns the education of Prince Sesonchosis (a legendary amalgam of Senwosret I and III of Egypt’s Twelfth Dynasty and Ramses II or III of the New Kingdom 68); he receives military training in the art of both the cavalry and the infantry (line 6). In P. Oxy. XXVII 2466, Egypt is attacked and successfully defended from an army of Arabs. 69 Because these fragments are not definitive with respect to genre, it is the third Sesonchosis fragment, P. Oxy. XLVII 3319, that has caused modern scholars to identify the text as a Greek novel, for this final fragment deals with Sesonchosis’s relationship with a woman named Meameris. At the beginning of P. Oxy. XLVII 3319, Sesonchosis describes in the first person how he had taken Meameris’s father as vassal and became betrothed to her before setting out for war. Now 65

Salim (2013) 93, 119. Like John Tait (2014) 321, I would tend to argue against the view that the literary productivity of the Roman Period reflects a direct response to foreign rule “expressing the aspirations of the Egyptian priesthood to keep alive traditional Egyptian culture”. 67 The primary text edition is Stephens and Winkler (1995) 246-266. Two new fragments have been published by Yvona Trnka-Amrhein (2016), P. Oxy. LXXXI 5262 and 5263. P. Oxy. 5263 is dated to the 2nd century A.D. See also Whitmarsh (2013) 12, n. 53. 68 For Ramses II, see Gozzoli (2006) 159-160, n. 16 and 19; for Ramses III, see Lloyd (1988) 29. Both scholars also discuss the connection between ‘Sesostris’ and the Senwosret kings of the Twelfth Dynasty. The form ‘Sesonchosis’ conflates the distinct Egyptian names ‘Sesostris’ and ‘Sheshonq’: Ryholt (2010) 431. 69 As Stephens and Winkler [(1995) 247-248] note, the contents of these two fragments do not allow us to determine their order. 66

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returned, he seems uncertain of his reception. When Meameris sees him, she does not, apparently, know who he is – but she is overcome by his good looks. And there the fragment ends. The figure of Sesonchosis himself clearly stems from an Egyptian tradition that long pre-dated the Roman Period. A pharaoh ‘Sesostris’ appears in Herodotus’s account of the kings of Egypt, derived, he claims, from Egyptian priests themselves (2.102-110). The accomplishments of this Sesostris lie largely in the arena of war. To Herodotus, one of Sesostris’s most significant victories was over the Scythians and Thracians, for Herodotus believed this to be the farthest point that any Egyptian army ever reached. Such tales seem to have grown in the telling (presumably in both oral and written form), for Diodorus Siculus in the 1st century B.C. states that Sesostris’s travels surpassed even those of Alexander the Great (1.55). 70 Significantly, these Greek accounts have Egyptian-language parallels, written in Demotic on papyri and ostraca. 71 A connection between Sesostris and Arabia appears as a recurring theme: in Herodotus, Sesostris sails warships around the Arabian peninsula (2.102), and a Demotic fragment preserves the tantalizing phrase “… Senwosret to the land of Arabia …” (P. Carlsberg 412, fr.5, x+6 72 ). According to Diodorus Siculus, the young Sesostris received his training there (1.53). The broad association between Sesostris and Arabia was certainly picked up by the Sesonchosis novel, for (as we have seen), one fragment describes a rout of an army of Arabs. It may even be that it is Arabia to which Sesonchosis has returned to claim his betrothed in P. Oxy. XLVII 3319. Certain elements of the vocabulary and phraseology of the Sesonchosis novel similarly connect the text to the Egyptian tradition, for, as Stephens and Winkler note, it contains several words, phrases, and names “with meanings restricted to Egypt.” 73 More recently, Stephens has suggested that the description of the Arabs fleeing trampling one another (P. Oxy. XXVII 2466, 15) might represent a conscious allusion to the common Egyptian scene of the Pharaoh trampling his enemies. 74 I would add a further example 70

Ryholt [(2013a) 60-62] describes Herodotus’s account of Sesostris as a conscious imitatio Darii constructed by the Egyptians, stressing as it does Sesostris’s conquest of the Scythians – a goal Darius had failed to achieve. In the Hellenistic Period, this trope was replaced by an imitatio Alexandri. In Diodorus Siculus, the Scythians continue to be mentioned, but it is Sesostris’s achievements in India that receive the greatest stress. 71 Widmer (2002) 377-393; Ryholt (2010) 429-437. 72 Widmer (2002) 390. 73 Stephens and Winkler (1995) 248. 74 Stephens (2014) 150.

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of this sort: a possible parallel between Meameris’s bewilderment at her first glimpse of Sesonchosis and the common Demotic stock phrase “s/he did not find any place on earth in which s/he was.” 75 But, while the Sesonchosis novel clearly draws from Egyptian precedents and incorporates certain Egyptian elements, its specific manifestation of the Sesostris legend is, to Stephens and Winkler, overwhelmingly Greek: “Even the novel fragment of Sesonchosis, which ought to contain elements recognisably Egyptian, at least in its surviving portions, is much more reminiscent of Ninus, or indeed Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, than of Egyptian royal chronicles or the ‘Dream of Nectanebos’. If no names in Sesonchosis had survived, portions of it could be easily identified as belonging to a Greek novel, but no one would guess that its protagonist was an Egyptian pharaoh.” 76 Ultimately, they conclude that the Sesonchosis novel is not “an Egyptian tale acting as a seed for the embryonic Greek novel,” but rather a case of “the already developed Greek novel producing a later Greco-Egyptian imitation.” 77 Overall, then, the evidence suggests that the author of the Greek Sesonchosis novel was an élite, urban Hellenised Egyptian. Stephens and Winkler also describe the text as “an Egyptian product, intended primarily for local consumption,” 78 while to Ruiz-Montero, it may represent a “nationalistic response” to the Alexander Romance. 79 It is at least not unreasonable to propose that a Greek novel could have been composed in Egypt, especially given the manuscript tradition associating Achilles Tatius, author of Leucippe and Clitophon, with the city of Alexandria. 80 When we turn to considerations of audience, the overwhelming fascination of the Greco-Roman world with all things Egyptian certainly makes it plausible to suppose that the Sesonchosis novel might have found an enthusiastic readership throughout the Roman Empire. The fact remains, however, that all of the Sesonchosis fragments identified so far come from a single site in Egypt, Oxyrhynchus. In any case, the relatively low numbers of surviving copies of any of the Greek novels suggests that the genre was not a ‘popular’ one, as often supposed in the earlier scholarship, but was

75

For examples of this phrase, see the Demotic tale Setna I.3/20;5/1). A recent English translation is Ritner (2003a) 453-469. 76 Stephens and Winkler (1995) 17-18. 77 Stephens and Winkler (1995) 249. 78 Stephens and Winkler (1995) 248. 79 Ruiz-Montero (1989) 56. Interestingly, Ryholt (as noted above) has identified the Inaros tale of Amazons as an explicit imitatio Alexandri. 80 For discussion, see Plepelits (1980) 1-3.

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instead rather limited in its readership. 81 On the whole, we might imagine the most likely audience of the Sesonchosis novel to consist of the same kind of Hellenised Egyptian who likely penned the text. Peter Parsons, speaking of 1st century A.D. Oxyrhynchus, notes that all Oxyrhynchites lived in “three overlapping worlds”: the Egyptian, the Greek, and the Roman. 82 To illustrate this phenomenon, Parsons describes the family of Tryphon the weaver who, though bearing a Greek name himself, had two brothers with the good Egyptian names ‘Onnophris’ and ‘Thoonis’. Egyptian religious rituals continued to hold meaning for such men, who might consult an Egyptian astrologer or oracle. But, according to Parsons, “Greek was the language in which [Tryphon] thought and did business; also the language in which he was illiterate”. Moreover, “among Tryphon’s fellow citizens were and would be those who had deeper roots in the Hellenic inheritance: the schoolboys translating Homer, the distressed seeking enlightenment in the Homeric Oracle, the collectors of classical poetry and the amateur composers of classicizing verses.” 83 The Sesonchosis novel is yet another piece of evidence revealing the complex interweaving of cultures that extended up to the highest, literate levels of Oxyrhynchite society.

4. Conclusion As this paper has emphasised, change in Egypt under the Romans occurred at different rates depending on context and geographical location. While Demotic had largely been eclipsed as a script for administrative and economic purposes by the end of the 1st century A.D., for example, the 2nd century A.D. was an extremely productive time for Demotic religious and literary manuscripts. Change also occurred more slowly in rural areas than in urban centers. The 3rd century A.D., however, witnessed a sharp decline in the use of Demotic for any purpose. Egyptian temples and priesthoods in general experienced increasing challenges to their survival after the reign of Commodus (A.D. 180-192), not, as Ritner notes, because of any overt

81 See, for example, Morgan (1994) 4-5. Hägg (1983) and (1994), however, argues for a significantly broader reception. For a summary discussion of the question of audience, see Ruiz-Montero (1996) 81-85. She finds Hägg’s proposal of public readings of the novels “not unreasonable” (p. 85). See also her paper in this volume, n. 82. 82 Parsons (2007) 213. 83 Parsons (2007) 214.

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Roman policy against them, but rather because political and economic instability in the Empire as a whole led to a decline in official support. 84 Even so, the shift from the 2nd to the 3rd century A.D. can by no means be regarded as marking any definitive end to native Egyptian culture. As we have seen, the Greek version of Mythus was likely produced for the use of Egyptian priests who could no longer read and write Demotic, while the merging of traditions found in the Greek Sesonchosis novel would have appealed most to an educated Hellenised Egyptian. These texts would thus seem to represent the Egyptians’ own response to their changing circumstances, and serve as evidence of the continuation (and adaptability) of native Egyptian culture long after the conquest of Augustus. 85

84

Ritner (1998) 17. For developments in the 4th century A.D. and beyond, see for example Dijkstra (2008).

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CHAPTER TWELVE THE ISLAND THAT WAS A FISH: AN ANCIENT FOLKTALE IN THE ALEXANDER ROMANCE AND IN OTHER TEXTS OF LATE ANTIQUITY IOANNIS M. KONSTANTAKOS

Introduction: The Alexander Romance and the Archaeology of Folk Narratives The dissemination of folk narratives forms an important aspect of orality in all cultures. The world of antiquity was no exception. Myths and fables, heroic legends and humorous anecdotes, adventurous or didactic stories of every kind circulated on the lips of ancient peoples and were told in order to instruct or entertain in various social contexts. Tales were also regularly exchanged between interacting populations. Stories could easily pass e.g. into the Greek world from the neighbouring cultures of the Near East, or vice versa. In terms of popular narrative tradition, the entire area of the Greco-Roman and Middle-Eastern territories, as far as Iran and India, seems to have formed a continuum. Narratives of all types travelled freely within this broad area, from the Greek-speaking Mediterranean to the Mesopotamian valley, from the fields of the Nile to the Iranian plateaus, defying the borders of states and the barriers of language. 1 The study of these ancient stories, of their long migrations, and of their intercultural transformations is a fascinating endeavour. I usually term this kind of research ‘folktale archaeology’. Many individual narrative units which lie at the core of our familiar folktales can be traced back to ancient 1

Cf. my remarks in Konstantakos (2011a) 153-156.

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times. They include not only particular motifs but also larger chunks of storytelling material, such as entire sequences of motifs, patterns of action, or types of tale. By tracing such elements in the narrative traditions of antiquity, we may reconstruct and study the popular lore of the ancient world. 2 Any scholar researching this ancient lore is at an obvious disadvantage in comparison to an ordinary folklorist who investigates the popular traditions of modern ethnic groups. That is, the student of antiquity cannot carry out fieldwork. He cannot enter an ancient Greek agora or a symposium hall, a Babylonian beer house, or a New Kingdom tavern of the Nile valley, equipped with a notepad or tape recorder, in order to collect popular narratives from the mouths of the ancient tellers. He cannot follow one of those patient caravans which traversed the ancient Near East along the trade routes of Ashurbanipal or Darius, and listen to the stories recited by the men around the campfires in the evening. He cannot even interrogate local cicerones and dragomans of ancient temples, as Herodotus did in order to gather his store of colourful tales. All these options are closed to us, as long as the time-machines of science fiction remain uninvented. The only resources available for analysis are the written narrative texts of antiquity. These are literary works, that is, the products of artful literate craftsmanship, but they often exploit a popular substratum. If we take advantage of the methods and materials of modern folkloric study, we may decode these ancient texts, in order to get a glimpse of the popular narrative treasures that hide behind them. Then we may cautiously proceed forward, so as to examine the relations and mutual influences between these recovered ancient tales, distinguish their variant versions, and map their travels over land and time. The narrative works of postclassical Greek literature – that is, novels, fictionalised biographies, storybooks, and other forms of collection – are especially important in this respect. They offer a wealth of demonstrably ancient fictions that abound in folktale motifs and story-patterns which are easily traceable in international popular tradition. Many of these motifs and patterns also have analogues in the ancient literatures of eastern peoples and thus indicate the traffic of narrative material between Greece and the Near East. To illustrate all these aspects, I have selected here for analysis an

2

On the scope, methods, and findings of this vast field of research, see the basic works of Scobie (1983), Anderson (2000), and Hansen (2002), the most important contribution to-date. See also my own recent writings: Konstantakos (2004), (2006), (2008-2013), (2009), (2010), (2011a), (2011b), (2012), (2015a), (2016), and (2017), with further bibliography. Cf. in Konstantakos (2013) a popularised presentation.

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interesting episode from the Alexander Romance, one of the richest fictional repositories of late antiquity. The Greek Alexander Romance (also known as Pseudo-Callisthenes, from the name of its supposed author) is transmitted in a series of versions, which preserve the same essential storyline, but widely vary in terms of particular episodes, expression, and style. The earliest recension Į is represented in Greek by a single manuscript (A). Factual references and linguistic traits of this text indicate that it was composed in Roman times, probably in the 3rd century A.D. According to many scholars, the original form of the Alexander Romance was created in the same period, and recension Į must be fairly close to that authentic work. 3 On the other hand, dissenting experts such as Richard Stoneman have repeatedly argued that the prototype of Pseudo-Callisthenes was produced earlier, in the Hellenistic age (3rd or 2nd century B.C.). 4 The case is difficult to decide, because the Alexander Romance, as will be presently explained, has incorporated older writings of Hellenistic provenance. Thus, apparent indications of early dating may in fact be due to the take-over of such preexisting components. If a prototype ‘Romance of Alexander’ was indeed formed in the Ptolemaic period, there is the additional problem of determining how different this prototype would have been from the later redactions that are now extant. 5 In any case, the novel of Pseudo-Callisthenes is very largely a book made up of other books. Detailed research into the sources of the Alexander Romance has proved that its author drew a great deal on earlier, originally independent works, many of which are actually attested in Hellenistic or early Roman papyri. The textual sources of Pseudo-Callisthenes included a 3 See especially Fraser (1972) vol. 1, 677, vol. 2, 946; Merkelbach (1977) 90-91; Dowden (1989) 650-651; Stramaglia (1996) 106; Fraser (1996) 221-223; Jouanno (2002) 13-16, 26-28, 34. 4 See Stoneman (1991) 8-10, 14-17, and Stoneman (2007) xxviii-xxxiii, l, liii-lvi, who revives the opinions of earlier scholars, such as Braun (1938) 35-42 and Berg (1973). Cf. Callu [(2010) 23-31] who proposes a dating between ca. 60/50 B.C. and A.D. 16, but on rather slender grounds. For more bibliography on the date of the Alexander Romance, see Jouanno (2002) 34; Konstantakos (2008-2013) vol. 3, 92. 5 An enlightening parallel is the fictionalised Life of Aesop, whose original version is usually dated to the 1st or 2nd century A.D. It has been occasionally argued, again on circumstantial grounds, that a prototype Vita Aesopi was already written in the Hellenistic or the Classical period. However, the study of the extant Life reveals that many of its essential compositional elements are of late date. So, even if a primary Vita were created in pre-Roman times, it would have been on the whole a work very different from the Life that is now known. See Konstantakos (2008-2013) vol. 3, 6364 for discussion.

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historical account of Alexander’s life and wars, collections of fictional letters from and to the Macedonian king, an Egyptian novella about Nectanebo the trickster Pharaoh, a dialogue between Alexander and the Indian Gymnosophists, a description of the foundation of Alexandria, and a pamphlet on the Macedonian conqueror’s last days and his testament. The redactor of the Alexander Romance has assimilated a lot of material from these works and has even strung together large chunks of them in his narrative — although his mode of work cannot have been as mechanical and thoughtless as is sometimes assumed. 6 Notwithstanding such literary sources, there are striking analogues to several episodes of Pseudo-Callisthenes in the international folk tradition and in the narrative lore of the ancient Near East. This is especially true of the so called ‘tales of wonder’, which recount the extraordinary adventures and marvels encountered by Alexander and his troops in distant lands. Such fabulous stories are abundant especially in the latter parts of the romance (towards the end of Book 2 and in Book 3), which are largely devoted to the Macedonian conqueror’s voyages and explorations at the ends of the earth. After he has overcome Darius’ forces and completed his conquest of the Persian Empire, Alexander marches beyond the borders of the known world and wanders through far-off lands such as India and Ethiopia. His itineraries are replete with wondrous sights and experiences, monstrous populations, strange beasts, and mysterious locations, which recall many other fictitious travelogues, both from the field of popular lore (e.g. tales of sailors and seamen) and from literary fiction (cf. the adventures of Sinbad, Sir John Mandeville, or Baudolino). The present essay examines one of these marvellous stories, which was already included in the earliest extant version of the Alexander Romance. 7 It is a tale with a vivid presence both in the international folk tradition of nowadays and in the narrative repertoires of many ancient peoples. This phenomenon implies the existence of a rich oral background, which must have developed from ancient times onwards. By investigating this particular narrative and its variations, in the Alexander Romance and in other texts, we 6 See Fraser (1972) vol. 1, 677-680, vol. 2, 946-950; Merkelbach (1977); Stoneman (1991) 9-14; Fraser (1996) 210-220; Jouanno (2002) 17-26; Stoneman (2007) xxvxxviii, xliii-l; more bibliography in Konstantakos (2009) 107. 7 There is no space here to examine more specimens. For discussion of other examples, readers may consult a number of studies: e.g. Pfister (1959); Gunderson (1980); Stoneman (1992); Stoneman (1994); Aerts (1994); Stoneman (2008); Konstantakos (2008-2013) vol. 2, 279-298, 318-321; Konstantakos (2011a); Anderson (2012); Konstantakos (2015a), (2015b), (2016), (2017). Most of these provide extensive further bibliography.

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may gain a glimpse of the oral life of the tale beyond its fixed written specimens. We may therefore also form an idea of the complex process that resulted in the genesis of such fabulous episodes and their incorporation into Pseudo-Callisthenes. Precisely this kind of dynamic interplay between literary composition and influences from oral lore conditions the peculiar character of the travelogue tales in the Alexander Romance. For this purpose, we will make extensive comparison of the story of Pseudo-Callisthenes with other versions, both from roughly contemporaneous Greek sources and from narrative compositions of the ancient Near East. This is not only legitimate, but also inevitable. As a rule, oral folktales cannot be restricted and tied down either in space or in time; they enjoy very long histories of transmission and are disseminated over vast areas. The study of ancient narrative lore cannot afford to ignore any one of the preciously few testimonia that have been preserved from antiquity, whatever their origins. Confronting a paragraph of later Greek fiction with a piece of lore from the Jewish Talmud or an early Iranian prayer might seem far-fetched to certain ‘purists’ of classical textual analysis. But the folktale archaeologist has no other option, and indeed enjoys the discovery of such unforeseen parallelisms. Good stories travel incessantly, and the scholar will gladly travel with them.

1. The Gigantic Fish in the Alexander Romance and Other Sources The earliest Greek text of Pseudo-Callisthenes (A) contains a long letter which is addressed by Alexander to his teacher Aristotle and relates the extraordinary adventures of the Macedonian troops in India (3.17). The first reported incident (3.17.2-7) takes place as the Greek army arrives at the city called 3UDVLDNƝ, a great metropolis of the region. This exotic name (a Hellenisation of Sanskrit SUƗFK\DND, ‘eastern’) possibly alludes to Palibothra 3Ɨ৬aliputra), the capital of the great Magadha kingdom in northeastern India, near the river Ganges — a location never reached by the historical Alexander. 8 Near the city, a promontory juts out into the sea. Alexander and a few of his companions moor their ship there and explore the place. It is inhabited by a tribe of effeminate people who subsist on a diet of fish. Although they speak a foreign language, the Macedonian conqueror somehow manages to communicate with them. They point out to Alexander an island in the middle of the open sea. There, as they claim, is the tomb of an ancient king, 8

See Pfister (1959) 31; Gunderson (1980) 94-96; cf. Callu (2010) 19, 249.

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in which much gold has been deposited as a holy dedication. The natives then disappear, leaving behind their twelve small boats. Contrary to Alexander’s own wish, his companions, including Pheidon, Hephaestion, and Craterus, who are mentioned by name, are unwilling to let him cross over to the island. Pheidon proposes to sail himself there first and make sure that no danger is lurking. Finally, Alexander is prevailed upon and gives his permission; Pheidon thus crosses over, taking a number of men with him. However, as Alexander’s narrative concludes: “A little while after they had disembarked on the supposed island, the monster (șȘȡȓȠȞ) suddenly plunged down to the bottom of the sea. We cried out, but the beast disappeared; and all these men perished, along with my most faithful friend. I was exceedingly wroth; but I could not find the natives, however hard I searched”. 9

This final part of the story is somewhat confused. Obviously, the supposed island was in fact a gigantic fish or cetacean, whose enormous back, protruding above the surface of the sea, resembled an island. However, this is not straightforwardly explained in the text. The reader is left to infer it from Alexander’s sudden description of the “monster” that plunges under the water. Presumably the end of the narrative has been shortened. At least one phrase stating that “the island was in fact a huge seabeast” (or something similar) must have fallen out at some stage of the transmission. 10

9 See the text in Kroll (1926) 106-107: ʌĮȡĮȖİȞȠȝȑȞȦȞ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȆȡĮıȚĮț‫ޣ‬Ȟ ʌȩȜȚȞ, ‫ݜ‬IJȚȢ ‫݋‬įȩțİȚ ȝȘIJȡȩʌȠȜȚȢ İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ IJ߱Ȣ ‫ݯ‬ȞįȚț߱Ȣ ȤȫȡĮȢ, țĮIJİȜȐȕȠȝİȞ ʌĮȡ’ Į‫ރ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ‫݋‬ȞĮȡȖ‫ޡ‬Ȣ ܻțȡȦIJȒȡȚȠȞ IJ߱Ȣ șĮȜȐııȘȢ. țĮ‫ݸ ޥ‬ȡȝȒıĮȞIJȩȢ ȝȠȣ ıީȞ ‫ݷ‬ȜȓȖȠȚȢ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJާ ʌȡȠİȚȡȘȝȑȞȠȞ [țĮ‫ ]ޥ‬țĮIJĮȝĮșȩȞIJİȢ İ‫ވ‬ȡȠȝİȞ ȞİȝȠȝȑȞȠȣȢ ‫݋‬țİ߿ șȘȜȣȝȩȡijȠȣȢ ‫ݧ‬ȤșȣȠijȐȖȠȣȢ ܻȞșȡȫʌȠȣȢ. ‫݋‬ȝȠࠎ į‫ ޡ‬ʌȡȠıțĮȜİıĮȝȑȞȠȣ IJȚȞ‫ޟ‬Ȣ İ‫ފ‬ȡȠȞ ȕĮȡȕȐȡȠȣȢ IJ߲ įȚĮȜȑțIJ࠙, țĮ‫ ޥ‬ʌȣȞșĮȞȠȝȑȞȠȣ ȝȠȣ ʌİȡ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ IJȩʌȦȞ ‫݋‬ıȒȝĮȞĮȞ ‫ݘ‬ȝ߿Ȟ Ȟ߱ıȠȞ, ‫ݚ‬Ȟ ʌȐȞIJİȢ ‫݌‬ȦȡࠛȝİȞ ‫݋‬Ȟ ȝȑı࠙ ʌİȜȐȖİȚ, ‫ݚ‬Ȟ ‫ݏ‬ijȘıĮȞ ʌȐȞȣ ܻȡȤĮȓȠȣ ȕĮıȚȜȑȦȢ İ‫ݭ‬ȞĮȚ IJȐijȠȞ, ‫݋‬Ȟ ߔ ȤȡȣıާȞ ʌȠȜީȞ ‫ݨ‬İȡࠛıșĮȚ … Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȕȐȡȕĮȡȠȚ ܻijĮȞİ߿Ȣ ‫ݝ‬ıĮȞ IJ‫ݫ ޟ‬įȚĮ ʌȜȠȚĮȡȓįȚĮ țĮIJĮȜȚʌȩȞIJİȢ, ݀ʌİȡ ‫ݝ‬Ȟ Țȕǯ. țĮ‫ ޥ‬į‫ ޣ‬ĭİȓįȦȞȠȢ IJȠࠎ ȖȞȘıȚȦIJȐIJȠȣ ȝȠȣ ijȓȜȠȣ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫ݠ‬ijĮȚıIJȓȦȞȠȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȀȡĮIJİȡȠࠎ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJࠛȞ ȜȠȚʌࠛȞ ijȓȜȦȞ ȝ‫݋ ޣ‬ĮıȐȞIJȦȞ ȝİ įȚĮȕ߱ȞĮȚ — ĭİȓįȦȞ Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ ‫ݏ‬ȜİȖİȞǜ ‘‫ݑ‬ʌȓIJȡİȥȩȞ ȝİ ʌȡާ ıȠࠎ țĮIJĮʌȜİࠎıĮȚ, ‫ݬ‬ȞĮ İ‫ ݧ‬țĮțȩȞ IJȓ ‫݋‬ıIJȚ, ʌȡާ ıȠࠎ ‫݋‬Ȗޫ țȚȞįȣȞİȪıȦǜ İ‫ ݧ‬į‫ ޡ‬ȝȒ, ‫݋‬Ȗޫ ‫ވ‬ıIJİȡȠȞ ‫݋‬ʌȚʌȑȝȥȦ IJާ ıțȐijȠȢ. İ‫ ݧ‬Ȗ‫ޟ‬ȡ į‫ ޣ‬ĭİȓįȦȞ ‫݋‬Ȗޫ ܻʌȩȜȦȝĮȚ, ‫ݐ‬IJİȡȠȓ ıȠȚ ijȓȜȠȚ İ‫ބ‬ȡİșȒıȠȞIJĮȚǜ ‫ޟ݋‬Ȟ į‫ ޡ‬ıީ ݃ȜȑȟĮȞįȡȠȢ, ‫ݼ‬ȜȘ ‫ݘ‬ Ƞ‫ݧ‬țȠȣȝȑȞȘ ‫݋‬įȣıIJȪȤȘıİȞ’ — ʌİȚıșİ‫ޥ‬Ȣ [į‫ ]ޡ‬Į‫ރ‬IJȠ߿Ȣ ıȣȞİȤȫȡȘıĮ įȚĮȕĮȓȞİȚȞ. țĮ‫ޥ‬ ‫݋‬țȕȐȞIJȦȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȞȠȝȚȗȠȝȑȞȘȞ Ȟ߱ıȠȞ ‫ޔ‬ȡĮȢ įȚİȜșȠȪıȘȢ ܿijȞȦ ‫ݏ‬įȣȞİ șȘȡȓȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ȕȣșȩȞ. ‫ݘ‬ȝࠛȞ į‫ ޡ‬țȡĮȟȐȞIJȦȞ țĮ‫ܻ ޥ‬ijĮȞȠࠎȢ ȖİȞȠȝȑȞȠȣ IJȠࠎ șȘȡȓȠȣ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȝ‫ޡ‬Ȟ țĮțࠛȢ ܻʌȫȜȠȞIJȠ ıީȞ IJࠜ ȖȞȘıȚȦIJȐIJ࠙ ijȓȜ࠙ǜ țĮ‫ ޥ‬ȜȓĮȞ ‫ݗ‬ȤșȩȝȘȞ, IJȠީȢ į‫ ޡ‬ȕĮȡȕȐȡȠȣȢ ȗȘIJȒıĮȢ Ƞ‫ރ‬Ȥ İ‫ފ‬ȡȠȞ. All translations from ancient sources used in this essay are mine. 10 Cf. Zacher (1867) 148; Coulter (1926) 34; Hansen (2002) 180.

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Indeed, the Armenian translation of recension Į provides such a clarificatory statement, immediately after the courageous companions have sailed off: “For the evil barbarians had said it was an island, but it was a whale”. The Armenian text also supplies further circumstantial details that are missing from the Greek text: Pheidon takes a hundred men with him and uses the natives’ boats to cross over. As soon as the men disembark, they tie the boats with ropes, as though on a real island, and prepare passageways for the boats. Then they haul the vessels over the supposed ‘land’ and emerge in an open place, where they are visible to the rest of the group on the promontory. Earlier in the narrative, the natives are also described as fiercely resisting Alexander’s desire to visit the island, and it is at this point that they withdraw. 11 On the other hand, Julius Valerius’ Latin translation of recension Į has missed the very essence of the story. In the Latin text, the isle is never expressly acknowledged to be a fish. The piece of land is simply said suddenly to disappear into the sea and drown the unfortunate sailors, without any explanation as to why such a thing has occurred. 12 Nonetheless, the Latin version does offer a few additional picturesque elements that help clarify the action. For example, Alexander finds an interpreter, who makes communication with the barbarous natives possible. 13 The greater fullness of these parallel texts shows how elliptical the Greek narrative of A is. As will transpire below through comparison with fuller ancient variants of the same folktale, it seems that other details of the action may also have dropped out from Pseudo-Callisthenes’ account, although they were possibly included in the original form of Alexander’s adventure. Alexander’s letter to Aristotle concerning India is doubtless based on an earlier independent fictional composition. This text has survived as a separate work in two Latin translations. The oldest one dates from before the 7th century A.D., while the later translation represents a reworking that

11

See Wolohojian (1969) 123-124. Julius Valerius 3.17.354-363: conscensis ergo navibus protinus ire ad insulam tendunt, quae, quamvis propter obviare oculis videretur, ad integrae horae tamen spatium consumpserat navigantibus. tandem sunt visi insulae institisse. sed ubi gestum est, omne id solum repente una cum viris et sepulchro, quod visebatur, submersari mari et in profundo labi conspicamur. neque enim vana formido ludebat oculos intremiscentium, enimvero illud Philonis mors et exitium eorum qui una Philonem comitati fuerant. See Rosellini (1993) 138; Callu (2010) 170-171, 249. 13 Julius Valerius 3.17.330-331: Fuit igitur mihi ad eorum fabulas diligentia et interpres inventus est qui nobis daret cum hisce barbaris fabulari. See Rosellini (1993) 137; Callu (2010) 168-169. 12

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was produced in the 10th century. 14 The narrative of these Latin epistles is much longer and fuller and includes several additional episodes and descriptive details unknown to recension Į of the Alexander Romance. The Latin narrative therefore cannot have been extrapolated from PseudoCallisthenes’ novel. Rather, the Latin versions must have been derived from an older Greek original, which was also used by the author of PseudoCallisthenes, although the latter considerably abridged it, in order to fit it into his narrative as an inserted piece. 15 Based on topical references to the fate of Olympias and of Alexander’s sisters, scholars date the Greek prototype of the fictitious epistle soon after the Macedonian conqueror’s death, in the final years of the 4th century B.C. 16 It has also been argued, however, that only the particular episode containing these topical references (that is, Alexander’s adventure with the speaking oracular trees) represents an old story; the letter as a whole may be a later composition, perhaps from the end of the Hellenistic age, which simply absorbed earlier materials. 17 Oddly enough, the adventure with the huge sea-creature is not included in the Latin versions of the epistle to Aristotle. It might be assumed that the ‘fish-island’ formed part of the original letter but was omitted from its Latin renderings and survived only in the Greek romance. Such an assumption, however, would run contrary to Pseudo-Callisthenes’ usual practice; indeed, the latter habitually shortens the original text of the epistle, while the Latin adaptations preserve its contents more fully. Moreover, the position of the story of the fish-island at the beginning of the letter seems awkward, because 14 For the texts of these Latin translations see Pfister (1910) 21-37; van Thiel (1974) 198-233; Feldbusch (1976) 12-120; Callu (2010) 363-375. 15 See Pfister (1910) ix-xi; van Thiel (1974) xxv-xxvi; Merkelbach (1977) 55-62, 193-198; Gunderson (1980); Jouanno (2002) 23-25, 46-47, 145-146, 176-177; Stoneman (2007) lvii, lxxviii-lxxix; Stoneman (2008) 73-77. 16 Epistola Alexandri Macedonis ad Aristotelem magistrum suum 66: the oracular trees foretell that Olympias will die miserably and be left unburied, but Alexander’s sisters will live happily for a long time; see Pfister (1910) 35; van Thiel (1974) 228; Feldbusch (1976) 112; Callu (2010) 373. This must have been written after 316 B.C. (Olympias’ death) and before 308 B.C. (when Alexander’s sister Cleopatra was slain by order of Antigonus). In the Greek text of A (3.17.41) the prediction has been emended: the sisters are also fated to be killed by men of Alexander’s entourage. This statement must stem from a later redaction of the epistle, after 296 B.C., when Alexander’s second sister, Thessalonice, was also murdered by her own son, Antipater. See van Thiel (1974) xxv-xxvi; Merkelbach (1977) 59-61; Gunderson (1980) 118-119. On the basis of this early Hellenistic dating, Gunderson [(1980) 128-139] indulges in far-reaching speculations about the author of the original epistle (perhaps a participant in Alexander’s campaign) and his artistic intentions. 17 See Jouanno (2002) 24-25, 46-47.

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it disturbs the chronological order of events. In Pseudo-Callisthenes, Alexander localises the sea-monster off a promontory of eastern India, at the environs of 3UDVLDNƝ. Immediately afterwards, he leaps back in time and speaks of his victory over Darius, his conquest of Persia, and the great wealth of that land (3.17.9-10). Then he relates his march through central Asia (3.17.1122), until the army reaches the PrDVLDNƝ city (3.17.23-24) and the description of India is taken up again. In this context, the Indian episode of the fish-isle appears misplaced and gives the impression of being a foreign body. All this suggests that the tale of the giant fish was drawn from a separate source and inserted into the letter to Aristotle by the redactor of the Alexander Romance. The source may have been another fictional epistle, which narrated further marvels from Alexander’s fabulous expedition. Julius Valerius and the independent Latin versions of the Epistola ad Aristotelem do indeed mention a previous letter of Alexander to his teacher, which concerned astronomical phenomena and reported the king’s adventures up to the meeting with the Brahmans. 18 Elsewhere, recension Į refers to letters sent by the Macedonian conqueror to Queen Olympias that described the events in Asia (A 3.27.2). Furthermore, Strabo (15.1.35 = FGrH 153 F 2) knew of an epistle attributed to Craterus, one of Alexander’s marshals. Evidently a fictitious work, this letter related many extraordinary adventures. Among other things, it presented Alexander reaching the Ganges (an entirely unhistorical event) and described the monsters in the river. 19 The letter format was a felicitous convention for this kind of fabulous writing; the imaginary sights were dressed up as ‘authentic’ eyewitness accounts given by the Macedonian king himself or by his commanders, and thus placed less strain on credibility. Various epistles of this type were apparently produced in Hellenistic times by different authors. The genre 18

Epistola ad Aristotelem 6: Pfister (1910) 22; van Thiel (1974) 200; Feldbusch (1976) 14; Callu (2010) 363. Valerius: Rosellini (1993) 137; Callu (2010) 168-169. 19 See Merkelbach (1977) 62; Gunderson (1980) 121-122; Fraser (1996) 224-226. The long letter to Olympias and Aristotle, which forms part of the later recensions ȕ and Ȝ (Pseudo-Callisthenes 2.23-41) and chronicles Alexander’s journey to the edge of the earth, may also derive from such a separate composition. See Merkelbach (1977) 63-65, 132-133; Gunderson (1980) 83-86, 90, 108-110, 121; Rosenmeyer (2001) 172-173, 190; Konstantakos (2017). Another epistle to Olympias, which describes the treasures of the Persian palaces and various fabulous places of the Orient (the land of the Amazons, the City of the Sun etc.), is inserted in PseudoCallisthenes 3.27-28. A small portion of this latter composition survives on a papyrus of the 1st century B.C. See Huys and Wouters (1993); Gallo (1996) 242243.

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accorded well with the love of paradoxography that left such a strong imprint on Hellenistic literature. A number of such ‘letters of wonders’ may at some point have been combined together into a cycle, a kind of epistolary ‘travel romance’ of Alexander. 20 If so, the author of Pseudo-Callisthenes could have found in this collection both the conqueror’s extant epistle to Aristotle and the story of the fish-island as part of a different letter. 21 Beyond this complicated history of literary transmission, the tale of the fish-isle has also enjoyed a long life of international popular dissemination. Fans of the Arabian Nights will recognise in it a famous episode from the first voyage of Sinbad the Sailor. The story-pattern also occurs in other old Islamic sources, such as the cosmographical treatise of the Persian polymath al-Qazwini (13th century), where it is applied to a giant sea turtle. Medievalists trace the story in the many versions of the legend of Saint Brendan and his sea travels. Nowadays it is common as a tall tale or as seaman’s lore in various peoples around the world, from Iceland and Scandinavia to India and Indonesia. 22 Pseudo-Callisthenes’ episode is not the only ancient example of the story. Another, roughly contemporary Greek specimen is preserved in the Physiologus, a paradoxographic collection or ‘bestiary’ which expounds the marvellous properties of several animals, plants, and precious stones. Every one of these items is also furnished with an allegorical exegesis, which explains its nature in terms of Christian doctrine (e.g. as a symbol of Christ, Satan, sin, or other moral aspects). The original version of the work was presumably composed in Alexandria sometime between the 2nd and the 4th century A.D. (there is, unfortunately, no scholarly agreement over any more precise dating). Its particular materials were derived from a wide range of 20

See van Thiel (1974) xiii-xiv, xxiv-xxvii; Merkelbach (1977) 64; Gunderson (1980) 32-33, 85-86, 90, 108-110; Samuel (1986) 434; Stoneman (1991) 10, 13; Jouanno (2002) 25; Stoneman (2007) xxvi-xxvii, xliii-xliv, lxxvii-lxxviii. 21 See van Thiel (1974) xxiv-xxv; Merkelbach (1977) 142-143; cf. Jouanno (2002) 46. Pfister [(1959) 31-32] derives the ‘fish-island’ episode specifically from ‘Craterus’ letter’, on the grounds that this latter marshal is mentioned among Alexander’s companions in 3.17.4. If so, we must assume that Pseudo-Callisthenes turned the story into a first-person narration by Alexander himself; in the original epistle it would have naturally been told from Craterus’ viewpoint. However, there existed many fictional letters of this kind, and the story might stem from any one of them. 22 On the medieval and later circulation of this folktale see Zacher (1867) 148-149; Runeberg (1902) 345-375, 381-386; Rohde (19143) 192; Cook (1919) lxxii-lxxiii; Coulter (1926) 36-38, 44-50; Thompson (1955-1958) motifs J1761.1, J1761.1.1; Hansen (2002) 181; Iannello (2011) 159-196; cf. Uther (2004) vol. 2, 500 (type 1960B); Konstantakos (2011b) 227.

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earlier lore, including various eastern legends, these being not only Egyptian, but also West-Asiatic, Hebrew, and even Indian. 23 Among the creatures described in the Physiologus (chapter 17) is the ܻıʌȚįȠȤİȜȫȞȘ, apparently a gigantic sea turtle. 24 Due to its enormous size, this is often mistaken for an island by ignorant mariners. They moor their ships to it, as though to a real isle, and plant their anchors and stakes. Then they disembark and light a fire on the creature, in order to cook food. The monster, however, sensing the heat, plunges to the bottom of the sea, thus sinking the ships. The Christian allegory adds that this creature resembles the Devil, who drags down to Hell the people attached to his vain hopes. 25 The motif of the cooking fire, familiar from Sinbad’s story and omnipresent in the Islamic tradition, appears here for the first time. The Alexander Romance states no reason why the monster suddenly dives. It only implies (especially in the fuller Armenian translation) that the creature was eventually disturbed by the human visitors’ movements on its back, and so plunged down into the depths some time later. 26 Even if the fire motif 23

See Perry (1941) 1074, 1100-1105; Seel (1960) 55-58; Curley (1980) 1-2, 7-10; Scott (1998); Curley (2009) ix, xvi-xxvi, and Iannello (2011) 153-157, with further bibliography. 24 On the nature of this creature, see Runeberg (1902) 370; Cook (1919) lxxiii-lxxxv; Curley (2009) 83; cf. Iannello (2011) 168. Its Greek name cannot signify a whale, pace Seel (1960) 17-18, 80, even though the Greek Physiologus brands this monster a ț߱IJȠȢ, while later versions and medieval bestiaries depict it as a huge cetacean. 25 Text in Sbordone (1936) 65-68: ‫ݕ‬ıIJȚ ț߱IJȠȢ ‫݋‬Ȟ IJ߲ șĮȜȐıı߯ ܻıʌȚįȠȤİȜȫȞȘ ȜİȖȩȝİȞȠȞ, įȪȠ ijȪıİȚȢ ‫ݏ‬ȤȠȞ. (…) ‫ ݠ‬į‫ܿ ޡ‬ȜȜȘ ijȪıȚȢ IJȠࠎ țȒIJȠȣȢǜ ȝȑȖĮ ‫݋‬ıIJ‫ ޥ‬ʌȐȞȣ, ‫ݼ‬ȝȠȚȠȞ ȞȒı࠙ǜ ܻȖȞȠȠࠎȞIJİȢ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ Ƞ‫ ݨ‬ȞĮࠎIJĮȚ, įİıȝİުȠȣıȚ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȜȠ߿Į Į‫ބ‬IJࠛȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ Į‫ރ‬IJާ ‫ސ‬Ȣ ‫݋‬Ȟ Ȟ‫ޤ‬ı࠙, țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޟ‬Ȣ ܻȖțުȡĮȢ țĮ‫ ޥ‬IJȠީȢ ʌĮıı‫ޠ‬ȜȠȣȢ IJࠛȞ ʌȜȠަȦȞ ʌ‫ޤ‬ııȠȣıȚȞ, ݀ʌIJȠȣıȚ į‫݋ ޡ‬ʌ‫ޠ‬ȞȦ IJȠࠎ ț‫ޤ‬IJȠȣȢ ʌȣȡ‫ޟ‬Ȟ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާ ‫݌‬ȥ߱ıĮȚ ‫݌‬ĮȣIJȠ߿Ȣ IJȚǜ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ޟ‬Ȟ į‫ ޡ‬șİȡȝĮȞș߲, įުȞİȚ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ȕȣșާȞ țĮ‫ޥ‬ ȕȣșަȗİȚ IJ‫ ޟ‬ʌȜȠ߿Į. ȀĮ‫ ޥ‬ıީ Ƞ‫މ‬Ȟ, ‫ޟ݋‬Ȟ țȡİȝ‫ޠ‬ı߯Ȣ ıİĮȣIJާȞ IJ߲ ‫݋‬ȜʌަįȚ IJȠࠎ įȚĮȕިȜȠȣ, ȕȣșަȗİȚ ıİ ݀ȝĮ Į‫ބ‬IJࠜ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ Ȗ‫ޢ‬İȞȞĮȞ IJȠࠎ ʌȣȡިȢ. See also Offermanns (1966) 70-72; Runeberg (1902) 354-355; Hansen (2002) 180; Curley (2009) 45-46; Iannello (2011) 157-159. The retelling of the legend in Pseudo-Eustathius of Antioch (Comm. in Hexaemeron, PG 18.724-725) clearly depends on the Physiologus and uses the same curious appellation (ܻıʌȚįȠȤİȜȫȞȘ). St Basil may also have the Physiologus in mind, when he briefly mentions “large cetaceans, which give the impression of islands, whenever they swim up to the very surface of the water” (Homiliae in Hexaemeron 7.6). Cf. Zacher (1867) 148; Runeberg (1902) 356, 384; Iannello (2011) 164-166. 26 A 3.17.6, see Kroll (1926) 107: ‫݋‬țȕȐȞIJȦȞ Į‫ރ‬IJࠛȞ ‫݋‬ʌ‫ ޥ‬IJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ ȞȠȝȚȗȠȝȑȞȘȞ Ȟ߱ıȠȞ ‫ޔ‬ȡĮȢ įȚİȜșȠȪıȘȢ ܿijȞȦ ‫ݏ‬įȣȞİ șȘȡȓȠȞ İ‫ݧ‬Ȣ IJާȞ ȕȣșȩȞ. Armenian translation 224, see Wolohojian (1969) 124: “And after they had arrived and prepared passageways for the boats, they hauled the boats by rope into the lake-shaped place and came out where we could see them. And after an hour had gone by, all of a sudden, the beast plunged into the depths of the sea”.

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was present in the original folktale which inspired Alexander’s adventure, the creators of this latter adventure would have been obliged to omit the fire, due to the special circumstances entailed in their scenario. The Macedonian soldiers cross over to the fish-isle only for a brief exploration and reconnaissance. Their regular camp is pitched in the Indian promontory nearby. It is presumably there that meals and other recreations take place. Thus the men have no reason to light a cooking fire on the apparent island. By contrast, the mariners of the Physiologus and of later tales mistake the huge creature for a new piece of terra firma, which they come across while seafaring. They thus anchor and disembark, in order to rest and refresh themselves. The Near-Eastern world provides further old examples of this storypattern. The Babylonian Talmud, compiled around A.D. 500, contains among its multifarious haggadic lore a number of fantastic tales attributed to Rabbah bar Bar ণana. This Jewish sage, a second generation Amora, lived in Babylonia and Palestine in the 3rd century A.D. and had a penchant for stories of marvels and travel wonders, so much so, that he is nowadays called ‘the Jewish Münchhausen’. One of his narratives is a succinct rendering of the fish-island adventure: “Once we were travelling on board a ship and saw a fish whose back was covered with sand, out of which grew grass. Thinking it was dry land, we disembarked on it and baked and cooked upon its back. When, however, its back got hot, the fish turned over; and if the ship had not been nearby, we should have been drowned”. 27

In addition to the cooking fire, this ancient Jewish version offers another significant motif which became popular later in the medieval tradition. Soil has been deposited over time on the back of the huge fish, and vegetation has grown out of the soil. This detail makes the spectacle more like a real island and explains more plausibly how the sailors are deceived by it. Because of the absence of this detail from the Greek Physiologus and the Alexander Romance, it has been argued that the vegetation motif is a secondary accretion developed by later oriental 27

Bava Batra 73b: Wünsche (1888) 171; Rodkinson (1902) 204; Goldschmidt (1906) 1133; cf. Runeberg (1902) 356; Cook (1919) lxxi-lxxii; Coulter (1926) 3435; Hansen (2002) 181. On Rabbah bar Bar ণana see Isaacs (1893) 126-134; Yassif (1999) 183-189, 217, 228-229, 502-503, and Ben-Amos (1999) 163 with more bibliography. Runeberg [(1902) 387-388] views the tale as a later tradition associated with Bar ণana’s name well after the sage’s death. This is unjustifiable; the story perfectly accords with all the other fantastic first-person narratives that are assigned to Bar ণana in the Talmud.

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storytellers. 28 Such an argument is not chronologically viable. If the Jewish variant was indeed told by Bar ণana in the 3rd century, it should be roughly contemporary or slightly earlier than the Physiologus and the recension Į of Pseudo-Callisthenes. More importantly, there are elements in both these Greek narratives that seem to presuppose the vegetation motif as part of the storyline. The sailors of the Physiologus light a fire for cooking on the back of the giant turtle. Since a fire requires wood, the most plausible sequence of events would involve the mariners coming upon trees or shrubs on the supposed island and using their branches for fuel. The sailors could, of course, have brought the wood from their own ship; but then why should they linger and cook on an entirely bare isle which did not offer any means of replenishing their supplies? 29 In Pseudo-Callisthenes, the presence of vegetation is implied by another element of the plot. The inhabitants of the Indian peninsula, when they are pointing out the apparent ‘island’ to the Macedonians, claim that an ancient king’s tomb, full of golden treasure, is situated there. Obviously, no such thing exists on the back of the beast; the tale is maliciously invented by the natives, in order to lure unsuspecting travellers to their doom. 30 If, however, the fish’s protruding back were entirely bare, Alexander and his men would clearly notice that no funerary monument was standing on it and would immediately discredit the natives’ account. After all, as noted in the narrative, the supposed ‘island’ was 28

See Runeberg (1902) 373-377. In a Byzantine codex of the Greek Physiologus (dating from the Palaeologan period but copied from an 11th century original), the miniature accompanying the aspidochelone does show trees growing from the back of the huge fish, although no such information is included in the Greek text; see Strzygowski (1899) 6, 25; Iannello (2011) 164; cf. Demus (1976). Later Latin and vernacular versions of the Physiologus narrative also include the vegetation or at least the sand; see Curley (2009) 45; Iannello (2011) 162, 164, 170, 172-177, 182-186, 191-195. 30 Oddly enough, in Julius Valerius’ version, Alexander states in his letter that the royal tomb was actually visible on the ‘island’ (omne id solum repente una cum viris et sepulchro, quod visebatur, submersari mari … conspicamur, 3.17.358-360). This, however, represents a misunderstanding or misconception peculiar to the Latin text and presumably attributable to its redactor. Indeed, Valerius has clearly not understood that the supposed ‘island’ was in fact a huge fish; hence the lack of such an explanation in his narrative (see above). The Latin translator apparently mistook the strange phenomenon for a real, though miraculously movable isle, perhaps because he was drawing on a faulty or defective Greek model (one similar e.g. to the A codex), where the piscine nature of the supposed ‘piece of land’ did not emerge adequately. As a result, Valerius could easily have formed the false impression that the funeral monument advertised by the natives was also truly conspicuous on the island. 29

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clearly visible from the promontory (3.17.3). Consequently, there must have been some trees or shrub thickets, which could have been assumed to hide the tomb. The vegetation motif thus appears to have been an integral component of the original folktale. Perhaps it was even contained in the primary literary version of Alexander’s adventure, in the Hellenistic ‘letter of wonders’. In Pseudo-Callisthenes, however, this element was eliminated, probably due to the curtailment suffered by the narrative. The Greek version of A in particular, as shown above, bears the marks of many lacunae and ellipses. In this case, the international popular dissemination of the story, which had already started in ancient times, helps fill in the gaps that were eventually produced in a branch of the literary transmission. Yet another variant comes from further east, from the holy scriptures of ancient Iran. The Avesta is the sacred canon of Zoroastrian works, a collection of hymns, prayers, and liturgical texts of ancient Iranian religion. In its extant form, the Avesta was written down during the Sasanian period (probably around the 5th or 6th century A.D.) and is transmitted by medieval and later manuscripts. However, it is generally agreed among scholars that the original formation and material of this corpus of works go back to a far more ancient age. The texts that make up the Avesta were orally composed over an extended period, presumably during the late 2nd and the 1st millennium B.C., and were orally preserved and handed down for many centuries by the priests of Zoroastrian Iran. 31 As is usual with ritual and hymnal texts in all religious traditions, the canticles of the Avesta contain many references to heroic figures of Iranian mythology. These include an adventure of the monster-slaying hero .HUHVƗVSD “who slew the horned dragon, the horse-devouring, man-devouring one, the poisonous, greenish-yellow one, over whom the yellow poison rose up, as high as a spear. On this creature .HUHVƗVSD was cooking his meal in an iron pot, at the hour of noon. The villainous monster became hot and started to sweat; it rushed away from under the pot and spilled the boiling water. And the manly-hearted .HUHVƗVSD was frightened and ran away”. 32 31

On the compilation of the Avesta and the original formation and dating of its materials see Rypka (1959) 7-16; Gershevitch (1968) 10-28; Boyce (1968) 33-34; Boyce (1975) 19-20; Yarshater (1983) 412-413; Malandra (1983) 16-31; Boyce (1990) 1-3, 22-23; Hintze (1994a) 42-45; Hintze (1994b) 9-10; Skjærvø (2005) 2-8, 34-36; Alberti (2013) 14-20, 65-67; Skjærvø (2013). 32 See Yasht 19.40 and almost identically Yasna 9.11; Darmesteter (1883) 295; Mills (1887) 234; Geldner (1886-1896) vol. 1, 41-42, vol. 2, 247-248; Malandra (1983) 91, 153; Hintze (1994a) 37-38, 212-218; Hintze (1994b) 23; Rachet (1996) 46-47,

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The brief narrative does not explain why .HUHVƗVSD mounted the back of the monster. Usually, the Avestan prayers only allude to ancient Iranian myths or recount them very summarily, omitting many details of the action. The main purpose of such texts was not narrative but religious and liturgical: namely, to praise the deities or accompany the performance of a ritual act. The myths were doubtless known to the faithful, and a brief outline sufficed to recall the full story to their minds. 33 Some of the missing details can be filled in by analogy to other ancient examples of the same tale-type. .HUHVƗVSD¶V fright at the end, when the dragon is disturbed and stirs, indicates that the hero was not initially aware of the nature of his location; he did not know that he was standing on a dragon. Probably, as the huge creature was lying down in repose, .HUHVƗVSD mistook it for a hill or a mountain ridge and climbed up to cross to the other side, 34 just like the sailors of the maritime tales, who mistake the fish’s back for an island. The fire motif is also present; during the hero’s march over the dragon’s body, noon comes and .HUHVƗVSD feeling hungry, sits down to cook his lunch. In spite of these similarities, the Avestan adventure presents one significant difference from the other specimens. The gigantic monster is here a beast of the land, not of the sea. Its description as “horse-devouring” obviously locates its activity on terra firma. 35 It is also noteworthy that this time the creature is not said to submerge itself or plunge down but simply to “rush away”. .HUHVƗVSD runs no risk of being drowned and is perfectly able to run away and escape from the fiendish monster. All these details indicate movements on land rather than at sea, walking and climbing rather than swimming or sailing. Since .HUHVƗVSD is revealed from the start to have slain the creature, we must assume that he would in the end overcome his fright and return to fight against the dragon. However, the last image of the brief narrative is that of the hero fleeing in fear. This casts some irony on 273; Skjærvø (2007) 11, 114; Alberti (2013) 115-116, 393. Cf. Runeberg (1902) 361-362; Coulter (1926) 35; Christensen (1931) 99-102; Boyce (1975) 102-104; Hansen (2002) 181. 33 Cf. Gershevitch (1968) 23; Hintze (1994a) 33-35. 34 The same interpretation is proposed by Boyce (1975) 102-103. The dragon’s greenish-yellow colour may be an echo of the vegetation motif. 35 Cf. Coulter (1926) 35-36; Curley (2009) 83. To argue, as Runeberg [(1902) 388389] does, that a marine monster can also eat horses, displays insensitivity towards the poetics of archaic, traditional, and largely formulaic composition, such as that of the Avestan hymns. A traditional religious poet, who is striving to encapsulate the essential nature of the creature into a limited number of typical epithets, would not think of ‘horse-devouring’ as the very first of the defining qualities of a sea monster. On the mythical connections between sea monsters and land-based dragons generally, cf. Ogden (2013) 5, 11-19, 116-147.

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the word “manly-hearted”, the typical epithet that accompanies .HUHVƗVSD¶V name in the Avestan tradition, not unlike the Homeric adjective ‘swiftfooted’ when applied to Achilles sitting in his tent.

2. Speculations on the Origins and Dissemination of the Story On the basis of the material surveyed in the previous section, we can put together a hypothetical scenario regarding the diffusion of the tale-type of the ‘fish-island’ in ancient cultures. The origins of the tale presumably lie in the area of the Middle East; as indicated by the Avesta, the story-pattern was already circulating there in the first millennium B.C. Significantly, a cognate type of story (the giant fish that swallows mariners intact and keeps them alive in its belly) also seems to have been widespread in the same general area. It occurs in the Hebrew book of Jonah and is amply exploited in Lucian’s comic science-fiction novel, the True Histories (1.30-2.2). 36 Lucian came from Samosata in northern Syria, on the west bank of the Euphrates. He must have heard many local fairy tales in his childhood, which were bound to resurface afterwards in his novelistic works. 37 Later, the ‘man swallowed by a fish’ became a popular theme in classical Indian storybooks, such as Somadeva’s .DWKƗVDULWVƗJDUD. Interestingly, Lucian’s narrative presents some analogies with characteristic motifs of the tales about the fish-island. In Lucian, the mariners who have been swallowed discover that soil has accumulated inside the gigantic cetacean, due to the mud it gulps. This soil has formed a land with hills; a forest and all kinds of trees have grown on its surface, and men are cultivating vegetables there (True Histories 1.31 and 1.33-34). This phenomenon corresponds to the sand or soil deposited on the back of the fish-isle and the vegetation that springs up from it, as found in Bar ণana and later traditions. Furthermore, when Lucian’s sailors wish to escape from the monster’s belly, they set fire to the forest inside it. For seven days the creature suffers no harm, but on the eighth day it starts feeling ill and sporadically opens and closes its muzzle. Eventually the monster dies, and 36

On this tale-type see Radermacher (1906); Schmidt (1907); Frazer (1919) 82-83; Coulter (1926) 39-44; Gunkel (1987) 145-146; Clouston (2002) 204-209; Hansen (2002) 261-264; Ogden (2013) 118-123. It is sometimes argued that Lucian parodies the same tradition which inspired Pseudo-Callisthenes’ episode; see Günter (1910) 84-85; Aerts (1994) 36-37; Georgiadou and Larmour (1998) 157; Jouanno (2002) 238; Anderson (2003) 559. Strictly speaking, however, the fish-island and the ‘man swallowed by a sea monster’ are distinct types of tale; cf. Schmidt (1907) 60-63. 37 Cf. Coulter (1926) 39-40; Georgiadou and Larmour (1998) 157.

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then the ship’s crew manage to open the monster’s mouth and sail out (True Histories 2.1-2). 38 This sequence of events recalls the cooking fire which is lit by the mariners on the back of the fish-island and disturbs the monster. The creature’s physical discomfort because of the flames is common to both narratives. However, Lucian, in his own scenario, has reversed the effects on the human protagonists. In the stories of the fish-island the fire leads the travellers to their doom, because it causes the creature to dive and drag them down. On the other hand, in the True Histories the fire proves a source of salvation, because it enables the sailors to escape from the huge fish and avoid destruction. Possibly Lucian knew some version of the adventure of the fish-island, which may well have been current in his Syrian homeland. From that story he borrowed the deposit of soil and the vegetation, as well as the lighting of the fire. He introduced both these elements into a simpler form of the tale about men who are swallowed by a great fish, this latter form being similar to the type represented e.g. in the book of Jonah. In other words, Lucian amalgamated the two related types of tale; he contaminated the basic storyline of the ‘cetacean that swallows men’ with episodic motifs from the ‘fish-island’, in order to create a richer setting and more adventurous action for his own narrative. If so, the True Histories, composed in the 2nd century A.D., provide an indirect testimony to the early formation of the vegetation and fire motifs. The fish-island story used by Lucian must have been circulating over a century before Bar ণana and recension Į of PseudoCallisthenes, and probably before the Physiologus as well. A plausible guess would be that the folktale about the gigantic fish was originally fashioned by some seafaring population in southern Mesopotamia, the Persian Gulf, or the Arabian Sea — in any case, by people that were used to sailing the Indian Ocean and other distant oriental waters. 39 These regions were more exotic, perilous, and unpredictable than the enclosed basin of the Mediterranean, and hence more likely to breed yarns about wondrous sea monsters. Whales and cetaceans were regularly sighted in the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea in ancient times and might have contributed to the formation of such narratives. 40 As happens with every good story, the tale of the fish-island soon spread over a wide area. It became known throughout the Near-Eastern 38 Fire is similarly exploited as a means for the sailors’ escape in many later folktales. See Radermacher (1906) 249-251; Schmidt (1907) 38-60; Frazer (1919) 83; Clouston (2002) 204-205. 39 Cf. Runeberg (1902) 377-379; Cook (1919) lxiii-lxxi. 40 See Arr. Ind. 30 and Strabo 15.2.11-13 (= Nearchus, FGrH 133 F 1b, 1.30); Plin. NH 9.4, 9.8, 32.10.

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world and was picked up by the imaginative rabbi Bar ণana, who moved between Palestine and Babylonia. 41 It also infiltrated inland Iran and was assimilated into the legend of .HUHVƗVSD albeit not without significant transformation. The ancient populations of Iran were not seafarers but highlanders and mountaineers. The original home of the Avesta in particular lay in north-eastern and central-eastern Iran, a region of mountain ranges and plateaus. The native inhabitants there had no experience of sea travels and adventures in distant oceans. They adapted the tale to the landscape of their own homeland. Thus the sea monster was turned into a dragon-serpent, and the mirage produced by it was no longer an island but a mountain ridge. This is, in my view, the likeliest hypothesis. A reverse scenario of dissemination has also been proposed: namely, that the Avesta has preserved the most primitive, land form of the monster; the latter was subsequently transformed into a sea creature when the story spread further in the East and was combined with maritime fables from the Indian seas. 42 But if this were the case, we would expect to find some tradition of tales which would preserve the original setting in terra firma, beyond the single Avestan specimen. The purported ‘primary’ version should have left further traces in time, at least in Iran and the neighbouring regions. However, there exists no such group of tales about dragons or land monsters that are mistaken for hills and mountains. The only wellrepresented international type is the maritime version, involving fishes that are mistaken for islands. Apart from this typical storyline, there are only very few divergent variants, which can be explained as isolated adaptations of the maritime form into different special settings. The legend of .HUHVƗVSD is the first such instance. Another one is provided by a tall story recorded in the modern age from a Finnish teller and concerning an exotic adventure in Africa. In this narrative, two travellers sit down to rest on what seems to be a thick tree trunk thrown on the ground. As they are smoking their cigars, the ash falls on the trunk, which suddenly begins to move. The trunk thus 41 Cook [(1919) lxxi] imagines that Bar ণana heard the tale from his Arab guides, while he was exploring the desert around Sinai, where the Israelites had wandered for forty years (see Babylonian Talmud, Bava Batra 73b-74a). Arab merchants would indeed be likely to pick up the story, while they were navigating in the Arabian Sea in order to trade in India. However, Bar ণana’s own journey to the desert is obviously one of his many fabulous yarns, replete with incredible wonders and not to be taken as literally true. Günter [(1910) 84] asserts that the Jewish sage derived the story from Egypt, from the same traditions that were used by the Alexandrian Physiologus. But Bar ণana lived and taught in Palestine and Babylonia, not in Egypt. 42 See Coulter (1926) 36.

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turns out to be a huge serpent. 43 This is the old fish-island tale altered to suit the conditions of the African jungle, just as the Avestan peoples, many centuries before, assimilated the narrative to their own mountainous surroundings. Yet another transformation is offered in modern times by the cinema trilogy of Star Wars. In a scene of the second film (The Empire Strikes Back, 1980), Han Solo and his companions flee from an enemy squadron and drive their spaceship into an apparent cave in an asteroid. Soon the supposed cave begins to quake, especially when Solo fires a couple of shots upon its ground. The fugitives then understand that they have actually landed inside the open mouth of a huge space worm, which inhabits the asteroid; they have barely enough time to board their spacecraft and fly away, while the giant slug bites the air around in the hope of swallowing them. And so our ancient folktale survives into the age of space travel. 44 How was the story incorporated into Alexander’s adventures? The link was perhaps provided by the reports of soldiers who had taken part in the Macedonian king’s campaigns in Asia. These veterans, returning from the most far-flung expedition ever undertaken by a Greek army, would have been tempted to pepper their accounts with fabulous yarns about the sights they had purportedly witnessed in the depths of the Orient. Many fantastic tales about Alexander’s explorations at the edges of the earth may ultimately derive from such soldiers’ lore. 45 Often the veterans’ stories were triggered off by actual experiences they had encountered in the course of their long and eventful march in the East. For example, the meetings with monstrous populations (dog-heads, hair-covered giants, headless people with mouths and eyes on the chest, sixhanded and strap-footed humanoids) 46 may echo the clashes with native tribes of Central Asia that wore animal skins and theriomorphic helmets in battle. The nocturnal attack by a variety of huge beasts around a lake shore (Pseudo-Callisthenes 3.17.18-22) is possibly inspired by Alexander’s regal hunt in the game park at Bazaira, near Samarkand, where 4000 animals were 43

See Runeberg (1902) 390. For another adaptation of the folktale pattern to the genre of science fiction see Konstantakos (2015c) concerning a fantasy play in Modern Greek, Pavlos Matesis’ Biochemistry. In this text, the planet Earth is presented as a huge living beast, which human beings mistakenly took for inanimate soil and used as a place of habitation. Suddenly, the monster Earth wakes up; it leaves its orbit in the solar system and drifts away in space, carrying the entire human race on its back and threatening to shake it off. 45 See van Thiel (1974) xxv-xxvii; Merkelbach (1977) 55-56, 59, 61-68; Gunderson (1980) 3, 5-6, 123-124; Stoneman (1991) 11, 13-14; Aerts (1994) 34-35; Jouanno (2002) 24. 46 See e.g. Pseudo-Callisthenes 2.33, 2.37, 3.17.20, 3.28.2. 44

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slain (Quint. Curt. 8.1.11-19). The journey in the land of darkness (PseudoCallisthenes 2.39-41) may preserve memories from night marches through the Gedrosian desert or from meteorological phenomena in the Hindu Kush and the Zagros mountains; and so forth. 47 The soldiers fictionalised their strange experiences, mixed them with legendary elements, and inflated them to fantastic dimensions. Memories were thus transformed into marvels. The authors of Hellenistic ‘letters of wonders’ amply drew on the veterans’ travel lore and reworked it in literary form for the fable-loving reading public. The adventure of the fish-island may similarly have been inspired from actual incidents of the expedition. Nearchus’ fleet encountered shoals of large spouting whales in the Indian Ocean; the Greek sailors, unaccustomed to such sights, must have been startled. Further on, at the coast of presentday Pakistan, the men heard local legends of the island of Nosala (presentday Astola in the Arabian Sea), which was rumoured to magically cause ships and sailors to disappear, as soon as they touched it. The Macedonian crews were alarmed; Nearchus, however, demolished these fairy tales by simply disembarking on Nosala and letting everyone see that he suffered no harm. These occurrences, combined together, might suggest to fanciful soldiers the idea of a huge fish that is mistaken for an island and makes mariners vanish by dragging them down to the sea bottom. Another detail of Pseudo-Callisthenes’ narrative, the royal tomb supposedly to be found on the islet, recalls a different tradition, which Nearchus’ men heard on an isle off the coast of Kerman. It was said that the tomb of the ancient king Erythres, the eponymous hero of the Erythrean Sea, was situated there. 48 All these happenings, however, do not account for the formation of the story of the fish-island per se. The folktale was fully-fledged and current in the East long before Nearchus’ mission, as indicated by the Avestan hymns. The men of the Macedonian fleet, or more generally the soldiers of Alexander’s troops, must have heard this fabulous narrative somewhere in the course of their itinerary through Asia. Spending a long period of time in 47

For these and more examples see van Thiel (1974) xxvii; Merkelbach (1977) 6668; Gunderson (1980) 97, 100-105, 110-115; Stoneman (1991) 11, 13-14; Stoneman (1994) 96-97; Jouanno (2002) 145-146, 211; Stoneman (2008) 74-77; Callu (2010) 249-250; Konstantakos (2015a). 48 See Arr. Ind. 30, 31, 37.3 and Strabo 15.2.11-13 (= Nearchus FGrH 133 F 1.3031, 1.37.3, 1b, 1c); Plin. NH 6.97, 6.153; Quint. Curt. 10.1.14. For the connection of these incidents with the story of the fish-island see Kampers (1901) 67; Rohde (19143) 192; Cook (1919) lxiii-lxxi; Coulter (1926) 38; Perry (1941) 1085; Pfister (1959) 28-32, 36; Seel (1960) 80; Stoneman (1994) 96; Jouanno (2002) 146; Callu (2010) 249.

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these lands, they would easily have picked up sundry pieces of local storytelling. Actual experiences from the campaign probably served only as starting points or reminders, which brought to mind the tales heard on one or another occasion and prompted the men to incorporate such tales into their own fantastically embellished reports. The day-to-day incidents, such as sightings of whales or rumours of a royal grave, were thus assimilated into the structure of the fairy tale and became motifs subservient to its traditional storyline. In other words, the veterans used the fabulous folktales, which they had learned in the regions of the Orient, as a means of fictionalising their extraordinary recollections of these same regions. Thus they gave expression to an important aspect of their experience, to which they could hardly have done justice otherwise. The very achievement of Alexander seemed to be the stuff of legend. The vast territory he traversed, the unprecedented scale of his conquests, the strange new lands he opened up, all placed him on a quasi-mythical level. In the eyes of his soldiers —the rough, exhausted, glorious men that made Alexander’s vision a reality— this was no province for tidy matter-of-fact historians. Fairy tale was the only mode capable of capturing the essence of their stunning adventure.

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