Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity 9783110212532, 9783110212525

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Table of Contents
A. Introduction
B. The Body in Performance
Sermo corporis: Ancient Reflections on gestus, vultus and vox
Bodies and Topographies in Ancient Stylistic Theory
Paying Attention to the Man behind the Curtain: Disclosing and Withholding the Imperial Presence in Justinianic Constantinople
C. The Erotic Body
Man as Monster: Eros and Hubris in Plato’s Symposium ∗
Corpus erat: Sulpicia’s Elegiac Text and Body in Ovid’s Pygmalion Narrative (Met. 10.238-297)
Transsexuals and Transvestites in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
D. The Dressed Body
Body-Modification in Classical Greece
“Clothes Make the Man”: Dressing the Roman Freedman Body
E. Pagan and Christian Bodies
The Female Body in Late Antiquity: Between Virtue, Taboo and Eroticism
Early Christian and Judicial Bodies
F. Animal Bodies and Human Bodies
Shifting Species: Animal and Human Bodies in Attic Vase Painting of the 6th and 5th Centuries B.C.
Exemplary Animals: Greek Animal Statues and Human Portraiture
Backmatter

Citation preview

Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity

Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity Edited by Thorsten Fögen and Mireille M. Lee

Walter de Gruyter · Berlin · New York

The Alexander von Humboldt Foundation (Bonn) and the Excellence Cluster “TOPOI. The Formation and Transformation of Space and Knowledge in Ancient Civilizations” (Humboldt-Universität Berlin & Freie Universität Berlin) have provided a financial subsidy towards the production of this volume.

Printed on acid-free paper which falls within the guidelines of the ANSI to ensure permanence and durability. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bodies and boundaries in Graeco-Roman antiquity / edited by Thorsten Fögen and Mireille M. Lee. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-11-021252-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Human body -- Social aspects -- Greece. 2. Human body -- Social aspects -- Rome. 3. Human body in literature. I. Fögen, Thorsten. II. Lee, Mireille M. GT497.G8B63 2009 306.4—dc22 2009027988 ISBN 978-3-11-021252-5 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © Copyright 2009 by Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, D-10785 Berlin. All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in Germany Cover design: Christopher Schneider, Laufen

Editors’ Preface Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee “The body poses the biggest question for me. It’s a question itself. It’s all about needs and desires and union and oneness and aloneness. It’s all about the edges and boundaries of the flesh, the needs of the flesh. I’m trying to find out what my relationship to the body is, the comfort and discomfort, the appropriate and the inappropriate.” Eric Fischl (in an interview with A. M. Homes). In: Bomb. A Quarterly Arts & Culture Magazine 50 (1994/95), 28.

This volume examines the ways in which bodies, lived and imagined, were implicated in issues of cosmic order and social organization in classical antiquity. The papers consider bodies from various perspectives: the body in performance, the erotic body, the dressed body, pagan and Christian bodies, and animal as well as human bodies. All explore the ways in which bodies can transgress and dissolve, shore up, or even create, boundaries and hierarchies; and how boundaries are constantly negotiated, shifted and refigured, through the practices of embodiment. Six of the thirteen articles are revised and expanded versions of papers which were presented at a conference held at Harvard’s “Center for Hellenic Studies” (Washington, D.C.) from 28 to 30 April 2006 (Alexandridis, Fögen, Lee, Pazdernik, Petersen and Worman). They have been supplemented with seven commissioned contributions from scholars in the United States and Germany (Ferrari, Hallett, Keesling, Lateiner, von Möllendorff, Perkins and Schade), several of whom attended the conference in Washington. The articles draw on a range of evidence and approaches, and cover a broad chronological and geographical span. It is a great pleasure to thank the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation (Bonn) and the Excellence Cluster “TOPOI. The Formation and Transformation of Space and Knowledge in Ancient Civilizations” (Humboldt-Universität

Berlin & Freie Universität Berlin) for a generous financial subsidy towards the production of this volume. We are grateful to Maria Zumkowski (Thorsten Fögen’s research assistant), Jaclyn Baker (Mireille Lee’s research assistant) and the De Gruyter staff, especially Manfred Link, for valuable assistance with the proofs. Berlin & Washington, D.C. February 2009

Table of Contents A. Introduction Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee Editors’ Preface ............................................................................... V Gloria Ferrari Introduction ......................................................................................1 Thorsten Fögen The Body in Antiquity: A Very Select Bibliography .....................11

B. The Body in Performance Thorsten Fögen Sermo corporis: Ancient Reflections on gestus, vultus and vox .................................................................................15 Nancy Worman Bodies and Topographies in Ancient Stylistic Theory ...................45 Charles Pazdernik Paying Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain: Disclosing and Withholding the Imperial Presence in Justinianic Constantinople..........................................................63

C. The Erotic Body Peter von Möllendorff Man as Monster: Eros and Hubris in Plato’s Symposium...............87 Judith P. Hallett Corpus erat: Sulpicia’s Elegiac Text and Body in Ovid’s Pygmalion Narrative (Metamorphoses 10.238-297) ....................111

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Donald Lateiner Transsexuals and Transvestites in Ovid’s Metamorphoses ..........125

D. The Dressed Body Mireille M. Lee Body-Modification in Classical Greece .......................................155 Lauren Hackworth Petersen “Clothes Make the Man”: Dressing the Roman Freedman Body...........................................181

E. Pagan and Christian Bodies Kathrin Schade The Female Body in Late Antiquity: Between Virtue, Taboo and Eroticism .........................................215 Judith Perkins Early Christian and Judicial Bodies..............................................237

F. Animal Bodies and Human Bodies Annetta Alexandridis Shifting Species: Animal and Human Bodies in Attic Vase Painting in the 6th and 5th Centuries B.C. .............261 Catherine M. Keesling Exemplary Animals: Greek Animal Statues and Human Portraiture .................................................................283

Index locorum.....................................................................................311

Introduction Gloria Ferrari The project of Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity began with a conference at Harvard’s Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington, D.C., April 28-30, 2006. The call for papers announced its theme as follows: “In the classical world, the cosmic order was enacted, in part, through bodies. The evaluative divisions between, for example, humans and animals, mortals and immortals, women and men, could all be played out across the terrain of somatic difference, embedded as it was within wider social and cultural matrices.”

The idea that the body is a microcosm, so incisively stated here, has become an operative concept in recent studies, where it marks a productive trend within what is still a relatively new field of inquiry. The human body emerged as an important topic in disciplines across the social sciences and the humanities roughly thirty years ago.1 The forces that contributed to this phenomenon are many and diverse. Among them, feminist writings in the late 1960s and 70s, queer studies and postcolonial theory all called attention to the ways in which dominant ideologies identify, shape and control particular bodies under specific cultural and historical circumstances. But if one were to look for a single catalyst within the academy, most would agree it was the work of Michel Foucault. Foucault challenged the notion of the body as an unproblematic fact of nature, globally and at its very core: the body/mind dichotomy. He claimed that the body exists in the political field and is marked and constrained by institutional powers; the soul exists insofar as it “is produced permanently around, on, within the body by the functioning of a power that is exercised on those punished” (Foucault 1979: 29). Reversing the Cartesian paradigm, he famously stated: “the soul is the prison of the body” (Foucault 1979: 30). He thus effectively extended the debate over the status of the body outside philosophical discourse and made it a central concern in studies of culture and society and the proper subject of historical inquiry. The impact of Foucault’s formulation on the field of classical studies has been considerable. We may recognize its imprint already in Vernant’s essay on 1

For a historiographic account, see Richlin (1997).

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the way mortal bodies were imagined in relationship to the bodies of the gods (Vernant 1991: 28):2 “Would the Greeks, in representing the gods to themselves, really have attributed to them the form of corporeal existence that is proper to all perishable creatures here on earth? To pose the question in these terms would be to admit from the outset that for human beings ‘the body’ is a given, a fact, something immediately evident, a ‘reality’ inscribed in nature and, as such, beyond question. (...) But we can also approach the problem from the opposite angle and direct our inquiry to the body itself, no longer posited as a fact of nature, a constant and universal reality, but rather viewed as an entirely problematic idea, a historical category, steeped in the imagination (to use Le Goff’s expression), and one which must, in every case, be deciphered within a particular culture by defining the functions it assumes and the forms it takes within that culture.”

Overwhelmingly, whether positive or negative, the classicists’ initial engagement with Foucault focussed on issues of gender and sexuality, partly in response to the reconstruction of sexual identities in ancient Greek and Roman societies presented in the second and third volumes of his History of Sexuality (Foucault 1985, 1986).3 The debate over his approach to the question of “the body” has been intense and productive, bringing crucial points of his theory into sharper focus and introducing new issues. What has come under fire is not the position that the body is socially constructed. Rather, critical attention has been brought to bear on the very notion of “the body” in Foucault’s text, with all its metaphors. Feminist writers pointed to the pervasive absence of women from consideration.4 Foucault’s body, when its gender is specified, is a male body or at best an unmarked body, much in the way the unmarked pronoun “he” subsumes and elides the feminine under the sign of the masculine. At a more fundamental level, Judith Butler questioned the ontological status of the body in his thought, observing that recurring figures projecting it as the site that is subjected to normalizing practices and regimes of power, “the inscribed surface of events” (Foucault 1977: 148), imply that the body somehow pre-exists its construction. And if one rejects this possibility, as she does, it remains to be seen how such cultural construction proceeds, how bodies acquire their identity (Butler 1989: 601):5 “What is it that circumscribes this site called ‘the body’? How is this delimitation made, and who makes it? Which body qualifies as ‘the body’? What es2 3 4 5

On Foucault’s engagement with Vernant, see Leonard (2005: 1-95 passim). For a comprehensive look at the reception of Foucault on the part of classicists, see Larmour, Miller & Platter (1998). See e.g. Richlin (1998) and, for a more favourable appraisal, DuBois (1998: 96-98). See also Butler (1993: 1-16) and Butler (1999: 163-180).

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tablishes the ‘the’, the existential status of this body? Does the existent body in its anonymous universality have a gender, an unspoken one?”

Central to Butler’s thesis of how subjectivity comes into being, with particular reference to gender, is the concept of performativity, understood as the stylized, repeated performance of normative behaviours that produces the illusion of a stable core identity (Butler 1990). The boundary of this identity is established and maintained by the exclusion of other identifications, of the “abject”, which forms “the constitutive outside to the domain of the subject”. The notions of performance and of identity as unstable and permeable boundary, on which Butler relies, play a central role in the essays in this volume. They have a long history in anthropological theory, where the body was always an important concern. In a far-reaching article of 1936, Marcel Mauss introduced the concept of habitus, which was to receive significant elaboration at the hands of Bourdieu (1977: 72-95). Far from being natural, he argued, the arrangement, display and use of the human body – what he called “techniques of the body” – are culturally coded and specific to a particular time and society (Mauss 1936).6 Mauss’ study proved a starting point in the development of the other foundational statement of a symbolic theory of the body, roughly contemporary with Foucault’s, namely Mary Douglas’. Moving forward from Mauss’ position, Douglas proposed that the structure of the body as it is perceived is constrained by and analogical to that of society: a bounded organism with an internal structure (Douglas 1966: 114-128; 1970: 65-81). Just as the margins of society are the site of potential disorder and change, the boundary of the body through its orifices opens onto the danger of pollution and disintegration. Accordingly, bodily refuse – such as spit, feces, hair clippings – become ritually charged with special powers that threaten its integrity. Douglas’ trenchant question: “Why should bodily refuse be a symbol of danger and of power?” was crucial to Kristeva’s development of a theory of “abjection”, which has become an influential point of reference in many recent studies of the body in classical antiquity.7 The revulsion that is experienced in the presence of what is cast out, defiled and decayed marks the line of separation between the subject and what it must reject in order to sustain its identity, ultimately the boundary between man and beast, between the corpse and the living. This post-Foucauldian perspective informs Bodies and Boundaries, which brings together trends represented in recent work dealing with the body in 6 7

On Mauss’ role in the development of notions of performance, see Asad (2000: 46-49). In the field of sociology Goffman (1956) was especially influential. See Douglas (1966: 120) and Kristeva (1982). Douglas’ proposal informs Carson’s analysis of the woman’s body in ancient Greek thought (Carson 1990); on abjection and the corpse see e.g. Montserrat’s “Unidentified human remains” (Montserrat 1998) and Perkins (2009, in this volume).

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Greek and Roman literature and art. The notion of “the” body as a generalized, unmarked category has largely given way to “bodies”, to acknowledge a much more complex state of affairs. While gender remains an essential analytical tool, interest is shifting to the diverse ways in which bodies are symbolically constituted and apprehended in specific contexts. Gender remains the organizing principle for Wyke’s edited volumes Gender and the Body (1998a) and Parchments of Gender (1998b), but several collections of essays now coalesce around themes other than sexuality broadly conceived. In its sweep from antiquity to the early modern period, Hopkins’ and Wyke’s Roman Bodies (2005), although substantially Foucauldian in approach, takes as its main axis the city of Rome, both as urban space and as an idea. Montserrat’s Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings (1998) explores practices of body modification and their social and ideological implications. Increasingly attention has turned to the self-fashioning of the body through verbal and non-verbal expressions – gestures, alterations, clothes and adornment. The essays on the “body language” in the volume edited by Douglas Cairns (2005) ostensibly situate themselves outside any theory of the body and trace their pedigree to long series of works on the subject in classical studies. The notion of performance, however, in its various formulations, from Bourdieu’s to Butler’s, is key to the analyses of the orator in Gleason’s Making Men (1995) and Gunderson’s Staging Masculinity (2000), to cite just two examples. Bodies as performance and in performance are the subjects of the first three essays of this book. Thorsten Fögen looks at the way Roman treatises on oratory lay out prescriptions for the correct deployment of non-verbal signs – the quality of the voice, gesture and garb, expression. Their arguments, he observes, often proceed by comparisons that pit the right kind of deportment against the behaviour of groups that are marginalized or disfranchised one way or another, such as the disabled and the uneducated, children and foreigners, women and “effeminate” men. As these aberrant configurations outlie the paradigmatic male body they also constitute its boundary, one that requires constant vigilance. Nancy Worman traces the figure of the body in metaphors that cast styles of writing (and music) in terms of the disposition and movement of bodies in space. Her analysis brings to light unexpected and significant regularities in the use made of these images in Greek and Roman writers across a span of many centuries, where it intersects with that of topographical features that either embody or impose particular deportments. Bodily and geographical tropes, she argues, are morally charged and serve to highlight the ethical dimension of particular aesthetic choices. Charles Pazdernik explores the anxiety and resistance that accompany any shift in boundaries by focussing on a spectacular case, that of innovations in the ceremony of the audience at the court of Justinian and Theodora. Justinian’s claim to quasi-divine status imposed

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changes in the performance required of members of the senate, who were now expected to prostrate themselves before the emperors, thereby characterizing their position as one of servitude not only in words but also in the language of ritualized gestures. The most disturbing effect of this procedure was to erase the boundary between the elite and less worthy subjects, down to defeated barbarians. The section on “The Erotic Body” opens with a classic in discussions of ancient Greek sexuality, Plato’s Symposium. Peter von Möllendorff offers a new reading of the fable of the primeval double-bodied humans told by Aristophanes, one that reveals what is Aristophanic about this etiology of the human body. Our shape, which now seems normal, indeed beautiful, is in fact punishment for an act of hubris that transformed what was once a complete, fulfilled body into a monster (in the etymological meaning of the word and in the sense of freakish) driven by the unattainable desire to recover its original form. The speech, according to Möllendorff, has a pivotal role in the dialogue in that it opens a discourse on the monstrous and the dangers of hubris that serves as a parable for the philosopher’s quest for beauty. In her reading of the Pygmalion story in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Judith Hallett recovers a wealth of allusions to the poetry attributed to Sulpicia, in which the latter describes herself and her desires. These intertextualities suggest that a real woman and a poet is refashioned at Ovid’s hands much like the ivory, which Pygmalion’s touch brings to life. Ovid’s Metamorphoses are also the terrain for Donald Lateiner’s exploration of the permeable boundaries of gender in myths that involve transsexual change or transvestism. The two essays that follow focus on the construction of bodies through alteration, clothing and adornment. Mireille Lee frames her analysis of the functions of body-modification in classical Greece in terms of Douglas’ and Bourdieu’s theories of the body. Drawing upon literary sources and paintings on Athenian vases, she reconstructs the whole range of practices devoted to the care and fashioning of bodies, from the daily regimen involving diet, exercise and hygiene, to the styling of hair, the use of cosmetics and perfumes. As they bring into existence specific social identities, these practices also create and maintain essential differences separating men from women and Greeks from barbarians. Lauren Petersen calls attention to a creature on the margins: the Roman freedman. Although he has undergone a social metamorphosis, the stigma of his past as a slave lingers and imposes limitations on his agency. But representations of freedmen on monuments show that neither the clothes they wear nor their stance are sufficient to distinguish then from freeborn citizens. The caricature of Trimalchio in the Satyricon, Petersen shows, brings to the fore the anxiety with which the elite regarded the admission of the former

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slave in the citizen body and its desire to stress the precarious, paradoxical quality of his new identity. The fourth section of the volume concerns conceptions of the body in early Christianity. Kathrin Schade confronts two apparently antithetical models of femininity: on the one hand the ascetic, asexual body of pious women portrayed in patristic writers; on the other the depictions of imperial and aristocratic women that are found on a wide range of monuments. The latter openly appeal to pagan sources and emphasize the seductive quality of the female body, ultimately evoking the paragon of Venus. The differences between the two should be understood in terms of their different functions. While the ascetic ideal reflects Christian spirituality, the glamorous quality of the visual representations points to the roles of women as wives and mothers. Schade concludes by tracing the convergence of these two modes in portraits of the empress and in the image of the Virgin Mary. The debate over the materiality of the body of Christ and of the human body in resurrection in the late second century A.D. is the subject of Judith Perkins’ essay. She observes that proponents of the materiality of the body reverse the cultural perception of the disintegration of the corpse as the collapse of its boundary, its descent into ultimate abjection. Writers such as Tertullian and Athenagoras contemplate the decay of the body without horror or disgust, in the belief that it will recover its fundamental integrity in the Last Judgement. The emergence of this doctrine, Perkins argues, should be set against the background of contemporary developments in the judicial system, which exempted members of the upper classes from the increasingly harsh and even cruel corporal punishments inflicted on the humiliores. With its insistence that human beings, body and soul, would all be equally subjected to judgement, the Christian position challenges the boundary separating elite bodies from the lower classes in the administration of justice and the resulting inequity of the legal system. The final two chapters look at ways in which individuals may be imagined to cross the divide separating humans from beasts. Annetta Alexandridis examines the imagery of metamorphosis in Athenian vase paintings of the late archaic and classical periods focussing on three case-studies: Actaeon’s transformation into a stag, the metamorphosis of Odysseus’ companions at Circe’s hands and the multiple shapes Thetis assumes in her attempt to escape Peleus’ grip. Her analysis points to significant differences in the iconographical schemes chosen in each case as well as to a shift that emphasizes the interpenetration of human and animal forms in the classical period. The reverse transition, from animal to human, after a fashion, is the focus of Catherine Keesling’s essay on Greek statues of animals and their Roman viewers. She reviews the literary and archaeological evidence attesting to the display of animal sculpture in funerary contexts and, most of all, major sanctuaries. While there

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is never any indication that these statues were literally anthropomorphized, writers of the Second Sophistic, particularly Pausanias and Aelian, envision particular ones as honorific portraits. As in the case of the Delphian wolf, who had led the citizens to the gold that had been stolen from the sanctuary, these animals are endowed with a history and an identity and, although not human, may be held as exempla of human virtues. The present volume on Bodies and Boundaries shares with recent studies, several which were mentioned above, an emphasis on performance and on self-styling through body language and modifications. Among them, it is distinguished by its focus on the margins, that is, on the dynamics by which the contour of the body as a being and as a social agent is defined, maintained, transgressed or undone. This perspective brings to the fore what is most problematic about embodiment: its materiality. On the one hand having a body is a property that stretches across a continuum ranging from the divine down to inanimate objects. On the other the order of the universe depends on the observance of the hierarchy of god, man, beast, thing; that of society on the ranking of its members by social status and gender. The very order of things, then, hinges on the creation of difference between one category of bodies and the next. Altogether, the essays in this volume illuminate the ancient conception of such a set of boundaries by exploring the ways in which prescriptive behaviours bring them into being, while transgressions open up visions of the monstrous (in the etymological sense) or the world upside down, where matter comes alive, animals have ethical sensibilities, and slaves morph into citizens.

Bibliography Asad, Talal (2000): Remarks on the anthropology of the body. In: Sarah Coakley (ed.), Religion and the Body, Cambridge, 42-52. Bourdieu, Pierre (1977): Outline of a Theory of Practice (transl. Richard Nice), Cambridge. Butler, Judith (1989): Foucault and the paradox of bodily inscriptions. In: Journal of Philosophy 86, 601-607. Butler, Judith (1990): Performative acts and gender constitution. An essay in phenomenology and feminist theory. In: Sue-Ellen Case (ed.), Performing Feminisms. Feminist Critical Theory and Theatre, Baltimore, 270-282. Butler, Judith (1993): Bodies that Matter. On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”, New York & London. Butler, Judith (1999): Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, New York & London. Cairns, Douglas (ed.) (2005): Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea.

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Carson, Anne (1990): Putting her in her place. Woman, dirt, and desire. In: David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler & Froma I. Zeitlin (eds.), Before Sexuality. The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton, 135-169. Douglas, Mary (1966): Purity and Danger. An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, New York & Washington. Douglas, Mary (1970): Natural Symbols, New York. DuBois, Page (1998): The subject in antiquity after Foucault. In: David H. J. Larmour, Paul Allen Miller & Charles Platter (eds.), Rethinking Sexuality. Foucault and Classical Antiquity, Princeton, 85-103. Foucault, Michel (1977): Nietzsche, genealogy, history. In: Donald F. Bouchard (ed.), Language, Counter-Memory, Practice. Selected Essays and Interviews (transl. Donald F. Bouchard & Sherry Simon), Ithaca, 139-164. Foucault, Michel (1979): Discipline and Punish. The Birth of the Prison (transl. Alan Sheridan), New York. Foucault, Michel (1985): The Use of Pleasure (transl. Robert Hurley), London. Foucault, Michel (1986): The Care of the Self (transl. Robert Hurley), London. Hopkins, Andrew & Maria Wyke (eds.) (2005): Roman Bodies. Antiquity to the Eighteenth Century, London. Gleason, Maud (1995): Making Men. Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome, Princeton. Goffman, Erving (1956): The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Edinburgh. Gunderson, Erik (2000): Staging Masculinity. The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World, Ann Arbor. Kristeva, Julia (1982): The Powers of Horror. An Essay on Abjection (transl. Leon S. Roudiez), New York. Larmour, David H. J., Paul Allen Miller & Charles Platter (eds.) (1998): Rethinking Sexuality. Foucault and Classical Antiquity, Princeton. Leonard, Miriam (2005): Athens in Paris. Ancient Greece and the Political in Post-War French Thought, Oxford. Mauss, Marcel (1936): Les techniques du corps. In: Journal de Psychologie 32, 271293. Montserrat, Dominic (1998): Unidentified human remains. Mummies and the erotics of biography. In: Id. (ed.), Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings. Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, London & New York, 162-197. Montserrat, Dominic (ed.) (1998): Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings. Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, London & New York. Perkins, Judith (2009): Early Christian and judicial bodies. In: Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin & New York, 239-261. Richlin, Amy (1997): Towards a history of body history. In: Mark Golden & Peter Toohey (eds.), Inventing Ancient Culture, London, 16-35.

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Richlin, Amy (1998): Foucault’s History of Sexuality. A useful theory for women? In: David H. J. Larmour, Paul Allen Miller & Charles Platter (eds.), Rethinking Sexuality. Foucault and Classical Antiquity, Princeton, 138-170. Vernant, Jean-Pierre (1991): Mortals and immortals. The body of the divine. In: Id., Mortals and Immortals. Collected Essays. Edited by Froma Zeitlin, transl. by Anne M. Wilson, Princeton, 27-49. Originally published as: Corps obscur, corps éclatant, in: Charles Malamoud & Jean-Pierre Vernant (eds.), Corps des dieux (Le temps de la réflexion 7), Paris 1986, 19-45. Wyke, Maria (ed.) (1998a): Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford & Malden, Mass. Wyke, Maria (ed.) (1998b): Parchments of Gender. Deciphering the Bodies of Antiquity, Oxford.

The Body in Antiquity: A Very Select Bibliography Thorsten Fögen For reasons of space, this list is restricted to books and monographs. Given the vastness of the topic, which is thematically connected with a great number of other areas (e.g. myth, cult, ritual and religion, science, philosophy etc.), this bibliography makes no claim whatsoever to be comprehensive. It has the rather modest aim to provide a tool for those who would like to familiarize themselves with research on the body in Graeco-Roman antiquity.

More recent studies: Braund, Susanna Morton & Barbara K. Gold (eds.) (1998): Vile Bodies. Roman Satire and Corporeal Discourse (= Arethusa, vol. 31.3), Baltimore. Cairns, Douglas (ed.) (2005): Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea. Cleland, Liza, Mary Harlow & Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (eds.) (2005): The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, Oxford. Fabricius, Johanna (2003): Soma / corpus. Körperbilder und Körperkonzepte in der griechischen und römischen Kultur, Göttingen (unpublished ‘Habilitationsschrift’). Hopkins, Andrew & Maria Wyke (eds.) (2005): Roman Bodies. Antiquity to the Eighteenth Century, London. Koloski-Ostrow, Ann Olga & Claire L. Lyons (eds.) (1997): Naked Truths. Women, Sexuality, and Gender in Classical Art and Archaeology, London & New York. Montserrat, Dominic (ed.) (1998): Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings. Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, London & New York. Porter, James I. (ed.) (1999): Constructions of the Classical Body, Ann Arbor. Prost, Francis & Jérôme Wilgaux (eds.) (2006): Penser et représenter le corps dans l’Antiquité. Actes du colloque international de Rennes (1-4 septembre 2004), Rennes. Rousselle, Aline (1988): Porneia. On Desire and the Body in Antiquity (transl. Felicia Pheasont), Oxford.

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Stewart, Andrew (1997): Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. Thommen, Lukas (2007): Antike Körpergeschichte, Zürich. Wyke, Maria (ed.) (1998a): Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford. Wyke, Maria (ed.) (1998b): Parchments of Gender. Deciphering the Bodies of Antiquity, Oxford.

Also of interest: Aldrete, Gregory S. (1999): Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome, Baltimore. Alexandridis, Annetta (2004): Die Frauen des römischen Kaiserhauses. Eine Untersuchung ihrer bildlichen Darstellung von Livia bis Julia Domna, Mainz. Bernsdorff, Hans (1992): Zur Rolle des Aussehens im homerischen Menschenbild, Göttingen. Boegehold, Alan L. (1999): When a Gesture Was Expected. A Selection of Examples from Archaic and Classical Greek Literature, Princeton. Bogen, Kathrin (1969): Gesten in Begrüßungsszenen auf attischen Vasen, Bonn. Bremmer, Jan & Herman Roodenburg (eds.) (1992): A Cultural History of Gesture, Ithaca. Brilliant, Richard (1963): Gesture and Rank in Roman Art. The Use of Gestures to Denote Status in Roman Sculpture and Coinage, New Haven. Brown, Peter (1988): The Body and Society. Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, New York. Bynum, Caroline Walker (1995): The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200-1336, New York. Cleland, Liza, Glenys Davies & Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (2007): Greek and Roman Dress from A to Z, London & New York. Croom, Alexandra T. (2000): Roman Clothing and Fashion, Stroud. Dean-Jones, Lesley (1994): Women’s Bodies in Classical Greek Science, Oxford. Fehr, Burkhard (1979): Bewegungsweisen und Verhaltensideale. Physiognomische Deutungsmöglichkeiten der Bewegungsdarstellung an griechischen Statuen des 5. und 4. Jh. v. Chr., Bad Bramstedt. Fögen, Thorsten (ed.) (2006): Tränen und Weinen in der griechisch-römischen Antike (Special Issue of Zeitschrift für Semiotik, vol. 28), Tübingen. Fögen, Thorsten (ed.) (2009): Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, Berlin & New York. Garland, Robert (1995): The Eye of the Beholder. Deformity and Disability in the Graeco-Roman World, London. Gleason, Maud W. (1995): Making Men. Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome, Princeton. Grajew, Felix (1934): Untersuchungen über die Bedeutung der Gebärden in der griechischen Epik, Berlin. Gunderson, Erik (2000): Staging Masculinity. The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World, Ann Arbor.

The Body in Antiquity: A Very Select Bibliography

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Hallett, Christopher (2005): The Roman Nude. Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 B.C – A.D. 300, Oxford. Heuzé, Philippe (1985): L’image du corps dans l’œuvre de Virgile, Rome. Imhof, Arthur E. (ed.) (1983): Der Mensch und sein Körper. Von der Antike bis heute, München. Jax, Karl (1933): Die weibliche Schönheit in der griechischen Dichtung, Innsbruck. Laqueur, Thomas W. (1990): Making Sex. Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, Cambridge, Mass. Lateiner, Donald (1995): Sardonic Smile. Nonverbal Behavior in Homeric Epic, Ann Arbor. Leftwich, Gregory V. (1987): Ancient Conceptions of the Body and the Canon of Polykleitos, Diss. Princeton (unpublished). Llewellyn-Jones, Lloyd (2003): Aphrodite’s Tortoise. The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Swansea. Llewellyn-Jones, Lloyd (ed.) (2002): Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, London. Maier-Eichhorn, Ursula (1989): Die Gestikulation in Quintilians Rhetorik, Frankfurt am Main. Mannsperger, Marion (1998): Frisurenkunst und Kunstfrisur. Die Haarmode der römischen Kaiserinnen von Livia bis Sabina, Bonn. Miller, Stephen G. (2004a): Ancient Greek Athletics, New Haven & London. Miller, Stephen G. (22004b): Arete. Greek Sports from Ancient Sources, Berkeley. Neumann, Gerhard (1965): Gesten und Gebärden in der griechischen Kunst, Berlin. Popović, Mladen (2007): Reading the Human Body. Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic-Early Roman Period Judaism, Leiden. Richlin, Amy (ed.) (1992): Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome, New York & Oxford. Rose, Martha L. (2003): The Staff of Oedipus. Transforming Disability in Ancient Greece, Ann Arbor. Scanlon, Thomas F. (2002): Eros and Greek Athletics, Oxford. Sebesta, Judith L. & Larissa Bonfante (eds.) (2001): The World of Roman Costume, Madison, Wisconsin. Setzer, Claudia (2004): Resurrection of the Body in Early Judaism and Early Christianity. Doctrine, Community, and Self-Definition, Boston & Leiden. Sittl, Carl (1890): Die Gebärden der Griechen und Römer, Leipzig. Steininger, Rudolph (1909): Die weiblichen Haartrachten im ersten Jahrhundert der römischen Kaiserzeit, Diss. München. Swain, Simon (ed.) (2007): Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul. Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, Oxford. Symons, David J. (1987): Costume of Ancient Rome, London. Wiedemann, Thomas & Jane Gardner (eds.) (2002): Representing the Body of the Slave, London & Portland.

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Wilfong, Terry G. & Charles E. Jones (eds.) (1999): Materials for a History of the Human Body in the Ancient Near East, Groningen. Wilson, Lillian M. (1924): The Roman Toga, Baltimore. Wilson, Lillian M. (1938): The Clothing of the Ancient Romans, Baltimore. Wright, John P. & Paul Potter (eds.) (2000): Psyche and Soma. Physicians and Metaphysicians on the Mind-Body Problem from Antiquity to Enlightenment, Oxford. Zschietzschmann, Willy (1924): Untersuchungen zur Gebärdensprache in der älteren griechischen Kunst, Diss. Jena.

Sermo corporis: Ancient Reflections on gestus, vultus and vox Thorsten Fögen “Les paroles en disent moins que l’accent, l’accent moins que la physionomie, et l’inexprimable est précisément ce qu’un sublime acteur nous fait connaître.” Germaine de Staël: De l’Allemagne (ch. 27)1

“For that impatient and lively people [sc. the Italians] had, as now, a language distinct from speech – a language of signs and motions, inexpressibly significant and vivacious: their descendants retain it (...).” Edward Bulwer-Lytton: The Last Days of Pompeii (London & New York 1962, 67)

Abstract:

This article presents an overview of some important aspects of more theoretically oriented reflections on non-verbal communication and body language in ancient literature. I shall mainly discuss authors of the first centuries B.C. and A.D., especially Cicero and Quintilian, with particular focus on vocal non-verbal behaviour (vox) and on body language, predominantly on gestures (gestus) and facial expressions (vultus). Ancient reflections on non-verbal communication and body language stem from various perspectives: hypotheses on the origin of language; considerations about the first-language acquisition of the child; remarks on the problem of foreign languages and, connected with this, the view of gesture and facial expressions as a universal language of all human beings; and finally, the elaboration of rhetorical doctrines regarding the skilful use of non-verbal elements in public speech. At the same time, it is obvious that a number of ancient conceptions of non-verbal communication and body language operate within a framework of oppositional pairs and boundaries. Small children and animals make themselves understood by verbal as well as non-verbal elements which constitute some kind of basic ‘language’, but ulti1

Quoted from the following edition: Germaine de Staël, De l’Allemagne. Chronologie et préface par Simone Balayé (vol. 2), Paris 1968, 27. The twenty-seventh chapter of this work is about declamation.

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mately their voice does not have the status of fully developed speech. In rhetoric as well as in many other areas of Greek and Roman society, the ideal of masculinity prevails in every respect: the model-rhetorician is set apart from the use of effeminate speech as well as from bodily behaviour allegedly typical of women. Groups that are perceived as physically different, in particular as far as their body movements, gestures, facial expressions and voice are concerned, are often associated with a lack of sufficient education and knowledge, a high degree of emotionality, and sometimes also with immorality. These perceptions of the ancients frequently result in a marginalization of the groups that diverge from the norm, constituted by the prototypical adult, authoritative male who is not only fully articulate, but also in control of his body and his expressive functions.

1. Introduction The study of non-verbal communication and body language, i.e. the study of the role and function of body movements, gestures, facial expressions and voice, has received attention in many disciplines. Apart from communication studies in the narrow sense, it forms one of the areas of interest in psycholinguistics, semiotics, language acquisition research, foreign language studies and rhetoric as well as in ethology, sociology and psychology. For classics, one may say that, during the last ten years, research on non-verbal communication and the body in antiquity has developed into something of a fashionable pursuit,2 with reference being made mainly to the connection between rhetoric and gesture.3 This is important, as the majority of studies from the various other disciplines that I have just mentioned usually neglect the historical dimensions of non-verbal communication. There is, of course, no denying that occasional reference is made to works such as John Bulwer’s Chirologia and Chironomia (1644) or Charles Darwin’s The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals (1872), 4 but the fact that non-verbal communication was described in Greek and Roman antiquity from various perspectives seems to be overlooked in most studies by non-classicists. It should also be pointed out that there exist

2

3

4

In this respect, classical philology is by no means an exception. As Ruthrof (2000: vi) puts it, “When you look through the catalogues of the leading presses you will note that the body now turns up everywhere. From literary theory and criticism to law and sociology, from gender studies to anthropology and philosophy, the body runs through the titles like an oncoming spring tide”. Similarly Porter (1999: 1); see also Cairns (2005a: ix, xi). The most exhaustive study is still Sittl (1890); more recent monographs by Aldrete (1999), Boegehold (1999) and Corbeill (2004). The following books are concentrated on single ancient authors or genres: Grajew (1934), Lateiner (1995), Maier-Eichhorn (1989) and Lobe (2000). On the history of theorizing on gesture see the most recent overview in Müller (1998: 25-85); the author includes antiquity, in particular Quintilian. On Bulwer, see the edition of the Chirologia and Chironomia by James W. Cleary (Carbondale & Edwardsville 1974), and Hübler (2001: 144-153, 350-361), with further references; see also Sonkowsky (1959: 256-257).

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number of archaeological investigations into the depiction of non-verbal communication on ancient vases and coins as well as in sculptures.5

Figure 1: Frontispiece of John Bulwer’s Chironomia (London 1644). Andronicus and Demosthenes paired by Roscius and Cicero

It is the aim of my presentation to give a brief overview of the most important aspects of more theoretically oriented reflections on non-verbal communication and body language in ancient literature. I shall mainly focus on authors of 5

See in particular Déonna (1914), Zschietzschmann (1924), Jucker (1956), Brilliant (1963), Neumann (1965), Bogen (1969) and Fehr (1979). See also Boegehold (1999: 16-20, 22-25, 28-35).

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the first centuries B.C. and A.D., especially the two rhetoricians Cicero and Quintilian, but I will also include some later writers. However, before I proceed to the discussion of ancient texts which are of interest for the question pursued in this paper, it seems apt to outline briefly how non-verbal communication is understood here.6 Non-verbal behaviour includes vocal as well as non-vocal aspects. To the group of vocal non-verbal behaviour belong suprasegmentals such as speech tempo, voice quality, speech errors, and utterances that cannot be classified as language, like crying, groaning or moaning. These phenomena belong to the area of paralinguistics (see Crystal 1974, Bergmann 1988, Poyatos 1993). In contrast, non-vocal elements of non-verbal behaviour are independent of the organs of speech and voice and can be subdivided into three groups: (1) On the motoric level there are facial expression, gesture, gaze and many types of movements of the body, including posture. 7 (2) Non-verbal behaviour is also performed via physio-chemical channels which can be olfactory, gustatory, tactile or thermal. (3) Then there are ecological aspects such as territorial behaviour, interpersonal distance (proxemics) and aspects of personal appearance such as dress, hairdo, the use of cosmetics and the wearing of jewellery. I shall focus here, first, on vocal non-verbal behaviour (or, to use an ancient term, on vox) and, second, on body language, predominantly on gestures (gestus) and facial expressions (vultus). I have already dealt with personal appearance elsewhere (Baertschi & Fögen 2005; see also Fögen 2005), but this topic will occasionally be mentioned in this paper as well (see esp. section 3.3).

2. Elements of non-verbal communication as universal language Non-verbal communication and body language are referred to in ancient sources in a variety of contexts. Very often the authors in question describe situations in which people with different mother tongues come into contact with one another and find themselves in need of a mode of communication. The ancient sources mention various potential outcomes of such an encounter: communication functions unproblematically if one speaks the language of the other or if there are competent interpreters who can assist people in making themselves understood. But if verbal communication between the speakers of two different languages is not possible, it is gestures and facial expressions 6 7

Cf. Helfrich & Wallbott (²1980: 267-268); see also Key (1992: 107-108), Scherer (1970: 34), Lyons (1972: 51-55), Argyle (1975) and Hübler (2001: 12-22). It can be maintained that this level is judiciously examined by Cicero in De orat. 3.216 (and ff.), introduced by the following sentences: omnis enim motus animi suum quendam a natura habet vultum et sonum et gestum; corpusque totum hominis et eius omnis vultus omnesque voces, ut nervi in fidibus, ita sonant, ut motu animi quoque sunt pulsae.

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which, because of their vividness and concreteness, assume the function of some kind of universal language. That speaking with one’s hands is sometimes the only way to make oneself understood to foreigners was an experience which Ovid claims to have made when he was banished to Tomis, nowadays the Romanian seaside resort Constanţa (see Fögen 2000: 37-38). According to his own account, he communicated with the inhabitants of Tomis by gestures (Trist. 5.10.35-37): exercent illi sociae commercia linguae: per gestum res est significanda mihi. barbarus hic ego sum, qui non intellegor ulli. “They hold intercourse in the tongue they share; I must make myself understood by gestures. Here it is I that am a barbarian, understood by nobody.”

These verses may be as exaggerated as Ovid’s entire description of the Black Sea region in his Tristia and Epistulae ex Ponto. In any case, it is interesting to note that, on other occasions, he refers to his study of the Getic and Sarmatian language and even to poetic works in Getic from his own pen.8 According to some ancient authors, gestures and facial expressions can be employed as universal ‘language’ because all human emotions have by nature corresponding expressions in face, voice and gesture – a hypothesis which is much disputed in modern research.9 As Cicero (De orat. 3.223) notes: Atque in eis omnibus, quae sunt actionis, inest quaedam vis a natura data; qua re etiam hac imperiti, hac vulgus, hac denique barbari maxime commoventur: verba enim neminem movent nisi eum, qui eiusdem linguae societate coniunctus est, sententiaeque saepe acutae non acutorum hominum sensus praetervolant: actio, quae prae se motum animi fert, omnis movet; isdem enim omnium animi motibus concitantur et eos isdem notis et in aliis agnoscunt et in se ipsi indicant. “And all the factors of delivery contain a certain force bestowed by nature, which, moreover, is the reason why it is delivery that has the greatest effect on the ignorant and the mob and lastly on barbarians; for words influence nobody but the person allied to the speaker by sharing the same language, and clever ideas frequently outfly the understanding of people who are not clever, whereas delivery, which gives expression to the emotion of the mind, influ8

9

Ovid, Trist. 3.14.47-50: Threïcio Scythicoque fere circumsonor ore, / et videor Geticis scribere posse modis. / crede mihi, timeo ne Sintia mixta Latinis / inque meis scriptis Pontica verba legas. See further Trist. 5.7.55-58: ille ego Romanus vates – ignoscite, Musae! – / Sarmatico cogor plurima more loqui. / et pudet et fateor, iam desuetudine longa / vix subeunt ipsi verba Latina mihi; and Trist. 5.12.57-58: ipse mihi videor iam dedidicisse Latine: / nam didici Getice Sarmaticeque loqui. See also Ex Ponto 3.2.40 and especially 4.13.17-23. An excellent summary of the different positions from universalism to relativism can be found in Wallbott (1979) and Wallbott (1993). Supporters of a moderate universalism include Ekman (1979) and Ekman & Friesen (1979: 111-112, 118). The universalist hypothesis was first and foremost rejected by Birdwhistell (1970: esp. 34).

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ences everybody, for the same emotions are felt by all people and they both recognize them in others and manifest them in themselves by the same symbols.”

For a linguistically ill-prepared listener or a foreigner, gestures, facial expressions and voice illustrate everything which the spoken word cannot express in a similarly clear way. These considerations lead Cicero to recommend to the professional orator that, even if his talent for verbal expression is highly developed, he should not refrain from making skilful use of accompanying nonverbal elements in order to convince his entire audience. There are reports about some rhetoricians who managed to fascinate even those members of their audience who did not understand the language in which the speech was delivered; as Philostratus indicates in his Lives of the Sophists, the philosopher Favorinus of Arelate, a colourful figure according to many ancient sources, was an exemplar of this rather unusual gift. When he delivered speeches in Rome, he greatly impressed even those without any knowledge of Greek through his adroit body management, and in particular through the tone of his voice, his expressive glance and the rhythm of his speech – an intriguing reference to the theatrical quality of the sophistic performance.10 In this context one should also mention the discussion of non-verbal communication in Quintilian’s treatise Institutio oratoria. As in the case of Cicero, Quintilian’s exposition transcends the boundaries of rhetorical instruction on how to use facial expressions, gesture and voice. He emphasizes that the importance of these elements for rhetoric can be recognized from their effects in other areas. Quintilian argues that much information can be transmitted without words if one lets the body speak – it is mainly the hands and the face which also serve as instruments of communication among mute people.11 Similarly, animals make use of body language to signal emotions such as wrath and joy. According to Quintilian, a comparable practice is the expression of a state of mind by dancing,12 which is the topic of a treatise on the defence of this art (De saltatione) written more than half a century later by Lucian.13 According 10

11 12 13

Philostratus, Vit. Soph. 491: διαλεγομένου δὲ αὐτοῦ κατὰ τὴν Ῥώμην μεστὰ ἦν σπουδῆς πάντα, καὶ γὰρ δὴ καὶ ὅσοι τῆς Ἑλλήνων φωνῆς ἀξύνετοι ἦσαν, οὐδὲ τούτοις ἀφ’ ἡδονῆς ἡ ἀκρόασις ἦν, ἀλλὰ κἀκείνους ἔθελγε τῇ τε ἠχῇ τοῦ φθέγματος καὶ τῷ σημαίνοντι τοῦ βλέμματος καὶ τῷ ῥυθμῷ τῆς γλώττης. According to the same writer, Dio of Prusa was a similar case (Vit. Soph. 488). On deafness and dumbness in antiquity, see Rose (2003: 66-78) and Biville (1998: 73-76). See also Fögen (2007: 48, with n. 28). Inst. orat. 11.3.66: saltatio frequenter sine voce intelligitur. Cf. also 11.3.87 with reference to the hands as the ‘universal language’ of man. According to Robertson (1913), this work was written between 162 and 165 during Lucian’s stay in Antiochia; the author’s motivation in doing so was to win over the emperor Verus, who was enthusiastic about pantomimes (Script. Hist. Aug., Verus 8 and 10-11). This view is shared by Robert (1930: esp. 120-122); by contrast, Bier (1917) suggests a date between

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to Lucian, the pantomimic dance portrays different characters and emotions (De salt. 35ff., cf. also 67), especially figures from mythology (cf. the long list of themes in De salt. 37-61). Like the orator, the dancer must attempt to achieve a maximum of clarity (σαφήνεια) in his performance in order to make it comprehensible to his audience (De salt. 62). Dancing is said to unite pleasure (τὸ τερπνόν) and usefulness (τὸ χρήσιμον) in a unique way because it not only impresses the spectators by harmonious movements, but also teaches them about the past (De salt. 71). A foreign guest of the Roman emperor Nero admired an extremely talented pantomime dancer who lived at his court. While this foreigner did not understand the text of the song that accompanied the dance of the pantomime, it was the dancer’s highly illustrative performance which permitted him to follow the entire plot without difficulties. When Nero asked the guest what he wished for as a farewell gift, the foreigner opted for the dancer who, by his non-verbal art, would serve him as an interpreter in negotiations with other peoples (De salt. 64). Athenaeus reports on another dancer called Memphis who explained Pythagorean philosophy more clearly by his dancing than others could by the use of words (Deipn. 1.20c-d).14 Some dancers, he goes on, were even capable of conveying the plot of a tragedy through bodily movements, as, for example, Aeschylus’ dancer Telestes did with the Seven against Thebes.15 Later on, in the fourth century A.D., the famous orator Libanius (A.D. 314-393) dedicated one of his speeches to the topic of dancing, including pantomimic dancing.16 It seems quite likely that such statements on the expressive nature of dancing, as can be found in Lucian, Athenaeus and Libanius, go back to, or are at least inspired by, the treatment of dance in Plato’s Laws.17 Gesture and facial expressions are similarly classified as universal language in the context of first-language acquisition. In his Confessions, Augustine (A.D. 354-430) conveys some very informative insights concerning

14 15

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Domitian and Marcus Aurelius. See now Vesterinen (1997, 2003) and the full-scale study by Lada-Richards (2007). – Apart from Bier (1917), Rotolo (1957) is a useful book on the ancient pantomime dance in general, and it also contains relevant epigraphic and epigrammatic sources; see now Hall & Wyles (2008). On the Greek terminology for pantomime dancers, see Vesterinen (2005), who focusses on the dancers Bathyllus of Alexandria and Pylades of Cilicia. Athenaeus, Deipn. 1.21f-22a: καὶ Τέλεσις δὲ ἢ Τελέστης ὁ ὀρχηστοδιδάσκαλος πολλὰ ἐξεύρηκε σχήματα, ἄκρως ταῖς χερσὶ τὰ λεγόμενα δεικνύς. (...) Τελέστης ὁ Αἰσχύλου ὀρχηστὴς οὕτως ἦν τεχνίτης ὥστε ἐν τῷ ὀρχεῖσθαι τοὺς Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας φανερὰ ποιῆσαι τὰ πράγματα δι’ ὀρχήσεως. Libanius, Orat. 64 (Πρὸς Ἀριστείδην ὑπὲρ τῶν ὀρχηστῶν), esp. 64.62-71 (on ‘female’ gestures) and 64.113-118 (on gestures). For an edition with commentary, see Molloy (1996). See esp. Plato, Nomoi 2.653d9-654a3, 2.672d, 2.673c11-d5, 7.816a3-7; cf. also 7.814d10815d5. For a detailed discussion of the dance in Plato’s Laws, see e.g. Lonsdale (1993: 2143) and Vesterinen (1997: 179-180).

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his own linguistic socialization (Conf. 1.6.7-1.19.30). He explains that, as a baby (in-fans: “speechless”), he indicated his wishes and desires to his environment by weeping, smiling, thrashing and screaming – by signs, as he adds himself, which corresponded to his wishes. However, such signs were not sufficiently unambiguous and sometimes caused misunderstandings among the adults around him; when they disobeyed him, little Augustine took revenge by crying (Conf. 1.6.8). The gift of the yet inarticulate infant to communicate his emotions non-verbally in these forms is viewed by Augustine as a peculiarity of man which has been granted by God (Conf. 1.6.10-1.7.12). Next he reports how he acquired the verbal expressions for things (Conf. 1.8.13):18 cum ipsi appellabant rem aliquam et cum secundum eam vocem corpus ad aliquid movebant, videbam et tenebam hoc ab eis vocari rem illam quod sonabant cum eam vellent ostendere. hoc autem eos velle ex motu corporis aperiebatur tamquam verbis naturalibus omnium gentium, quae fiunt vultu et nutu oculorum ceterorumque membrorum actu et sonitu vocis indicante affectionem animi in petendis, habendis, reiciendis fugiendisve rebus. “When they named anything, and when at that name they moved their bodies towards that thing, I observed it and gathered thereby that that word which they then pronounced was the very name of the thing which they showed me. And that they meant this or that thing, was discovered to me by the motion of their bodies, even by that natural language, as it were, of all nations, which expressed by the countenance and cast of the eye, by the action of other parts, and the sound of the voice, discovers the affections of the mind, either to desire, enjoy, refuse, or to avoid anything.”

A similar point can be found in Lucretius’ theory of the beginnings of civilization, expounded in the fifth book of his De rerum natura.19 He is convinced that the invention of language was not the work of an individual because for him it is not plausible that this ability should have been given only to a single human being. Moreover, how should such a ‘first inventor’ have taught his repertoire of expressions to others (De rer. nat. 5.1041-1055)? Instead, one has to assume that, in the beginning, man uttered various sounds for different impressions and feelings and that, in doing so, he contrasted the things he wished to denote (De rer. nat. 5.1056-1090). In its initial stage, human language was comparable to the articulation of infants, who, in order to illustrate their messages, fall back upon gestures and use their fingers to point to things they are not yet able to name (De rer. nat. 5.1028-1033, cf. 5.1021-1023). 18

19

This passage, together with the subsequent sentence that does not appear as part of the quotation above, serves as a starting point in Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations. On the role of the Augustinian picture of language in Wittgenstein, see Hans-Johann Glock, A Wittgenstein Dictionary, Oxford 1996, 41-45. On conceptions of the origin of language in Epicurus (Ep. ad Herod. 75-76) and Lucretius (De rer. nat. 5.1028-1090), see the references to a number of in-depth studies in Fögen (2007: 68 n. 96).

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3. Gesture, facial expressions and voice in rhetoric Theoretical aspects of non-verbal communication are most extensively dealt with by ancient authors in rhetorical treatises.20 They contain prescriptive and normative instructions designed to enable an orator to be as persuasive as possible over and above what is achievable by linguistic and stylistic means. Among the orator’s five tasks, gesture, facial expressions and voice quality form part of delivery (ὑπόκρισις resp. actio or pronuntiatio). The important role which delivery played among the orator’s tasks (officia oratoris) can be gathered from an anecdote about Demosthenes which has been handed down by many Greek and Roman authors: he is said to have attributed first, second and third rank to delivery,21 and in this he is followed by later theoreticians (see e.g. Rhet. Her. 3.19; Cicero, De orat. 3.213). Aristotle points out that there has been no systematic treatise on the rules of ὑπόκρισις. He admits that it greatly influences the success of a speech and that it cannot be ignored as a part of proper rhetorical training, although it is not regarded as an elevated subject of inquiry (Rhet. III 1 1403b20-22, 1403b36-1404a3). In the first chapter of his Rhetoric, he remarks that a person’s use of rational speech is a more distinctively human attribute than the use of his limbs (Rhet. I 1 1355b1-3). For Theophrastus, delivery was vital for the persuasion of the audience, as we learn from Athanasius’ report;22 he composed a special treatise Περὶ ὑποκρίσεως, comprising one book (Diogenes Laertius 5.48).23 Quintilian emphasizes at the beginning of his treatment of delivery in Book 11.3 that a stylistically mediocre yet convincingly delivered speech may have a greater effect on the audience than an elaborate one that neglects the performative aspect of rhetoric (Inst. orat. 11.3.5).

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See, for example, Sonkowsky (1959), Fantham (1982), Maier-Eichhorn (1989), Katsouris (1989), Wöhrle (1990), Graf (1992), Wülfing (1995), Gunderson (1998, 2000), Aldrete (1999), Hübler (2001: 121-144) and Hall (2004, 2007). Cicero, Brutus 142, Orator 56, De orat. 3.213; Valerius Maximus 8.10 ext. 1; Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.3.6-7; Philodemus, Rhet. 1.196 Sudhaus; Longinus, Rhet. Gr. 1.2.195 Spengel & Hammer; Plutarch, Mor. 845b. See also Dionysius Halicarnassus’ remarks on Demosthenes’ intensive voice and body exercises in Dem. 53. Athanasius, Prolegomena in Herm. De statibus (Rhet. Gr. XIV, p. 177.3-8 Rabe): πλὴν καὶ Θεόφραστος ὁ φιλόσοφος ὁμοίως φησὶ μέγιστον εἶναι ῥήτορι πρὸς τὸ πεῖσαι τὴν ὑπόκρισιν, εἰς τὰς ἀρχὰς ἀναφέρων καὶ τὰ πάθη τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ τὴν κατανόησιν τούτων, ὡς καὶ τῇ ὅλῃ ἐπιστήμῃ σύμφωνον εἶναι τὴν κίνησιν τοῦ σώματος καὶ τὸν τόνον τῆς φωνῆς. For details, including problems of textual transmission, see Fortenbaugh (1985: esp. 270-272; 2005: 397415, esp. 399-409), who also deals with Aristotle’s view of ὑπόκρισις. Kayser (1910) doubted that Theophrastus’ treatise Περὶ ὑποκρίσεως was mainly concerned with rhetoric. Based upon a comparison with Eustathius’ 12th-century work of the same title that dealt with hypocrisy, he thought that Theophrastus had written a work similar in content to his book on flattery (Περὶ κολακείας). Fortenbaugh (1985: 281-282) rightly expresses strong reservations about Kayser’s position.

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Most Greek writings on gesture, facial expressions and voice quality have unfortunately been lost,24 so that in the majority of cases we have to content ourselves with reconstructing Greek theory from Roman sources, not all of which have survived, either.25 In the following, I shall concentrate on passages from four Latin works: the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium (3.19-27), Cicero’s treatise Orator (54-60) and his dialogue De oratore (esp. 3.213-227), and Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria (esp. 11.3). All of these writers divide delivery into voice quality (vox) on the one hand, and gesture (gestus) and facial expression (vultus) on the other. Accordingly, delivery was termed either pronuntiatio with emphasis on the vocal aspects or actio with reference to the use of body language.26

3.1 The voice Let me begin this section with a definition of “voice-quality” which I borrow from John Lyons’ instructive article on the elements of human language (1972: 51): “voice-quality (...) by which term is meant ‘the permanent background vocal invariable for an individual’s speech’ (...). Unlike the vocal reflexes, voicequality is a necessary concomitant of speaking. Furthermore, it plays an important role in signalling the identity of the speaker, both as a particular individual to those who know him, and more generally, as having certain characteristics which may correlate with membership of particular social groups within the community (being of a certain age, of a particular sex, of a certain physical build and personality, etc.). Voice-quality, which may have both a physiological and a cultural component, is very relevant to the phenomenon known as ‘self-presentation’ (...).”

As we shall see shortly, this definition contains much that could be directly connected with, or even derived from, remarks which are to be found in ancient rhetorical treatises. With the exception of Quintilian, the writers surveyed pay much more attention to the deployment of the voice27 than to the use of the body. Since the orator evokes certain emotions in his audience by the different modulations of his voice,28 he has to adjust his tone to the contents of his 24 25 26 27 28

See Maier-Eichhorn (1989: 7-14) and Katsouris (1989: 26-33); see also Hall (2004: 146147). On Theophrastus see Fortenbaugh (1985, 2005). The non-existence of more extensive writings on actio is mentioned in Rhet. Her. 3.19 (cf. also 3.27 fin.). See e.g. Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.3.143, who refers to writings on gesture by Plotius Gallus and Nigidius Figulus. Rhet. Her. 3.19; Cicero, Orator 55 and De orat. 3.213-227; Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.3.1, 11.3.14. See Gleason (1995: 103-130); Gunderson (1998: 183-185) focusses entirely on Quintilian. On rhetoric and the arousal of emotions in general, see Solmsen (1938), Sonkowsky (1959), Webb (1997) and the short overview in Hall (2007: 232-234).

Sermo corporis: Ancient Reflections on gestus, vultus and vox

Figure 2: “Arringatore” from Lake Trasimene, ca. 90-70 B.C. (Museo Archeologico, Florence, Italy)

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speech and to the reactions he wants to elicit from his listeners. This requires the chosen pitch to be in harmony with the orator’s character (see esp. Rhet. Her. 3.22). Quintilian starts his own outline with the earliest level of rhetorical education. Already in his very young years, the future orator ought to concentrate on a proper diction in his grammatical and stylistic training: poetic texts should not be read without a certain gracefulness, but at the same time their recitation must sound manly and dignified.29 But this postulate is not only applied to the reading aloud of literature, it is a maxim for all speaking in public: a feeble and thin voice is associated with female speech and thus to be avoided by the future orator.30 This goal is achieved by a rigorous speech training during rhetorical instruction. At the same time, the teacher of rhetoric guides his pupil towards a skilful use of non-verbal elements to enhance the effectiveness of his presentation (Quintilian, Inst. orat. 1.11.3-19). Quintilian’s treatment of vox in Book 11 (Inst. orat. 11.3.14-65) is much more extensive than those of the author of the Rhetorica ad Herennium and of Cicero. As he points out, he has a good reason for dealing with the voice before he moves on to a discussion of gestures: the latter are adapted to suit the former (Inst. orat. 11.3.14: prius est de voce dicere, cui etiam gestus accommodatur). He differentiates between voice quantity and quality and draws attention to the fact that every human being possesses a distinctive voice of his own (Inst. orat. 11.3.18). For his educational agenda, it is important that the voice can be, and needs to be, trained if one is to succeed as an orator. However, he makes it clear that the rhetorician’s voice training (cura) ought to differ from that provided by the singing-master (φωνασκός), even if there are some instances where the two overlap. Physical robustness (firmitas corporis) is most desirable for improving the good qualities of the voice, and it can be achieved by a healthy and simple lifestyle that consists of walking exercises, bodily care, wholesome nutrition and sexual abstinence.31 This method is sup29 30

31

Inst. orat. 1.8.2: sit autem in primis lectio virilis et cum suavitate quadam gravis, et non quidem prosae similis, quia et carmen est et se poetae canere testantur, non tamen in canticum dissoluta nec plasmate, ut nunc a plerisque fit, effeminata (...). Inst. orat. 1.11.1: non enim puerum, quem in hoc instituimus, aut femineae vocis exilitate frangi volo aut seniliter tremere. More extensively 11.3.32: itemque si ipsa vox primum fuerit, ut sic dicam, sana, id est nullum eorum, de quibus modo retuli, patietur incommodum, deinde non subsurda, rudis, inmanis, dura, rigida, rava, praepinguis, aut tenuis, inanis, acerba, pusilla, mollis, effeminata (...). One feels somewhat reminded of the former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher who, after some training, successfully managed to lower the pitch of her voice and thereby gained more acceptance among her male fellow politicians as well as among the public (see Fögen 2004: 219 n. 34, with references). See Vendries (2006: esp. 247-252), with special reference to singers, and Edwards (1993: 86): “Sexual indulgence of all kinds sapped a man’s strength and made him like a woman, unable to take part in public life.” On incontinentia and effeminacy, see Edwards (1993: 81-

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posed to prevent the voice from becoming feeble and thin and thus from resembling that of eunuchs, women and invalids (Inst. orat. 11.3.19). Since rhetoricians often need to speak in several cases in succession, their voice must be strong and enduring (Inst. orat. 11.3.23: non enim tam molli teneraque voce quam forti ac durabili), and in this respect, Quintilian once again sets it apart from the singer’s voice. For a most effective voice-training, best practised on a daily basis, he recommends selecting varied passages which make various demands on the use of the voice and thus prepare the rhetorician for all exigencies of his profession (Inst. orat. 11.3.25). For the actual delivery it is vital for the orator to give preference to an “urbane” pronunciation and avoid any rustic or foreign accents (Inst. orat. 11.3.30: neque rusticitas neque peregrinitas resonet); 32 he should deploy a “sound” voice (sana vox), which avoids a whole array of negative characteristics, circumscribed as “dull” (subsurda), “coarse” (rudis), “exaggerated” (immanis), “hard” (dura), “stiff” (rigida), “hoarse” (rava) or “thick” (praepinguis), or “thin” (tenuis), “hollow” (inanis), “sharp” (acerba), “feeble” (pusilla), “soft” (mollis) or “effeminate” (effeminata). Apart from being correct (emendata), the pronunciation must also be clear (dilucida), ornate (ornata) and appropriate (apta), and thus possess the same virtues as an orator’s style, as Quintilian explains in the next thirty-five chapters (Inst. orat. 11.3.30-65). Although he encourages the rhetorician to vary the tone of his voice, he advises him to steer a middle course between the extremes in order to achieve “evenness” (aequalitas) in his pronunciation. The guiding principle must be that the voice suit the nature of the various subjects on which the orator is speaking and the moods that they demand (see esp. Inst. orat. 11.3.43-45, 6165). Later on, he gives some examples of appropriate delivery (Inst. orat. 11.3.63-65): Itaque laetis in rebus plena et simplex et ipsa quodammodo hilaris fluit; at in certamine erecta totis viribus et velut omnibus nervis intenditur. Atrox in ira et aspera ac densa et respiratione crebra; neque enim potest esse longus spiritus, cum immoderate effunditur. (...) at in blandiendo, fatendo, satisfaciendo, rogando, lenis et summissa. (...) Attollitur autem concitatis adfectibus, compositis descendit pro utriusque rei modo altius vel inferius.

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84). But see also Pliny the Elder, Nat. hist. 28.58: (...) athletae tamen torpentes restituuntur venere, vox revocatur, cum e candida declinat in fuscam. On urbanitas in connection with voice and gestures, see also Quintilian, Inst. orat. 6.3.107: Nam meo quidem iudicio illa est urbanitas, in qua nihil absonum, nihil agreste, nihil inconditum, nihil peregrinum neque sensu neque verbis neque ore gestuve possit deprehendi, ut non tam sit in singulis dictis quam in toto colore dicendi, qualis apud Graecos atticismos ille reddens Athenarum proprium saporem; cf. Inst. orat. 1.5.36-37 on ‘solecisms’ in the use of gestures. On the meaning of sermo urbanus and linguistic norms, especially in Cicero, see Fögen (2000: 117-141), with further references.

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“Therefore when we deal with a lively theme, the flow of the voice is characterized by fullness, simplicity and cheerfulness; but when it is roused to battle, it puts forth all its strength and strains every nerve. In anger it is fierce, harsh and intense, and calls for frequent filling of the lungs, since the breath cannot be sustained for long when it is poured forth without restraint. (...) On the other hand, in flattery, admission, apology or question it will be gentle and subdued. (...) But it will be raised to express violent emotion, and sink when our words are of calmer nature, rising and falling according to the demands of its theme.”

Quintilian’s chapters on the voice present the future rhetorician with a number of do’s and don’ts in terms of boundaries that he must not transgress if he wants to succeed in appealing to his audience’s emotions. This tenet can be subsumed under the heading of appropriate behaviour (aptum or πρέπον). Most noteworthy are his warnings against the use of a soft and effeminate voice on the one hand and a tone that reveals an “un-Roman” origin (rusticitas or peregrinitas) on the other. As we shall see in section 4 (below), his position towards effeminacy reflected an attitude that he shared with many other Roman writers.

3.2 Gestures and facial expressions The state of mind the voice evokes in the audience ought to be reinforced by corresponding gestures and facial expressions of the orator. As we have already seen for the voice (section 3.1), the principle of appropriateness (aptum, decorum) is equally vital for the use of elements of non-verbal communication as it is on the verbal level, where the choice of words, the stylistic levels and registers must be selected in accordance with the topic of the orator’s speech, his intentions, the make-up of his audience and other external circumstances, but also with his own personal make-up.33 In addition to an appropriate use of voice, elements of gesture and facial expression should also fit the orator’s individual personality and at the same time match the requirements of the oratorical profession as a whole, whose representatives were expected to be concerned about their dignity (dignitas) and authority (gravitas). In other words: the Roman orator ought to correspond to the ideal of the vir bonus, which was already outlined by Cato the Elder (see Gunderson 1998: 169-171, with earlier literature). For that reason, the orator should not behave like an actor on stage, even though dramatic art may sometimes provide the orator with ideas for the shaping of his speeches, especially at the non-verbal level. 34 In connection 33 34

Cf. Fögen (2000: 119-122). In addition, see Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.1, 11.3.61-65, 11.3.150153, and further 11.3.177-184, esp. 180. Rhet. Her. 3.26; Cicero, De orat. 3.220; Quintilian, Inst. orat. 1.11.3 (Ne gestus quidem omnis ac motus a comoedis petendus est. Quamquam enim utrumque eorum ad quendam modum praestare debet orator, plurimum tamen aberit a scaenico, nec vultu nec manu nec excur-

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with this, Quintilian recommends relying only upon gestures which accompany speech in a natural way (‘illustrators’ in the terminology of Ekman and Friesen) and suggests that gestures which substitute for the spoken word (‘emblems’ in Ekman’s and Friesen’s terms; cf. 1969: 63-70, 1979: 111ff., 118) should be avoided because they belong to the domain of actors in the theatre (Inst. orat. 11.3.88-91; cf. Cicero, De orat. 3.220). The reason for such a demand is apparent, if we consider the social stratification of Roman society. Actors and pantomimes usually belonged to the lower stratum; their profession was associated with ill repute, a lack of moral restraint and even indecency, attributes which at least officially conflicted with the strict morality of respectable Roman citizens.35 In rhetorical writings, the importance of the use of facial expressions by the orator is repeatedly emphasized, and in particular the effective use of the eyes as conveyors of emotion. 36 For example, Cicero remarks (De orat. 3.221):37 Sed in ore sunt omnia, in eo autem ipsi dominatus est omnis oculorum; (...) animi est enim omnis actio et imago animi vultus, indices oculi: nam haec est una pars corporis, quae, quot animi motus sunt, tot significationes et commutationes possit efficere; neque vero est quisquam, qui eadem conivens efficiat. “But everything depends on the face, while the face itself is entirely dominated by the eyes (...) For delivery is wholly the concern of the feelings, and these are mirrored by the face and expressed by the eyes; for this is the only part of the body capable of producing as many indications and variations as there are emotions, and there is nobody who can produce the same effect with his eyes shut.”

It may be added that, in texts other than rhetorical treatises, the human face was regarded as unique and ranging above the faces of animals. Pliny the Elder draws attention to an important terminological difference, when he says: facies homini tantum, ceteris os aut rostra (Nat. hist. 11.138).38 He admits that ani-

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sionibus nimius. Nam si qua in his ars est dicentium, ea prima est, ne ars esse videatur), 1.12.14 and 11.3.103, 123, 125, 181-184, esp. 184 on the situation in Quintilian’s era. See esp. Fantham (2002) for details; see also Dutsch (2002) and Lada-Richards (2007: 116-120). Cf. Wüst (1949: esp. 860-863) and Rotolo (1957: 49-50, 63-67). Williams (1999: 139-140) draws attention to the fact that actors were often associated with effeminacy. See also Connolly (1998: 140-143), Gunderson (2000: 111-148) and Edwards (1993: 98-136). On ocular interaction in ancient Greece, see Cairns (2005b). Similarly Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.3.75-77, esp. 75: sed in ipso vultu plurimum valent oculi, per quos maxime animus emanat, ut citra motum quoque et hilaritate enitescant et tristitiae quoddam nubilum ducant. quin etiam lacrimas iis natura mentis indices dedit, quae aut erumpunt dolore aut laetitia manant. motu vero intenti, remissi, superbi, torvi, mites, asperi fiunt: quae, ut actus poposcerit, fingentur. See also Cicero, De leg. 1.27. It should be added that some intriguing information on the human face is provided by the Eleventh Book of Galen’s De usu partium (III 842-939 Kühn [p. 113.8-182.6 Helmreich]).

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mals also have a forehead, but only in man does it express emotions. Human eyebrows constitute a similar case, since they serve to convey certain feelings and sentiments. However, the most precious part of the human body in that respect, according to Pliny, are the eyes.39 Also, while in animals the shape and colour of the eyes are rather similar within the same species, there is an enormous variety among humans. When Pliny emphasizes that the diverse forms of human eyes allow for assumptions about the character of their owners (Nat. hist. 11.143-144), he comes close to ancient physiognomic theories.40 It goes without saying that Pliny the Elder was not the first to make statements like these about the face and the eyes in animals and human beings; much of what is found in the Naturalis historia goes back to Aristotle, one of his most frequently used sources (see esp. Hist. anim. I 10 492a1-13). With respect to gestures, Quintilian believes that the hands are most essential, since the orator can use them to transmit messages with a level of sophistication almost comparable to that of verbal speech.41 In denoting places and persons, the hands take on, as it were, the function of adverbs and pronouns. Quintilian thinks that it is no exaggeration to understand gestural communication which makes use of the hands as a language common to all human beings (Inst. orat. 11.3.85-87). But one may wonder why he outlines at greater length a variety of specific hand gestures, if he subscribes to the theory that they are universally intelligible (Inst. orat. 11.3.92-124). Is his statement in the end no more than a rhetorical phrase? Hall (2004: 150-152; similarly Hall 2007: 226-227) sees no contradiction here. According to him, the gestures

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Comparisons of the human face and its parts with those of various animals, including apes, are made on several occasions. Pliny the Elder, Nat. hist. 11.139-157, esp. 11.145-146: Neque ulla ex parte maiora animi indicia cunctis animalibus, sed homine maxime, id est moderationis, clementiae, misericordiae, odii, amoris, tristitiae, laetitiae. Contuitu quoque multiformes, truces, torvi, flagrantes, graves, transversi, limi, summissi, blandi. Profecto in oculis animus habitat. Ardent, intenduntur, umectant, conivent. Hinc illa misericordiae lacrima, hos cum exosculamur, animum ipsum videmur attingere, hinc fletus et rigantes ora rivi. See Cairns (2005a: x): “For the physiognomist (...) the greatest emphasis is on the eyes (...): of the seventy chapters of Polemo’s Physiognomy, the first, which is devoted to the eyes, constitutes just over one third of the whole work.” On ancient physiognomy, see Evans (1969) and Swain (2007). For John Bulwer, the expressive power of the hands equals that of speech: “In all the declarative conceits of gesture whereby the body, instructed by nature, can emphatically vent and communicate a thought, and in the propriety of its utterance express the silent agitations of the mind, the hand, that busy instrument, is most talkative, whose language is as easily perceived and understood as if man had another mouth or fountain of discourse in his hand” (Chirologia. Ed. by James W. Cleary, Carbondale & Edwardsville 1974, 15). In his Chironomia, he emphasizes that truly effective speech is dependent upon the simultaneous use of the hands, but not necessarily vice versa (Chironomia. Ed. by James W. Cleary, Carbondale & Edwardsville 1974, 156-157). See also Hübler (2001: 350-361), who supplies further quotations from Bulwer that are along similar lines.

Sermo corporis: Ancient Reflections on gestus, vultus and vox

Figure 3: Chirogrammatic plate from John Bulwer’s Chironomia (London 1644, 95. Reproduced in the edition of the Chirologia and Chironomia by James W. Cleary, Carbondale & Edwardsville 1974, 213)

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described by Quintilian are based upon a system which every Roman acquired automatically during his socialization. Therefore, the future orator merely needs to be trained how to translate his already existing knowledge into action. As Hall (2004: 151-152) puts it: “even though these gestures were already familiar to his students, Quintilian cannot take too much for granted. (...) He thus gives detailed and explicit accounts of the gestures that he recommends, despite the fact that most would have been familiar to his pupils”. Although this may be correct, one should perhaps also bear in mind that the detailed character of Quintilian’s discussion of hand gestures is owed not least to his striving for comprehensiveness and systematicity, features typical of an ancient technical handbook of the size of the Institutio oratoria. Be that as it may: Quintilian’s emphasis on the significance of the hands is not surprising, given the fact that it had already been underscored in Greek science. Aristotle remarks that the hand is not to be looked on as one organ but as many, as it has the function of an “instrument for further instruments” (De part. anim. IV 10 687a 20-21: ἡ δὲ χεὶρ ἔοικεν εἶναι οὐχ ἓν ὄργανον ἀλλὰ πολλά· ἔστι γὰρ ὡσπερεὶ ὄργανον πρὸ ὀργάνων). He then describes how the hand can take on various different functions; even its individual parts – fingers and nails – are designed for different purposes (De part. anim. IV 10 687b).42 That the human hand is unique is a view expressed by Galen when he sets it apart from the extremities of an ape: a sculptor or painter who wished to portray a laughable hand should take the ape’s as his model, as this animal in general is to be seen as a comic imitation of man.43

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See also Xenophon, Mem. 1.4.11: ἔπειτα τοῖς μὲν ἄλλοις ἑρπετοῖς πόδας ἔδωκαν, οἳ τὸ πορεύεσθαι μόνον παρέχουσιν, ἀνθρώπῳ δὲ καὶ χεῖρας προσέθεσαν, αἳ τὰ πλεῖστα οἷς εὐδαιμονέστεροι ἐκείνων ἐσμὲν ἐξεργάζονται. Anaxagoras claims that human beings are more rational than animals because they have hands and are thus able to give shape to their ideas (VS 59 A 102 Diels & Kranz); cf. Cicero, De nat. deor. 2.150-152. Further sources (including Diodorus 1.8.9) are discussed by Walter Spoerri, Späthellenistische Berichte über Welt, Kultur und Götter, Basel 1959, 148-152. Galen, De usu partium I 22 (III 79-81 Kühn [p. 58.13-60.5 Helmreich]), esp. the following section (ΙΙΙ 80-81 Kühn [p. 59.6-12 Helmreich]): ὅπως μὲν οὖν αὐτῷ τὸ σύμπαν σῶμα μίμημα γελοῖόν ἐστιν ἀνθρώπου, προϊὼν ὁ λόγος ἐπιδείξει· ὅπως δ’ αἱ χεῖρες, ἤδη σκόπει τοσοῦτόν μοι πρότερον ἐννοήσας, ὡς, εἴ τις γραφικὸς ἢ πλαστικὸς ἀνὴρ ἀνθρώπου χεῖρας μιμούμενος ἁμαρτάνειν ἤμελλεν ἐπὶ τὸ γελοῖον, οὐκ ἂν ἄλλως ἥμαρτεν ἢ ὡς τοῖς πιθήκοις ἔχει. See also III 16 (III 263-265 Kühn [p. 193.23-194.22 Helmreich]), XIII 11 (IV 123-128 Kühn [p. 271.16-275.13 Helmreich]), XV 8 (IV 251-252 Kühn [p. 366.22-368.2 Helmreich]) as well as De anat. adm. IV 1 (II 415-416 Kühn). On the hand in general, De usu partium I 224 (III 2-86 Kühn [p. 1.18-63.8 Helmreich]); see also III 3 (III 182 Kühn [p. 133.6-15 Helmreich]). – On apes, see also Heraclitus, VS 22 B82-83 Diels & Kranz (from Plato, Hipp. Maior 289a-b), and Ennius, Sat. fr. 69 (p. 211 Vahlen): simia quam similis turpissuma bestia nobis. On the ape as a source of humour, see William C. McDermott, The Ape in Antiquity, Baltimore 1938, 109-146, esp. 109-118 and 141-146. See also Jocelyn M. C. Toynbee, Animals in Roman Life and Art, London 1973, 55-60, esp. 57-59.

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Aristotle observes that there are certain similarities between the hands, fingers and nails of apes and humans, but he also states that apes’ bodies are more like those of animals (Hist. anim. II 8 502b3-4). For him, apes’ bodies lie halfway between quadruped mammals and humans.44

3.3 Outward appearance and dress (cultus) As part of his outline on delivery in Book 11.3, Quintilian includes a special section on the proper outward appearance and dress of the rhetorician (Inst. orat. 11.3.137-149), which represents a unique feature in ancient literature on rhetoric. As a public figure, the orator should invest a certain amount of care in his garb, as this is an essential element of his self-presentation. Here, as in other areas, Quintilian pleads for a healthy medium between excessive care (nimia cura) and extreme negligence (negligentia). The orator’s outfit ought to be distinguished and manly (splendidus et virilis) and thus mirror his position as an honourable member (honestus) of Roman society (Inst. orat. 11.3.137) who is concerned about his high rank (dignitas). He apparently felt the need to treat dress more extensively because it was not only a crucial component of the rhetorician’s conscious bodily self-modification, but it also had an influence on his use of gestures: the way in which he wore his garments and the extent to which he covered his body would affect his ability to move his arms and hands freely. Most intriguing in this respect is Quintilian’s remark that dress conventions changed over time (Inst. orat. 11.3.137-138; cf. 11.3.143): Est aliquid in amictu, quod ipsum aliquatenus temporum condicione mutatum est. Nam veteribus nulli sinus, perquam breves post illos fuerunt. Itaque etiam gestu necesse est usos esse in principiis eos alio, quorum bracchium, sicut Graecorum, veste continebatur. “There are also details of dress which are altered to some extent by successive changes in fashion. The ancients, for example, wore no folds, and their successors wore them very short. Consequently it follows that in view of the fact that their arms were, like those of the Greeks, covered by the garment, they must have employed a different form of gesture in the exordium from that which is now in use.”

In order to achieve a successful performance, the orator should deliberately integrate his outfit into his body language. In the course of his pleading, the clothing ought to resemble the spirit of each part of his speech: when it gets more energetic, the looser portions of the fold of the toga may be placed under the left arm (Inst. orat. 11.3.144-146). Especially towards the end of a speech, 44

Hist. anim. II 8 502a16-18: ἔνια δὲ τῶν ζῴων ἐπαμφοτερίζει τὴν φύσιν τῷ τ’ ἀνθρώπῳ καὶ τοῖς τετράποσιν, οἷον πίθηκοι καὶ κῆβοι καὶ κυνοκέφαλοι. On the term ἐπαμφοτερίζειν, see the remarks in A. L. Peck, Aristotle: Historia Animalium. With an English translation (vol. 1), Cambridge, Mass. 1965, lxxiii-lxxv.

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Quintilian does not find it altogether inappropriate for the orator’s dress to take on a studiedly careless look, as this matches well with his sweating and signs of fatigue and also effectively exhibits the speaker’s commitment and emotional involvement. Showing this kind of negligence at the beginning of a speech, however, would be a huge mistake.45 Quintilian regards outward appearance and dress as vital constituents of the orator’s self-fashioning and stylization. Here as well as in other areas that are concerned with non-verbal communication and body language, he leaves nothing to chance and provides the future rhetorician with extensive advice about how to put his outfit to the most effective use. The orator will thus be equipped with an awareness of those boundaries which he should not transgress. Therefore, learning how to become a rhetorician is all about knowing one’s status in Roman society and using one’s body accordingly.

4. The fear of mollitia As has already become obvious from the previous sections, Roman writers on rhetoric emphatically warn against the danger of effeminacy in an orator. In the twelfth chapter of the fifth book of his Institutio oratoria, Quintilian complains about the degeneracy of rhetoric in his own day. In his view, declamations have become oriented increasingly towards superficial beauty, the goal of which is to enhance the pleasure of the audience. In earlier times, good speeches were characterized by brevity and vigorous style; they were comparable to a male body, by nature strong, powerful and robust. However, this old ideal has now been abandoned in favour of a castrated style, as it were, which has lost all the natural qualities of manly speech. In particular, verbosity, contrived expressions and long-windedness are denigrated in this context (Inst. orat. 5.12.17-21). The same analogy between style and the human body is taken up by Quintilian in the preface to the eighth book. As he bases his definition of good style upon the principles of naturalness and unaffectedness, he transposes the concept of established Roman virtues to the linguistic level.46 This does not mean that he pleads for a fully archaic style or for the complete renunciation of rhetorical devices; rather, archaisms and embellishing elements 45

46

Inst. orat. 11.3.147-149: Cum vero magna pars est exhausta orationis, utique adflante fortuna, paene omnia decent, sudor ipse et fatigatio et negligentior amictus et soluta ac velut labens undique toga. (...) At si incipientibus aut paulum progressis decidat toga, non reponere eam prorsus negligentis aut pigri aut quomodo debeat amiciri nescientis est. Inst. orat. 8 pr. 19-28, esp. 20-21: at muliebris et luxuriosus non corpus exornat, sed detegit mentem. similiter illa translucida et versicolor quorundam elocutio res ipsas effeminat, quae illo verborum habitu vestiantur. curam ergo verborum, rerum volo esse sollicitudinem. nam plerumque optima rebus cohaerent et cernuntur suo lumine. Similarly Inst. orat. 8.3.6-11, 10.1.43 and 12.10.40-47.

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should both be deployed moderately and with great care, not just for cheap showmanship, but as a means of making one’s case effectively.47 Quintilian is not the first rhetorician to advocate this position. As in many other cases, he follows certain tenets developed by the rhetorical tradition, in particular by Cicero.48 The key to understanding the rejection of female elements in a male speech lies in the contention of Roman authors that a man’s style indicates his morals, and that his morals will affect his style (talis oratio qualis vita).49 This principle is discussed at greater length in Epistle 114 of Seneca the Younger with reference to Maecenas as an example of effeminate style (e.g. Leeman 1963: 271-278; Graver 1998: esp. 609-614; Connolly 2007: 87)50 and, earlier on, in some passages of Seneca the Elder’s Controversiae and Suasoriae where in particular the ‘soft’ style of the orator Arellius Fuscus is censured (Contr. 1 pr. 7-9, 2 pr. 1, and Suas. 2.23; see Richlin 1997: 94-98). As far as rhetoric is concerned, the excerpts discussed thus far all demonstrate the existence of fixed concepts as to how men were expected to communicate in public discourse in the later Roman republic and early empire. Quintilian’s contention that a man’s appearance as well as his style ought to differ

47

48

49

50

Inst. orat. 8 pr. 32-33: sit igitur cura elocutionis quam maxima, dum sciamus tamen nihil verborum causa esse faciendum, cum verba ipsa rerum gratia sint reperta: quorum ea sunt maxime probabilia, quae sensum animi nostri optime promunt atque in animis iudicum quod nos volumus efficiunt. ea debent praestare sine dubio et admirabilem et iocundam orationem, verum admirabilem non sic, quo modo prodigia miramur, et iocundam non deformi voluptate, sed cum laude ac dignitate coniuncta. E.g. De orat. 3.41: Nolo exprimi litteras putidius, nolo obscurari neglegentius; nolo verba exiliter exanimata exire, nolo inflata et quasi anhelata gravius. Nam de voce nondum ea dico, quae sunt actionis, sed hoc, quod mihi cum sermone quasi coniunctum videtur: sunt enim certa vitia, quae nemo est quin effugere cupiat; mollis vox aut muliebris aut quasi extra modum absona atque absurda. Further De orat. 3.199: His tribus figuris insidere quidam venustatis non fuco inlitus, sed sanguine diffusus debet color. An earlier document is Rhet. Her. 3.22: Acuta exclamatio vocem volnerat; eadem laedit auditorem: habet enim quiddam inliberale et ad muliebrem potius vociferationem quam ad virilem dignitatem in dicendo adcommodatum. This maxim is of Greek origin. See Diogenes Laertios 1.58 (about Solon): ἔλεγε δὲ τὸν μὲν λόγον εἴδωλον εἶναι τῶν ἔργων. Similarly Cicero, Tusc. 5.47 (referring to Socrates): qualis cuiusque animi adfectus esset, talem esse hominem; qualis autem homo ipse esset, talem eius esse orationem; orationi autem facta similia, factis vitam. See also Seneca’s more general critique of his generation in Nat. quaest. 7.31.1-3: invenit luxuria aliquid novi, in quod insaniat; invenit impudicitia novam contumeliam sibi; invenit deliciarum dissolutio et tabes aliquid adhuc tenerius molliusque, quo pereat. Nondum satis robur omne proiecimus; adhuc quicquid est boni moris extinguimus. Levitate et politura corporum muliebres munditias antecessimus, colores meretricios matronis quidem non induendos viri sumimus, tenero et molli ingressu suspendimus gradum – non ambulamus sed incedimus –, exornamus anulis digitos, in omni articulo gemma disponitur. Cotidie comminiscimur per quae virilitati fiat iniuria, ut traducatur, quia non potest exui; alius genitalia excidit, alius in obscenam ludi partem fugit et, locatus ad mortem, infame armaturae genus in quo morbum suum exerceat legit.

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significantly from that of a woman also appears in earlier rhetorical treatises as a postulate of a pronounced normative character. But as it seems, the actual rhetorical practice in the early Roman Empire diverged from these strict views. Nonetheless, conceptions of appropriate forms of self-presentation for men in public, as expressed by Quintilian and others, were so forcefully articulated that they continued to have an effect on later periods. This can be seen in some passages from Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae. He reports that the famous orator Demosthenes was blamed for making too much fuss about his outward appearance and for not being man enough (parum vir). Another rhetorician named Hortensius is described as having indulged in excessive bodily hygiene and an obsession with dressing up; this, and his inclination to make an immoderate use of gestures during his speeches, prompted the rhetorician to insult him for being a histrio, a comedian (Noct. Att. 1.5; cf. 11.2). These excerpts thus serve as further instances of “la crainte bien romaine de la mollitia” (Moreau 1995: 60; cf. Williams 1999: passim).51 They can be supplemented with evidence from areas other than rhetoric. According to Gellius’ testimony in the Noctes Atticae, Plutarch mentioned that the philosopher Arcesilaus had once offended a rich man who was craving admiration. Arcesilaus admitted that the man seemed at first to be morally impeccable, but felt that his broken voice, his artistic hairdo and the lecherous and provocative movement of his eyes indicated otherwise. Arcesilaus compared the man with a cinaedus52 and insinuated that he committed unnatural sexual acts, which were stigmatized in Graeco-Roman antiquity (Noct. Att. 3.5; cf. 6.12).53 Perhaps even more than today, the ancients had fixed stereotypes of how the representatives of professions firmly established in public life ought to appear and perform their tasks. Apart from orators, one could draw together rich evidence for politicians, philosophers, teachers, doctors, priests and sol-

51

52

53

A satirical counterpart to the figure of the ideal orator of Roman rhetoric is presented by Lucian in his work Rhetorum praeceptor. Lucian’s rhetorician is characterized as πάνσοφόν τινα καὶ πάγκαλον ἄνδρα, διασεσαλευμένον τὸ βάδισμα, ἐπικεκλασμένον τὸν αὐχένα, γυναικεῖον τὸ βλέμμα, μελιχρὸν τὸ φώνημα, μύρων ἀποπνέοντα, τῷ δακτύλῳ ἄκρῳ τὴν κεφαλὴν κνώμενον, ὀλίγας μὲν ἔτι, οὔλας δὲ καὶ ὑακινθίνας τὰς τρίχας εὐθετίζοντα (Rhet. praec. 11); “masculinity” is equated here with rustic manners (Rhet. praec. 12 fin.: ἄγροικον γὰρ τὸ ἀρρενωπὸν καὶ οὐ πρὸς ἁβροῦ και ἐρασμίου ῥήτορος). See Gleason (1995: 126-129) and Gunderson (2000: 149-186). On the term κίναιδος or cinaedus, see Wilhelm Kroll, s.v. “Kinaidos”, in: RE XI.1 (1921), 459-462. On the broader context, see Williams (1999) and Edwards (1993), each with further literature. Similarly Polemon, De phys. 1.160-164 Foerster (cf. Swain 2007: 376-379) on the philosopher and hermaphrodite Favorinus: he was libidinous and dissolute beyond bounds. His voice was like a woman’s, and likewise his extremities and other bodily parts were equally soft. He paid regular attention to grooming, with the use of hair-dye, and cultivated everything that excites desire for intercourse and lust.

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diers.54 The greatest focus of public attention was perhaps directed towards leading political figures. In particular, authors of the biographical tradition such as Suetonius, Plutarch and the Historia Augusta rely upon the assumption that the true character of an emperor can be recognized not only from his diplomatic competence as a statesman, but furthermore from his non-verbal behaviour. Signs of effeminacy and effeteness in men were associated with a lack of self-control and a tendency towards excess, and could be used by political enemies to expose them to ridicule, as, for example, in the case of Caesar (see Corbeill 2004: 107-139) or Otho (see Williams 1999: 152-153).55

5. Conclusion For reasons of space, the treatment of the subject of this article has had to be very selective. Among the ancient treatises on rhetoric, for example, the eleventh book of Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria in particular would merit a detailed analysis (see esp. Maier-Eichhorn 1989), since it is the only extant comprehensive treatment of the use of gestures in speeches. On the whole, it would be desirable to have a systematic compilation of theoretical reflections on nonverbal communication by ancient Greek and Roman authors. Such a collection of the literary evidence would also open up new horizons for interdisciplinary research, in particular with regard to the archaeological material that is available. Nonetheless, I hope to have demonstrated that the more theoretically oriented reflections on non-verbal communication and body language by ancient authors stem from various perspectives. The bases of these reflections are, first, hypotheses on the origin of language (Lucretius); second, considerations about the first-language acquisition of the child (Augustine); third, remarks on the problem of foreign languages and, connected with this, the view of gesture and facial expressions as a universal language of all human beings (Cicero, Lucian and others); and fourth, the elaboration of rhetorical doctrines regarding the skilful use of non-verbal elements in public speech (Cicero and Quintilian). It is evident that whatever perspective the different writings may take, they also rely upon sign theory and discuss the status of signs. The human body was read like a text; the body’s characteristics were taken to be a reflection of the moral qualities of its owner. There was supposed to be a direct correlation between the habitus of an individual and his social status.

54 55

On doctors, see Fögen (2005); cf. Corbeill (2004: 12-40) who examines participatory gestures in Roman religious ritual and medicine. See also the chapter on mollitia in Edwards (1993: 63-97), who rightly remarks: “Mollitia in a man was sometimes taken to imply an inclination to submit oneself sexually to other men, sometimes an inability to act in a forceful ‘manly’ way” (Edwards 1993: 63-64).

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This conception is eloquently expressed in a passage from one of Seneca’s letters (Epist. 52.12): Omnia rerum omnium, si observentur, indicia sunt, et argumentum morum ex minimis quoque licet capere: inpudicum et incessus ostendit et manus mota et unum interdum responsum et relatus ad caput digitus et flexus oculorum; inprobum risus, insanum vultus habitusque demonstrat. Illa enim in apertum per notas exeunt (...). “If you mark them carefully, all acts are always significant, and you can gauge character by even the most trifling signs. The lecherous man is revealed by his gait, by a movement of the hand, sometimes by a single answer, by his touching his head with a finger, by the shifting of his eye. The scamp is shown up by his laugh; the madman by his face and general appearance. These qualities become known by certain marks (...).”

A number of ancient conceptions of non-verbal communication and body language operate within a framework of oppositional pairs and boundaries. Although the idea of body language as a universally intelligible means of communication pervades a variety of the documents discussed here, there is also the pronounced concept of alterity which can be detected on different levels. Small children and animals make themselves understood by vocal (sometimes ‘verbal’) as well as non-verbal elements which constitute some kind of basic ‘language’, but ultimately their voice does not have the status of fully developed speech (λόγος), which implies that they also lack reason (see Fögen 2007 for details). In rhetoric, and also in many other areas of Greek and Roman society, the ideal of masculinity prevails in every respect: the model-rhetorician is set apart from “effeminate” speech as well as from bodily behaviour allegedly typical of women. Groups that are perceived as physically different, in particular as far as their body movements, gestures, facial expressions and voice are concerned, are often associated with political irrelevance, a lack of sufficient education and knowledge, a high degree of emotionality as well as a lack of restraint and sometimes also with immorality. This could be seen very clearly in the case of pantomime dancers, who represent lower social strata or even slaves; for them, their ‘body management’ does not really matter, as they stand for ‘otherness’ and are thus ostracized anyway (for a useful summary, see Lada-Richards 2007: 125). These perceptions of the ancients frequently result in a marginalization of the groups that diverge from the norm, which seems to be constituted by the prototypical adult, authoritative male who is not only fully articulate, but also in control of his body and his expressive functions. Especially from the rhetorical documents that I have presented here, it is evident that this norm must have exercised an enormous amount of pressure even on those members of ancient societies who in principle met the expectations of their environment. In order to correspond to the ideal, every part at least of public life seems to have revolved around efforts to avoid being cast as

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the ‘Other’ and to abide by the normative boundaries defining the limits of acceptable behaviour.

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Ekman, Paul (1979): Zur kulturellen Universalität des emotionalen Gesichtsausdrucks. In: Klaus R. Scherer & Harald G. Wallbott (eds.), Nonverbale Kommunikation. Forschungsberichte zum Interaktionsverhalten, Weinheim & Basel, 50-58. Ekman, Paul & Wallace V. Friesen (1969): The repertoire of nonverbal behaviour. Categories, origins, usage, and coding. In: Semiotica 1, 49-98. Ekman, Paul & Wallace V. Friesen (1979): Handbewegungen. In: Klaus R. Scherer & Harald G. Wallbott (eds.), Nonverbale Kommunikation. Forschungsberichte zum Interaktionsverhalten, Weinheim & Basel, 111-118. Helfrich, Hede & Harald G. Wallbott (²1980): Theorie der nonverbalen Kommunikation. In: Hans Peter Althaus, Helmut Henne & Herbert Ernst Wiegand (eds.), Lexikon der Germanistischen Linguistik, Tübingen, 267-275. Hübler, Axel (2001): Das Konzept ‘Körper’ in den Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaften, Tübingen & Basel. Key, Mary Ritchie (1992): s.v. “Nonverbal communication”. In: William Bright (ed.), International Encyclopedia of Linguistics (vol. 3), New York & Oxford, 107110. Lyons, John (1972): Human language. In: Robert A. Hinde (ed.), Non-Verbal Communication, Cambridge, 49-85. Müller, Cornelia (1998): Redebegleitende Gesten. Kulturgeschichte – Theorie – Sprachvergleich, Berlin. Poyatos, Fernando (1993): Paralanguage. A Linguistic and Interdisciplinary Approach to Interactive Speech and Sound, Amsterdam & Philadelphia. Ruthrof, Horst (2000): The Body in Language, London & New York. Scherer, Klaus R. (1970): Non-verbale Kommunikation. Ansätze zur Beobachtung und Analyse der außersprachlichen Aspekte von Interaktionsverhalten, Hamburg. Wallbott, Harald G. (1979): Gesichtsausdruck. In: Klaus R. Scherer & Harald G. Wallbott (eds.), Nonverbale Kommunikation. Forschungsberichte zum Interaktionsverhalten, Weinheim & Basel, 35-42. Wallbott, Harald G. (1993): Mimik und Emotion. Anmerkungen aus Sicht der neueren nonverbalen Kommunikationsforschung. In: Geert Lotzmann (ed.), Körpersprache. Diagnostik und Therapie von Sprach-, Sprech- und Stimmstörungen, München & Basel, 26-41.

Bodies and Topographies in Ancient Stylistic Theory Nancy Worman Abstract: This paper explores the metaphors that ancient Greek and Roman writers deploy in order to highlight distinctions among different styles of writing. The imagery involves the disposition of the body in space and impressions on it, which together invigorate a sense of speech in performance. Much of this scheme indicates, either implicitly or explicitly, ideas about rigour versus pleasure, (e.g. the rough road versus the pretty path) and thus also tracks sensory inclinations. Further, these images fall together with those centered more overtly on the body, so that “twisting”, for instance, can mark physical deportment as well as the river’s meander and capture such features as circuitous periods in prose and “trills” in music. Its analysis comprises texts from the classical period in Athens as well as much later, and attempts to demonstrate continuities among the stylistic metaphors of writers as different in genre and sensibility as Aristophanes, Demetrius and Cicero. This “body in space” trope serves as the nexus for these metaphors, which are clearly situated at the intersection of ideas about civic morals on the one hand and aesthetic choices on the other. If both Greek and Latin writers on style make use of the body as an organizing principle, this may converge with imagery invoking geography in part through the ways in which its postures and appetites are mapped onto the topography of Greece and Rome.

1. Introduction In Aristophanes’ Clouds the “Weaker”, patently sophistic Argument claims in a sly and provocative fashion that his students will be able to indulge in any pleasure, since they will have the education to defend themselves against anyone seeking to prosecute them for transgressions, sexual or otherwise (Clouds 1071-1082). The atavistic “Stronger” Argument has advocated a much more stringent program, supposedly derived from the educational practices of earlier times. It includes striding about manfully singing martial tunes and prohibits mincing, giggling, crossing the legs (979-983), chattering refinements in the agora (1002) and crooning what he terms “twisted” strains (966-972: κάμψειεν τινα κάμπην). Aristotle’s Politics contains a warning about the dangers of training in music (μουσική): exposure to the wrong sorts can make the young citizen effeminate and even vulgar (φορτικός) (1339a-b), his soul “twisted” (παρεστραμ-

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μέναι) like the melodies of decadent strains (1342a).1 In this logos-loving city, however, the delights of such indulgence are not limited to the arts narrowly construed. Aristotle makes clear in the Rhetoric (1403b) that artful (i.e. too poetic) oratorical styles may skew the focus and purpose of the hearer (e.g. Rhet. 1408a20: παραλογίζεταί τε γὰρ ἡ ψυχή), indulging his already corrupt instincts and leading him further astray (cf. Rhet. 1395b1-2: φορτικότητα, 1404a8: τοῦ ἀκροατοῦ μοχθηρίαν). Aristotle’s generally squeamish attitude towards poetic or dramatic aspects of speech performance echoes Plato’s concerns in the Republic that training in mousikê alone (i.e. without gumnastikê) can render the citizen soft and decadent (Rep. 410d-e). As with Aristotle’s “twisted” modes, Plato identifies overly modulated styles as especially harmful to the hearer: eastern metres (e.g. Ionian and Lydian) are feminine, soft, sympotic and too “relaxed” (χαλαραί) (Rep. 398e1-10). These are the strains that flow into the ear as through a funnel (ὥσπερ διὰ χώνης); if indulged over time they may “melt and liquefy” (τήκει καὶ λείβει) the spirit of the listener, unstringing his soul and rendering him a “soft spearsman” (μαλθακὸν αἰχμητήν) (Rep. 411a6-b4; quoting Homer, Il. 17.588).2 Later writers on rhetoric may treat such fluid modes with less consistent animosity and make use of the vocabulary of music to illuminate stylistic distinctions with less apprehension, but they show a similar awareness of the ethical problems that can lurk in them.3 Although Cicero lauds the style of Isocrates as “sweet, loose and fluid” (Orator 42: dulce … solutum et fluens), Dionysius of Halicarnassus compares its pleasures to a full-flowing, meandering river and warns that it can be prolix and ornamental (Dem. 4, 18, 19; cf. Isoc. 2: ὑπτία; ποικιλήν). Demetrius, the author of the treatise Περὶ ἑρμηνείας (On Style), finds a charming laxity in the byways of styles such as Plato’s and a corresponding stringency in the “rough road” of Thucydides’ prose. Let us begin by acknowledging the moral undertones and implicit zeugmas of this imagery, which intimates an association between the body’s postures and appetites and meaningful topographies of Greece and Rome. What, if any1

2

3

On the vocabulary of “twisting” in relation to trends in late fifth-century and early fourthcentury music, see Franklin (2006); on the “new music” more generally, Csapo (2004); on music in Aristotle’s Politics, Ford (2004); on Aristotle’s literary tastes, Jones (1962) and Ferrari (1999). Cf. Plato, Rep. 3, where Socrates compares Syracusan feasts and Sicilian delicacies, Corinthian girlfriends and Attic pastries to the kinds of poetry that he finds enervating. “I think”, he concludes, “that we would be right to compare this entire diet and life-style to the lyric odes and songs composed in all sorts of harmonies and rhythms” (Rep. 404d1-e1: Ὄλην γάρ, οἶμαι, τὴν τοιαύτην σίτησιν καὶ δίαιταν τῇ μελοποιίᾳ τε καὶ ᾠδῇ τῇ ἐν τῷ παναρμονίῳ καὶ ἐν πᾶσι ῥυθμοῖς πεποιημένῃ ἀπεικάζοντες ὀρθῶς ἂν ἀπεικάζομεν). For the imagery of “flow”, cf. Plato, Theaet. 144b5. For the use of musical imagery see e.g. Dionysius Halicarnassus, De comp. verb. 11.

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thing, is wrong with the pliancy of certain verbal styles and their accompanying deportments, not to mention the geographical features sometimes adopted to express them?4 Is it better to swagger manfully, a stride often accompanied, as it turns out, by shouting in the agora, braying Doric tunes like Cleon in the Knights, or “flooding” the place with verbiage like the bibulous poet Cratinus (Eq. 526-36; fr. 198 Kassel & Austin)? The bodily and topographical tropes that ancient writers on style engage are clearly situated at the intersection of ideas about civic ethics on the one hand and aesthetic choices on the other. If Dionysius is the theorist most interested in matching the river’s flow to stylistic inclinations that imply restraint or indulgence, Aristophanes’ imagery, as well as that of Plato and especially Cicero, is firmly oriented towards envisioning the body in performance. Aristophanes’ lampoons of sophists and demagogues emphatically stage verbal modes as embodied and deposed in relation to meaningful spaces and geographies, a mocking pattern that Plato appropriates as a frame for Socrates’ confrontations with sophists. 5 Cicero is more interested in the body’s features than in geographical metaphors, but he opposes a strenuous, “muscular” style to the lax fluidity of rivers, perhaps in part as a pointed adaptation of neoteric aesthetics.6 While the “slender muse” of the Alexandrian poet invokes the narrow path and the pellucid stream, Cicero’s manly orator masters urban space like a wrestler in the ring and shores up his periods against the unchecked flow.7 The Alexandrian imagery may itself have influenced such critics as Dionysius (who advocates the purity of “Attic” style), while Cicero in his transformation of this Greek refinement seems also to reject the stylistic implications of metaphors that elaborate its delicate fluidity. Like the tropes that invigorate bodily or alluvial inclinations, those centering on roads or paths carry with them notions of strenuous activity and purpose versus idleness and indulgence. If Hesiod invokes the “rough road” of virtue, this imagery turns up in Pindar and, again, in Aristophanes, whose use of such idioms as the “path of words” (ὁδὸς λόγων) may parallel a sense of place (on stage, in life).8 The playing on “paths” as a metaphor for periodic style and/or life-style is picked up by the sophist Prodicus (according to Xenophon), by Demetrius, and then by Lucian, who satirizes both the hiker and hike so that ethical choice is cast in terms of hairstyles and pretty walks.

4 5 6 7 8

I.e. understanding style as incorporating aspects of visible speech performance; see Worman (2002) and cf. Bassi (1998). For a discussion of this Platonic appropriation, see Worman (2008: ch. 4). See Keith (1999) and further below. Cf. esp. Callimachus, Aetia 26-28; H. Ap. 105-112. See Zetzel (1983: 93-94). This is particularly dominant in Birds, where the action begins with a pondering over which path will lead to a better polity underpinned by a “finer” ethical sense.

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Scholars of rhetoric have been slow to recognize the extent to which ancient writers formulated ideas about verbal style around the body in performance.9 And yet what we might call the “body in space” trope turns up repeatedly in its various ramifications throughout ancient discussions of style, as a set of intersecting patterns from writings that span close to 1,000 years. This study offers a first attempt at capturing this remarkable range. It seeks to lay the groundwork for a better understanding of how these analyses position the body and its inclinations in order to highlight stylistic differences. Its central contention is that these metaphors intersect precisely because ancient writers envision a performative body – that is, a body in motion in significant spaces – when they have recourse to figurative language in differentiating among written styles. As one might expect, none of these stylistic distinctions are fully sustained over the centuries. Nevertheless, consistent zeugmas can be identified in the links between style and the body’s inclinations, which are often expressed by images associating bodily senses or appetites with deportments and/or topographical features. If the patterns that emerge are neither simple nor elegant, they do indicate the richness of the trope in all its variations.

2. Greek bodies and topographies 2.1 Twisted and circuitous Let us first explore the imagery of twisting in classical usage, which adapts an earlier topography of poetic and ethical styles that also extends into later stylistic theory. Although both Hesiod and Pindar employ tropes on the imagery of paths to indicate both moral and aesthetic choices, 10 in Attic comedy this scheme is not very prominent. It does, however, often designate geographical direction or appetitive inclination, which itself influences later ideas about how

9

10

While some may note particularly striking usage, few have treated a given writer’s metaphors as important to understanding his conception of style or oratory more generally. Indeed, with the exception of the cataloguing of images that Van Hook undertook in 1905, no one to my knowledge has looked at the metaphorical range of Dionysius of Halicarnassus or Demetrius (cf. e.g. Schenkeveld 1964, Wooten 1989, Damon 1991 and Hidber 1996). With a few exceptions (most notably Keith 1999 and Gunderson 2000), even work on Cicero’s rhetorical writings has tended to overlook his imagery. For example, Hesiod distinguishes the path that leads straight to justice (Erga 216-217: ὁδὸς ἑτέρηφι παρελθεῖν κρείσσων ἐς τὰ δίκαια) from that of “crooked judgements” (Erga 219: σκολιῇσι δίκῃσιν), which the didactic narrator warns his errant interlocutor to avoid. Some lines later he offers a slightly different distinction between paths. Baseness (κακοτής), he says, is easy to come by; the road is smooth (λείη μὲν ὁδός) and she lives nearby. Virtue (ἀρετή), in contrast, is prefaced by exertion; the path to her is long and steep (μακρὸς δὲ καὶ ὄρθιος οἶμος) and rough (τρηχύς) at the beginning (Erga 287-292).

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to discriminate among styles.11 Although the later imagery centres more on the twisted versus the straight path and the river’s turns or full floods, Attic comedy’s focus on bodily postures often encourages a linkage between these and significant “spaces” (on stage, in the city, across Greek territories). In the Clouds Socrates tells Strepsiades that the Cloud chorus nourishes (βόσκουσι) many sophistic types, including “tune-twisters” (ᾀσματοκάμπτας) and similar quacks (cf. Nub. 333: μετεωροφένακας). Strepsiades applauds the idea that through Socrates’ training he will become both bold and smooth talking (Nub. 445: θρασύς, εὔγλωττος), as well as impressively pliant (e.g. Nub. 449-450: μάσθλης [“supple”], γλοιός [“slippery”], στρόφις [“twisting”]). The connections that he draws between postures and oral dexterity shape a sophistic body that exhibits a suspect flexibility, produces a sly and contorted linguistic style, and traipses idly around civic spaces meant for vigorous action.12 Plato’s dialogues contribute a sly turn on this imagery. In the Gorgias the haughty Callicles depicts Socrates’ penchant for philosophizing as having a distorting effect on his soul. Whoever indulges in it does not frequent the public spaces (τὰ μέσα τῆς πόλεως καὶ τὰς ἀγοράς) of the city but instead “cowers” (κατεδεδυκότι) and “whispers” (ψιθυρίζοντα) in corners with a few young men, never uttering anything noble and lofty and worthwhile (ἐλεύθερον δὲ καὶ μέγα καὶ ἱκανὸν μηδέποτε φθέγξασθαι) (Gorgias 485d4-e2).13 Further, in Callicles’ estimation, Socrates’ noble soul is “twisted” (διαστρέφεις14) by this “boyish” style (μειρακιώδει τινί ... μορφώματι) (Gorgias 485e7-8). Socrates’ 11

12

13

14

Cf. the “virtuous path” (e.g. Pindar, Ol. 6.72-73: τιμῶντες ἀρετάς / ἐς φανερὰν ὁδὸν ἔρχονται; cf. Pyth. 3.103, Nem. 7.51); it usually implies a complex and varying conjunction of superior aesthetics (i.e. the path of his song, see Ol. 1.11: ἐπίκουρον εὑρῶν ὁδὸν λόγων, Ol. 9.47: ἐπέων ... οἶμον λιγύν) and moral fortitude. One may tread “crooked paths” (Pyth. 2.85: ὁδοῖς σκολιαῖς) as a means of being circumspect and avoiding discord (cf. Pyth. 2.96: ὀλίσθηρος οἶμος), but the righteous path of words is one of gleaming virtue (Nem. 7.51: φαενναῖς ἀρεταῖς ὁδὸν κυρίαν λόγων) – an image not exactly opposed to the other, but giving the impression of a straight, open road. In Aristophanes path imagery may be invoked for designating aggressive or highblown talk (Eq. 621, 1015, Pax 732, Av. 1374, Ran. 897). Cf. again the prohibitions in Clouds 983 against “twisting” (κάμψειεν) a tune, crossing the legs (ἴσχειν τὼ πόδ’ ἐναλλάξ) and chattering overly refined phrases in the agora (στωμύλλων κατὰ τὴν ἀγοράν τριβολεκτράπελ’); also Aristophanes, Ran. 1069-1071 regarding Euripides’ poetry emptying the palaistras and wearing out young men’s asses with chatter (εἶτ’ αὖ λαλιὰν ἐπιτηδεῦσαι καὶ στωμυλίαν ἐδίδαξας, / ἣ ᾿ξεκένωσεν τάς τε παλαίστρας καὶ τὰς πυγὰς ἐνέτριψεν / τῶν μειρακίων στωμυλλομένων); and Demosthenes “pirouetting” around the βῆμα (Aeschines 3.167: κύκλῳ περιδινῶν ... ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος) during an assembly speech on Macedonian policy. For Aristophanes’ stylistic vocabulary, see further O’Sullivan (1992); on the comic body and its appetites, Dover (1978), Davidson (1997) and Foley (2000). The reference to the agora is a bit odd in relation to Socrates, who is notorious for hanging out in public spaces; but Callicles uses the plural (Gorgias 485d5: ἀγοράς), which suggests spaces related to public speaking and citizen engagement, rather than to what he considers idle talk. This is a textual crux; Dodds (1959: ad loc.) has διαπρέπεις, but this makes little sense in relation to what follows.

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suspect deportment also seems to parallel the ways in which he argues. At Gorgias 511a4-5, for instance, when Callicles has become thoroughly exasperated with his seemingly perverse arguments about how unjust acts harm the soul, he complains that Socrates “twists the argument up and down” (στρέφεις ἐκάστοτε τοὺς λόγους ἄνω καὶ κάτω). As comedy suggests, this image is particularly associated with sophists, and more generally with arts practitioners whose techniques are viewed as being of questionable value and integrity.15 In Plato Socrates himself charges it of sophistic wranglers such as the brothers in the Euthydemus, whom he compares to Proteus, “the Egyptian sophist” (Euthyd. 288b8: τὸν ᾈγύπτιον σοφιστήν). In the Ion Socrates directs the same analogy at the rhapsode’s tactics, declaring that Ion is a veritable Proteus, “twisting the argument up and down” (Ion 541e7: ὥσπερ ὁ Πρωτεὺς παντοδαπὸς γίγνῃ στρεφόμενος ἄνω καὶ κάτω) – a very ironic attribution, in this case, since Socrates has led Ion around by the nose.16 A moment in the Phaedo reveals the implicit conjunction of such “twisted” tactics with the lay of the land. There Socrates declares that those who spend their time studying contradiction (i.e. sophists) come to think that there is no soundness or solidity (οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς οὐδὲ βέβαιον) to any argument, but that they all simply “twist up and down like the Euripus” (Phaedo 90c3-5: ὥσπερ ἐν Εὐρίπῳ ἄνω κάτω στρέφεται).17 The reference is to the tricky currents of the strait between Euboea and mainland Greece, an association with geographical features that later writers on rhetoric develop into a set of tropes for describing verbal styles.18 Like Aristophanes’ imagery on the one hand and Plato’s on the other, the story of Heracles’ famous choice in Xenophon’s Memorabilia highlights the connections among style, the body and moral “topography”. 19 In his young manhood the hero retreats to an isolated spot, in order to contemplate which path he should pursue – that of virtue or that of vice (Mem. 2.1.21: εἴτε τὴν δὲ ἀρετῆς ὁδὸν τρέψονται ἐπὶ τὸν βίον εἴτε τὴν διὰ κακίας). Two female figures approach him: one is adorned with moderation (κεκοσμημένην ... τὸ δὲ σχῆμα σωφροσύνης) and dressed in white, the other is plump, made up and pliantly 15

16 17 18 19

Cf. again the imagery from the Clouds discussed above; Agathon “twisting the new ties of words” (κάμπτει δὲ νέας ἁψῖδας ἐπῶν) at Thesm. 53; and Euripides, who in the Frogs prays to the “hinge of his tongue” (892: γλώττης στρόφιγξ). Note as well that Euripides’ In-law likens Agathon’s trills to the formless tracks of ants (Thesm. 100: μύρμηκος ἀτραπούς, ἢ τί διαμινύρεται;). Cf. also the end of the Euthyphro (15d2). Cf. Plato, Phaedrus 278d9 and Laches 196b1; also Isocrates, Phil. 75.3. In the speech On the Twelve Years, Ps.-Demades describes Demosthenes as a “bitter sycophant” (πικρὸς συκοφάντης) who “debases the subject by twisting it with his cleverness” (33: διαστρέφων τὸ πρᾶγμα τῇ δεινότητι τῶν ῥημάτων διέβαλεν). In Xenophon Socrates claims that he is paraphrasing Prodicus, though he explains that he cannot imitate Prodicus’ elegant style (Mem. 2.1.21).

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coquettish. She is, for instance, constantly checking her dress and looking around (ἐπισκοπεῖν) to ascertain her effect on others (Mem. 2.1.22).20 She runs ahead and offers Heracles the easy and short road (cf. Mem. 2.1.29: ῥᾳδίαν καὶ βραχεῖαν ὁδόν), which she describes as full of pleasures. When asked her name, she says that her friends call her Happiness (Mem. 2.1.26: Εὐδαιμονίαν) but admits that others call her Κακία. The second woman hails Heracles as well brought up and thus likely to tread the path to her house (Mem. 2.1.27: εἰ τὴν πρὸς ἐμὲ ὁδὸν τράποιο), since she is Virtue (Ἀρετή). She acknowledges that this path is one of exertion, but claims that the gods grant nothing without labour and care (Mem. 2.1.28: οὐδὲν ἄνευ πόνου καὶ ἐπιμελείας).21 Ἀρετή terms what Κακία offers “preludes of pleasure” (Mem. 2.1.27: προοιμίους ἡδονῆς), a string of participles that describe ongoing sensory delights, free from challenging activity – delights that her own appearance reiterates. Ἀρετή’s chaste speech, in contrast, contains a series of verbal adjectives expressing necessity, a list of duties to city and self (e.g. Mem. 2.1.28: εὐεργετητέον, ὠφελητέον, πειρατέον, θεραπευτέον). That is to say, one path is “smooth” in its indulgence of appetites, including the appetite for verbal ease; the other is rigorous in both its sense of duty and its syntax. The lofty tone of Virtue is achieved by a painstaking accumulation of arguments carefully bolstered by specific examples, with the periods tightly controlled by a series of parallel constructions (Mem. 2.1.30-33), while Κακία’s languid speech does not even bother with the details (e.g. Mem. 2.1.24: τί ἂν κεχαρισμένον ἢ σιτίον ἢ ποτὸν εὕροις, ἢ τί ἂν ἰδῶν ἢ τί ἀκούσας τερφθείης). We might compare here the famous stylistic dictum of Callimachus’ Muse: “Don’t”, she warns, “drive your wagon in the steps of others nor on the broad path; rather, stick to the narrow and untrodden” (Aetia fr. 1.26-28 Pfeiffer: ... ἑτέρων ἴχνια μὴ καθ’ ὁμά / δίφρον ἐλ]ᾶ̣ν μηδ’ οἷμον ἀνὰ πλατύν, ἀλλὰ κελεύθους / ἀτρίπτο]υ̣ς, εἰ καὶ στε ι ν̣οτέρην ἐλάσεις). Writers on rhetoric pursue the geographical metaphors suggested by Callimachus’ prologue. Demetrius, whose treatise on style bears traces of Peripatetic influence (i.e. it is probably Hellenistic), envisions the temptations of languid styles as lacking the forceful topography of consistency, detail and concision. 22 Witness, for inF L

20 21 22

Cf. Plato’s description of the two horses of the soul in Phaedrus 253d4-e5: the noble horse is white, and has a fine form and sound judgement (εἶδος ὀρθὸς ... σωφροσύνη), while the ignoble horse is black, and has a crooked shape and prideful behaviour (σκολιός ... ὕβρις). Note that in the Politics, Aristotle glosses the maxim πάθη μάθος with the claim that learning only comes with pain (Pol. 1339b: μετὰ λύπης γὰρ ἡ μάθησις). The best arguments for Demetrius’ dates place him in the second/first century B.C. (e.g. Schenkeveld 1964, Lombardo 1999); and though most agree that his text shows Peripatetic influence, Chiron (1993: xxvii-xxix) attributes his slight inclination for the rugged and plain styles to Stoic ideas about the naturalness of language and the virtues of simple, concise expression.

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stance, the effects of providing “inns” (καταγωγαί) along the “roads” (ὁδούς) of long periods (κῶλα), which he argues lessen a style’s grandeur (Demetrius, De eloc. 47: τὸ μέγαθος). In contrast, deserted stretches even on short journeys (αἱ ἐρημίαι ἐν ταῖς μικραῖς ὁδοῖς) contribute to the impression of length and thus elevate the tone (De eloc. 47). The path is manifestly not an easy one. Indeed, Demetrius remarks that Thucydides always seems to be “stumbling somehow” (τι προσκρούοντι), as do those travelling on rough roads (ὥσπερ οἱ τὰς τραχείας ὁδοὺς πορευόμενοι) (De eloc. 48). Demetrius’ tone suggests mild admiration at the hardiness and difficulty of his style, which includes both jagged phrasing and a “ruggedness” (τραχέα) of vocabulary, as opposed to the “smoothness and evenness” (τὸ λεῖον καὶ ὁμαλές) of what must by implication be the easy path.

2.2 Swaggering and torrential At the other end of the spectrum is a zeugma that joins verbal excesses (e.g. shouting, volubility) to topographical extremes (e.g. the flood, the straddling of territories). Water may be best for Pindar (Ol. 1.1), and humans inattentive unless speech imitates its seamless flow (Isthm. 7.19), but later writers do not appear to have been so sanguine about its positive properties. In the Knights, for instance, Aristophanes depicts Cleon as “Paphlagon” (or “Splutterer”),23 whose speech flows like a torrent (Eq. 137: κυκλοβόρου φωνήν; cf. Eq. 692, also Ach. 381, Vesp. 1034) and blows like Typhoeus (Eq. 511; cf. 696: ψολοκομπίαις). He is a Charybdis (Eq. 248: Χάρυβδιν ἁρπαγῆς; cf. Eq. 56, 197, 205) of the courts, with a huge appetite and booming voice (Eq. 256: βόσκω κεκραγώς; cf. Eq. 274, 863 etc.).24 Paphlagon’s bold deportment is also mapped across the lands of Greece, so that he straddles whole “territories”, his body stretched out from one villainy to another. He has one leg in Pylos and the other in the Assembly; his anus is “in Chaos” (ὁ πρωκτός ἐστιν αὐτόχρημ’ ἐν Χάοσιν [Chaonia]), his hands in Extortion (τὼ χεῖρ’ ἐν Αἰτωλοῖς [Aetolia]), and his mind in Larceny (ὁ νοῦς δ’ ἐν Κλωπιδῶν [Clopis, a deme in northern Attica]) (Eq. 78-79). Thus he swaggers (Eq. 77: διαβεβηκότος) like an arrogant general, his gait suggesting outsized appetites and obnoxious dominance.25

23

24 25

From παφλάζειν, cf. Eq. 919; the chorus announces that this is a stage name for Cleon at Eq. 976. Cf. Eupolis, fr. 95 Kassel & Austin. The blustering style is one that the comic poet Timocles accused Hyperides of employing (fr. 15); Eubulus says that foreigners speak in this way (fr. 109); and Hippocrates uses παφλάζειν to characterize verbal spluttering (Epid. 2.5.2). In the parabasis of Wasps the chorus also represents Aristophanes as Heracles fighting a hideous monster (i.e. Cleon) who has a “torrential”, ruinous voice (φωνὴν ... χαράδρας ὄλεθρον τετοκυίας) (Vesp. 1030-1035). Cf. Archilochus, fr. 114 W. for an earlier portrait of the swaggering general.

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Plato may be toying with this comic scheme in the Gorgias, when he depicts Socrates teasing Callicles for his hedonist’s argument that the best thing is to have “as much as possible flowing in” (Gorgias 494b2: ὡς πλεῖστον ἐπιρρεῖν).26 This leads Socrates to suggest an analogy with the “torrent bird” (494b6: χαραδρίου), which eats and excretes at the same time. Callicles grows increasingly disgusted and finally calls Socrates a demagogue or “mob orator”, when he asks Callicles whether any pleasure is worth indulging, even scratching an itch (494d1: δημηγόρος). Such comparisons strike Callicles as overly bold and crude; at an earlier point in the argument when he also deems Socrates a demagogue (482c5), he equates this identity with juvenile, swaggering talk (482c4: νεανιεύεσθαι).27 Let us return for a moment to comedy, in order to get a better sense of the stylistic implications of these images. In the Knights, for instance, when the chorus steps out in the first parabasis to discuss the poet’s contributions in contradistinction to his fellow poets, they lampoon first the bibulous Cratinus. He, the chorus claims, flooded his audience with a bland profusion of images, suffered a piteous, babbling (παραληροῦντ’) decline, and now ought to be “drinking” in the Prytaneum (πίνειν ἐν τῷ πρυτανείῳ) (Eq. 526-536). 28 Cratinus’ Putinê (Wine Flask, produced in 423 B.C.) responds to this insult by defending the drinking life. In fr. 198 Kassel & Austin, for instance, a character bears witness to the fountains of words that spurt from the poet; he warns that they will “flood the place with poetry” (ἅπαντα ταῦτα κατακλύσει ποιήμασιν), unless someone stops up his mouth (εἰ μὴ γὰρ ἐπιβύσει τις αὐτοῦ τὸ στόμα) as one might an upended wine flask.29

26 27

28

29

See further in Worman (2008: ch. 4). Cf. Xenophon, who depicts Antisthenes as denigrating excessive types because they are never satisfied (Symp. 4.37). At the end of the dialogue, Socrates says rather melancholically that he and his interlocutors should not “swagger” (νεανιεύεσθαι), since they have reached such an extent of ignorance (ἐς τοσοῦτον ἀπαιδευσίας ἥκομεν) (Gorgias 527d6-e1). Cf. Nub. 362-363 for Socrates’ swaggering in the streets (βρενθύει τ’ ἐν ταῖσιν ὁδοῖς), and Demosthenes, Orat. 19 for Aeschines’ strutting in the agora (19.314: καὶ διὰ τῆς ἀγορᾶς πορεύεται θοἰμάτιον καθεὶς ἄχρι τῶν σφυρῶν, ... τὰς γνάθους φυσῶν). Cf. Ameipsias’ Connus, produced the year after (423 B.C.). Sommerstein (1981: ad 535) notes that the Prytaneum was primarily a place of communal eating rather than drinking, so that the image underscores Cratinus’ proclivity for drink. See Sidwell (1995), Luppe (2000), Biles (2002) and Ruffell (2002) on the rivalry between Aristophanes and Cratinus and its metatheatrical implications. For metatheatrical elements in Aristophanes more generally, see Slater (2002). Biles (2002: 189-201) argues that this is a response to the Wasps as well, focussing especially on the figure of Philocleon, in whose drunken behaviour at symposium he sees a lampoon of Cratinus. See also Rosen (2000) and Ruffell (2002) on Cratinus’ style and the puzzle of whether a “flood of words” could be a positive image.

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With his drunken creativity and flood of words Cratinus resembles Archilochus, whose stylistic heir he was.30 Ps.-Longinus (De subl. 33.5) deprecatingly compares Archilochus’ style to an unleashed flood, an image that the careful and restrained Horace in his satires uses to denigrate his predecessor Lucilius’ style (Serm. 1.4.21, 1.10.50).31 Further, in an unassigned fragment that may belong to Cratinus’ play, the poet describes someone as his opposite by comparing him to both Euripides and Aristophanes: “an overly subtle speechifier, an idea-peddler, a Euripidaristophaniser” (Fab. inc. fr. 342: ὑπολεπτολόγος, γνωμιδιώκτης, εὐριπιδαριστοφανίζων).32 It appears, then, that the flood of words, like the rough path, may stand in contrast to polished contortions. As these passages indicate, that flood can also represent the full flux of creativity and be valued as such. Dionysius uses Homer’s own verse to characterize his poetry as the ocean, a font feeding all stylistic genius: “The source from which all the rivers flow and the whole sea and every spring” (De comp. verb. 24 [= Homer, Il. 21.196-197]: ἐξ οὗ περ πάντες ποταμοὶ καὶ πᾶσα θάλασσα / καὶ πᾶσαι κρῆναι). Longinus claims that everyone is naturally drawn to the great rivers and above all the ocean, as opposed to the little streams (μικρὰ ῥεῖθρα), even though these are “limpid and useful” (εἰ καὶ διαυγῆ καὶ χρήσιμα) (De subl. 35.4). For Longinus as for Dionysius, Homer is the great natural source, while the style of artful writers like Plato is a “sea” (πέλαγος) that “floods a great expanse” (εἰς ἀναπεπτάμενον κέχυται πολλαχῇ μέγεθος) (De subl. 11.3). Plato’s techniques are, however, effectively a tributary of Homer’s. Longinus portrays him as channelling this giant force of nature into something more smoothly gliding, so that his words “flow as noiselessly as oil” (De subl. 13.1: τινὶ χεύματι ἀψοφητὶ ῥέων). Others have been similarly inspired, but Plato “drew off ten thousand runnels from the Homeric spring” (De subl. 13.3: ἀπὸ τοῦ Ὁμηρικοῦ κείνου νάματος εἰς αὑτὸν μυρίας ὅσας παρατροπὰς ἀποχετευσάμενος).33 Dionysius also likens Plato’s style to a full and fertile source, deeming him a “rich fountain that bubbles out great elaborations” (Dem. 28: νᾶμα τὸ πλούσιον καὶ τὰς μεγάλας κατασκευὰς καχλάζον).

30

31 32 33

Cf. Archilochus, fr. 120 W. regarding the creative powers of wine, as well as Cratinus’ dismissal of the creative potential of the water drinker (fr. 203 Kassel & Austin). The testimony 17 Kassel & Austin seems to suggest that Cratinus consciously fashioned his poetic persona and style after Archilochus. This smacks of Callimachaen aesthetics, what we might perhaps recognize as a product of the neoteric poets’ Atticism. This is Ruffell’s piquant translation (2002: 160). Note that Aristophanes himself lampoons Euripides’ style as overly subtle and delicate. Cf. Euripides, Bacch. 479, where Pentheus waxes sarcastic about Dionysus’ style, which he regards as diversionary (παρωχέτευσας εὖ κοὐδὲν λέγων).

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This easy, abundant flow can be a good thing, not stringent but not twisted or sapping either. In Dionysius’ study of Demosthenes, the critic does make a point of praising Plato’s style when at its simplest as “limpid” (διαυγής), “like the clearest of streams” (ὥσπερ τὰ διαφανέστατα τῶν ναμάτων) and as “giving off a sweet breeze, like the most fragrant meadows” (ὥσπερ ἀπὸ τῶν εὐωδεστάτων λειμώνων αὖρα τις ἡδεῖα ἐξ αὐτῆς φέρεται) (Dem. 5). It appears that the pleasure afforded by such flowing and wafting can be edifying, as long as one does not indulge in a prolix flood or drift into an idle retreat, carried away by agreeably undifferentiated abundance.

3. Between Greek and Roman topographies? The contrasts between Greek and Roman treatments of these stylistic issues, especially those between Dionysius and Cicero, complicate the picture considerably. The case of Thucydides remains instructive. Like Demetrius, Dionysius describes the effects of Thucydides’ rugged style, noting that it is not pretty and soft and smoothly gliding into the ear (εὐεπὴς καὶ μαλακὴ καὶ λεληθότως ὀλισθάνουσα διὰ τῆς ἀκοῆς) but rather striking and rough and harsh (τὸ ἀντίτυπον καὶ τραχὺ καὶ στρυφνόν) (De comp. verb. 22). He points to Thucydides’ explicit statement that he did not compose his work for the pleasure of the hearer, thus connecting this lack of polish with an austerity (cf. De comp. verb. 22: αὐστηράν) and an aesthetics that rejects the indulgence of listeners.34 This is not, for Dionysius, necessarily a point in his favour; by the late Republic both Greek and Roman writers on rhetoric have embraced pleasure as a crucial goal of persuasive technique. Indeed, Cicero includes pleasure in his trio of goals for the orator (ut delectaret / delectet; see Brutus 80 and Orator 69), and he describes Isocrates approvingly as writing for “the ears’ indulgence” (Orator 39: ad voluptatem aurium). Thucydides, in contrast, employs expressions so recondite as to be almost incomprehensible (Orator 30-31: obscuras abditasque sententias vix ut intellegantur). Dionysius similarly finds fault with Thucydides’ prose as sometimes “tortuous and difficult to follow” (Thuc. 29: σκολιὰ καὶ δυσπαρακολούθητα). Thus the rugged path may become a perversely twisting route, not merely lofty and hard to scale but obscure and impeding. For Greek writers such as Dionysius the polished (γλαφυρά) style possesses precisely the flowing and soft (εὔρους τις λέξις καὶ μαλακή) qualities lacking in its opposite (De comp. verb. 23).35 An additional contrast clearly 34 35

For a general analysis of Dionysius’ aesthetic scheme, see Costil (1949) and Damon (1991); for his assessment of Thucydides, see Pritchett (1975). Demetrius also notes that Plato’s prose rhythm is dilatory (ἐκτεταμένῳ) though not “heavy or long” (οὔτε ἕδραν ... οὔτε μῆκος); this drawing out of phrases Demetrius regards as often

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subtends these distinctions. If the rough road of Thucydides’ prose manifestly suits the manly traveller, the gentle fluidity of, say, Sappho’s poetry – and interestingly, of Isocrates’ ornate prose – would seem to entice more feminine, or perhaps we should say more refined, sorts. The limpid delicacy that Dionysius sometimes advocates recalls a famous moment in Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo, in which Apollo spurns Envy’s broad and muddy river in favour of the purest water from the smallest stream (H. Ap. 111-112: ἥτις καθαρή τε καὶ ἀχράαντος ἀνέρπει / πίδακος ἐξ ἱερῆς ὀλίγη λιβὰς ἄκρον ἄωτον).36 As a proponent of Atticism and therefore of lucidity and purity rather than fulsomeness and ornament, Dionysius carefully orchestrates a compromise between polish and grandeur.37 For instance, while he notes the artfulness of both Plato and Demosthenes, he likens the craft of Demosthenes to a visual artist, but that of Plato to a hairdresser. The latter, he says, “never stopped combing and curling his dialogues and replaiting them in every way” (De comp. verb. 25: τοὺς ἑαυτοῦ διαλόγους κτενίζων καὶ βοστρυχίζων καὶ πάντα τρόπον ἀναπλέκων οὐ διέλειπεν; see North 1991). Dionysius also opposes the “flowery meadow offering pleasant rest” (ἀνθηρῷ χωρίῳ καταγωγὰς ἡδείας ἔχοντι) that marks Plato’s style to the “rich and fertile field” (εὐκάρπῳ καὶ παμφόρῳ γῇ) of Demosthenes (Dem. 32). The one offers a perfumed but transient entertainment (τέρψεις ἐφημέρους), while the other provides both the true sustenance (τῶν ἀναγκαίων εἰς βίον) of the hard-working farmer’s well-tended plot and its luxuries (τῶν περιττῶν εἰς τέρψιν).38 Similarly, Dionysius finds the “meandering” phrases (cf. Dem. 19: κεκολπωμένα) of Isocrates’ style to be smooth and soft (λεῖον καὶ μαλακόν) as well as languid (ὑγρά), since they flow into the ears of the audience like oil (Dem. 20: ὥσπερ ἔλαιον).39 Cicero’s stylistic recommendations suggest that he is considerably more suspicious than Dionysius of this soft fluidity. His imagery centers explicitly on the body, while carefully rejecting any imputations of effeminacy that might attach to the ornate, Asiatic styles that he advocates. 40 In the third book of De oratore, for example, Cicero draws contrasts between the manly orna-

36 37 38 39 40

what gives Plato’s style its elegance (γλαφυρός) (De eloc. 183). Weight and length are the preserve of the elevated style, while this leisurely rhythm has a kind of limpid charm, so that the phrases seem to glide along (ὀλίσθῳ τινὶ ἔοικε τὰ κῶλα). Cf. Ps.-Longinus, De subl. 13.1: τινὶ χεύματι ἀψοφητὶ ῥέων (using Plato’s image, n.b.); see Innes ([1995] 2006: 305-306). Catullus and Horace appropriate aspects of this distinction; see Cody (1976), Zetzel (1983) and Keith (1999). Cf. Dionysius Halicarnassus, De orat. vet. 1 and further below. On Dionysius on Demosthenes’ style, see Wooten (1989). N.b. the image is from Plato, Theaet. 144b5; cf. Rep. 411a5-8 (discussed above). Keith (1999) has argued that Cicero’s use of bodily metaphors to talk about oratorical styles responds to the Alexandrian promotion of slenderness and delicacy. Cf. Gunderson (2000: 124-132).

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mentation of an athletic style to one either overly sweet or theatrical. Ornament must be “weighty” (gravis) and “gentlemanly” (liberalis) (De orat. 3.96) rather than soft and delicate (molliores … et delicatiores), like the use of trills (flexiones, “bending”) and falsettos in song (De orat. 3.98). As with the overindulgence of any of the senses, the “curls and rouge” (cincinnis ac fuco) of the orator or poet who indulges in such charming devices lead quickly to disgust in the audience (De orat. 3.100). Indeed, ornament itself must be like a manly body rather than a fancy dessert: austere and solid (austeram et solidam), not sweet and overdone (dulcem et decoctam) (De orat. 3.103). Cicero returns more overtly to the sports metaphor later in his discussion, arguing that the orator must colour his style not as surface make-up (fuco) but “suffused with blood” (sanguine diffusus), so that the style is effectively “flushed” if properly exercised; he must also practise “grace of movement” (venustate moveantur) in his phrasing like those trained in fencing or boxing (De orat. 3.199-200).41 Cicero’s recommendations for delivery follow this rigorous program: the orator should not indulge in stagy gestures (ab scena et histrionibus) but rather throw out his chest manfully like a parading soldier or even a wrestler (ab armis aut etiam a palaestra) (De orat. 3.220). In some contrast to the Greek writers on rhetoric who regard certain flowing styles as polished, Cicero argues that a flux of verbiage is the opposite – “rough and unpolished” (rudens et impolita). Without proper rhythm the ear cannot detect a period’s parts (cf. membra et pedes) as one might individual drops of water (De orat. 3.185-186). Most important for our purposes, in the Orator Cicero opposes a forceful style to a fluid, unpunctuated one that is “loose” (soluta) and lacking athletic rhythm. Speech that flows like a river (Orator 228: infinite feratur ut flumen oratio) resembles a man untrained in the palaestra. Unsyncopated speech is similarly slack, without forward movement or force (Orator 229: enervetur oratio composiotione verborum, ut aliter in ea nec impetus ullus nec vis esse possit). Some years after Cicero’s death Dionysius characterized the Asiatic style that Cicero advocated as exhibiting a lexical indulgence, which he equates with the presumptuous appropriation of the “household” by a luxury-loving and mindless whore (De orat. vet. 1: ἑταίρα δὲ τις ἄφρων; cf. Hidber 1996). Distracting listeners with its theatricality and vulgar ornamentation (cf. 1: θεατρικῇ, φορτική), this Asiatic style threatens the status of the “freeborn and chaste wife” (1: ἐλευθέρα καὶ σώφρων γαμετή) who embodies Attic purity. Thus both writers contend for the claim to stylistic restraint. For the Roman orator opposed to Alexandrian delicacy this manifests itself in a hard-body aesthetic, which may offset the possibly effeminizing aspects of Asiatic indul41

Cf. Quintilian, Inst. orat. 8.20-21; and see Fögen (2004: 219-220) on Quintilian’s similar concern about that the orator not indulge in a “femininized” style.

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gence. 42 For the Greek teacher from Asia Minor it entails the chaste Attic wife’s rejection of her luxurious, whorish counterpart. We might recall here Xenophon’s Ἀρετή, who combines stringent deportment with the straighter or rougher path, as well as the gendered posturings from Aristophanes’ Clouds. Aristophanes’ mocking support for stylistic muscularity and restraint, like Cicero’s “hard-body” oratory, exhibits striking parallels to the discourse of paths and rivers, in part because both sets of tropes clearly dovetail around the same or similar issues. If Aristophanes’ scheme lacks the topographical meander (e.g.) as a central metaphor, sophistic education is repeatedly distinguished from its traditional counterpart by the imagery of circuitous techniques and contorted aesthetics (cf. e.g. Nub. 443-451). Plato likewise derides the sophist’s twisted manœuvres, while Cicero rejects the lax and the curled.

4. The parodic turn Quintilian’s remark at the opening of his treatise on oratory that those who labour have a better chance of reaching the summit than those who despair at the outset43 finds its insouciant echo in Lucian’s parodic portrait of educational routes, which clearly conjoins the nature of the path and the deportment of the hiker. In his “dialogue” A Teacher of Orators, Lucian depicts the choice of programs as that between decidedly different roads (Rhet. praec. 1: ὁδούς). The one is “rough, steep and sweaty” (τραχεῖαν τινα οὐδὲ ὄρθιον καὶ ἱδρῶτος μεστήν), laborious (καματηράν) and basically hopeless (ἀπεγνωσμένην). The other is short and sweet (ἡδίστην τε ἅμα καὶ ἐπιτομωτάτων), a leisurely, even luxurious jaunt along a well-shaded, sloping bridle-path through flowering fields (ἱππήλατον καὶ κατάντη σὺν πολλῇ τῇ θυμηδίᾳ καὶ τρυφῇ διὰ λειμώνων εὐανθῶν καὶ σκιᾶς ἀκριβοῦς σχολῇ) (Rhet. praec. 3).44 Like Aristophanes in the Clouds, Lucian highlights the visible contrasts between those on different educational tracks. The guide on the rough road has

42

43 44

Cf. Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. 1.5.2-3, who reports that Hortensius, the orator that Cicero champions in the Brutus, was lampooned by his contemporaries as an actor and dancing girl for his overly elegant and fulsome style. See Gunderson (2000: 127-132); also Douglas (1973) and Fantham (2004) for the intellectual and historical context of Cicero’s rhetorical writings. Quintilian, Inst. orat. 1.18-20: Altius tamen ibunt qui ad summa nitentur quam qui praesumpta desperatione quo velint evadendi protinus circa ima substiterint. N.b. at Aristophanes, Nub. 1004-1008 the image of the soft meadow with fragrant trees is invoked by the Stronger Logos (who should be the more upright and tough) in his description of the Academy. This seems to be part of Aristophanes’ paradox: the old system was gently appealing but made one tough, while the new system is brutal but ennervating. See Cribiore (2007: 6-7) for the significance of such contrasts for later ideas about educational tracks.

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a manly stride, a hard body and a dark tan (ὑπόσκληρος, ἀνδρώδης τὸ βάδισμα, πολὺν τὸν ἥλιον ἐπὶ τῷ σώματι). He is also a fool (μάταιος) who talks a lot of twaddle (λήρους τινάς) (Rhet. praec. 9). The guide on the easy road is a terribly clever and completely gorgeous man (πάνσοφόν τινα καὶ πάγκαλον ἄνδρα), with a mincing gait, a slender neck, a womanly glance and a honeyed voice (διασεσαλευμένον τὸ βάδισμα, ἐπικεκλασμένον τὸν αὐχένα, γυναικεῖον τὸ βλέμμα, μελιχρὸν τὸ φώνημα). Though he has not much of it, he carefully arranges his curly black hair (ὀλίγας μὲν ἔτι, οὔλας δὲ καὶ ὑακινθίνας τὰς τρίχας εὐθετίζονται). He is the speaker claims, “a perfect Agathon – that charming writer of tragedies” (Rhet. praec. 11: αὐτὸν Ἀγάθωνα, τὸν τῆς τραγῳδίας ἐπέραστον ἐκεῖνον ποιητήν).

5. Conclusions What can we conclude, at least provisionally, from this imagery that runs the gamut from bodily inclinations to topographical features? While the focus in Aristophanes, Plato and Cicero is primarily on deportment, Demetrius and Dionysius highlight geographical features to suggest a similarly dubious realm of appetite and indulgence.45 Verbal habits may fall together with the geography of paths (etc.), in part through a staging of the body in space that reiterates comic patterns. What emerges is something like a demographics of style, which tracks the constantly shifting characteristics and distributions of bodies in relation to both urban and rural geography. Visible deportments are matched with verbal habits and these are in turn often aligned with meaningful topographies. For all the pervasiveness of this “body in space” trope, unless its features are assembled across texts, genres and centuries, its range and impact are likely to be overlooked. Because – at least for the ancient writers – there is no aesthetics without ethics, these metaphorical patterns highlight not merely tastes but more importantly moral concerns. And indeed, some fairly consistent anxieties are sustained through images that link style to character and appetitive inclination. In the lexicon of rivers and paths, the rough road risks obscurity, the languid passage idle indulgence, the fulsome flood prolixity. The tropes centering on the body reveal that the travellers themselves ought to be rigorous and manly, neither languishing and pliant like the river’s meander nor soft like the fragrant meadow – pleasurable spaces that elicit similarly pleasuring reactions. That is to say, whether the writers are Greek or Roman, or whether they advocate fulsome or restrained styles, they all recognize that 45

This is also somewhat true of Longinus, but his metaphorical schemes do not as often exhibit a wariness of excess.

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prose – like poetry, like music, like all the mimetic arts – is fundamentally seductive. Some styles flow into the ear like oil, imperceptibly sensuous and lulling; others are carefully primped, as evidenced by the well-combed curls of their periods. Directness, lucidity and suitability (all Peripatetic virtues) emerge as safer tacks, since they offset the aesthetic failings that lurk in the curves of ornate prose styles. If, like Cicero, one wishes to foster some measure of extravagance, this must be manfully exercised, else it will grow soft and sluggish, from indulging too many trivial pleasures along the way.

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Worman, Nancy (2002): The Cast of Character. Style in Greek Literature, Austin, Texas. Worman, Nancy (2008): Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Zetzel, James E. G. (1983): Re-creating the canon. Augustan poetry and the Alexandrian past. In: Critical Inquiry 10, 83-105.

Paying Attention to the Man behind the Curtain: Disclosing and Withholding the Imperial Presence in Justinianic Constantinople Charles F. Pazdernik Abstract: Observers of imperial ceremonial in Justinianic Constantinople – notably, Procopius of Caesarea and John Lydus – call attention to changes in courtly etiquette that cumulatively may be described as efforts to reinscribe the boundaries defining the imperial presence and to revise the body language governing interactions between rulers and their subjects. Procopius sums up these changes metaphorically in his Secret History by invoking the master-slave paradigm to characterize relationships between the imperial couple and their subjects, implication in which by high officials and other consequential persons is connotative of servility. These changes point to an intensified focus upon imperial officials as the objects of imperial mastery. Examination of the venues for interaction between rulers and ruled in the Justinianic context and the vocabularies of gesture and modes of address that seem to be characteristic of such venues, with reference to corroborating material from sources such as the Book of Ceremonies and Cyril of Scythopolis’ Life of Sabas, suggests that imperial observers concur in constructing the good emperor as one who, refusing to be constrained by ceremonial, is capable of deliberately ignoring or subverting etiquette in instances when its observance would serve either to deprecate intrinsic merit or to validate the unworthy. The contrast with Justinian, who either insisted upon participating in demeaning forms of courtly etiquette (according to Procopius) or merely acquiesced in them (according to Lydus), is striking.

We are accustomed to thinking about emperors in the ceremonial contexts of late antiquity as waxwork figures, whom the strictures of courtly etiquette constrain to play the role allotted to them as objects of veneration. The protocol for the reception of the Persian ambassador included within the sixth-century material in the Byzantine Book of Ceremonies1 evokes the spectacle of the emperor enthroned behind his curtain in the consistorium with magistrates and an honour guard assembled on either side by the magister officiorum (Constantine VII Porph., De cerimoniis p. 406.4-13 Reiske):

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See Bury (1907: esp. 212-213).

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(...) καὶ τηνικαῦτα ἐξέρχεται ἔξω, καὶ ἐὰν ἴδῃ, ὅτι ἕτοιμός ἐστιν ὁ πρεσβευτὴς, κράζει ὁ δικουρίων “LEBA.” καὶ ἐπαιρομένου τοῦ βήλου, ῥίπτει ἑαυτὸν ἔξω ὁ πρέσβης ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐδάφους, ἔνθα τὸ πορφυροῦν μάρμαρον, καὶ προσκυνεῖ, καὶ ἀνίσταται. καὶ μεθὸ εἰσέλθῃ τὸν πυλῶνα, πάλιν ῥίπτει ἑαυτὸν, καὶ προσκυνεῖ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἐδάφους, καὶ ἀνίσταται. καὶ πάλιν ἐν τῷ μέσῳ τοῦ κονσιστωρίου ὁμοίως προσκυνεῖ, καὶ τότε ἔρχεται καὶ φιλεῖ τοὺς πόδας, καὶ ἵσταται ἐν τῷ μέσῳ, καὶ ἐπιδίδωσι τὰ γράμματα, καὶ λέγει τὸν ἀσπασμὸν τοῦ βασιλέως αὐτοῦ. “At that point he [the magister] goes out, and if he observes that the ambassador is ready, the decurion shouts, ‘LEVA!’ When the curtain is raised, the ambassador outside throws himself to the floor, where [there is] purple marble, performs προσκύνησις, and arises. And then he enters the gate, [and] again he throws himself [down] and performs προσκύνησις on the floor and arises. Again in the middle of the consistorium he performs προσκύνησις likewise, and then he comes and venerates the feet [of the emperor] and stands in the middle; he hands over the letter and declares the greeting of his king.”

The emperor is indisputably the cynosure of this spectacle, but the effect is magnified by the splendour of the consistorium itself, with its sumptuous carpets and tapestries and its gilded surfaces, and by the solemn and minutelyregulated choreography of the court.2 Corippus’ panegyric of Justin II (imp. 565-578) describes the same ceremony with reference to an embassy of the Avars in 565 (In laudem Iustini Aug. minoris 3.255-263; Kelly 2004: 22-26): verum ut contracto patuerunt intime velo ostia, et aurati micuerunt atria tecti, Caesareumque caput diademate fulgere sacro Tergazis suspexit Avar, ter poplite flexo pronus adoravit, terraeque adfixus inhaesit. hunc Avares alii simili terrore secuti in facies cecidere suas, stratosque tapetas fronte terunt, longisque inplent spatiosa capillis atria et Augustam membris inmanibus aulam. 2

Similarly, Ammianus Marcellinus’ famous depiction of Constantius II’s adventus in Rome in 357 (16.10.2-10) emphasizes his glittering cavalry escort and the impression of gravity and power that his rigid pose was intended to convey. See Francis (2003), Matthews (1989: 231235), MacCormack (1981: 39-45) and MacMullen (1964: 438-441, esp. 439): “[A]t the same time that imperial statues were coming to resemble their subjects by being borne about in processions, carried in chariots, wreathed and hailed and addressed as witnesses to oaths, the emperors themselves copied their own statues. They were increasingly forced into an ideal impersonal mold (...)”. On the relationship between personal deportment and social order, see Brown (1988: 11-17, 22-24). At the hippodrome, in contrast, Constantius permitted himself to react to comments from the crowd (16.10.13-14), a performance described by McCormick (1986: 87-88) as “odd gestures of his civility, a living archaism, harkening back to the days of the first citizen”. On the expectations governing such occasions, see Buc (1997: 67-70) and Alan Cameron (1976: 157-183). On putative associations between a lack of ceremonial self-restraint and civilitas, see also n. 35 below.

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“But when the curtain was drawn aside and the inner part was revealed, and when the hall of the gilded building glittered and Tergazis the Avar looked up at the head of the emperor shining with the holy diadem, he lay down three times in adoration and remained fixed upon the ground. The other Avars followed him in similar fear and fell on their faces, and brushed the carpets with their foreheads, and filled the spacious halls with their long hair and the imperial palace with their huge limbs.”

This passage from Corippus suggests the reaction that these gestures and this spectacle are intended to evoke in the venerator: a sense of absolute and unbridgeable distance between himself and the object of veneration and with it a realization of the venerator’s profound inferiority.3 Imperial officials, arrayed in order of rank with their splendid vestments and distinctive insignia, are an essential part of that spectacle, so that Corippus can expostulate how “the imperial palace with its officials is like Olympus” (In laudem Iustini Aug. minoris 3.179-180: ... imitatur Olympum / officiis Augusta domus ...). Standing in order beside the throne in the consistorium and swelling the magnificent spectacle of an imperial audience bathed the Constantinopolitan bureaucrat in the reflected glory of his monarch and made him, even if only in a derivative and collective sense, an object of veneration.4 Yet this perspective was capable of being reversed, placing the bureaucrat, in the act of offering προσκύνησις, in the position of the venerator and not the venerated. In such

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Bertelli (2001: 141-146) attempts to identify elements of the Byzantine legacy in the West in rites governing the withholding and disclosing of the royal presence. A modern description of the seclusion of the Ottoman sultan in the Topkapi palace is evocative in this context: “[T]he sultan’s mastering gaze (...) implied a form of domination and control that accentuated the spatial and sociopolitical distance between subject and object, ruler and ruled. (...) [T]o catch a glimpse of the hidden monarch became the propelling force of the ceremonial narrative” (Bertelli 2001: 142, citing Necipoğlu 1991: 244). Compare Francis (2003: 590) on spiritual or mystical “seeing”: “The god, Christ, or the emperor is so far beyond and above the viewer that they exist on a different plane, yet they are connected to the viewer. The viewer is subject to them, but they allow themselves to be seen. They must, since by seeing the viewer recognizes them and thus acknowledges their power. Seeing and being seen, in this instance, are the respective roles in a power relationship that binds both viewer and viewed into one manifestation of civil and cosmic order, parts of a transcending whole.” See also Elsner (1995: 88-124). Compare Corippus, In laudem Iustini Aug. minoris 3.182-187: aurea convexi veluti rutilantia caeli / sidera mensura, numeris et pondere cursus / perficiunt librata suos, stabilique recessu / firma manent, unumque iubar super omnia fulget; / omnia subcumbunt flammis melioribus astra, / et quo tecta latent, regis pascuntur ab igne (“Just as the golden shining stars in the curving sky accomplish their courses poised on their own measure, number and weight, and remain firm in fixed retreat, and one light shines over all; all the stars yield to its superior flames and they feed on the fire of their monarch, by which they lie eclipsed”). On the relationship between imperial solar imagery and the withholding and disclosing of the imperial presence, see Kantorowicz (1963: esp. 149-162). With Corippus compare Plotinus, Enn. 5.5.3, quoted by Matthews (2000b: 445-446).

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circumstances courtly etiquette threatened no longer to recognize his distinctive place in the political and social order. These opposing perspectives enacted, with reference to the framework explored in this volume, in the first place a boundary between inclusion within and exclusion from the imperial presence; correspondingly, they underscored the ambivalent position occupied by high imperial officials and other elites in their role as intermediaries between rulers and their subjects more generally.5 That boundary in turn demarcated relationships of power signified and substantiated by, in the second place, a body language of ritual gestures and poses that constrained both rulers and subjects in the ceremonial contexts within which their opposing perspectives were enacted. It fell to such elites therefore both to enforce and to embody ceremonially a power relationship in which they sometimes participated problematically and which they were capable of contesting through appeals to tradition and culture. The court of Justinian (imp. 527-565) is especially notable for stimulating such a reaction.6 In the examples that follow, a remarkable range of sources stress the complicity of rulers in employing body language not only to construct, but also potentially to subvert and to collapse, boundaries demarcating relationships of power, particularly in instances in which courtly etiquette threatened either to ignore the deserving or to recognize the undeserving. To this extent the waxwork image of imperial impassivity and self-restraint is misleading: good rulers were those who knew, as it were, when to step away from the curtain and to abandon the ceremonial script.7 The sometimes fraught relationship between venerator and venerated is vividly exposed in the lengthy and detailed complaint about innovations in court ceremonial introduced by Justinian and his wife Theodora that closes Procopius of Caesarea’s Anecdota or Secret History (30.21-30). Formerly 5

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On the intrinsic relationship between elite status and office-holding in the later Roman state, see Heather (1998) and Kelly (1998b). See also Brown (2000: 331), citing Heather (1998: 196): “[T]he ‘already rich and powerful’ of the Roman world found themselves locked into a system of politically determined status (...)”. In what follows, the expressions “(high) imperial officials”, “senators”, “aristocrats” vel sim., are closely interrelated terms that refer fundamentally to the same group of people (i.e. clarissimi). The expression “other elites” (bearing in mind Matthews 2000b: esp. 430) includes those, like the young John Lydus (De mag. 3.26), who possessed the requisite educational and social qualifications for placement in the clerical grades of the imperial bureaucracy. See also Skinner (2000). In Justinian’s case, reaction was expressed not only in literary appeals to tradition and culture but also in the famous Nika uprising of 532, which was sparked by popular unrest but rapidly co-opted by aristocratic malcontents. On the sources and bibliography, see Greatrex (1997). On antagonism between Justinian and the elites, see now Kelly (2004: esp. 71-81) and Sarris (2006: esp. 200-227). Different authors were capable of disagreeing about whether a particular ritual actor was “good” or “bad” and correspondingly about whether a particular ritual act was “good” or “bad”. On the latter distinction see Buc (2001a: 8-10 and passim).

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(πάλαι), Procopius states, it was customary for members of the senate, having been admitted to the imperial presence, to perform an act of ritual submission (προσκυνεῖν) in one of two ways. Senators of patrician rank would “venerate [the emperor] on the right breast” (παρὰ μαζὸν αὐτοῦ προσεκύνει τὸν δεξιόν), perhaps with a kiss,8 and receive a kiss on the head in return, while the others would genuflect on the right knee and withdraw. No gestures were customarily directed toward the empress at all (22). Under the present regime, in contrast, all the members of the senate, regardless of rank, were expected upon making their entrance to prostrate themselves fully upon the floor with faces averted and hands and feet extended, to kiss the foot of each member of the imperial couple, and then to raise themselves up again (23). Procopius adds here that Theodora also presumed to receive deputations of foreign ambassadors and to give them money, “a thing that had never happened since the beginning of time” (24: πρᾶγμα πώποτε οὐ γεγονὸς ἐκ τοῦ παντὸς χρόνου).9 He continues (25-26): καὶ πάλαι μὲν οἱ τῷ βασιλεῖ ξυγγενόμενοι αὐτόν τε βασιλέα καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα βασιλίδα ἐκάλουν, ἀρχόντων τε τῶν λοιπῶν ἕκαστον ὅπη αὐτῷ ἀξιώματος πέρι τὰ παρόντα ἔχοι. ἢν δέ τις τούτοιν ὁποτέρῳ ἐς λόγους ξυμμίξας βασιλέως ἢ βασιλίδος ἐπιμνησθείη, ἀλλ’ οὐ δεσπότην τε ἀποκαλοίη καὶ δέσποιναν, ἢ καὶ μὴ δούλους τῶν τινας ἀρχόντων ὀνομάζειν πειρῷτο, τοσοῦτος δὴ ἀμαθής τε καὶ τὴν γλῶτταν ἀκόλαστος ἐδόκει εἶναι, καὶ ἅτε ἡμαρτηκὼς τὰ πικρότατα καὶ ὑβρίσας ἐς οὓς ἥκιστα ἐχρῆν ἐνθένδε ἀπῄει. “And in earlier times those who attended upon the emperor used to call him βασιλεύς and his consort βασιλίς, and to address each of the other officials [ἄρχοντες] in accordance with his present rank; but if anyone upon venturing into dialogue with either [Justinian or Theodora] should mention the words βασιλεύς or βασιλίς and fail to call them δεσπότης and δέσποινα, or should attempt to refer to any of the officials as other than δοῦλοι, such a person would be considered empty-headed and too free of tongue, and as one who had erred most grievously and affronted those whom he certainly ought not to have affronted he would withdraw from the place.”

Additional objections follow: in former times (τὰ πρότερα) very few persons gained admittance to the palace, but nowadays officials and everyone else (ἄρχοντες ὁμοῦ καὶ λοιποὶ ξύμπαντες) are no longer permitted to rely upon their own judgement and discretion in matters of government; they have abandoned their bureaux and tribunals and must wait upon the imperial couple at court “in a most servile manner” (δουλοπρεπέστατα); there one witnesses 8 9

Many, following Avery (1940: 79), suppose that the indicated gesture is a kiss. The fact that Procopius objects only to the idea of the empress receiving an embassy in her own right, and therefore standing as the sole object of προσκύνησις, but not in this case to the prescribed form of that προσκύνησις, suggests that he found nothing objectionable about obliging an envoy to venerate the feet: it is the extension of this practice to senators and officials that rankles. See also n. 29 below.

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“crowds and insolence and great tumult and unsurpassed servility in every respect” (27-30: ὄχλον τε καὶ ὕβριν καὶ ὠθισμὸν μέγαν καὶ δουλοπρέπειαν ἐς ἀεὶ ξύμπασαν). The grounds of Procopius’ discontent are varied, and it would be misleading to emphasize a single one at the expense of others.10 In the first place, as his repeated temporal markers indicate, Justinian and Theodora’s ceremonial etiquette is objectionable because it marks a discontinuity with the past by altering institutions, roles and observances sanctioned by antiquity and custom. Second, these practices appear to be threatening because they destabilize or overturn hierarchies of gender by granting an unprecedented prominence to the figure of the empress and allocating to Theodora a seemingly co-equal or equivalent role in government with her husband.11 Third, they have the effect of flattening hierarchies of honorific and official protocol by ignoring or suppressing distinctions of rank and title within the elite; at the same time, they increase the distance between the imperial couple and all of their subjects by imposing a uniform, and evidently more degrading, form of ritual submission to be observed in the imperial presence. Finally, they mark a retreat from an institutional, magisterial form of government centered upon the transaction of business in public fora by qualified office-holders into an insular, palacecentered world of courtiers, toadyism and intrigue. Several elements of this complaint can be correlated iconographically with Procopius’ description in the Buildings, a panegyrical work celebrating Justinian’s achievements as a builder, of the mosaic on the ceiling of the so-called Chalke Gate of the imperial palace. This gate was the principal ceremonial entrance through which senators and other dignitaries would pass on their way to an imperial audience.12 Two compositions on either side of the central medallion depicted scenes from the conquest of Vandal Africa and Ostrogothic Italy, which Justinian is credited as winning through the agency or instrumentality of his general Belisarius (ὑπὸ στρατηγοῦντι Βελισαρίῳ); a separate composition depicted the return of the army together with a train of spoils and captives. The

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See the careful discussion of this passage by Hermann-Otto (1998). There are those (Rubin 1954: 297 ad loc. = RE 23.1 [1957] 572; Cameron 1985: 74-75) who have identified as the essence of Procopius’ complaint in these passages the malign influence that he ascribes to Theodora and his claim that Theodora received προσκύνησις together with Justinian and received foreign delegations in her own right. We learn elsewhere in the Secret History that Theodora also required προσκύνησις from imperial officials whom she kept waiting upon her in the hope of obtaining a private audience (15.13-15). Yet Theodora’s objectionable behaviour as empress represents only a single facet of Procopius’ larger complaint about the relationship between the imperial couple and their most prominent subjects. It was rebuilt by Justinian together with much of the monumental core of the capital following the widespread arson and destruction that accompanied the Nika rioting (see above, n. 6). See further Mango (1959: esp. 21-35).

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central composition depicted Justinian and Theodora in joint triumph over the subjected Kings of the Vandals and the Goths (Aed. 1.10.18-19): περιέστηκε δὲ αὐτοὺς ἡ Ῥωμαίων βουλὴ σύγκλητος, ἑορτασταὶ πάντες. τοῦτο γὰρ αἱ ψηφῖδες δηλοῦσιν ἐπὶ τοῖς προσώποις ἱλαρὸν αὐτοῖς ἐπανθοῦσαι. γαυροῦνται οὖν καὶ μειδιῶσι τῷ βασιλεῖ νέμοντες ἐπὶ τῷ ὄγκῳ τῶν πεπραγμένων ἰσοθέους τιμάς (...). “And around them stands the Roman Senate, all in festal mood. This spirit is expressed by the cubes of the mosaic, which by their colours depict exultation on their very countenances. So they rejoice and smile as they bestow on the emperor honours equal to those of God [ἰσόθεοι τιμαί], because of the magnitude of his achievements.”

This idealized portrait of imperial victory (for no such joint triumph over the Vandals and the Goths ever took place) situates within the ceremonial topography of the palace an assertion of preeminence that mirrors Procopius’ complaints in the Secret History with respect not only to Theodora’s incorporation within the imperial presence but also to the flattening of internal hierarchies of rank within the elite. One gathers from the apparently radial arrangement of the senators around the central composition and from comparable ceiling mosaics from the baptisteries at Ravenna that each senatorial figure will have been equidistant from the imperial couple and subsumed within the larger compositional pattern.13 To the extent that the Chalke mosaic evoked associations with liturgical or sacramental scenes of Christ surrounded by saints and apostles,14 we have some basis for imagining the manner in which the senators 13

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Mango (1959: 30-34 and fig. 1 [p. 23]) reconstructs the structure as rectangular in plan with a central dome and lateral vaults. He places the mosaics depicting the campaigns of Belisarius in the lateral vaults and the portrait of the imperial couple with the senate in the dome. The scene of the returning army and the subjected kings is apparently to be placed in the outermost register of the dome, with an inner register depicting either the senate in the company of the imperial couple or a ring of senators surrounding the imperial couple in the central medallion. The latter possibility “is, in fact, suggested by the ‘godlike honours’ ” (Mango 1959: 33). He compares the schemes of the domes of St. George at Thessalonica and the Orthodox Baptistery at Ravenna and, for the organization of triumphal imagery in multiple registers, the base of the column of Arcadius. On the decorative programs of such structures, see Wharton (1987: esp. 369-375); also Kostof (1965: esp. 91-93). Wharton’s analysis of the iconographic significance of the presence of the Apostles seems particularly apt as an analogy for the manner in which the relationship between the imperial couple and the senators as depicted in the Chalke mosaic might have been read: “the program’s visual assertion that Apostles function as intermediaries between Christ and the universal Church fully accorded with the Christian view of history. (...) [T]he Apostles were intimately identified with the ordering of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Bishops insisted that they, as direct heirs of the Apostles, articulated true doctrine. The Apostles in the Neonian Baptistery may then have appeared as a reaffirmation of the bishop’s authority” (Wharton 1987: 374). Similarly, the program of the Chalke mosaic will have evoked interrelated associations between the emperor’s role as divine representative and intermediary, on one hand, and the distinctive but subordinate roles of generals and officials, respectively, as imperial representatives and intermediaries on the other.

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bestow ἰσόθεοι τιμαί upon Justinian, but a specific basis for reconstructing the gestures Procopius is describing here eludes us. This flattening or obliteration of distinctions of status observed by Procopius is also apparent in his description in the Wars of the actual ceremonies that celebrated the defeat of the Vandals in 534. These ceremonies culminated at the hippodrome in a gesture of submission that contrived to set Justinian’s successful general Belisarius on a par with the defeated Vandal king Gelimer, who had been paraded through the streets of the capital clad in a garment of royal purple (Bell. 4.9.12):15 ἀφικόμενον δὲ αὐτὸν (sc. Γελίμερα) κατὰ τὸ βασιλέως βῆμα τὴν πορφυρίδα περιελόντες, πρηνῆ πεσόντα προσκυνεῖν Ἰουστινιανὸν βασιλέα κατηνάγκασαν. τοῦτο δὲ καὶ Βελισάριος ἐποίει ἅτε ἱκέτης βασιλέως σὺν αὐτῷ γεγονώς. “And when Gelimer arrived at the imperial box, they stripped off the purple and compelled him to fall prone on the ground and perform προσκύνησις before the emperor Justinian. This also Belisarius did, as a fellow suppliant of the emperor with Gelimer.”

Cumulatively these changes may be described as efforts to reinscribe the boundaries that define the imperial presence, to prescribe a new vocabulary of gestures and modes of address that govern interactions between rulers and their subjects, and to relocate and to reconfigure the spaces within which such interactions occur. Procopius sums up these changes metaphorically in his Secret History by his invocations of the master-slave paradigm in describing relationships between the imperial couple and their subjects, implication in which by high officials and other consequential persons is connotative of servility. Closely associated in his account with this embrace of servility on the part of rulers and ruled alike, on one hand, and the temporal dislocations introduced by Justinian and Theodora’s innovations, on the other, is Procopius’ emphasis upon a spatial or topographical shift in the center of government away from the seats of judicial and fiscal administration and towards the palace – away, as it were, from places where bureaucrats rule and towards the place where bureaucrats are ruled. At first glance very little of Procopius’ polemic might seem to be novel or original. To charge senators or high officials with fawning servility in front of emperors is scarcely to improve upon Tacitus, and it is indisputable that emperors had embraced the titles of dominus and δεσπότης and received various forms of adoratio or προσκύνησις since the fourth century, if not before.16 The 15 16

See now Pazdernik (2006). Avery (1940); cf. Alföldi (1970: esp. 24-25). See also Stern (1954), Treitinger (1956: 81-90), Wallace-Hadrill (1982), Löhken (1982: esp. 48-66), Matthews (1989: 244-249; 2000b: 445), Hermann-Otto (1998) and Kaldellis (2004b: 128-142). References to προσκύνησις in the middle and later Byzantine periods, particularly with reference to De cerimoniis, are com-

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tension between autocracy and bureaucracy was a characteristic and structural feature of Roman government in late antiquity, where the bureaucratic imperative towards regularization and predictability threatened to marginalize or to constrain the independent initiative of emperors (Kelly 2004: passim). Accordingly, Procopius’ anxiety about where imperial officials stand, literally and metaphorically, along the ideological and ceremonial boundary that distinguishes the venerator from the venerated is symptomatic of a newly explicit phenomenon in the early sixth century: an intensified focus upon imperial officials and other members of the elite as the objects of imperial mastery. For the first time one finds imperial officials identified by such expressions as “the slave of the emperor” (ὁ δοῦλος τοῦ βασιλέως) and the performance of official duties described by the abstract noun δουλεία in order to characterize the loyalty of officials and to advertise their proximity to the throne. It is clear, for example, that both Justinian and his officials were capable of referring to the performance of their duties as a species of δουλεία. An appendix to an imperial constitution issued in April of 535 contains the text of an oath Justinian required of newly-appointed provincial governors, which states in part (Nov. 8 iusiur., pp. 89.45-90.8 Schöll & Kroll): Ὄμνυμι ἐγὼ τὸν θεὸν τὸν παντοκράτορα, καὶ τὸν υἱὸν αὐτοῦ τὸν μονογενῆ Ἰησοῦν Χριστὸν τὸν θεὸν ἡμῶν, καὶ τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα, καὶ τὴν ἁγίαν ἔνδοξον θεοτόκον καὶ ἀειπάρθενον Μαρίαν, καὶ τὰ τέσσαρα εὐαγγέλια, ἃ ἐν ταῖς χερσί μου κρατῶ, καὶ τοὺς ἁγίους ἀρχαγγέλους Μιχαὴλ καὶ Γαβριήλ, ὡς καθαρὸν συνειδὸς καὶ γνησίαν δουλείαν φυλάξω τοῖς θειοτάτοις καὶ εὐσεβεστάτοις ἡμῶν δεσπόταις Ἰουστινιανῷ καὶ Θεοδώρᾳ, τῇ ὁμοζύγῳ τοῦ αὐτοῦ κράτους, προφάσει τῆς παραδεδομένης μοι παρὰ τῆς αὐτῶν εὐσεβείας ἀρχῆς· καὶ πάντα πόνον καὶ κάματον μετ’ εὐνοίας ἀδόλως καὶ δίχα τέχνης τινὸς ἀναδέξομαι ἐπὶ τῇ δοθείσῃ μοι παρ’ αὐτῶν ἀρχῇ ὑπὲρ τῆς αὐτῶν βασιλείας καὶ πολιτείας. “I swear, on the occasion of [my entry into the] office [ἀρχή] bestowed upon me by their piety, by almighty God, his only-begotten son our lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, by the holy and glorified mother of God, Mary ever-virgin, by the four gospels which I hold in my hands, and by the holy archangels Michael and Gabriel, that I shall preserve a pure conscience and γνησία δουλεία towards our most consecrated and august δεσπόται Justinian and his consort Theodora; and that I will undertake every burden and labour with sincere goodwill and without any guile in the office entrusted to me by them on behalf of their empire and government.”

Elements of this document that may be correlated with Procopius’ complaint in the Secret History include a joint acknowledgement of Justinian and Theodora as δεσπόται and an affirmation that the faithful performance of official duties is constitutive of γνησία δουλεία. piled by Guilland (1946/47). As Hermann-Otto (1998: 356 n. 22) observes, this work is to be used with caution on the Procopian material.

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We find this language strikingly echoed back to the center from the periphery in two inscriptions commemorating the role of a certain Victorinus17 in restoring the Hexamilion fortress and in other work at the Isthmus of Corinth (IG IV.204 = SIG3 910A / CGCI 1.1 / Corinth 8.3 no. 508 / Donderer 1996: A29): φῶς ἐκ φωτός, θεὸς | ἀληθινὸς ἐκ θεοῦ ἀληθινοῦ, | φυλάξῃ τὸν αὐτοκράτορα | Ἰουστινιανὸν καὶ τὸν | πιστὸν αὐτοῦ δοῦλον | Βικτωρῖνον, ἅμα τοῖς | οἰκοῦσ(ι)ν ἐν Ἑλ(λ)άδι τοὺς κ(α)τ(ὰ) θε(ὸ)ν | ζῶντας. “Light from light, true God from true God, preserve the emperor Justinian and ὁ πιστὸς αὐτοῦ δοῦλος Victorinus, together with all those dwelling in Hellas, living according to God.”

And further IG IV.205 (= SIG3 910B / CGCI 1.2 / CIG IV.8640 / Donderer 1996: A28): ἁγ(ία) Μαρία θεοτόκε, φύλαξον | τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ | φιλοχρίστου Ἰουστινιανοῦ | καὶ τὸν γνησίως | δουλεύοντα αὐτῷ | Βικτωρῖνον σὺν τοῖς | οἰκοῦσιν ἐν Κορίνθῳ κ(ατὰ) θε(ὸ)ν | ζῶντας. “Holy Mary, mother of God, preserve the reign of Christ-loving Justinian and ὁ γνησίως δουλεύων αὐτῷ Victorinus together with those who dwell in Corinth, living according to God.”

Additional evidence from the Justinianic legal corpus and from the sixthcentury epigraphical record might be adduced in order to substantiate this phenomenon, but one is hard pressed to find comparable evidence prior to the sixth century.18 To this extent, then, Procopius seems to be justified in calling the identification of imperial officials as δοῦλοι an innovation. Procopius’ claim is further corroborated by an otherwise puzzling passage in De magistratibus by John Lydus, a close contemporary who moved in the same circles in Constantinople in the mid-sixth century and who composed this work as an institutional history of the Praetorian Prefecture.19 In the middle of a historical sketch on the origins of the imperial office in the late Republic and early principate, Lydus pauses to reflect upon the connotations of the title dominus (De mag. 1.6):

17 18

19

On Victorinus see Feissel (1988, 2000), with discussion of additional material from Byllis in Nova Epirus (SEG 2.377 [= 38.533], 38.530-532) pertaining to his activities throughout the Balkans. For the former, see also C.J. 12.49.13.3 (undated); cf. C.J. 1.4.34.10 (A.D. 534). For the latter, see also SEG 11.52a (= CGCI 1.3); CIG 8740 (= Latyšev, Sbornik no. 99; PLRE 3 Eupaterius 1, 2); Meyer-Plath & Schneider, Landmauer no. 33b, 34 (PLRE 3 Narses 4); cf. SEG 31.1282; IGLS IV.1631. This and related material is the subject of a larger study currently in progress. On affinities between the two, see Kaldellis (2004a).

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καὶ δῆλον ἄντικρυς ὅτι Ῥωμαίοις ἔθος dominos τοὺς τυραννήσαντας ἀποκαλεῖν, ὡς δὴ Σύλλαν καὶ Μάριον, καὶ δομινατίωνα τὴν τυραννίδα· ὡς καταρρίπτουσι τὴν βασιλέων μεγαλειότητα οἱ πονηροὶ κόλακες, ἐξ ἀμαθείας δούλων αὐτοὺς πρωτεύειν εἰσάγοντες ὅτι δὲ ἀληθές, ἔξεστι καὶ ἐκ τούτων λαβεῖν. Αὔγουστός ποτε, ἢ τάχα Τιβέριος ὁ μετ’ αὐτόν, πρὸς ἑνὸς τῶν κολάκων δεσπότης ὀνομασθείς, ἐξαναστὰς ἀφῆκε τὸν σύλλογον, ἀπαξιώσας, ὡς ἔφη, δούλοις διαλέγεσθαι. “And it is absolutely clear that it was customary for the Romans to call tyrants domini – as, for example, Marius and Sulla – and tyranny dominatio; hence base flatterers [κόλακες] diminish the majesty of emperors [βασιλεῖς], because out of ignorance they introduce them as holding a position of primacy over δοῦλοι. That this is true can be inferred also from the following incident. Augustus, or perhaps Tiberius who came after him, having been once addressed as δεσπότης by one of the flatterers, arose and left the meeting [σύλλογος], disdaining, as he said, to converse with δοῦλοι.”

Who are the “flatterers” to whom Lydus is referring, and at what meeting or σύλλογος does Lydus imagine the episode involving either Augustus or Tiberius to have taken place? In the only other instance in which the noun σύλλογος appears in Lydus’ works (De mag. 2.9), it is clear that the context is a meeting of the senate convened in order to receive an imperial audience. The impression that this is also the context of Lydus’ reflections upon Augustus or Tiberius is strengthened by an apparent reference to the same episode in Lydus’ antiquarian treatise De mensibus with reference to his discussion of the month of August (De mens. 4.112): τῆς δὲ τῶν ὑπηκόων ἐλευθερίας τοσοῦτον ἐφρόντιζεν, ὥστε τινὸς τῶν κολάκων ἐπὶ τῆς βουλῆς δεσπότην αὐτὸν ὥσπερ ἐν ὑπεροχῆς τρόπῳ καλέσαντος, αὐτὸς ἐξαναστὰς· “ἐγὼ δέ”, ἔφη, “ἐλευθέροις, ἀλλ’ οὐ δούλοις ἔμαθον διαλέγεσθαι.” “[Augustus] was so mindful of the freedom of his subjects [ὑπήκοοι],20 that when one of the flatterers in the senate called him δεσπότης as if by way of paying him honour, he arose and declared: ‘But I have learned to converse with free men, not with δοῦλοι’.”

Lydus’ emphasis upon interactions between the emperor and members of the elite in these accounts is especially marked when we consider that the extant sources concerning this episode, Cassius Dio and Suetonius, 21 are perfectly clear in stating that Augustus was hailed as dominus by the people in a public venue, not in an exclusive gathering inside the palace (Suetonius, Aug. 53.1):

20 21

On the emergent habit in the sixth century of characterizing free citizens as “subjects” (ὑπήκοοι), see Pazdernik (2000: 157). Lydus held a chair as professor of Latin at Constantinople (PLRE 2, s.v. Ioannes Lydus 75) and might therefore have consulted Suetonius.

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domini appellationem ut maledictum et obprobrium semper exhorruit. cum spectante eo ludos pronuntiatum esset in mimo: o dominum aequum et bonum! et universi quasi de ipso dictum exultantes comprobassent, et statim manu vultuque indecoras adulationes repressit et insequenti die gravissimo corripuit edicto; dominumque se posthac appellari ne a liberis quidem aut nepotibus suis vel serio vel ioco passus est atque eius modi blanditias etiam inter ipsos prohibuit. “He always shrank from the title of dominus as reproachful and insulting. When the words ‘O just and gracious dominus!’ were uttered in a farce at which he was a spectator and all the people sprang to their feet and applauded as if they were said of him, he at once checked their unseemly flattery by look and gesture, and on the following day sharply reproved them in an edict. After that he would not suffer himself to be called dominus even by his children or his grandchildren either in jest or earnest, and he forbade them to use such flattering terms even among themselves.”

And further Cassius Dio, Rom. Hist. 55.12.2: δεσπότης δέ ποτε ὁ Αὔγουστος ὑπὸ τοῦ δήμου ὀνομασθεὶς οὐχ ὅπως ἀπεῖτε μηδένα τούτῳ πρὸς ἑαυτὸν τῷ προσρήματι χρήσασθαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ πάνυ διὰ φυλακῆς αὐτὸ ἐποιήσατο. “When Augustus was once called δεσπότης by the people, he not only forbade that any one should use this form of address to him, but also took very good care to enforce his command.”

Lydus’ uncertainty in De magistratibus as to whether it was Augustus or Tiberius who was addressed as dominus might be calculated to amalgamate the Augustus episode as recounted by Suetonius with a comparable episode in that author’s Life of Tiberius which seems to reflect more closely the ambience and circumstances of Lydus’ version of events (Suetonius, Tib. 27.1; cf. Tacitus, Ann. 2.87, Dio 57.8.2): (...) atque etiam, si quid in sermone νel in continua oratione blandius de se diceretur, non dubitaret interpellare ac reprehendere et commutare continuo. dominus appellatus a quodam denuntiaνit, ne se amplius contumeliae causa nominaret. “In fact, if anyone in conversation or in a set speech spoke of him in too flattering terms, he did not hesitate to interrupt him, to take him to task, and to correct his language on the spot. Being once called dominus he warned the speaker not to address him again in an insulting fashion.”

Lydus’ discomfort with the title dominus or δεσπότης is stark and unmistakable: only tyrants and flatterers welcome such expressions, whereas the earliest holders of the imperial office set a precedent, and one presumably worth emulating, in shunning them. Is Lydus therefore convicting Justinian of tyranny on account of his participation in such exchanges? He continues (De mag. 1.6):

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ἀλλ’ ἤδη πρότερον ὥσπερ ἐν τιμῇ τῆς ὕβρεως εἰσαχθείσης, ἀνέχεται ἡ τοῦ ἡμερωτάτου βασιλέως ἡμῶν ἐπιείκεια, καίπερ ὑπὲρ πάντας τοὺς πώποτε βεβασιλευκότας μετριάζοντος, καὶ δεσπότης, οἷον πατὴρ ἀγαθός, ὀνομάζεσθαι. οὐχ ὅτι χαίρει ἀλλ’ ἐρυθριᾷ μᾶλλον τοὺς τιμᾶν οἰομένους δοκεῖν μὴ προσίεσθαι. “But, since the insolence had already been introduced in earlier times as if by way of homage, the clemency of our most serene emperor, although he is more humble than all who have ever yet reigned as emperors, just tolerates being called δεσπότης, that is, ‘good father’. Not only does he not delight in it, but he is embarrassed rather that he should seem not to admit into his presence those who think that they are honouring him.”

According to Lydus, then, Justinian’s deference towards the tradition that has grown up around this practice and the emperor’s own delicate manners prevent him from emulating Augustus and Tiberius in rebuffing and rebuking the blandishments of flatterers, while his own correct understanding of his paternal role within the state rescues Justinian from the charge of tyranny.22 It could scarcely be otherwise in a work intended (unlike Procopius’ Secret History) for public consumption while Justinian was still alive. Yet Justinian’s body language might be more self-convicting.23 The decisive and dramatic gesture, invented by Lydus and attributed to Augustus in both De magistratibus and De mensibus, of standing up and (in De magistratibus) striding purposefully away from an audience – the removal and the denial of the imperial presence to would-be flatterers – is precisely the negation of Justinian’s placid and passive reception of senatorial blandishments.24 Just as Lydus has re-imagined the context and the circumstances of Augustus’ outburst, moreover, so too it is Lydus, and not Cassius Dio or Suetonius, who is at pains to make explicit the implicit subtext of such an invocation of the master-slave paradigm, namely that those who acknowledge a master thereby figure themselves as slaves. Lydus’ emphatic claim is that the earliest emperors rejected the title of δεσπότης because they regarded the self-description of their subjects as δοῦλοι to be insulting and degrading for everyone involved. In stigmatizing such modes of interaction between rulers and subjects, Lydus might be seeking to reform or to correct Justinian by putting forward Augustus’ conduct as a model worthy of emulation. Or perhaps Lydus is obliquely or covertly criticizing Justinian: would he and his readers have been aware of Suetonius’ assertion

22 23 24

See also Pazdernik (2005: esp. 192-198). On reading representations of body language (and of seated figures in particular), see Davies (2005), focussing mainly on the early and middle Roman empire. See Kaldellis (2005: esp. 4-5).

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that Julius Caesar’s failure to rise in the presence of the senate precipitated a fatal hostility against him?25 In any event, the care that Lydus has taken in re-imagining and reworking Augustus’ model shows that he shares with Procopius a preoccupation with the complicity of the elite in perpetuating a ceremonial etiquette that is connotative of servility. As Procopius emphasizes, the consequences of failing to observe that etiquette include a loss of face and an ignominious retreat from the ceremonial sphere. Lydus likewise situates these encounters within the ceremonial context of imperial audiences involving members of the elite. But were emperors as captive to courtly etiquette as diplomatic protocols and Lydus’ rehabilitating interpretation of Justinian’s passivity in the presence of so-called “flatterers” might suggest?26 The exemplary behaviour that Lydus attributes to Augustus of rising and striding away in order to stigmatize the undeserving is complemented in the sources by instances in which emperors ignore or subvert courtly etiquette in order to recognize and to validate the deserving. One case in point is an incident related in the Life of Sabas by Cyril of Scythopolis, in which the Palestinian holy man Sabas ventures to Constantinople in 511 on behalf of the orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem in order to repair relations with the emperor Anastasius (imp. 491-518), whose anti-Chalcedonianism had become a source of tension and schism.27 Once the Palestinian delegation has reached the capital and been granted an imperial audience, Sabas himself is singled out by the palace attendants, the silentiarii, who refuse him admittance to the consistorium on account of his illkempt and ragged appearance. His absence remains unnoticed until Anastasius himself inquires after the saint. An uproar ensues, but at last Sabas is located standing alone in a corner of the vestibule reciting psalms to himself (Vit. Sabae p. 142.16-21 Schwartz):

25

26

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Suetonius, Iul. 78.1: verum praecipuam et exitiabilem sibi invidiam hinc maxime movit. adeuntis se cum plurimis honorificentissimisque decretis universos patres conscriptos sedens pro aede Veneris Genetricis excepit (“But it was the following action in particular that roused deadly hatred against him. When the Senate approached him in a body with many highly honorary decrees, he received them before the temple of Venus Genetrix without rising”). Suetonius adds that there was a difference of opinion as to whether Caesar was prevented from rising by Cornelius Balbus or rebuked by Gaius Trebatius for his failure to rise. See further Davies (2005: 218). Hermann-Otto (1998: 357-359) points to the special precedence awarded to Belisarius at court following his second recall from Italy in ca. A.D. 549 (Procopius, Bell. 8.21.1-3) as evidence of the flexibility of Justinianic ceremonial. Such assessments are relative, as McCormick (1986: 123-124) illustrates in pointing out the rigidity of the sixth century in comparison with “a remarkable flexibility” in official deportment in late fourth- and early fifth-century Constantinople. On the ecclesiastical issues involved, see Binns (1994: 174-182).

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καὶ ἁρπάσαντες αὐτὸν εἰσήγαγον; αὐτοῦ δὲ ἔνδον τοῦ βήλου γεγονότος θεωρεῖ ὁ βασιλεὺς ἀγγελικήν τινα μορφὴν προηγουμένην αὐτῶι. καὶ ἀναστὰς καὶ μετὰ τῆς πρεπούσης τιμῆς δεξάμενος αὐτὸν ἐκέλευσεν πάντας καθίσαι. ἦν γὰρ φιλομόναχος, εἰ καὶ ὑπό τινων μιαρῶν παρεσκευάζετο τὴν ὀρθὴν ἐκπολεμῆσαι πίστιν. “Seizing him, they [the silentiarii] led him in. But when he entered through the curtain, the emperor saw an angelic form leading the way for him. Standing up and receiving him with due honour, he bade all sit down; for he was a lover of monks, even though induced by some blackguards to make war on the correct faith.”

In this account the obstructionism of imperial officials is overcome thanks to the initiative and responsiveness of the emperor himself, who in spite of his heterodoxy receives a sympathetic treatment. Although Sabas’ shabbiness is incongruous with the refulgent splendour of the imperial court, he merits escort by an angel – the sort of figure whom Christians in late antiquity experienced no difficulty in identifying as a functionary of the celestial court of heaven.28 So too the emperor himself, in pointed contrast to his terrestrial functionaries, is undeceived by Sabas’ lack of superficial and worldly marks of distinction.29 In first rising to receive Sabas and then inviting the entire Palestinian delegation to be seated with him, Anastasius is depicted as unintentionally or otherwise improvising on a protocol devised by Constantine as he took his

28

29

Compare Jerome, In Epist. ad Eph. 5.3-4, who criticizes the sort of person who, “deceived by the word of Isaiah (whom he has not understood [cf. Isa. 6: 1-3]), imagines the sky to be a curved vault and thinks there is a throne in the heavens with God sitting on it, like an emperor and judge, with angels standing around it who obey his words of command and are sent off with diverse duties” (PL 26.519-520: si quis coelum putet fornicis more curvatum, Isaiae, quem non intelligit, sermone deceptus: solium quoque in coelis positum, et super eo sedere Deum, et in ritum imperatoris et iudicis, angelos stare in circuitu, qui verbis iubentis obtemperent, et in diversa mittantur officia). See Kelly (1998a). Only the emperor sat at the consistory, as the surviving acta attest; see Matthews (2000a: 172-173); note also Alföldi (1970: 42, 44-45). When Anastasius asks Sabas about the business upon which he has come, the holy man mentions his hope of establishing concord among the churches, but insists, “I have come here principally to venerate the feet of Your Piety” (προσκυνῆσαι τὰ ἴχνη τῆς ὑμετέρας εὐσεβείας, p. 142.28-143.1 Schwartz) and asks leave to spend the winter in the capital and “to be allowed to venerate Your Piety” (ἀξιοῦσθαι προσκυνεῖν τὴν ὑμετέραν εὐσέβειαν, p. 143.1112). Thus Sabas shows himself to be not unversed in courtly etiquette nor unprepared to pay court to an emperor. If the practice of offering προσκύνησις to the feet (τὰ ἴχνη) of the emperor to which Sabas is referring is the same as the gesture that Procopius in the Secret History claims Justinian imposed upon patricians and other grandees, then it appears that Justinian’s innovation, and thus the kernel of Procopius’ complaint, lies not in the introduction of this particular gesture but rather in the imposition of that gesture upon senators and officeholders. Compare n. 9 above. See also Kaldellis (2004b: 259 n. 53) on a reference to the kissing of the feet of Leo I (imp. 457-474) upon his accession (De cer. p. 415.17-18 Reiske) that is to be explained as a later interpolation.

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seat among the assembled bishops at the Council of Nicea (325), who were likewise permitted to sit in his presence.30 A colourful variation on the same theme occurs in an anecdote about Martin of Tours related by Sulpicius Severus. Having been rebuffed in his attempts to gain an audience with Valentinian I (imp. 364-375) at Trier, Martin passed a week in supplication and penitential abstinence until at last he was instructed – once again – by an angel to enter the palace. He met with no obstruction and came into the presence of the emperor himself, who ground his teeth with frustration at the saint’s appearance, until a miraculous flame burst from his throne and singed Valentinian’s bottom, obliging the emperor to rise and to acknowledge the saint’s holiness (Sulpicius Severus, Dialogus II 5.7-9, pp. 186-187 Halm [CSEL 1]):31 septimo die adsistit ei angelus: iubet eum ad palatium ire securum, regias fores quamlibet clausas sponte reserandas, imperatoris spiritum superbum molliendum. igitur istiusmodi praesentis angeli confirmatus adloquio et fretus auxilio palatium petit. patent limina, nullus obsistit: postremo usque ad regem nemine prohibente pervenit. qui cum venientem eminus videret, frendens cur fuisset admissus, nequaquam adsurgere est dignatus adstanti, donec regiam sellam ignis operiret ipsumque regem ea parte corporis, qua sedebat, adflaret incendium. ite e solio suo superbus excutitur et Martino invitus adsurgit: multumque conplexus quem spernere ante decreverat, virtutem sensisse divinam emendatior fatebatur: nec expectatis Martini precibus prius omnia praestitit quam rogaretur. “On the seventh day, an angel appeared to him, and tells him to go with confidence to the palace, for that the royal doors, although closed against him, would open of their own accord, and that the haughty spirit of the emperor would be softened. Martin, therefore, being encouraged by the address of the angel who thus appeared to him, and trusting to his assistance, went to the palace. The doors stood open, and no one opposed his entrance; so that, going in, he came at last into the presence of the king, without any one seeking to hinder him. The king, however, seeing him at a distance as he approached, and gnashing his teeth that he had been admitted, did not, by any means, condescend to rise up as Martin advanced, until fire covered the royal seat, and until the flames seized on a part of the royal person. In this way the haughty monarch is driven from his throne, and, much against his will, rises up to receive Martin. He even gave many embraces to the man whom he had formerly de-

30

31

Eusebius, Vit. Const. 3.10.5: ἐπεὶ δὲ παρελθὼν ἐπὶ τὴν πρώτην τῶν ταγμάτων ἀρχὴν μέσος ἔστη, σμικροῦ τινος αὐτῷ καθίσματος ὕλης χρυσοῦ πεποιημένου προτεθέντος, οὐ πρότερον ἢ τοὺς ἐπισκόπους ἐπινεῦσαι ἐκάθιζε. ταὐτὸν δ’ ἔπραττον οἱ πάντες μετὰ βασιλέως (“When [Constantine] reached the upper end of the rows of seats and stood in the middle, a small chair made of gold having been set out, only when the bishops assented did he sit down. They all did the same after the emperor”). Being seated together “signaled participation in authority” (Buc 2001b: 193). See also Vita Martini 20 Fontaine (SC 133); cf. Stancliffe (1983: 149-159, esp. 156-157 and 190-194).

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termined to despise, and, coming to a better frame of mind, he confessed that he perceived the exercise of divine power; without waiting even to listen to the requests of Martin, he granted all he desired before being asked.”

In a similar vein, Josephus relates the sensation caused when Alexander the Great arrived in Jerusalem and, prompted by a dream, venerated the high priest Simeon the Just (Ant. Iud. 11.331-334).32 The panegyrist Claudius Mamertinus lauds Julian (imp. 361-363) for rising from the throne in order to receive him and his colleague in the consulship for 362 (Grat. act. 28.3-4; see also Amm. 22.7.1-6).33 Ammianus Marcellinus criticizes (12.7.3, see also 24.4.7; cf. Eunapius, Vit. soph. 476-479), and Libanius praises (Or. 18.155, cf. 1.129),34 a comparable demonstration on Julian’s part towards the philosopher Maximus of Ephesus. Julian’s gestures may be interpreted as displays of civilitas representing a calculated reaction against the ceremonial etiquette of preceding reigns.35 We should compare in this connection Pliny’s profession of astonishment at Trajan’s willingness to stand in the presence of a seated consul (Pan. 64.2). The episodes recounted by Josephus and Cyril of Scythopolis and Martin of Tours suggest that what is being dramatized is the confrontation and reconciliation of worldly rulers with bearers of the sacred. Considered cumulatively, however, the political and social significance of such gestures admits a much broader field of reference. It is not so much the case that monarchs as different in temperament and ideology as Alexander, Julian, Valentinian and Anastasius are represented in the sources to be assimilating themselves to the level of their subjects or subordinating themselves to a supernatural power, as the case may be; rather, they are shown to be recognizing and publicly affirming (or, so far as Valentinian is concerned, being compelled to recognize and to affirm), and therefore validating, the exceptional qualities of particular individuals. Imperial authority is mobilized in such accounts in order to authenticate their protagonists. Indeed, exactly this behaviour is attributed to Justinian himself in Cyril of Scythopolis’ Life of Sabas when, during an interview in the capital in 531, the emperor is described as approaching and prostrating himself before the saint (προσδραμὼν προσεκύνησεν αὐτῷ, Vit. Sabae p. 173.24 Schwartz). Let us therefore compare these accounts of rulers standing up and – contrary to all etiquette – approaching exceptionally deserving subjects with the 32 33 34 35

I am grateful to Oded Irshai for calling my attention to this passage. See Gutzwiller (1942: 218-221), Lieu (1989: 4-12) and Nixon & Rodgers (1994: 431-432 nn. 171-173). Compare n. 7 above. Julian is congratulated for his civilis animus (Claudius Mamertinus, Grat. act. 28.1); see Gutzwiller (1942: 221 ad loc.). See also Blockley (1972) and Matthews (1989: 235-237).

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gesture that John Lydus attributes to Augustus, of standing up and purposefully turning away from the servility of would-be flatterers. These examples suggest that a good emperor is one who, refusing to be constrained by ceremonial, is capable of deliberately ignoring or subverting etiquette in instances when its observance would serve either to deprecate intrinsic merit or to validate the unworthy. The contrast with Justinian, who either insisted upon participating in demeaning forms of courtly etiquette (according to Procopius) or merely acquiesced in them (according to Lydus), is striking. It follows that Justinian and Theodora’s ceremonial innovations were offensive to traditionalists because, in their eyes at least, those innovations eliminated or elided a graduated courtly etiquette that distinguished officials and senators on the basis of rank and position, substituting in its place an atmosphere receptive to the most self-abasing impulses of the elite. At the same time, the identification of office-holding as a distinctive species of δουλεία emphasized the role of office-holders as efficacious instruments of the imperial will. Demonstrating mastery over his officials was one of the most formidable gestures available to an emperor, and ceremonial prescribed the forms and the venues in which such gestures were performed. Courtly etiquette defined the boundary distinguishing the ruler from the ruled and aligned and arranged the bodies of the venerator and the venerated on their respective sides of that boundary. It is important to stress, therefore, the extent to which that etiquette remained a contestable, and a contested, one in the sixth century. The relative instability or mutability of the means by which power is expressed can serve as a useful index of the relative instability or mutability of relations of power. The anxiety reflected in Procopius and Lydus’ complaints about cultural and political allegiances within the elite and about the erosion or the reconfiguration of its position relative to the emperor and to his subjects within society at large should therefore be viewed as symptomatic of a need to reinvigorate or to reconfigure the nature of the governmental compact in the period.36

36

Since the time that this paper was originally delivered at the “Bodies and Boundaries” conference at the Center for Hellenic Studies in April of 2006, it has been considerably enhanced not only by the discussion which ensued at that time but by subsequent discussions arising in connection with several of the papers at the Shifting Frontiers VII conference in Boulder, Colorado, in March of 2007. A significantly revised version of this paper with its present title was delivered at the 42nd International Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo, Michigan, in May of 2007, when I again received valuable feedback for which I am grateful.

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Bibliography Editions, commentaries and translations: References to standard editions of classical authors and of corpora are omitted. Translations that have been consulted are acknowledged below; in some cases, they appear in the text with modifications. Ammianus Marcellinus Seyfarth, Wolfgang (1978): Ammiani Marcellini Rerum gestarum libri qui supersunt, Leipzig. Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus: De cerimoniis Greatrex, Geoffrey & Samuel N. C. Lieu (2002): The Roman Eastern Frontier and the Persian Wars. Part II: AD 363-630. A Sourcebook, London & New York. Reiske, Johann Jacob (1829-30): Constantini Porphyrogeniti Imperatoris De cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae libri duo, Bonn. Claudius Mamertinus: Gratiarum actio (Claudii) Mamertini de consulatu suo Iuliano Imperatori Gutzwiller, Hans (1942): Die Neujahrsrede des Konsuls Claudius Mamertinus vor dem Kaiser Julian. Text, Übersetzung und Kommentar, Basel. Lieu, Samuel N. C. (1989): The Emperor Julian. Panegyric and Polemic, Liverpool. Mynors, Roger A. B. (1964): XII Panegyrici Latini, Oxford. Nixon, Charles E. V. & Barbara S. Rodgers (1994): In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini. Introduction, Translation and Historical Commentary with the Latin Text of R. A. B. Mynors, Berkeley. Corippus, Flavius Cresconius: In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris Cameron, Averil (1976): In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris, London. Cyril of Scythopolis: Vita Sabae Price, Richard M. & John Binns (1991): Lives of the Monks of Palestine, Kalamazoo, Michigan. Schwartz, Eduard (1939): Kyrillos von Skythopolis, Leipzig. Eunapius: Vitae sophistarum Giangrande, Giuseppe (1956): Eunapii vitae sophistarum, Rome. Eusebius: Vita Constantini Cameron, Averil & Stuart G. Hall (1999): Eusebius: Life of Constantine. Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Oxford. Winkelmann, Friedhelm (1975): Eusebius: Werke. Vol. 1.1: Über das Leben des Kaisers Konstantin, Berlin.

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Jerome: Commentaria in Epistolam ad Ephesios Heine, Ronald E. (2002): The Commentaries of Origen and Jerome on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians, Oxford. Migne, Jacques P. (1884): Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Stridonensis presbyteri opera omnia. Tomus septimus (Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Latina 26), Paris, 439-554. John Lydus: De magistratibus Bandy, Anastasius C. (1983): Ioannes Lydus On Powers; or, The Magistracies of the Roman State, Philadelphia. John Lydus: De mensibus Wünsch, Richard (1898): Ioannis Lydi liber de mensibus, Leipzig. Justinian: Novellae Schöll, Rudolph & Wilhelm Kroll (1954): Corpus iuris civilis. Vol. 3: Novellae, Berlin. Libanius: Orationes Foerster, Richard (1903-08): Libanii opera (4 vols.), Leipzig. Procopius of Caesarea: De bellis (“Wars”), Anecdota sive Historia quae dicitur arcana (“Secret History”), De aedificiis (“Buildings”) Dewing, Henry B. (1914-40): Procopius (7 vols.), London & Cambridge, Mass. Haury, Jakob & Gerhard Wirth (1962-63): Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia (4 vols.), Leipzig. Suetonius: Divus Julius, Divus Augustus, Tiberius Rolfe, John C. (1914): Suetonius (2 vols.), London & Cambridge, Mass. Sulpicius Severus: Dialogi Halm, Carolus (1866): Sulpicii Severi libri qui supersunt (CSEL 1), Wien. Roberts, Alexander (1890-1900): The Works of Sulpitius Severus. A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Second Series, repr. Grand Rapids, Michigan. Epigraphic material Donderer, Michael (1996): Die Architekten der späten römischen Republik und der Kaiserzeit. Epigraphische Zeugnisse, Erlangen. Secondary literature: Alföldi, Andreas (1970): Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche, Darmstadt. Avery, William T. (1940): The adoratio purpurae and the importance of the imperial purple in the fourth century of the Christian era. In: Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 17, 66-80.

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Bertelli, Sergio (2001): The King’s Body. Sacred Rituals of Power in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, University Park, Pennsylvania. Binns, John (1994): Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ. The Monasteries of Palestine 314-631, Oxford. Blockley, Roger C. (1972): The panegyric of Claudius Mamertinus on the emperor Julian. In: American Journal of Philology 93, 437-450. Brown, Peter (1988): The Body and Society. Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, New York. Brown, Peter (2000): The study of elites in late antiquity. In: Arethusa 33, 321-346. Buc, Philippe (1997): Martyre et ritualité dans l’antiquité tardive. Horizons de l’écriture médiévale des rituels. In: Annales HSS 52, 63-92. Buc, Philippe (2001a): The Dangers of Ritual. Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory, Princeton. Buc, Philippe (2001b): Political rituals and political imagination in the medieval West from the fourth century to the eleventh. In: Peter Linehan & Janet L. Nelson (eds.), The Medieval World, London & New York, 189-213. Bury, John B. (1907): The ceremonial book of Constantine Porphyrogennetos. In: English Historical Review 22, 209-227. Cameron, Alan (1976): Circus Factions. Blues and Greens at Rome and Byzantium, Oxford. Cameron, Averil (1985): Procopius and the Sixth Century, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Davies, Glenys (2005): On being seated. Gender and body language in Hellenistic and Roman art. In: Douglas Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea, 215-238. Elsner, Jaś (1995): Art and the Roman Viewer. The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity, Cambridge. Feissel, Denis (1988): L’architecte Viktôrinos et les fortifications de Justinien dans les provinces balkaniques. In: Bulletin de la société nationales des antiquaires de France, 136-146. Feissel, Denis (2000): Les édifices de Justinien au témoignage de Procope et de l’épigraphie. In: Antiquité tardive 8, 81-104. Francis, James A. (2003): Living icons. Tracing a motif in verbal and visual representation from the second to the fourth centuries C.E. In: American Journal of Philology 124, 575-600. Greatrex, Geoffrey (1997): The Nika riot. A reappraisal. In: Journal of Hellenic Studies 117, 60-86. Guilland, Rodolphe (1946/47): La cérémonie de la προσκύνησις. In: Revue des Études Grecques 59-60, 251-259. Reprinted in: Id., Recherches sur les institutions byzantines (vol. 1), Berlin & Amsterdam 1967, 144-150. Heather, Peter (1998): Senates and senators. In: Averil Cameron & Peter Garnsey (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 13: The Late Empire, A.D. 337-425, Cambridge, 184-210. Hermann-Otto, Elisabeth (1998): Der Kaiser und die Gesellschaft des spätrömischen Reiches im Spiegel des Zeremoniells. In: Peter Kneissl & Volker Losemann

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(eds.), Imperium Romanum: Studien zu Geschichte und Rezeption. Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 75. Geburtstag, Stuttgart, 346-369. Kaldellis, Anthony (2004a): Identifying dissident circles in sixth-century Byzantium. The friendship of Prokopios and Ioannes Lydos. In: Florilegium 21, 1-17. Kaldellis, Anthony (2004b): Procopius of Caesarea. Tyranny, History, and Philosophy at the End of Antiquity, Philadelphia. Kaldellis, Anthony (2005): Republican theory and political dissonance in Ioannes Lydos. In: Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 29, 1-16. Kantorowicz, Ernst H. (1963): Oriens Augusti – Lever du Roi. In: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 17, 117-177. Kelly, Christopher (1998a): Emperors as gods, angels as bureaucrats. The representation of imperial power in late antiquity. In: Antigüedad. Religiones y sociedades 1, 301-326. Kelly, Christopher (1998b): Emperors, government, and bureaucracy. In: Averil Cameron & Peter Garnsey (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 13: The Late Empire, A.D. 337-425, Cambridge, 138-183. Kelly, Christopher (2004): Ruling the Later Roman Empire, Cambridge, Mass. & London. Kostof, Spiro K. (1965): The Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna, New Haven. Löhken, Henrik (1982): Ordines Dignitatum. Untersuchungen zur formalen Konstituierung der spätantiken Führungsschicht, Köln & Wien. MacCormack, Sabine G. (1981): Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity, Berkeley & Los Angeles. MacMullen, Ramsay (1964): Some pictures in Ammianus Marcellinus. In: Art Bulletin 46, 435-456. Mango, Cyril (1959): The Brazen House. A Study of the Vestibule of the Imperial Palace of Constantinople, Copenhagen. Matthews, John (1989): The Roman Empire of Ammianus, Baltimore. Matthews, John (2000a): Laying Down the Law. A Study of the Theodosian Code. New Haven & London. Matthews, John (2000b): The Roman empire and the proliferation of elites. In: Arethusa 33, 429-446. McCormick, Michael (1986): Eternal Victory. Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium, and the Early Medieval West, Cambridge & Paris. Necipoğlu, Gülru (1991): Architecture, Ceremonial, and Power. The Topkapi in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, Cambridge, Mass. Pazdernik, Charles F. (2000): Procopius and Thucydides on the labors of war. Belisarius and Brasidas in the field. In: Transactions of the American Philological Association 130, 149-187. Pazdernik, Charles F. (2005): Justinianic ideology and the power of the past. In: Michael Maas (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, Cambridge, 185-212.

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Pazdernik, Charles F. (2006): Xenophon’s Hellenica in Procopius’ Wars. Pharnabazus and Belisarius. In: Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 46, 175-206. Rubin, Berthold (1954): Prokopios von Kaisareia, Stuttgart (= RE 23.1 [1957] 273599). Sarris, Peter (2006): Economy and Society in the Age of Justinian, Cambridge. Skinner, Alexander (2000): The birth of a Byzantine “senatorial” perspective. In: Arethusa 33, 363-377. Stancliffe, Clare (1983): St. Martin and His Hagiographer. History and Miracle in Sulpicius Severus, Oxford. Stern, H. (1954): Remarks on the “adoratio” under Diocletian. In: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 17, 184-189. Treitinger, Otto (1956): Die oströmische Kaiser- und Reichsidee nach ihrer Gestaltung im höfischen Zeremoniell, Darmstadt. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew (1982): Civilis princeps. Between citizen and king. In: Journal of Roman Studies 72, 32-48. Wharton, Annabel Jane (1987): Ritual and reconstructed meaning. The Neonian Baptistery in Ravenna. In: Art Bulletin 69, 358-375.

Man as Monster: Eros and Hubris in Plato’s Symposium ∗ Peter von Möllendorff Abstract:

According to Aristophanes’ account in Plato’s Symposium (189c2-193d5), humans emerged from a race of double-bodied creatures, who are commonly misconceived by modern readers as being spherically shaped. Through a close reading of the passage, I demonstrate that the grotesque myth as narrated by Aristophanes serves as a simile for the subsequent narrative of Diotima on the cognitive ascent to the idea of beauty. Just as man is permanently searching for his lost other half and desires nothing else but to be reunited with it, so the true philosophical eroticist desires to see the idea of beauty. By leaving behind the beautiful bodies, beautiful souls and beautiful cognitions, the philosopher desires to be with beauty (συνεῖναι), to touch it (ἐφάπτεσθαι) and to procreate true and ultimate knowledge with it (τίκτειν). Aristophanes’ double-bodied prehistoric men suffered their division as punishment for their ὕβρις-driven attempt to storm Olympus. Due to the character of the myth as a simile, it would appear that Socrates’ description of cognitively approaching the divine world of ideas is also to be understood as a form of ὕβρις. In order to illustrate this, Plato also uses the discourse of the monstrous. The cleft men, that is men as desiring beings, as eroticists, are categorized as τέρατα; their existence, therefore, like the existence of the greatest eroticist of all, Socrates, points to the ὕβρις of philosophizing and its potentially bitter consequences.

In Plato’s Symposium, each of the participating symposiasts attempts to analyse the nature of desire (Eros). Some approaches are simpler, others more sophisticated. Interestingly, in contrast to the rest of the Platonic dialogues, this text lacks a leading moderator in the sense of one participant setting the tone and course of the conversation, nor does it display an attempt to bring together the divergent contributions. On the contrary, the reader is left with the impression of utter heterogeneity; a feeling of having encountered a totally un-selfcontained, truly dialogical piece of work, behind which it is difficult to ascer-

∗

This article was first presented as a lecture at the conference Monster – Zur ästhetischen Verfassung eines Grenzbewohners (held at Gießen University, 22-24 March 2007). A German version (“Der Mensch, das Monstrum. Eros und Hybris in Platons Symposion”) will be published in a volume with the conference title, edited by Christiane Holm and Günter Oesterle. I owe special thanks to Sebastian Matzner and Glenn Patten for the translation.

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tain a uniform authorial intention. This lack of uniformity establishes the appropriate ambience for the speech of Aristophanes (Symp. 189c2-193d5), which I consider – together with Diotima’s expositions as reported by Socrates – to be the most important of the dialogue. The comic poet tells a myth: in ancient times the human race did not look like it does today, but consisted of double-bodied beings that were male, female or androgynous. These primeval humans were equipped with four arms, four legs, two sexual organs and two faces. They were immensely strong, and hence conceived the ὕβρις of wanting to conquer Mount Olympus. For this, they were punished with division into their two halves. Moreover, Zeus turned the faces of these semihumans around so that they should forever see what they had lost. The misery of the new human race, however, was so great – they wasted away in longing for their lost other half, embracing and holding each other tight so as to die together – that Zeus felt pity for them and moved their sexual organs to the other side as well, so that the two halves could now have sexual contact with each other, and could thus satisfy their desire for each other, at least temporarily. Ever since this primal sin, man has been driven by the desire for his other half in varying combinations of homo- and heterosexuality. If someone is lucky enough to meet ‘his’ or ‘her’ other half then he experiences a feeling of infinite security and the wish never to let the other one go. The hope for such a reunion rests entirely on future godliness, whereas a further case of ὕβρις would result in another division by Zeus, which would reduce man to jumping around on one leg only. Before thinking about the meaning of this strange narrative in itself and its context in the entire dialogue, one must attempt to reconstruct the appearance, the shape of the creatures which Aristophanes describes in some detail (Symp. 189e5-190a4): ἔπειτα ὅλον ἦν ἑκάστου τοῦ ἀνθρώπου τὸ εἶδος στρογγύλον, νῶτον καὶ πλευρὰς κύκλῳ ἔχον,1 χεῖρας δὲ τέτταρας εἶχε, καὶ σκέλη τὰ ἴσα ταῖς χερσίν, καὶ πρόσωπα δύ’ ἐπ’ αὐχένι κυκλοτερεῖ, ὅμοια πάντῃ 2 · κεφαλὴν δ’ ἐπ’ ἀμφοτέροις τοῖς προσώποις ἐναντίοις κειμένοις μίαν, καὶ ὦτα τέτταρα, καὶ αἰδοῖα δύο, καὶ τἆλλα πάντα ὡς ἀπὸ τούτων ἄν τις εἰκάσειεν. 1 2

As to the periodic structure of this sentence see Morrison (1964: 46). For the English translation of the Symposium I refer to Lamb (1967). The above version, usually printed in modern editions according to the unanimous textual tradition ὅμοια πάντῃ, does not make sense. It can be related sensibly only to both faces which is then translated by both Lamb (1946) and Rowe (1998) without further explanation as ‘two faces perfectly alike’ or ‘two completely similar faces’ respectively. The subsequent division of the primeval men, however, leads to the genesis of individuals and not to that of purely twins; and how is one supposed to understand such a completely identical section of the face in the case of the androgynous creatures? A solution would be to emend ὅμοια πάντῃ to ὁμοίᾳ πάντῃ. What is referred to is then the neck and it is stressed that, as opposed to the neck of contemporary humans, it is evenly round on all sides.

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“The form of each person was round all over, with back and sides encompassing it every way; each had four arms, and legs to match these, and two faces perfectly alike on a cylindrical neck. There was one head to the two faces, which looked opposite ways; there were four ears, two privy members, and all the other parts, as may be imagined, in proportion.”

German-speaking scholars usually call Aristophanes’ primeval men ‘Kugelmenschen’ and Anglo-American research also frequently refers to ‘globular shape’ or ‘globe-shaped creatures’. This, however, is illogical since ‘we’ are the result of the division – and we are not normally hemispherical.3 The division does not lead to the genesis of comically deformed humans,4 but to the 3

4

Morrison (1964: 47-49) already argued extensively for a ‘circular’ conceptualization; he has also shown that the description of the earth in Phaedo 110b, which is often referred to as an argument for the globular shape of primeval men, makes, if understood correctly, a circular cross section of these creatures’ shape more likely. Vase paintings displaying scenes from comedies and characters in the typical costume of comedy – with jutting bellies and buttocks – may have been responsible for giving rise to the assumption that Aristophanes may have thought of such spherical creatures. Another possible reason for this wrong conclusion may be the fact that Plato names sun, moon and earth as parents of these beings (Symp. 190a8-b5). This makes us think of spherical stars; the greatest part of classical antiquity, however, did not think of stars in this shape, certainly not in the age of Plato. Stars were conceived not only in the popular imagination but also in early scientific thought as disks, at best as being of hemispherical shape, but not as spherical (see also the following footnote); for textual evidence see Morrison (1964: 48-49). The subsequent comparison of the act of division with slicing through sorb-apples and eggs (Symp. 190d7e2), which also may have led to the conception of an originally spherical shape, in fact refers in its tertium comparationis to the ease of cutting through a previously formally perfect unity, and was proverbially used for the separation of previously ‘inseparable’ lovers over a bagatelle (see Dover 1980: 116). Furthermore, that the intended conception here is not that of a grotesque spherical shape also becomes clear in the comparison of primeval men with the giants (Symp. 190b5-c1): the iconography of giants in the fifth and fourth century B.C. depicts these enemies of the gods physically as heroes and, thus, as beautiful; they are not portrayed with serpentine bodies before the third century B.C. There have been frequent attempts to derive the monstrosity of the primeval men from a seemingly similar conception in Empedocles’ work On Nature (31B57-62 DK) as its source, although it is rather fr. 31B63 DK which in fact contains a terminological, although ultimately not conceptual, proximity if the terms σύμβολον and ὅλον at Aristotle, De gen. anim. A 18, 722b10, are originally Empedoclean. This seems quite arguable to me; however, οὐλοφυεῖς (31B62.7; vgl. 10) – pace Rowe (1998: 154) – refers to the limbless semen from which the future living beings are yet to arise. Yet Empedocles only describes the phylogenetic consequences of his hypothesis of dualistic cosmic dynamics – the conflict of ‘friendship’ (φιλότης) and ‘strife’ (νεῖκος): initially, individual limbs come into being which wander around, seek combination, eventually find it and grow together partly into hybrid creatures (e.g. combinations of bull and human), partly to humans (and notably not to double-humans); as opposed to what is assumed in Ajootian (1995: 99), the fragments do not mention or imply a later division of any bisexual creatures – which Empedocles in my opinion would have regarded as deficient – which thus might have come into being. The survival of the thus assembled creatures depends on the capacity of their synergies, i.e. the survivability of those random combinations which in the case of human beings are ideal (see Simplicius, Phys. 371.33). Yet, from these premises a connection to the conception of the Platonic Aristophanes is only possible if one is willing to assume that Empedocles was thinking of a subsequent evolutionary step in the form of further combina-

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origin of καλοκἀγαθοί, humans that meet the classical ideal of beauty, or at least of humans with ‘normal’ proportions. Nor does the quoted text give any evidence of spherical humans. The Greek words στρογγύλον and κύκλος rather refer to something ‘circular’, hence, beings who are characterized by a circular ‘periphery’ as it were,5 whose torso as well as their neck are to be described as cylindrical and who only have sides and backs but not chests (so already Rowe 1998: 154). This conception, however, leads to some problems which are not addressed by the text. After the division, Zeus moves the faces and genitals of the halved humans around to the side of their navels: the first so that they may always remember what they have lost, the latter so that they find fulfilment of their desire for each other. Yet, there is no mention of the arms and legs being turned around as well, in other words, of arms and legs having originally been directed to the front and to the back.6 If man nevertheless looks the way he does today – face, genitals and outer extremities all facing the same direction as does the navel – then there must be an immanent reason for this which is not made explicit by the text. A solution can be found in my opinion if one also takes into account how Aristophanes’ speech continues. The comic poet imagines Hephaestus, god of blacksmiths, with his tools approaching two lovers who are fulfilling their erotic desire with each other and asking them the following question (Symp. 192d3-e4):

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tions of, in themselves, already optimally functioning humans to anthropoid dyads or that Aristophanes has developed Empedocles’ model further in this way. This, however, could hardly be put down as parody, and would also imply that Aristophanes here, firstly, claims a status of ideality for his creatures and that he, secondly, develops a pre-Socratic model further, that is, that he proposes a serious philosophical thesis; one might, at most, think of a comic inversion which, however, usually shows a double movement (both upwards and downwards). Orphic ideas may also have had an influence on the myth of the original unity of mankind that is reported here; we find for example the conception of a primordial uniformity of heaven and earth (Uranus and Gaia), which have become separate only due to a later row (Apollonius Rhodius, Arg. 494-498), a separation which alone made the procreation of all terrestrial beings possible (Euripides, Melan. fr. 484 K.), and is thus arguably also the precondition for mutual desire. This makes it a conception that is, at least, analogous to that of the Platonic Aristophanes, albeit a step earlier in the cosmic chronology. – Most comparable are perhaps the Siamese twins Aktorione-Molione mentioned in Hesiod (Eh. fr. 17a, 1418 Merkelbach & West) who also have four arms and legs but differ in having two heads; like Aristophanes’ primeval men they are said to have been invincibly strong. See Dover (1966: 46), and see LIMC (s.v. “Aktorione”) I.1.472-476 with illustration (I.2.364-365). The text continues: They were περιφερῆ in their shape as in their progress, since they took after their parents (Symp. 190b3-5). περιφερῆ clearly refers to a circular form in a horizontal perspective (cross-section of the body) as well as in the vertical perspective, namely in locomotion which looks similar to the turning ‘wheel’ of the sun chariot. Whereas Hunter (2004: 62) wrongly describes them as “resembling perhaps two modern humans standing back-to-back ...”.

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Τί ἔσθ’ ὃ βούλεσθε, ὦ ἄνθρωποι, ὑμῖν παρ’ ἀλλήλων γενέσθαι; (...) Ἆρά γε τοῦδε ἐπιθυμεῖτε, ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ γενέσθαι ὅτι μάλιστα ἀλλήλοις, ὥστε καὶ νύκτα καὶ ἡμέραν μὴ ἀπολείπεσθαι ἀλλήλων; εἰ γὰρ τούτου ἐπιθυμεῖτε, θέλω ὑμᾶς συντῆξαι καὶ συμφυσῆσαι εἰς τὸ αὐτό, ὥστε δύ’ ὄντας ἕνα γεγονέναι καὶ ἕως τ’ ἂν ζῆτε, ὡς ἕνα ὄντα, κοινῇ ἀμφοτέρους ζῆν, καὶ ἐπειδὰν ἀποθάνητε, ἐκεῖ αὖ ἐν Ἅιδου ἀντὶ δυοῖν ἕνα εἶναι κοινῇ τεθνεῶτε· (...) “What is it, good mortals, that you would have of one another? (...) Do you desire to be joined in the closest possible union, so that you shall not be divided by night or by day? If that is your craving, I am ready to fuse and weld you together in a single piece, that from being two you may be made one; that so long as you live, the pair of you, being as one, may share a single life; and that when you die you may also in Hades yonder be one instead of two, having shared a single death (...).”

It seems to me significant that Hephaestus does not promise just to tie or solder the two lovers together7 but to fuse them, to ultimately undo their duality and separateness. Yet, if the ἀρχαῖα φύσις can be fully restored through Hephaestus’ rescue act, then the previous unity of the double-men was not a combination of something double, a united duality as it were, but a unity in the sense of an ‘identity’: a mutual pervasion and total interpenetration that is nothing other then the sexual act grotesquely thought through to the end. 8 Aristophanes imagines in my opinion his primeval humans as homo- and heterosexual couples who are virtually one by permanently interpenetrating each other in an eternal kiss and in an eternal copulation; they permeate each other to such an extent that their faces and genitals, so to say, surface again on the other side, that is, on the outside (figs. 1 and 2).9 It is the eternity and at the same time the 7

8 9

Although this would have made perfect sense, since in the well-known myth of Ares and Aphrodite narrated for the first time in Homer, Od. 8.266-366, the god of blacksmiths catches the lovers in flagranti and ties them together with a forged net (Od. 8.274-275); hence, this sort of an indissoluble connection would have been possible too. Rowe (1998: ad 192e6-9) already sees a connection between sexual intercourse and the original appearance of the human race. Ovid hints at this (possibly alluding to Plato; see Anderson 1996: 453) in nuce in his account of the emergence of Hermaphroditus as the result of the fusion of the son of Hermes and Aphrodite with the nymph Salmacis (Met. 4.373-379): (...) nam mixta duorum / corpora iunguntur faciesque inducitur illis / una. Velut, si quis conducat cortice ramos, / crescendo iungi pariterque adolescere cernit, / sic, ubi complexu coierunt membra tenaci, / nec duo sunt sed forma duplex, nec femina dici / nec puer ut possit, neutrumque et utrumque videntur. The act of union, violent and forced upon the youth against his will, is here compared to the process of grafting. The result, as Anderson (1996: ad loc.) rightly emphasizes, is not a powerful, sexually self-sufficient hybrid but a weak freak who does not conjoin both genders in himself but appears as a half-complete and inconsequent mixture. The fact that the result of their union is one face (as well as just one sexual organ) points to the aversion of the youth who in the very moment of the bodily integration has apparently turned away from Salmacis so that she faces his back. See also Lateiner (2009, in this volume). Relevant for our understanding of the passage in Plato, however, is the analogous conception of a total fusion of two bodies; yet, it may be more than mere coincidence that there is particular evidence of three-

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Figure 1: Aristophanes’ double-bodied humans (male) © Katrin Pavlidis 2006

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Figure 2: Aristophanes’ double-bodied humans (androgynous) © Katrin Pavlidis 2006

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eternal fulfilment of this bodily contact which puts an end to desire; consequently, no later intercourse can ever reach again the same degree of fulfilment in terms of mutual penetration and therefore always remains a surrogate, which can only be a reminder of the previous perfection, the abolition of desire through its permanent satisfaction and thus the absence of desire. If we think this through, it follows that we cannot imagine the result of our division other than that we are living partially with the body of our lost other half, and the other half with ours. Everything that today seems normal and right with our own corporeality and our erotic desire is, from a primeval perspective, utterly wrong and perverted. Our organs and extremities sit in the wrong places. Humans are only fragments and, as such, refer to the loss of the whole – Aristophanes calls us σύμβολα (Symp. 191d4). We can only understand and formulate this oneness and wholeness that we are yearning for as combination with the other. Yet, in the myth of the One there was never an Other, nor was there the trait of referentiality which marks our current existence, since the primeval beings were, as the centeredness of the outer extremities shows, continuously facing themselves in a perfect state of total selfcontainment. Because of our current condicio humana we cannot think the One (anymore), but only desire it.10 Desire, Eros, thus means that every half longs for the other as something intrinsically identical with itself because in the division it has, as it were, lost a part of itself – whatever that may be. Becoming one and whole again would then mean finding in the other one’s very own self again.11 The division has therefore not given us our human identity, but has taken it away from us in that it has transformed us into a grotesque dyad, and made deficient ‘dividuals’ out of real ‘individuals’.12 We are – seen from the point of view of these mythical ancient times – freaks, monsters. I use the term ‘monster’ in the original etymological meaning of the word. The Greek counterpart to the Latin monstrum, τέρας, refers firstly to a won-

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dimensional cult statues of Hermaphroditus (of the anasyromenos type) at the beginning of the 4th century, namely in Athens, and thus in a remarkable chronotopical context of the Symposium. Regarding these sculptures, see Ajootian (1995). Correspondingly Aristophanes formulates: “These are they who continue together throughout life, though they could not even say what they would have of one another (...). Obviously the soul of each is wishing for something else that it cannot express, only divining and darkly hinting what it wishes” (Symp. 192c2-4, c7-d2). This idea is particularly challenging if applied to the androgynous primeval humans since it implies that every heterosexual male comprises a female, every heterosexual woman a male. Maybe this idea draws on scenes of androgyny in various rituals during wedding ceremonies; for numerous evidence of such rituals see Jessen, s.v. “Hermaphroditos”, in: RE 15 (1912), 714-721, esp. 714-715. It is because of this that the occasionally expressed criticism of the Aristophanic conception, most recently stated in Hunter (2004: 69), that erotic fulfilment results here in giving up one’s individuality, is inadequate. What is at stake from Aristophanes’ perspective is precisely salvation from a form of pseudo-individuality.

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drous and therefore terrifying omen of a future event, sent by the gods (in Homer preferably by Zeus) and needing interpretation.13 Of these three primary criteria of monstrosity – (a) being wondrous and terrifying, (b) being sent by a divinity, (c) ominous significance in need of interpretation – the first two are connected insofar as the presumed divine origin of a τέρας reveals itself precisely in its extraordinariness, its unexpected deviance from normality. The semiotic aspect is of particular importance14 because it gives meaning to the existence of the monster, which disrupts perception, refers to disarray in the world order, and directs attention to a future threat. The notion of (d) ‘counternatural monstrosity’, however, is derived from criterion (a);15 the same is true for (e) the aspect of deformity, of ugliness.16 But these two notions are already prevalent in Plato’s age and seem to have increasingly dominated the semiotic history of this term.17 The halved creatures which remain after the division of the primeval double-humans in Aristophanes’ speech meet all of the five listed criteria of monstrosity and would therefore also have been perceived as τέρατα by contemporary recipients. Their mutilated appearance is (a) from the perspective of their predecessors something new and terrifying, and the divided men are so agitated that even Zeus feels pity for them and provides them with some relief by rearranging their faces and sexual organs. Criterion (b) – being sent by a god – is met by Zeus’ function as punishing divinity. As σύμβολα (c) the halved men point not only to their other half, but also to their previous ὕβρις against the gods, as well as to potential future events; since Zeus threatens (Symp. 190d46): ἐὰν δ’ ἔτι δοκῶσιν ἀσελγαίνειν καὶ μὴ ’θέλωσιν ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν, πάλιν αὖ (...) τεμῶ δίχα, ὥστ’ ἐφ’ ἑνὸς πορεύσονται σκέλους ἀσκωλιάζοντες. 13

14

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Regarding the history of the terms monstrum and τέρας as well as their semantic equivalences and differences see Moussy (1977). On the general problems of possibilities and comparabilities of categorizations see Atherton (1998: vii-xxxiv, esp. xxiv-xxxiv); note, however, that here as in the entire volume monstrosity is reduced to awfulness, counter-naturalness and, consequently, insufficient classifiability. As to different possibilities of classification see Lada-Richards (1998: esp. 41-49). It is etymologically and hence causally rooted in the relevant terms monstrum and τέρας and must therefore in my opinion not be disregarded in favour of focussing only on terrifying counter-naturalness, abnormality and ugliness, as in the contributions to the essay collection edited by Atherton (1998). See Moussy (1977: 361-362). Hybrid corporeality in particular is strictly speaking not characteristic for the term monstrum but can be easily subsumed under ‘counter-naturalness’ and is then often perceived as the actual monstrosity: see e.g. van Keuren Stern (1978), with regards to Hydra, Centaurs, Minotaurus, Medusa, Chimaira. See LSJ s. v. II.2. So for example already in Aristotle’s Poetics and in his biological writings; as to the latter see Louis (1975). Excellent on the taxonomical importance of monsters as well as on symbolical and classificatory ways of dealing with them is Sperber (1975).

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“If they continue turbulent and do not choose to keep quiet, I will do it again (...) I will slice every person in two, and then they must go their ways on one leg, hopping.”18

The aspects of counter-naturalness and dysfunctional deformity (d) are clear in that the halved men not only lose their strength and dangerousness, but are also deprived of their sexual self-sufficiency. Moreover, they have lost their physical functionality: previously they had been able to move with the greatest speed in any direction without the need to turn around, namely by doing a cartwheel or a backflip (Symp. 190a4-8); now this is possible only to a limited extent. Ultimately, we present-day humans are considered ugly (e). For a crucial aspect of Greek aesthetics, not least for Plato, was συμμετρία in the sense of commensurability, proportion, as a precondition of beauty (κάλλος).19 Yet this perfection of symmetry of the human body was taken away from the primeval men by their division. If we consider ourselves as beautiful because we are symmetrical, we overlook the loss of that former higher beauty. Furthermore, if we were to be cut into halves a second time, according to Zeus’ threat, even these pathetic remains of our original symmetry would be lost. A characteristic feature of Aristophanic humour is the frequent usage of the unexpected, the ἀπροσδόκητον, on all levels of the text.20 Plato has imitated this feature in his literary impersonation of the comic poet perfectly, as can be seen clearly in the theme of monstrosity. Myth, of course, knew numerous counter-natural creatures (that is, ‘monsters’ in a reductionist sense of the term), amongst which the reader would have been inclined to count the hybrid men Aristophanes describes ad hoc.21 However, a sudden and unpredictable ‘cut’, typical of comedy, reverses the line of vision and turns the world upside down: what seemed to be normal is deficient, whereas that what was initially passed off as a monstrosity turns out to be the more perfect order. Normal man 18

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Aristophanes picks up this threat again at the end of his speech in the role of the interpreter and exhorter: “We may well be afraid that if we are disorderly towards Heaven we may once more be cloven asunder and may go about in the shape of those outline-carvings on the tombs, with our noses sawn down the middle, and may thus become like tokens of split dice (...). Love is the god who brings this about; he fully deserves our hymns (...). He also supplies this excellent hope for the future, that if we will supply the gods with reverent duty he will restore us to our ancient life and heal and help us into the happiness of the blest” (Symp. 193a3-7, c8-d5). This agrees with the definition of beauty as it was put down in its classical form in Polycletus’ Κανών (in both his writings and his sculptures) half a century before the Symposium but maybe only twenty years before its fictitious date; see Pollitt (1974: 14-22, 256-258 and passim). συμμετρία remained in the centre of aesthetic theorizing until the third century B.C. (Xenocrates of Athens). Fundamental for this matter is Landfester (1977). Hermaphrodite children were sometimes perceived as monstra / τέρατα and were therefore forcibly exposed; see Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 4.6.5-7 and Ajootian (1995: 101-103).

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is in truth a freak, and he is suffering from it. However only a god, not mere desiring, nor even finding that which is lost, could heal the loss. Our path in love and piety towards the gods can only lead us near to the ἀρχαῖα φύσις; in order to finally reach it, it takes (as corresponds to the preceding punishment) a divine act of grace. That is the only way to retrieve that unity which was at the same time a duality, to become again that perfect monster we used to be. It is probably because of the paradoxality and ineffability of this idea22 that Plato has put this speech into Aristophanes’ mouth in the first place. Aristophanes’ speech corresponds to the famous Diotima-speech of Socrates in a mimetic-parabolic way, but also undermines the seemingly noble image of Socrates as a superior philosopher. I will begin with some reflections on the nature of their parabolic relationship, for which some remarks on the disposition of the Symposium are necessary. The long introduction which develops the setting (Symp. 172a1-178a5) is followed by three cycles of speeches – ‘Praise of Eros’ (Symp. 176a1-212c3); ‘Praise of Socrates’ (Symp. 215a4-222b7); ‘Tragedy and comedy’ (Symp. 223c6-d8)23 – of which only the first cycle is completed. The cycle in itself would be structured paratactically according to the symposiasts’ order on the couches. But, firstly, neither the reporter of the first level, Aristodemus, nor that of the second level, Apollodorus, remember all the speeches that were given (Symp. 178a1-3. 223b8-9), so that a controlled selection has to be assumed. Secondly, Aristophanes does not give his speech at the point which is dictated by the ‘coincidence’ of his position in the symposiastic lying order, but gives precedence to the doctor Eryximachus because of hiccups (Symp. 185c4-e5, 188e2-189a6).24 Because of this, Aristophanes’ speech 22

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See above. The ineffability (and, hence, unthinkability) shows itself for example in the fact that language needs the aid of predicate usage (‘at the same time’, ‘that was ...’) but is neither syntactically nor semantically in a position to express the duality of unity or the unity of duality properly. Both intellectually and linguistically only an approximation of that perfection is possible. They are linked with each other by intermezzi which – like the introduction – expose the respectively changed setting. Friedländer (1960: 15) has already pointed out that according to the initially intended sequence of speakers Aristophanes would have given his speech as the third of five preSocratic speakers (Phaedrus, Pausanias, Aristophanes, Eryximachus, Agathon). The hiccups motif thus makes clear that Plato takes him out of this centre – he is not meant to be compared to them – and that he gives him a new, even more strongly emphasized role. Yet even among these five speakers he holds a unique position, if only because he has come on his own while the others have arrived in pederastic couples (Phaedrus and Eryximachus, Pausanias and Agathon). Moreover, his choice of a mythical narrative instead of an argument distinguishes him from the others. Furthermore Friedländer (1960: ad loc.) has demonstrated that the speeches of Phaedrus and Agathon (Eros as the oldest and the youngest god respectively) as well as those of Pausanias and Eryximachus (Eros as twofold god) form pairs in terms of their content. By means of all this a net of relationships is woven between the four other speakers in which Aristophanes is initially caught, but from which he manages to escape through his hiccups which by means typical of comedy turn things upside down and al-

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moves into the centre of the cycle (fig. 3) and thus into a position clearly marked by Plato, from which it can claim the same attention as the longest and concluding speech of the cycle, that of the predictable protagonist Socrates. Such a correspondence is made likely by the fact that Aristophanes is, apart from Socrates, the only participant of the dialogue who gives a true definition of ἔρως – the search for wholeness.25

subject I: praise of Eros speech of Phaedrus speech of Pausanias disruption: Aristophanes’ hiccup speech of Eryximachus Intermezzo: Aristophanes and Eryximachus argue humorously speech of Aristophanes Intermezzo: Phaedrus, Agathon and Socrates argue humorously speech of Agathon disruption: Socrates rejects the current form of discussion speech of Socrates I: refutation of Agathon speech of Socrates II: Diotima on Eros disruption: unexpected entrance of the ákletos Alcibiades

176a1-178a5 178a6-180b8 180c3-185c3 185c4-e5 185e6-188e4 189a1-c1 189c2-193e2 193e3-194e3 194e4-197e8 198a1-199c2 199c3-201c9 201d1-212c3 212c4-214b8

Figure 3: The structure of the speeches in Plato’s Symposium

Diotima’s description of the ascending course of desire forms the centre of Socrates’ speech. The ‘Platonic lover’ initially loves the beautiful body of a beloved one, but then frees himself from it so as to eventually love all beautiful bodies. He then raises his desire from beautiful bodies to the beautiful activities of the soul, and from there to beautiful knowledge. Finally, he achieves the ultimate knowledge of pure, uniform and true beauty (the ‘idea’ of beauty) from which all individual beautiful things draw their partial beauty through participation. The encounter of the desiring mind with this ultimate object of knowledge is described by Diotima with verbs which are also used for sexual contact: συνεῖναι (“to have [sexual] intercourse”), ἐφάπτεσθαι (“touch”) and

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low the protagonists to escape all contextual constraints. Apart from this, Aristophanes is the only speaker who tries to speak up again after Socrates’ speech (Symp. 212c4-6), and it is only to his speech that Diotima refers explicitly (Symp. 205d10-206a1). On the two sets of speeches produced by the hiccups motif see also Lowenstam (1986), which includes an overview of previous research. See most recently Hunter (2004: 67).

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τίκτειν (“procreate”).26 In addition to this, and in analogy to earthly love, he who desires philosophically also desires procreation. In the same way in which beautiful children can be created with a beautiful body, the philosophical lover can create beautiful thoughts, virtues and attitudes in a beautiful soul; and eventually political communities, in which relationships based on such love take place, become better. Further in the ascent, he reaches great and new thoughts in the area of beautiful knowledge – for Plato that is first of all mathematics and philosophy – in order to ultimately reach the one great knowledge which is the aim and end of all desire. In possession of this knowledge, he gains immortality. If one compares these explanations with those of Aristophanes’, the parabolic nature of the comic poet’s speech becomes immediately obvious.27 The desiring ascent to the last One, via the intermediate stages of love for beautiful bodies, souls and knowledge, is replaced here by the desiring search for the one belonging body, the lost half, via the intermediate stages of love for various different loved ones, the love for the beloved one with whom one is in harmony in all regards, and ultimately – as the last aim – the union with him as the true and only lover, who has always belonged to oneself (just as the idea of beauty as immortality has always been there). As is typical for his parables, Plato has staged the abstract line of thought in concrete action. Accordingly, philosophical love is portrayed in the parable as physical love, and the nonindividual one idea of the ‘idea of beauty’ is individualized in the sought-after one Other; in both cases achieving the aim puts an end to desire. This narrative transformation entails the establishment of a temporal dimension, of events happening in time; the timelessness of an immortal idea, and consequently the detachedness of philosophical desire from time, is depicted in the paradox of the restitution of a past ideal state as the project of a distant future. Boldest of all is probably the following hypothesis: Diotima describes the ascent to the idea of beauty as a process which begins with physical Eros, and in the course of which the erotic interest moves to always new and, at the same time, always less spatially and temporally limited objects. Hence, what changes is the object relation of Eros, while neither the erotic intensity nor the nature of Eros as such change. It should therefore be legitimate to understand the intellectual union with the idea of beauty as a sexual act, albeit a disembodied and sublimated sexual act.28 Seeing it then has to be understood – completely in accordance 26 27 28

Symp. 212a2: συνόντος, 212a3: τίκτειν, 212a5: ἐφαπτομένῳ. See Sier (1997: 109-112) and Tornau (2005: 277). One does not have to go as far as Reale (2001), who has seen Aristophanes’ speech as a coded version of Plato’s unwritten teachings, to acknowledge that both conceptions relate to each other in many ways and obviously have a parallel design. In Phaedrus 253e6-256a6 Plato gives a striking description of both the necessity and the difficulties of rejecting the desire for the physical sexual act and of replacing it with intellectual

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with the classical concept of seeing (see Rakoczy 1996: 19-37) – as a kind of tactile contact, or indeed rather as an immersion in Being itself, since a perception that relies on distance cannot be thought capable of perceiving an infinite Being.29 From this point of view it makes immediate sense for Diotima to use sexual terminology alongside epistemological terminology. However, this ultimate erotic act is paradoxical because it can only be understood as a love in love with itself, since it is directed at the idea of beauty which does not belong to the level of reality of the lover (cf. Tornau 2005: 277-281). This intellectually becoming one with the One is then depicted in Aristophanes’ parable as a union with the belonging other half, with – as outlined above – ‘one’s own Other’.30 The meaning of Aristophanes’ speech, however, cannot be reduced to its parabolic nature, in particular because this parable is put not into Socrates’ but into another character’s mouth who – if one assumed a purely parabolic nature – would be reduced to a mere mouthpiece which is not suggested by the text.31 As a matter of fact, Aristophanes’ myth provides two motifs which do not really go beyond Diotima’s conception of the erotic path, but which characterize and assess it anew from a different perspective. These are, on the one hand, the motif of the primeval human’s ὕβρις – their wanting to storm Mount Olympus, supplemented by Aristophanes’ final warning against future transgressions – and, on the other hand, the motif of the monstrosity of the halved men, which is manifested not only in their appearance but most of all in the fact of their erotic desire. In what follows I wish to demonstrate that, by introducing these motifs, Plato establishes a very unusual perspective on his philosophical discourse and shows us the radicality, inacceptability and the dis-

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συνουσία. What is depicted in the Symposium, however, is a union, because if the One is Being as such then it cannot be understood as distinguished from others; see Symp. 211a7-b1: (...) οὐδέ τις λόγος οὐδέ τις ἐπιστήμη, οὐδέ που ὂν ἐν ἑτέρῳ τινι, οἷον ἐν ζώῳ ἢ ἐν γῇ ἢ ἐν οὐρανῷ ἢ ἔν τῳ ἄλλῳ (“[Nor again will our initiate find the beautiful] as a particular description or piece of knowledge, nor as existing somewhere in another substance, such as an animal or the earth or sky or any other thing”). The Symposium here, in my opinion, in many ways goes beyond comparable descriptions of the ascent of the intellect in the Phaedrus. There the charioteer of the soul chariot manages for a shorter or longer time to catch sight of the realm of ideas. But Socrates argues there that the ideas are located at a ὑπερουράνιος τόπος above the sky (Phaedrus 247b6-e6) where they present themselves to the sight of the gods and of him who is capable of following them. Tactile contact is not mentioned. One may ask to what extent the aspect of belonging which is crucial for Aristophanes depicts the relation of the One to the world (see Diotima’s critique in Symp. 205d10-206a1). Tentatively I would refer here to the theorem of ‘participation’ (μέθεξις) which also propagates a connection of the One and the many which is indissoluble but not realized in a knowing or conscious way in every day life and actions. A proof to the contrary lies particularly in the fact that Diotima explicitly contradicts Aristophanes’ position (see above n. 24).

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turbing nature of such thinking which not only irritates men in the daily application of their value systems, but also questions the relationship between men and gods. I will first demonstrate to what extent Diotima’s metaphysical philosophizing and the behaviour of her disciple Socrates can be seen as ὕβρις. After that I will ask if Socrates in his state of philosophical desire shows aspects of monstrosity, and if the events unfolding around him fit into the scheme of action which is characteristic for the classical discourse of the monstrous. Can the way of philosophizing propagated by Diotima and practised by Socrates be seen as a ‘transgression’? The answer must be “yes” if Diotima’s thinking is assessed from the perspective of traditional religiosity. Myth confirms that even the attempt of humans to see gods in their true appearance is punished most heavily (e.g. Actaeon, Semele); this is all the more true for attempts at sexual assault (e.g. Ixion).32 With this in mind, the desire not only to see, but also to seek union with ‘divine beauty’ as articulated by Diotima and Socrates (Symp. 211e3) is far from unproblematic. If the space of true being is a divine space33 then the taboo of inviolability must a priori be valid for it,34 and thinking, in particular if it is understood as an erotic activity, could not claim an exception from the law. The way in which Socrates talks about these issues during the banquet also can be criticized from a religious point of view: Diotima has explained her revelations to Socrates, especially the last part that covers the vision of the One, as an initiation into the mysteries, as her terminology clearly shows (esp. Symp. 209e5-210a2). Yet one had to remain silent about what one experienced in the course of initiations, such as that which took place every five years at the Great Mysteries at Eleusis. How seriously this religious law was taken is shown by the trial for profanation of the Mysteries in 415, one year after the fictitious date of the Symposium, where Alcibiades amongst others was accused of having profaned the Mysteries by reenacting them in his private house. Divulging secrets of the mysteries during a banquet could well be understood as a form of ὕβρις. Apart from these transgressions, Socrates is explicitly described as full of ὕβρις in his relationships with others more frequently than in any other of

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This is even true for sexual approaches towards the statue of a god: see (Ps.-)Lucian, Am. 15 (Aphrodite’s statue of Praxiteles at Knidos). This is not precluded by the fact that Diotima refuses to see Ἔρως as a god and rather identifies him as δαίμων (Symp. 202b10-e1). Similarly, the differentiation between the heaven of the gods and the ὑπερουράνιος τόπος (see above n. 29) of ideas even further above it, undertaken in the Phaedrus, only constitutes a relocation of the problem. The giants which Aristophanes introduces in the beginning for the purpose of comparison are likewise punished for their attempt to conquer Mount Olympus (Symp. 190b5-c1).

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Plato’s texts.35 Eros is already always in danger of violating others (Hunter 2004: 17), and in the case of Socrates, as the remarks of the other participants of the conversation clearly show, it is mostly emotional violations, namely the sneering rejection of all those who feel erotically attracted to him and seek his attention and instruction. Exponent of these ‘victims’ of Socrates in the Symposium is Alcibiades. He reports in his speech how as a young man, confident in his own good looks, he tried to seduce Socrates and was rejected, despite his intention to become as good as possible with Socrates’ help as a teacher (Symp. 218d2). Offended by such coolness, he apparently gave up on his philosophical efforts. And yet Socrates himself emphasizes in the Phaedrus that not everybody is given the opportunity to accomplish in this life the ascent into the realm of ideas, but that apart from this there are also second and third best ways of life and philosophizing (Phaedrus 253b7-e2). Which path one takes depends on which of the twelve gods the soul had affiliated itself to in its previous disembodied wanderings. Alcibiades’ self-perception pretentiously aims at an affiliation with Zeus (see below, p. 107) due to which he would have been potentially predestined for the highest level of philosophizing (Phdr. 252e2-253c2, 248c5-e3). But this was not necessarily ‘the truth’, and Socrates shows after Alcibiades’ narration very little empathy, as opposed to his behaviour towards young Phaedrus in the dialogue named after him. This is all the more remarkable insofar as Socrates, at least according to his representation in the texts of Plato and Xenophon, seems to have understood the acquisition of knowledge as an individual cognitive achievement guided by a teacher, rather than as instruction in a sophistic manner. It may therefore be appropriate to speak here of a didactic failure of Socrates when he possibly overestimated his student’s capabilities to make further philosophical progress.36 Similarly, Socrates’ partners in dialogue have again and again perceived his pretended ignorance as εἰρωνεία, a word which does not carry positive connotations in Greek but denotes a dissimulation for bad purposes. It is thus not surprising that Soc-

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Right at the beginning of the banquet the host Agathon criticizes Socrates for having ridiculed him already in the first words after his arrival with his infamous irony (Symp. 175e7). The speeches of Pausanias and Eryximachus later on make it clear that Eros in conjunction with ὕβρις can cause a lot of harm; see Symp. 181c (Pausanias) and 188a (Eryximachus). Then Alcibiades uses such a reproach even four times explicitly in the course of his speech (Symp. 215b7, 219c5, 221e3, 222a8); and in addition to that he twice (Symp. 222b3 and 5) raises the reproach that Socrates tricks (ἐξαπατᾶν) those who place their trust in him for which Alcibiades lists further names. See in general with regard to criticism of Socrates’ didactic aptitude Nussbaum (1980) as well as Möllendorff (2002: 135-137). In the depiction of Socrates’ instruction in Aristophanes’ Clouds he also does not take into consideration the (rather underdeveloped) intellectual capacities of his student Strepsiades.

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rates in the Symposium is, with Aristophanes as the sole exception, 37 surrounded only by men who themselves qualify in one way or other as guilty of ὕβρις, a fact which became particularly obvious in the historical context of the year 416.38 If, however, Socrates gathers these kinds of people around himself, then the accusation of corrupting the youth as documented in the Apology may have found some approval in the general public. In any case, Plato has obviously very advisedly chosen the year 416 as the dialogue’s fictitious date. The second question is whether Socrates is also monstrous beyond his ὕβρις. Is Aristophanes’ classification of the erotic human being as monstrum, and Socrates is according to all symposiasts the most eminent eroticist, realized in the portrayal of the philosopher and his actions? Let us initially enquire into how far the five criteria of monstrosity – awfulness through exceptionality, being sent by a god, ominous significance, counter-naturalness and ugliness – can be applied to him and his philosophizing. Looking at Socrates’ own speech does not bring us any further here, but the way Alcibiades, who appears unex-

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But the old Attic comedy, which Aristophanes represents, is by definition known to use a hyperbolic discourse of polemic attacks against everything and everyone (if sanctioned by the performative context of the Dionysian festivals). One year after the fictitious date of the Symposium Phaedrus is, like Eryximachus, involved in the Hermocopid scandal. Eryximachus, about whom we know very little in general, belonged like Phaedrus (Andocides, Myst. 15) to those who were denounced in this context (Andocides, Myst. 35): they were tried and condemned to exile. Agathon, his perennial friend Pausanias and Alcibiades – as whose ἐραστής Socrates is seen – were socially conspicuous. Agathon was already at the fictitious date of Plato’s Protagoras, around 432/431, a charming ἐρώμενος, and he still is now – but 16 years later he is definitely beyond the age in which the role of a beloved one in a pederastic relationship could be deemed acceptable by society: it is not without reason that his fellow symposiast Aristophanes in his Thesmophoriazusae aims his remarks at him during the Lenaia of the year 411, portraying him as an effeminate, even downright transsexual, tragic poet. This mockery also touches, of course, the no less grown up Pausanias about whom we only know that he later on accompanied Agathon to Achelous in Pella. Alcibiades is likewise significantly involved in the Hermocopid and mystery scandals, deserts to Sparta and leads Athens in the following years into most serious military calamities. In 414, he is put on stage again by Aristophanes, this time in the Birds, if one agrees with the allegorical interpretation, which a substantial part of scholarship suggests for this comedy’s protagonist, Peisetarius, a ὕβρις-driven and violent character who even dethrones the gods. As is generally known, Socrates also became a victim of Aristophanes’ art of mockery, namely seven years prior to the Symposium in the Clouds, which was performed for the first time in 423; in its second version, however, which has come down to us and on which Aristophanes worked during 420 and 415 (and, hence, again in the chronological context of the fictitious date of the Symposium), he is not given the role of the protagonist but that of an antagonist who, in the end, is brutally destroyed, although his teaching bears baleful fruits which outlive the end of his own existence: The protagonist Strepsiades sets the house of Socrates, his son’s teacher, on fire because his son has turned the teachings of the ‘philosophist’ against his own father, but the sophistically corrupted son survives of course. Again, there is doubtlessly an accusation of ὕβρις against Socrates in the background. As to the ὕβρις-ridden character of the dialogue partners in the Symposium see Vlastos (1971) and Gagarin (1977); see also Blanckenhagen (1992).

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pectedly, portrays him in his speech is instructive. If we understand Aristophanes’ speech as a parable, then it is striking that Alcibiades opens his statement about Socrates with a parable too, namely one in which Socrates appears as a hybrid creature (Symp. 215b3-6): καὶ φημὶ αὖ ἐοικέναι αὐτὸν τῷ σατύρῳ τῷ Μαρσύᾳ. ὅτι μὲν οὖν τό γε εἶδος ὅμοιος εἶ τούτοις, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὐδ’ αὐτὸς ἄν που ἀμφισβητήσαις· ὡς δὲ καὶ τἆλλα ἔοικας, μετὰ τοῦτο ἄκουε. “I further suggest that he resembles the satyr Marsyas. Now, as to your likeness, Socrates, to these in figure, I do not suppose even you yourself will dispute it; but I have next to tell you that you are like them in every other respect.”

Like a silenus – a hybrid creature, part man, part horse – Socrates is heedless and violent in love affairs, a ὑβριστής; like Marsyas, he is someone who knows how to enchant people. But these are all superficialities, as is the case with the folding Silenus sculptures (Symp. 216d6-217a2): ἔνδοθεν δὲ ἀνοιχθεὶς πόσης οἴεσθε γέμει, ὦ ἄνδρες συμπόται, σωφροσύνης; ἴστε ὅτι οὔτε εἴ τις καλός ἐστι μέλει αὐτῷ οὐδέν, ἀλλὰ καταφρονεῖ τοσοῦτον ὅσον οὐδ’ ἂν εἷς οἰηθείη, οὔτ’ εἴ τις πλούσιος, οὔτ’ εἰ ἄλλην τινὰ τιμὴν ἔχων τῶν ὑπὸ πλήθους μακαριζομένων· ἡγεῖται δὲ πάντα ταῦτα τὰ κτήματα οὐδενὸς ἄξια καὶ ἡμᾶς οὐδὲν εἶναι – λέγω ὑμῖν – εἰρωνευόμενος δὲ καὶ παίζων πάντα τὸν βίον πρὸς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους διατελεῖ. σπουδάσαντος δὲ αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀνοιχθέντος οὐκ οἶδα εἴ τις ἑώρακεν τὰ ἐντὸς ἀγάλματα· ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ ἤδη ποτ’ εἶδον, καί μοι ἔδοξεν οὕτω θεῖα καὶ χρυσᾶ εἶναι καὶ πάγκαλα καὶ θαυμαστά, ὥστε ποιητέον εἶναι ἔμβραχυ ὅτι κελεύοι Σωκράτης. “(...) If you opened his inside, you cannot imagine how full he is, good cupcompanions, of sobriety. I tell you, all the beauty a man may have is nothing to him; he despises it more than any of you can believe; nor does wealth attract him, nor any sort of honour that is the envied prize of the crowd. All these possessions he counts as nothing worth, and all of us as nothing, I assure you; he spends his whole life in chaffing and making game of his fellow-men. Whether anyone else has caught him in a serious moment and opened him, and seen the images inside, I know not; but I saw them one day, and thought them so divine and golden, so perfectly fair and wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me.”

That Socrates’ impact on his audience is of a wondrous and terrifying nature is stated by Alcibiades with reference to his power to enchant people (Symp. 215d3-6): ἐπειδὰν δὲ σοῦ τις ἀκούῃ ἢ τῶν σῶν λόγων ἄλλου λέγοντος, κἂν πάνυ φαῦλος ᾖ ὁ λέγων, ἐάντε γυνὴ ἀκούῃ ἐάντε ἀνὴρ ἐάντε μειράκιον, ἐκπεπληγμένοι ἐσμὲν καὶ κατεχόμεθα. “But so soon as we hear you, or your discourses in the mouth of another, – though such person be ever so poor a speaker, and whether the hearer be a woman or a man or a youngster – we are all astounded and entranced.”

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The aspect of ominous significance is closely linked with this since the outer form functions, due to its analogy to the openable silenus statuette, as a signal that there are images of golden divinity hidden within him. At the same time this can count as evidence for the criterion of being godsent. The comparison to Marsyas also fulfils the criteria of counter-naturalness and ugliness by evoking the Silenus’ hybridity.

Figure 4: Monstrosity as sign of disruption between man and god

If Socrates can therefore, categorically speaking, be seen as a monstrum then finally we have to ask how far the plot follows the rules of the monster discourse. Let us bring to mind for this purpose the agents and vectors of the discourse version typical for classical thought, the one in which the monstrous is understood as a sign of the existence of a disruption whose divine punishment it heralds (fig. 4). This rather symmetrical model reveals a blank position because the monstrum itself is usually purely an object; it is provoked by a disruption, created by a god, and interpreted by man, but it does not have an activity of its own, in particular none that is directed towards the future, that is towards the time when, according to the system, the catastrophe, punishment, is to be expected; it is, however, usually man’s task to relate the ominous sig-

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nificance of the monstrum to past and future and to try to prevent the predicted consequences. Yet it is exactly here that Aristophanes interferes with the traditional model and turns it on its head: by portraying man himself as monstrous he projects his structural position onto that of the monster, and by means of this projection he can also equip the monster with human activity. For the halved humans in their mostrosity are particularly characterized by a vehement activity, their erotic pursuit, and this pursuit aims in perfect conformity with the system on the one hand at preventing the threatening catastrophe of another division in the future by exercising the greatest piety possible, and on the other hand at restituting the original human nature from before the first division. These archaic creatures, however, were characterized by their outrageous ὕβρις and not by piety. The desire for the restitution of the ἀρχαῖα φύσις includes therefore at the same time the old desire for the destruction of the current and god-given order39 by means of establishing a new one based on the hyperbolical συμμετρία of man, which is yet to be regained. The monster, man, hence suffers from his current deformed nature and thus also from the current order, and would, circumstances permitting, work towards its overthrow. However, is not the transcendental philosophizing that Socrates and Diotima propagate also suspected of attempting to overthrow the current worldview, namely the traditional conservative religious order that is stipulated by the cult of the polis and its supporting myths, of attempting, as it were, to ‘intellectually storm’ Mount Olympus? After all, Socrates’ prosecutors, as we learn from the Apology, claim in 399 that Socrates is guilty of not worshipping the gods worshipped by the polis. Thus not only as lover but also as philosophical eroticist, as a thinker who strived with all his power to obtain the object of his thought and who is thereby prepared even to transgress the borders set to humans, Socrates is guilty of ὕβρις par excellence. It seems to me that Plato indeed intended to make his recipients think along these lines, and that he consequently drastically staged the potential consequences of such intellectual behaviour with the punishment of a further division, as expressed in Aristophanes’ speech. I come to this conclusion in particular because immediately after Socrates’ ὕβρις-laden revelations Alcibiades suddenly appears, almost like a divine epiphany. Alcibiades’ quasi-divine ambitions were not only mocked by Aristophanes in his Birds in 414,40 two years after the fictitious date of the Symposium, in which he lets him take the place 39

40

This, in my opinion, can be well related to a corresponding European controversy in the second half of the 17th century (Daston & Park 2002: 248): “Viele Theologen, gewarnt durch das Wissen, daß Menschen Brüche der natürlichen Ordnung als Einladung zum Brechen der staatlichen Ordnung nutzten, gingen mit Vorzeichen und Wundern genauso sparsam um wie die Naturphilosophen”. See esp. Vickers (1995). The discussion of the question whether or not the protagonist of the Birds, Peisetarius, alludes to Alcibiades is presented in Möllendorff (2002: 108-113).

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of abdicating Zeus, but were also made obvious by the historical Alcibiades himself in his choice of crest which depicted the god Eros with Zeus’ thunderbolt in his hand.41 This would-be Zeus Alcibiades now lies down on the couch on which Agathon and Socrates, whom Alcibiades does not recognize immediately, are lying together, and he lies down between them. This separation of the two eroticists is interpreted by Agathon, after Alcibiades’ speech accused Socrates of erotic ὕβρις, as jealousy aiming at separating them (Symp. 222e1-2): τεκμαίρομαι δὲ καὶ ὡς κατεκλίνη ἐν μέσῳ ἐμοῦ τε καὶ σοῦ, ἵνα χωρὶς ἡμᾶς διαλάβῃ. “I take his sitting down between us two as an obvious attempt to draw us apart.”

This cumbersome formulation for the process of ‘separation’ already makes one prick up one’s ears: until now the whole dramatic action seems like a staging of Aristophanes’ division myth reduced to earthly-realistic conditions: the separation of the united lovers (on the couch) by Zeus and, thus, the dramatization of the narrative about the origin of the monsters. Immediately after this, however, Alcibiades’ divine pose suddenly collapses as he turns his head and recognizes Socrates who lies behind him (Symp. 213b7-9): καὶ ἅμα μεταστρεφόμενον αὐτὸν ὁρᾶν τὸν Σωκράτη, ἰδόντα δὲ ἀναπηδῆσαι καὶ εἰπεῖν Ὦ Ἡράκλεις, τουτὶ τί ἦν; “With that he turned about and saw Socrates, and the same moment leapt up and cried, ‘Save us, what a surprise!’ ”

Is this fright – again criterion (a) – not caused by Alcibiades’ recognizing in Socrates his true and profound love – or should we not say with Aristophanes: his (from Alcibiades’ point of view) own other half – and consequently, is not what he reports in his speech the story of a (for him) tragic loss? If that were to be the case then the details of the staging of this moment would be rather significant because Plato makes Alcibiades adopt in the moment of frightful recognition the very position that Zeus had initially forced upon man after the division: the face directed towards the lost half (Socrates), the sexual organ turned towards the other side (Agathon). Is that yet another monstrous sign that through Socrates the order of the world is being disrupted? In any case, by its reference to the discourse of the monstrous, Aristophanes’ parable makes not only the bliss of transcendental cognition comprehensible, but it moreover names (notably from a radically conservative perspective) the price that has to be paid for metaphysical ambi41

See Plutarch, Alc. 16.1-2, and Athenaeus, Deipn. 12 534e.

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tions, namely in the case of their fulfilment: the danger of an overthrow of world order; in the case of their failure: existential isolation. If Socrates’ subsequent death can not only be historically linked with the social and political failure of his friends and students, but also represents the death which Socrates predicts in the seventh book of the Republic for the philosopher that returns into the cave (Rep. 7, 516e8-517a7), then the Symposium illustrates what could be the deeper reason for such a tragic ending, for such a far-reaching loss of social and interpersonal integration: namely that philosophical thinking transgresses respectable boundaries, that it is capable of hurting even those with whom one is close and intimate, that philosophizing rigorously also means becoming oblivious to the fact that for many the desire to know arises only on the foundations of fulfilled bodily desires, and that this oblivion can entail severe inter-personal damage. A look at our monstrous counterpart in the mirror should be a warning to us.

Bibliography Ajootian, Aileene (1995): Monstrum or daimon. Hermaphrodites in ancient art and culture. In: Brit Berggreen & Nanno Marinatos (eds.), Greece and Gender, Bergen, 93-108. Anderson, William S. (1996): Ovid’s Metamorphoses I-V, London. Atherton, Catherine (ed.) (1998): Monsters and Monstrosity in Greek and Roman Culture, Bari. Blanckenhagen, Peter H. von (1992): Stage and actors in Plato’s Symposion. In: Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 33, 51-68. Daston, Lorraine & Katharine Park (2002): Wunder und die Ordnung der Natur 11501750, Berlin. Dover, Kenneth (1966): Aristophanes’ speech in Plato’s Symposion. In: Journal of Hellenic Studies 86, 41-50. Dover, Kenneth (1980): Plato. Symposium, Cambridge. Friedländer, Paul (21960): Platon. Vol. 3: Die Platonischen Schriften. Zweite und dritte Periode, Berlin. Gagarin, Michael (1977): Socrates’ hybris and Alcibiades’ failure. In: Phoenix 31, 2237. Hunter, Richard (2004): Plato’s Symposium, Oxford. Keuren Stern, Frances van (1978): Heroes and monsters in Greek art. In: Archaeological News 7, 1-23. Lada-Richards, Ismene (1998): ‘Foul monster or good savior’? Reflections on ritual monsters. In: Catherine Atherton (ed.), Monsters and Monstrosity in Greek and Roman Culture, Bari, 41-82.

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Lamb, Walter R. M. (1967): Plato. With an English Translation (vol. 5), Cambridge, Mass. Landfester, Manfred (1977): Handlungsverlauf und Komik in den frühen Komödien des Aristophanes, Berlin & New York. Lateiner, Donald (2009): Transsexuals and transvestites in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In: Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in GraecoRoman Antiquity, Berlin & New York, 125-154. Louis, Pierre (1975): Monstres et monstruosité dans la biologie d’Aristote. In: Jean Bingen & al. (eds.), Le monde grec: Pensée, littérature, histoire, documents. Hommages à Claire Préaux, Bruxelles, 277-284. Lowenstam, Steven (1986): Aristophanes’ hiccups. In: Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 27, 43-56. Möllendorff, Peter von (2002): Aristophanes, Hildesheim. Morrison, John Sinclair (1964): Four notes on Plato’s Symposium. In: Classical Quarterly 14, 42-55. Moussy, Claude (1977): Esquisse de l’histoire de monstrum. In: Revue des Études Latines 55, 345-369. Nussbaum, Martha (1980): Aristophanes and Socrates on learning practical wisdom. In: Yale Classical Studies 26, 43-97. Pollitt, Jerome Jordan (1974): The Ancient View of Greek Art. Criticism, History, and Terminology, New Haven & London. Rakoczy, Thomas (1996): Böser Blick, Macht des Auges und Neid der Götter. Eine Untersuchung zur Kraft des Blickes in der griechischen Literatur, Tübingen. Reale, Giovanni (2001): Alles, was tief ist, liebt die Maske. Aristophanes’ Rede im Symposion als sinnbildliche Verhüllung der ungeschriebenen Lehren Platons: einige Vorbemerkungen. In: Thomas A. Szlezák (ed.), Platonisches Philosophieren, Hildesheim, 87-108. Rowe, Christopher J. (1998): Plato: Symposion, Warminster. Sier, Kurt (1997): Die Rede der Diotima. Untersuchungen zum Platonischen Symposion, Stuttgart & Leipzig. Sperber, Dan (1975): Pourquoi les animaux parfaits, les hybrides et les monstres sontils bons à penser symboliquement? In: L’homme 15, 5-34. Tornau, Christian (2005): Eros versus Agape? Von Plotins Eros zum Liebesbegriff Augustins. In: Philosophisches Jahrbuch 112, 271-291. Vickers, Michael (1995): Alcibiades at Sparta. Aristophanes’ Birds. In: Classical Quarterly 45, 339-354. Vlastos, Gregory (1971): The Philosophy of Socrates, Garden City.

Corpus erat: Sulpicia’s Elegiac Text and Body in Ovid’s Pygmalion Narrative (Met. 10.238-297) Judith P. Hallett Abstract: This essay builds upon and complicates Alison Sharrock’s 1991 argument that Ovid’s portrayal of the artist Pygmalion and his statue at Metamorphoses 10.238-297 “reflects the eroto-artistic relationship between the poet and his puella explored in Latin love elegy”, one in which “Woman” is controlled as an art object. On the basis of intertextual evidence, it maintains that Ovid’s narrative also evokes and responds to the erotic elegiac poetry of a particular historical woman, his contemporary Sulpicia. In so doing, Ovid identifies Sulpicia more with the art object than with the artist in this story, and attempts to control her image as poet and lover much as Pygmalion does his statue, imposing literary and physical boundaries that Sulpicia herself seeks to transcend.

In a 1991 essay, provocatively titled “Womanufacture”, Alison Sharrock analyses Ovid’s account of the Pygmalion-myth at Metamorphoses 10.238-297, viewing it as paradigmatic of the phenomenon that “Woman perceived is woman as art-object”. Sharrock contends that in this story Ovid “reflects on the eroto-artistic relationship between the poet and his puella explored in Latin love elegy”, noting that the Metamorphoses in general and this story in particular are “thick with elegiac resonances”. Ovid’s narrative, she maintains, specifically “reflects and exposes the self-absorption of elegy, the heroization of the lover” and the way in which “the woman presented in eroto-elegiac texts” is to be seen as an art object (Sharrock 1991: 36). My discussion builds upon, and complicates, Sharrock’s interpretation of how Ovid engages with earlier Latin love elegy, and its constructions of female gender identity, in relating this tale of the “artist who loved his own creation”, this transformational “myth of the art-object which becomes a love object”. By employing the generalizing term “Woman”, Sharrock assumes that Ovid depicts the nameless ivory female statue, made and adored by the artist Pygmalion, as representing all women, and hence all of the female love objects presented in eroto-elegiac texts (Sharrock 1991: 36-37). I will argue, however, that Ovid’s narrative at the same time specifically evokes and responds to

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eroto-elegiac poetry about and by an individual historical woman: his contemporary Sulpicia. While Sulpicia represents herself in her erotic poems – elegies 8 to 18 of Tibullus’ Book 3 – as the acting and loving subject rather than the passive and beloved object, she strongly emphasizes her own physical appearance and activities in several of these elegies.1 It is my contention that by recalling these physical details about Sulpicia in his description of the statue in the Pygmalion narrative, Ovid identifies Sulpicia more closely with the statue, an artifact, than with Pygmalion the artist – and that Ovid thereby, in his own capacity as the artist who has created and controlled the details of this narrative about Pygmalion, asserts control over Sulpicia and her erotic art in shaping her image and reputation among his readers.2 But I will maintain as well that Ovid’s efforts at re-imagining Sulpicia as a controlled art object subsume the corpus of her elegiac amatory writing as well as her amorously written body. Here again I will be relying on the evidence of various “intertextualities” that link the Pygmalion narrative not only with Sulpicia’s poetry, but also with Ovid’s own.3 These imaginative efforts climax in the description of how Pygmalion’s statue is transformed from ivory sculpture to bodily flesh, a description which itself culminates, at the beginning of line 289, with the two words corpus erat (“it was a body”). With these words, Ovid redefines the boundaries between artist, art-object and the female body by representing Pygmalion’s art as affecting human 1

2 3

This essay assumes that Sulpicia is the author of all eleven of the elegies about her in Tibullus 3.8-18. For arguments in support of the view that Sulpicia wrote all eleven, see Hallett (2002: 47-55). For the genesis of the view that she wrote merely the final six (or five), see, inter alios, Skoie (2002: 162-212). For the assertion that she wrote Tibullus 3.9, 3.11 and 3.13-18, along with L’Année Epigraphique 1928.73 (the elegiac epitaph of the lectrix Petale Sulpicia), see Stevenson (2005: 41-44). For a critique of the arguments that Sulpicia did not write 3.8-12, or any of the Sulpicia-elegies, see Keith (2006: 3-10) and Parker (2006: 17-29). – Only one of the eleven Sulpicia-elegies contains the Latin word ars: 3.10, in reference to the healing arts of the god Phoebus at line 26. The epitaph for Petale Sulpicia, however, extols the dead woman for her art, beauty, and literary talent (5-6: arte, forma, ingenio), suggesting Sulpicia’s own esteem for the active production of art by “literary women”. For Sulpicia’s later Latin literary image, or fama, see Hallett (2006: 37-40), which discusses several evocations of Sulpicia’s poetry by Ovid in the later Ars amatoria. Ovid also echoes Sulpicia in the earlier Amores 3.14. For intertextuality in Latin poetry, see, for example, Thomas (1986), Conte & Barchiesi (1989), Fowler (1997), Hinds (1998) and Edmunds (2001). For a critique of Edmunds’ arguments, and an “intentionalist” interpretation of [Latin literary] intertextuality, see Heath (2002: 73). He contends that “the author is the immediate producer of the text. If the author is, in turn, a product of (for example) language, society or ideology, then the text is also a product of those things. But that does not make reference to the author superfluous, since the production is mediated by the author.” As this essay indicates, I view intertextuality as, inter alia, a useful analytical tool in Latin literary studies, illuminating how texts (and the authors who write these texts) can signal their reactions to assumptions voiced by earlier texts, and shape readers’ reactions to these earlier texts in the process.

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physical reality as well as his own creative imagination. In the course of this description, he also crosses boundaries of another kind. For he likens Pygmalion’s artistic medium of ivory, associated with the idealized female body owing to its smoothness and whiteness, to wax, the surface covering of Roman writing tablets, the medium of poets like Sulpicia and Ovid himself. Unlike ivory, however, wax has the capacity to grow warm, in the manner of human flesh. What is more, Ovid’s phrase corpus erat recalls two earlier lines in the Pygmalion narrative, 252 and 255, both of which associate the statue that Pygmalion has imaginatively created with a human female physical form that he desires to possess. In 252 Ovid refers to Pygmalion’s “fiery passion for the pretended body” (simulati corporis ignes). In 255 he states that Pygmalion “often moves his hands to his work, trying to ascertain if it is a body or ivory” (temptantes … an sit / corpus an illud ebur). Various affinities between these depictions of Pygmalion’s artifact, and of its eventual transformation into a female corpus, and passages from both Ovid’s and Sulpicia’s poetry link Pygmalion’s relationship to his art with the writing of love elegy.4 The Ovidian intertextualities, moreover, involve Tristia 4.10, an autobiographical elegy that post-dates Metamorphoses 10, as well as earlier Ovidian writing, allowing the inference that Ovid may also be recalling the Pygmalion narrative in this later poem.5 First of all, Ovid again uses the verb temptare (“to try”) later, and repeatedly, during the Pygmalion narrative: initially in lines 282 and 283, and then in 289 itself, as part of a climactic description of how the ivory statue metamorphoses into a living woman under the touch of Pygmalion’s testing hands: Admovet os iterum; manibus quoque pectora temptat; temptatum mollescit ebur (...). corpus erat: saliunt temptatae pollice venae. “Again he brings his face close; he also tries her breast with his hands. The ivory, having been tried, becomes soft (...). It was a body. The veins, having been tried, pulsated.”6

In all four of these places where he employs forms of temptare, Ovid – through his narrator at this point in Book 10, the embittered poet Orpheus – portrays Pygmalion’s physical handling of this artifact as a process of experimentation, of trial and error. Yet the last three attempts occur after his prayer to Venus in lines 274-276 that he may have a wife like his ivory statue, and Venus’ favour-

4 5 6

See also Sharrock (1991: 39-49). Her extensive discussion of the elegiac resonances in the Pygmalion episode does not mention Tristia 4.10, or the Sulpicia elegies. For the dates of Ovid’s Amores, Ars amatoria, Metamorphoses and Tristia, see Hinds (2006). All translations from the Latin are my own.

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able response to his prayers in 277-279. These attempts at transforming inanimate ivory into a woman’s physical corpus are, therefore, divinely sanctioned. Hence it would seem significant that Ovid also repeats this same verb, temptare, within the space of a few lines while portraying his own youthful efforts at writing elegiac poetry in the later, autobiographical, Tristia 4.10. The verb appears in three successive couplets, immediately after he relates, in lines 19-20, how the “heavenly holy things” (caelestia sacra) of poetry delighted him as a boy, and the Muse secretly dragged him off into her work, opus (Trist. 4.10.21-26): Saepe pater dixit “studium quid inutile temptas? Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.” Motus eram dictis, totoque Helicone relicto scribere temptabam verba soluta modis. Sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos. Et quod temptabam scribere versus erat. “Often my father said ‘why do you try a useless pursuit? Homer himself left no riches.’ I had been stirred by his words, and after all of Helicon had been abandoned I was trying to write words released from metres. But by its own accord poetry was emerging to suitable metres and what I was trying to write was verse.”

Although Ovid initially connects the verb temptare with his father’s disapproval of his poetry writing, and indeed his own attempts to stop writing poetry, he ultimately uses temptare to refer to his artistic production of a spontaneous, divinely compelled kind, much like Pygmalion’s transformation of the statue into a female corpus. To be sure, Ovid does not specifically identify his youthful poetry writing as in the elegiac metre. But references to his iuvenalia carmina as featuring Corinna in lines 57-60 implicitly link his earliest poetic attempts with the elegiac verses of the Amores. He also identifies himself as following in the literary succession of three earlier elegiac poets at lines 53-54, after noting that the “greedy fates did not give Tibullus time for friendship” with him (Trist. 4.10.53-54): (successor fuit hic, tibi, Galle, Propertius illi; quartus ab his serie temporis ipse fui) “[Tibullus] was the successor to you, Gallus, and Propertius to Tibullus; I myself was the fourth of this line in order of time.”

So, too, the word ignes, “fires”, employed for the passions that Pygmalion feels for the simulati corporis at Metamorphoses 10.253, is here used to describe Propertius’ passionate love elegies, figuratively, in line 45. Furthermore, Ovid’s claim at Tristia 4.10.122 that livor has not bitten his own opus, poetic work, recalls his use of livor at Metamorphoses 10.258. There Pygmalion is

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said to fear that livor may appear on the limbs of the statue that he has pressed. While Ovid employs livor figuratively, as “envy”, in the passage from the Tristia, and literally, as “bruising”, in the Pygmalion narrative, he associates the word with potential harm to works of art in both; he also uses opus for Pygmalion’s statue at Metamorphoses 10.249, with operisque sui concepit amorem, “he conceives a passion for his own work.” But Ovid forges an even closer connection between Pygmalion’s art and the writing of elegiac poetry through the simile at Metamorphoses 10.283-286 that immediately precedes his description of how the ivory of Pygmalion’s statue changed to a human body. In it he likens the way in which the ivory softens under Pygmalion’s caressing fingers to the melting of wax, cera, shaped into new forms by a thumb. (Met. 10.283-286): temptatum mollescit ebur, posito rigore subsidit digitis ceditque, ut Hymettia sole cera remollescit et tractataque pollice multas flectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu. “The ivory, having been tried, becomes soft, and with its stiffness having been put aside, yields to his fingers, and gives way, just as wax from Mount Hymettus in Athens becomes soft from the sun, and, having been stroked by a thumb is bent into many shapes, and becomes workable through being worked.”

Earlier in the Metamorphoses Ovid associates the softening and melting of cera, wax, with the ultimately unsuccessful endeavours of another artist, Daedalus, who literally depends on wax to hold together the wings he designs for himself and his son Icarus, so that they may escape from Crete by air. Ovid first mentions cera at 8.193, when depicting Daedalus as fastening the lowest of the feathers with waxes (ceris alligat imas). It is noteworthy that in the previous two lines Ovid connects Daedalus’ craft with poetry: first by likening the structure of the combined feathers to that of a shepherd’s pipe (Met. 8.191192: sic rustica quondam / fistula disparibus paulatim surgit avenis), thereby evoking pastoral poetry; then by referring to the feathers themselves as compositas, employing the perfect passive participle of a verb often used for poetic composition.7 Yet at 8.198-200 Ovid observes that Icarus (…) flavam modo pollice ceram mollibat, lusuque suo mirabile patris impediebat opus. “He kept softening the wax with his thumb, and with his playfulness got in the way of his father’s remarkable work.” 7

For Ovid’s own use of componere to describe poetic composition, see, for example, Amores 3.15.3, referring specifically to elegiac verses. The use of disparibus for the hollow stalks of the shepherd’s pipe might also allude to elegy: Ovid characterizes elegiac couplets as condita disparibus numeris … verba at Ex Ponto 2.5.1.

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Not only cera, but also such words as pollice, mollibat, mirabile and opus in these three lines are recalled by Ovid’s language in the Pygmalion narrative two books later. Indeed, the Pygmalion narrative includes two words from the same root as mirabile: mira (with arte) at 247 and miratur at 252. These details suggest that Ovid has fashioned Pygmalion as a more artistically successful version of Daedalus.8 Similarly, the words (re)mollescit and sole at Metamorphoses 10.284-285, in the simile that likens the ivory pressed by Pygmalion to melting wax, evoke 8.226-227, which contain the final two appearances of the word cera in the story of Daedalus and Icarus: Rapidi vicinia solis mollit odoratas, pennarum vincula, ceras. Tabuerant cerae (...). “The proximity of the scorching sun softens the waxes, chains of feathers. The waxes had melted away.”9

Yet wax (cera) also figures prominently in Ovid’s own love elegies, in the specific context of eroto-elegiac communications on wax-coated wooden tablets (tabellae) sent to his female beloved. In Amores 1.11, he importunes Nape, the slave woman of his beloved Corinna, to bring her mistress wax-coated tablets proclaiming his desire for a rendezvous. At line 14 he states Si quaeret quid agam, spe noctis vivere dices; cetera fert blanda cera notata manu. “If she will seek to find out what I am doing, you will say I live for the hope of night; wax, marked by a coaxing hand, conveys other information.”

And at line 20, he complains that he hates “when brilliant wax (splendida cera) is empty over a large area”. Amores 1.12, a companion piece to 1.11, represents Ovid’s unhappy reaction after the tablets have returned with sad news (tristes rediere tabellae).10 He mentions the wax of the tablets three times, always dismissively. At line 8 he addresses the wax with tuque, negaturis cera referta notis (“and you, wax packed with marks intending to say no to me”); at 23 he insultingly claims that “these waxes would more fittingly hold wordy court guarantees” (aptius hae capiant vadimonia garrula cerae); and at 30 he 8

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Lateiner (1984: 18-19) in fact maintains that Pygmalion is “the perfect artist” in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, who “succeeds where Orpheus fails”. For the Metamorphoses as “unified by its central concern with art and artists” (so Liveley 1999: 201) and featuring internal narrators who represent variations in Ovid’s own voice, see, for example, Solodow (1988). It merits attention that Ovid also narrates the Daedalus and Icarus tale in elegiac couplets, at Ars Amatoria 2.21-95. Here he likens his lack of control over the winged god Cupid to Minos’ experience with the winged Daedalus. Yet Ovid also appears to liken himself, in his role as praeceptor amoris, to Daedalus in his role as his son’s aviation instructor. On Amores 1.12, especially on its humoristic tone, see Fögen (2009: 190-191).

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voices the angry prayer that “the wax may grow white with foul neglect” (immundo cera sit alba situ), and decaying old age eat away the tablets. Here, as in the preceding elegy, Ovid identifies cera with his – and Corinna’s – erotic communications, the medium of his art and her negation of the erotic activity his art celebrates, evidently (at least in his case) composed in the elegiac metre. Most important, wax and the writing tablets it coats play a key role in Sulpicia’s own elegies about her erotic communications. As David Roessel has influentially argued, Sulpicia derives the pseudonym that she employs six times for her male lover, Cerinthus, from cera, thereby linking her love object with her poetic pursuits (Roessel 1990: 245-250). At 3.13.7-8, announcing the physical consummation of their passion, she refuses to entrust her writings to sealed tablets (tabellae), so that no one may have the opportunity to read what she feels before her lover does: Non ego signatis quicquam mandare tabellis, ne legat id nemo quam meus ante velim. “Nor would I wish to entrust anything to sealed tables, may no one get to read what I feel before the man that I love.”

It warrants attention, therefore, that various passages in Ovid’s Pygmalion narrative, among them the simile likening the yielding ivory of the statue to melting wax, recall Sulpicia’s love elegies in multiple details. Again, I would maintain that by so doing they associate the statue with Sulpicia, thereby diminishing Sulpicia’s art and agency as an elegist. At 3.13.1-2 Sulpicia proclaims that it would cause her more pudor (“shame”) to have bared than to have covered her love affair, figuratively representing her erotic passion as if it were her physical body: qualem texisse pudori / quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis. Lines 263-269 of Ovid’s Pygmalion narrative present this same contrast between nudity and bodily covering, but literally (Met. 10.263-269): ornat quoque vestibus artus, dat digitis gemmas, dat longa monilia collo; aure leves bacae, redimicula pectore pendent – cuncta decent. Nec nuda minus formosa videtur. Collocat hanc stratis concha Sidonide tinctis, appellat tori sociam, acclinataque colla mollibus in plumis tamquam sensura reponit. “He also adorns her limbs with garments, he gives jewels to her fingers, he gives long collars to her neck; smooth pearls hang from the ear, decorative garlands from the breast. All things become her. Nor does the statue seem less lovely nude. He places it on bedclothes dyed with Sidonian purple, he calls it the partner of his couch, he places its neck, laid down to rest, on soft feathers as if it was about to feel them.”

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Nevertheless, only after detailing the finery with which the artist covers his statue does Ovid refer, briefly, to the beauty of the statue’s “bare body”. He devotes much more space – three lines – in this context to this finery, the statue’s covering, than he does to the statue’s unadorned form. He also devotes more space – another three lines – to the bed covers on which he places the statue. Both finery and bed covers, moreover, have much in common with that in which Sulpicia claims to clothe herself. For at 3.8, one of three elegies in which Sulpicia describes herself in the third person, it is said of Sulpicia at 11-20: Urit, seu Tyria voluit procedere palla; urit, seu nivea candida veste venit. Talis in aeterno felix Vertumnus Olympo mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet. Sola puellarum digna est cui mollia caris, vellera det sucis bis madefacta Tyros, possideatque, metit quidquid bene olentibus arvis cultor odoratae dives Arabs segetis. Et quascumque niger rubro de litore gemmas proximus Eois colligit Indus aquis. “She sets hearts aflame, if she has wished to go out in a gown hued with Tyrian dye, she sets hearts aflame, if she comes out gleaming in a snowy white robe. In this way, on eternal Olympus, the bountiful god Vertumnus wears a thousand modes of dress, and wears a thousand becomingly. She is unique among girls in being worthy to receive from Tyre soft wools twice dipped in expensive dyes. Let her possess whatever the wealthy Arab, who tills the scented crop, reaps from his nicely smelling fields, and whatever jewels the black Indian, close to the waters of Dawn, gathers from the Red Sea.”

Ovid’s description of how Pygmalion dresses and positions the statue contains several words also used to describe how Sulpicia adorns herself, and several items of her adornment, in 3.8. Her references to the purple Phoenician dye colouring both the garments she might wear and those she richly deserves – with Tyria in 11, and Tyros in 16 – are recalled in Ovid’s depiction of the bedclothes on which Pygmalion places the statue, as dyed with purple from Sidon in Phoenicia. Veste, the word for Sulpicia’s garments, echoes vestibus at 263. Prior to his description of Pygmalion’s adornment of the statue, at line 247, Ovid employs the adjective niveus, snowy white, here used for Sulpicia’s garments of a contrasting colour to purple, for the hue of Pygmalion’s statue itself; subsequently, at line 272, he applies it to the neck of the cows sacrificed to Venus at her festival, when Pygmalion utters his answered prayers. So, too, Ovid’s verb ornat at 263 recalls Sulpicia’s ornatus at 3.8.14; his mention of gemmas at 264 the gemmas she deserves to receive from India at line 19. Mollia, the adjective for Sulpicia’s Tyrian fabrics, is also used for the feathers cushioning Pygmalion’s statue at 269. At 3.8.15 (and again at line 24)

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Sulpicia is referred to with the noun puella (sexually desirable young woman) at 259. Before enumerating the expensive items which Pygmalion bestows upon the statue, Ovid describes the simpler things he gives it – seashells and pebbles, birds and flowers, balls and amber drops – as grata puellis (“pleasing to girls”). Felix is the adjective used for the wardrobe-changing god Vertumnus, to whom Sulpicia is compared at 3.8.13; its adverbial form feliciter modifies the phrase mira arte at Metamorphoses 10.247, characterizing Pygmalion as having created the statue with “fortunately wondrous skill”. Both mira here and miratur at 10.252, moreover, call to mind Sulpicia’s portrayal at 3.8.4 of the god Mars, whose festival day is the setting of this poem, as “admiring” (miranti) her beauty and her garb. Strikingly, when Ovid notes at 266 that all adornments “are becoming to” the statue (cuncta decent), he thereby recalls lines 7 and 8 of 3.8. There Sulpicia describes herself as secretly followed by decor (“what is becoming”), wherever she moves. Ovid also evokes 3.8.11, where it is said that it becomes her (decet) to have flowing tresses, and 3.8.14, where she is said to wear a thousand garments becomingly (decenter). As has been noted, Ovid depicts Pygmalion as bestowing simple gifts (munera) upon his statue in line 260, and, with the repeated verb form dat in line 264, as including more costly jewels and necklaces among these gifts as well. In 3.8 Sulpicia represents the adornment that she deserves as gifts too. The subjunctive form det in line 16, which describes the twice-dyed wools that she alone is worthy to receive, has Tyre as its subject. At 18 another subjunctive verb, possideat (“let her possess”), implies that Sulpicia is entitled to gifts of a more generous sort: “whatever the Arab reaps” and “whatever jewels the Indian gathers”. But inasmuch as these are expensive gifts from regions of the fabled east, such details characterize her as a politically powerful figure, like the Egyptian queen Cleopatra, or even the emperor Augustus himself, exacting tribute. Pygmalion’s statue only receives gifts from Pygmalion. More significant, Ovid’s narrator Orpheus indicates to his reader at line 251 that “you would believe that Pygmalion’s statue wants to be moved, if modesty would not stop you” (si non obstet reverentia, velle moveri). But the statue is immobile until it becomes a female corpus in line 289, at which point her veins throb. Even then, only a small part of her body, her face, responds physically to her lover, blushing and raising its eyes (with erubuit and lumen attollens in lines 293-294).11 3.8, by way of contrast, emphasizes Sulpicia’s ki-

11

Liveley (1999: 207) interprets these details as attributing the power of vision to the statue, and thus extending “the female perspective and agency” assigned to the figure of Venus to “Pygmalion’s statue-woman whose power to see and to interpret what she sees bears particular significance for the resisting reader.” That Ovid says nothing about the rest of her body,

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netic physical movements with vestigia movit (“has moved her footsteps”) in line 7, a movement in which illam (...) subsequiturque decor (“what is becoming follows her”) and with procedere (“go out”) and venit (“comes out”) in 1112.12 It also underscores her control of her own actions, with quidquid agit (“whatever she does”) in line 7, solvit and compsit (“loosens” and “arranges” her hair) in 9-10, and voluit (“wishes”) in 11.13 Other poems besides the programmatic 3.8 and 3.13 echo in Ovid’s Pygmalion narrative, too: poems in which Sulpicia depicts her memorable physical features and movements, and exercises her own agency. Consider, for example, lines 3-10 of 3.10, another of the elegies in which Sulpicia describes herself in the third (as well as in the first) person: Crede mihi, propera: nec te iam, Phoebe, pigebit formosae medicas applicuisse manus. Effice ne macies pallentes occupet artus, neu notet informis languida membra color, et quodcumque mali est et quidquid triste timemus, in pelagus rapidis evehat amnis aquis. Sancte, veni, tecumque feras, quicumque sapores, quicumque et cantus corpora fessa levant. “Believe me, make haste: nor will it now cause you disgust, Phoebus, to have laid your healing hands on a lovely woman. See to it that wasting disease does not take control of her limbs that grow pale, and that no hideous colour deface her legs that are limp and weak, and whatever of evil there is and whatever gloomy thing we fear, a river with whirling waters drives into the sea. Holy one, come, and may you bring whatever fragrances and whatever charms relieve weary bodies.”

Here the physically ailing Sulpicia asks the god Apollo to touch her with his healing hands. She refers to herself with the word formosa (“beautiful”), an adjective which we have seen Ovid also apply to the statue at Metamorphoses 10.266. To be sure, the elegies of Sulpicia, an artist, also represent her as, in certain regards, resembling the artist Pygmalion. In 3.11 and 3.12 as well as in

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however, would seem significant, supporting Sharrock’s assertion that there is little change in the metamorphosis of statue to woman. Salzman-Mitchell (2005: 70) remarks that at Metamorphoses 10.247-249 Ovid “uses verbs … to show a succession of actions that suggest narrative progression and performance and place the male as central, active and mobile character”, and that Pygmalion “through the ‘diachronicity’ expressed by the perfect [tense] embodies the masculine action and the ‘performativity’ of the creator.” Much the same could be said about the descriptions of Sulpicia in 3.8. Two of the verbs used to characterize Sulpicia’s actions, voluit and venit in 3.8.11-12, are also used for the actions of gods earlier in the poem: vult, from the same verb that gives us voluit, is applied to the god Amor at 3.8.5; veni, from the same verb that gives us venit, to Mars at 3.8.2.

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3.10 she portrays herself – as Ovid portrays Pygmalion – as making vows to various divinities. Indeed, she pays homage to Venus at 3.11.13-18, much as Ovid has Pygmalion do at Metamorphoses 10.274-276. At 3.13.3-5, moreover, Sulpicia proclaims that through her poems she has obtained what she prayed Venus to grant her: Exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis attulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum. Exsolvit promissa Venus. “Won over by the poems that my Roman Muses inspired, Venus of Cythera brought him to me and dropped him in my embrace. Venus has fulfilled her promises.”

Like Pygmalion, Sulpicia has prayed to consummate, physically, her passion for her beloved. But his prayer, to all the gods (although Venus alone responds) merely asks for the gift of a wife like his female ivory object (Met. 10.274-276): constitit et timide, ‘Si, di, dare cuncta potestis, sit coniunx, opto’ (non ausus ‘eburnea virgo’ dicere), Pygmalion, ‘similis mea,’ dixit, ‘eburnae.’ “Pygmalion stood and shyly said, ‘If, gods, you are able to give all things, I wish that my wife may be (since he did not dare to say ‘ivory maiden’) similar to my female ivory object.’”14

Sulpicia’s prayer to Venus, at 3.11.13-18 seeks a good deal more from the goddess: Nec tu sis iniusta, Venus: vel serviat aeque vinctus uterque tibi vel mea vincla leva. Sed potius valida teneamur uterque catena, nulla queat posthac quam soluisse dies. Optat idem iuvenis quod nos, sed tectius optat; nam pudet haec illum dicere verba palam. “And may you not be unfair, Venus; either let each of us submit equally in bondage to love’s slavery, or remove my own bonds. But rather let us both be held in a powerful chain, which no day to come may be able to loosen. The young man wishes for the same thing that I do, but he wishes more secretly; for it causes him shame to utter these words openly.”

Sulpicia wishes for the “justice of Venus”, equality and permanence in her love affair, if she is to experience love at all. In explaining why her beloved Cerinthus is not, in the name of equality, making the same request, she asserts that he – like Ovid’s Pygmalion – is unable to express his wishes openly, as14

Sharrock (1991: 42) refers to the “female ivory object” as “Eburna” to convey the statue’s properties in one single word.

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cribing his reticence to shame (pudet).15 By way of contrast, when she celebrates the consummation of their love affair in 3.13.1-2, she maintains that it is more shameful (pudori … magis) to keep silent than to speak out about it. Nevertheless, by evoking Sulpicia’s words that emphasize her beautiful and adorned physical presence, and by stressing that she shares features and traits with Pygmalion’s statue, Ovid minimizes these similarities between her, an elegist like himself, and Pygmalion, whom he fashions in the image of himself and other male elegists. Rather, in calling, and asking his readers to call, her writing to mind, he associates her with the statue. Sulpicia may also be recalled by Ovid’s description at 238-242 of the Propoetides. They are changed to stone as a result of their failure to recognize Venus’ divinity and their ensuing sexual promiscuity; their conduct so disgusts Pygmalion that he attributes their vices to the entire female sex, and rejects marriage. These women “are said to have been the first to have made their bodies along with their beauty available to all” (Met. 10.240: corpora cum forma primae vulgasse feruntur). Similarly, at 3.13.5-6 Sulpicia proclaims that she wishes to make her love affair, if not her physical body, widely available and vicariously experienced through her poetry: (…) mea gaudia narret, dicetur si quis non habuisse sua. “Let anyone tell of my joys if they will be said to have been without joys of their own.”

Her assertion earlier in this poem, that her sense of shame (pudori) requires her to un-clothe rather than cover up her love affair is also significant in view of Metamorphoses 10.241. There Ovid states that the pudor of the Propoetides came to a halt, with their indiscriminating sexual conduct. It is possible, too, that the very name of these women, which contains the verbal element “poet” – Latin (and Greek) for poet – implies that they, like Sulpicia, engaged in literary activity. Through these intertextual resonances in the Pygmalion narrative, Ovid not only minimizes Sulpicia’s agency as a literary creator, and the power of her literary efforts to control the course of her own love affair. Ovid also contrasts her unfavourably with Pygmalion himself. She dismisses pudor (“sexual shamefulness”) at 3.13.1; Pygmalion is disgusted with all women because of the Propoetides, whose pudor has ended. Whereas Sulpicia never mentions the prospect of marriage with her lover, and at 3.13.9 voices her delight in past, sinful behaviour (peccasse iuvat), Ovid portrays Pygmalion as eager, almost desperate to have a wife like his ivory statue.

15

On the erasure of Cerinthus’ voice here, and in 13 and 14, see Pearcy (2006: 34-35).

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At Tristia 4.10.53-54, as we have seen, Ovid does not mention Sulpicia among the elegists he knew and succeeded “in order of time”. He never celebrates her in the way that he does the deceased Tibullus in Amores 3.9. Nevertheless, Ovid’s echoes in Amores 3.9 of lines by Tibullus, in whose third book of elegies the eleven-Sulpicia poems appear, and who – like Ovid and Sulpicia – enjoyed the literary patronage of Sulpicia’s maternal uncle Marcus Valerius Messala, render it plausible and likely that Ovid similarly calls Sulpicia and her poetic corpus to mind in the Pygmalion narrative.16 Yes, the many affinities between Sulpicia’s themes and vocabulary, and those informing Ovid’s Pygmalion narrative, may be coincidental. But Ovid’s poetic practices suggest otherwise. And if he is evoking the elegiac corpus of Sulpicia to refashion her in the image of Pygmalion’s statue he is sending his readers the message that she is to be viewed as a female body and as a work, not a worker, of art. While she seeks to transcend boundaries in her poetic corpus by representing herself as both a creative literary artist and erotically desirable female body, Ovid insists that she cannot be the former if she is to be the latter, thereby imposing boundaries of his own.

Bibliography Conte, Gian Biagio & Alessandro Barchiesi (1989): Imitazione e arte allusiva. Modi e funzioni dell’intertestualità. In: Guglielmo Cavallo, Paolo Fedeli & Andrea Giardiana (eds.), Lo spazio letterario di Roma antica. Vol. 1: La produzione del testo, Rome, 81-114. Edmunds, Lowell (2001): Intertextuality and the Reading of Roman Poetry, Baltimore & London. Fögen, Thorsten (2009): Tears in Propertius, Ovid and Greek epistolographers. In: Thorsten Fögen (ed.), Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, Berlin & New York, 179-208. Fowler, Don (1997): Intertextuality and classical studies. In: Materiali e discussioni 29, 13-34. Hallett, Judith P. (2002): The eleven elegies of the Augustan poet Sulpicia. In: Laurie J. Churchill, Phyllis R. Brown & Jane E. Jeffrey (eds.), Women Writing Latin. From Roman Antiquity to Early Modern Europe (= Women Writing Latin in

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Echoes of Tibullus’ poetry in Ovid, Amores 3.9 include lines 31-32, recalling Tibullus’ description of Delia’s Egyptian ritual practices at Tibullus 1.3.23-24, and lines 47-51, recalling Tibullus’ depiction, at 1.3.3-10, of his illness while travelling in Phaeacia, and his unhappiness that his mother and sister will not be on hand to perform his death rites. For Messalla, and his patronage of Tibullus, Sulpicia and Ovid, see Hallett (2002: 45-46) and Hallett (2006: 38, 41-42).

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Roman Antiquity, Late Antiquity, and the Early Christian Era, vol. 1), New York & London, 45-65. Hallett, Judith P. (2006): Sulpicia and her Fama. An intertextual approach to recovering her Latin literary image. In: Classical World 100, 37-42. Heath, Malcolm (2002): Interpreting Classical Texts, London. Hinds, Stephen (1998): Allusion and Intertext, Cambridge. Hinds, Stephen (2006): Ovid. In: Simon Hornblower & Antony Spawforth (eds.), Oxford Classical Dictionary, Oxford, 1084-1086. Keith, Alison (2006): Critical trends in interpreting Sulpicia. In: Classical World 100, 3-10. Lateiner, Donald (1984). Mythic and non-mythic artists in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In: Ramus 13, 1-30. Liveley, Genevieve (1999): Reading resistance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In: Philip Hardie, Alessandro Barchiesi & Stephen Hinds (eds.), Ovidian Transformations. Essays on the Metamorphoses and Its Reception, Cambridge, 197-213. Parker, Holt N. (2006): Catullus and the Amicus Catulli. The text of a learned talk. In: Classical World 100, 17-29. Pearcy, Lee T. (2006): Erasing Cerinthus. Sulpicia and her audience. In: Classical World 100, 31-36. Roessel, David (1990): The significance of the name Cerinthus in the poems of Sulpicia. In: Transactions of the American Philological Association 120, 245-250. Salzman-Mitchell, Patricia B. (2005): A Web of Phantasies. Gaze, Image, and Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Columbus. Sharrock, Alison (1991): Womanufacture. In: Journal of Roman Studies 81, 36-49. Skoie, Mathilde (2002): Reading Sulpicia. Commentaries 1475-1990, Oxford. Solodow, Joseph B. (1988): The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Chapel Hill. Stevenson, Jane (2005): Women Latin Poets. Language, Gender and Authority from Antiquity to the Eighteenth Century, Oxford. Thomas, Richard F. (1986): Virgil’s Georgics and the art of reference. In: Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 90, 171-198.

Transsexuals and Transvestites in Ovid’s Metamorphoses Donald Lateiner Abstract: Somatic signals affect all social interactions. Clothes and accessories also communicate non-verbally with interactants. Clothes make the man or woman (sex) into a man or woman (gender). The revelation and concealment of primary and secondary sexual characteristics busy clothiers, artists and authors. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, gods temporarily and humans permanently change sex. Gods and humans assume transgendering male or female clothes. Transsexualism, a generally one-way human transformation, crosses gender boundaries. Women elect to change into men to gain status and various advantages in the highly male-privileged ancient world. Men find themselves changed against their will into women. They thereby lose status and suffer debilitation of strength and privilege. The cases of Tiresias, Sithon, Hermaphroditus, Mestra, Iphis, Caenis and the Coronids, as outlined in the Metamorphoses, are discussed. Then, the paper looks at instances of transvestism in Ovid. Dress, part of cultus, is a variable and reversible expression of gender, class etc. To clarify sexual identity, clothes complement audible features (voice timbre) and visible body features such as skin texture, musculature, size, hair and facial cosmetics. Garb, however, can hide or deceive others about one’s sex. Cross-dressing provides a second-class cross-gendering and is always eventually unmasked. Gods briefly become crones to approach attractive young maids. With the gods, it is hard to determine how deep the transgendering extends. As for humans, the cases of Cephalus, Atalanta and Achilles are analysed here. Biological sex and civilized forms of gender, constructed and/or concealed by self and others, provided Ovid with variations on humanity’s usual “courtship” scenarios, challenges and transgressions of the binomial sexual system, and comedies of sexual surprise. The early myths and rituals furnished new material to think about perennial human needs and customs.

1. Introduction This essay examines two intriguing aspects of sexual morphing, transsexuality – change of sex – and transvestism – change of clothes into the other sex’s in

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order to ‘pass for’ a member of the other sex.1 The transsexual will certainly change her (usually this is the direction) garb to suit her new identity as a “he”. Cross-dressing or transvestism features in Dionysiac festivals, 2 Hellenic myths,3 initiatory rituals,4 partying Attic gentlemen and, therefore, the iconography of Attic vases.5 Transvestism and sex change are not common features of Greek myth.6 When either of these phenomena appears, the mythical narrative may serve to “explain” the age-old origins of some puzzling but still surviving ritual of male initiation (failed or successful)7 with a simulated sex- or actual clothing-change. The myths of youthful Pentheus, Achilles, Heracles and Theseus (Pausanias 1.19.1) provide better known – if still puzzling – examples, although not validating paradigms for crossing these heavily policed boundaries.8 1

2 3

4

5 6 7 8

The Greeks and Romans did not perceive their need for words for settled changes of sex or clothes. This unpredicted absence reflects something about their perception of homosexuality, transsexuality and bisexuality (as Euro-Americans understand those essential terms). English uses the Latin-derived terms ‘transsexuality’ and ‘transvestism’. Menander wrote a comedy named Androgynos or The Cretan, although one can discover very little about the play of that name. He uses the word as an insult meaning “womanly, cowardly, sissy” at Samia 69 and Aspis 242. Plato (Symp. 189e2-4) exemplifies a pseudo-biological use; see also von Möllendorff (2009, in this volume). Plutarch (Mor. 219e) provides another reproof of unmanliness. See Miller (1999: 242-243) on transvestic festivals and Miller (1999: 245-246) on Dionysiac scenes. An effeminate and besotted Heracles’ transvestism and bondage to the fickle Lydian Queen Omphale became a favourite topic in Hellenistic burlesque, complete with her wearing his clothes and carrying his attributes such as the club. Suhr’s study (1953: 261) examines the exiguous evidence for a prehistoric ἱερὸς γάμος ritual (cf. Plutarch, Quaest. Gr. 58 = Mor. 304c-e). Exchange of garments between the sexes characterized both ἱερὸς γάμος ceremonies and human rites of passage. Ovid does not include this incident in any Hercules segments in the Met., but cf. Her. 9.57-128 and Fast. 2.305-359. There Heracles in ‘drag’ spins and weaves and so deceives Faunus in bed. Leitao (1995: 136-142) discusses recent interpretations of transvestic ekdysiasm. Dowden’s book on female initiation (1989: 53-55) discusses initiatory transvestism in the specific context of Achilles’ stay on Dolopian Scyros (cf. Apollodorus, Bibl. 3.13.8; Statius, Ach. 1.259-381); see also Dowden (1989: 176). Leitao (1995: 142-146) canvasses Hellenic gender-coding and male initiation in Dorian Crete. E.g. Miller (1999: passim, esp. 236, 247, 252-253) and Keuls (21993: 357, with ill. 296, painted by Duris). Forbes Irving (1990: 149); his ch. 7 examines sex changes in Greek myths. Sharrock (2002a: 96) refers to “arrested development”. Her article on “gender and sexuality” offers little on the two topics of this article. The men’s sanctioned man-dressed-as-woman cross-dressing at unofficial (and non-religious) social events found on some Attic vases (500-450 B.C.) stresses, for both ideological and artistic reasons, “their absolute failure, as transvestites, to hide their masculinity” (Miller 1999: 247). Miller therefore argues (252-253) that these Athenians are never trying to pass as women at all but they engage in male sympotic play, a distinctive form of élite-defining masquerade.

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These delicate subjects charged with sexual taboos have aroused deep anxieties and therefore now attract considerable theoretical attention from various methodologies.9 This paper focusses on divinities and humans gaining the organs and/or donning the garb of the “opposite sex” in Ovid’s poem about metamorphosis. One meets planned and extemporaneous changes of bodily form and less drastic changes of clothing to mask gender.10 My essay on these relevant and related lesser changes of Ovidian characters’ crossing their clothing- and sex-boundaries may illuminate the greater changes. We will examine bodies and gender in his epic poem that often changes both. Ovid starts from bodies. Many of his bodies shift shapes, voluntarily and more often not. Bodies furnish fixed and normative features in animal experience of mothers, fathers, lovers and children. They grow, mature and age, but retain their essential recognizable features, not only a small nose and a big toe, but, with greater social consequence, primary and secondary sexual characteristics. Somatic and adaptor signals, as small as a haircut, gait, colour (pink or blue) or self-touching, as variable as a moustache, bracelet or hair-arrangement, affect all social encounters and set the agenda for most of them. Instability infects, however, gods and humans, ultimately permeating even the assumed permanent ground of animate bodies and inanimate flowers, trees, rocks and planets. Past experience is no guide to future identity. Dependable social identity disappears once inside a different body.11 9

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Those interested will find help in the following, more theoretically oriented, examples of scholarship in the bibliography, esp. Janan (1991), Nugent (1990) and Morgan (2003). One recent turn examines hybridity, persons and works of art that try, like Ovid’s Salmacis, to find sexual answers in new races that avoid both the ordinary and the stigma of ‘bi-’ and ‘trans-’ labels. The alleged historical and comic escapade of the opportunistic Publius Clodius “Pulcher” insures that Roman transvestism extends beyond the realm of symbolic myth and comedic theatre. That is, the story was deemed credible, whether the events occurred or not. His crossdressing as a female harp-player created a crisis that long remained notorious (see e.g. Cicero, Att. 1.13.3; Balsdon 1966). – Propertius’ aetiological elegy 4.9 describes a desperately thirsty, Cacus-killing Hercules report his former slave-girl duties and clothes (including brassiere) to justify his manly interruption of Bona Dea rites seeking a cup of water. The priestess in charge threatens the ex-transvestite with Tiresias’ punishment of transsexuality. He retaliates by smashing the original doorway of the women’s shrine and forbidding women’s presence near his future ara maxima. Ovid’s Hercules, when dressed as a woman, deceives and easily discomfits Faunus the god seeking to rape his/her mistress, Queen Omphale (Fast. 2.305-359). – Among later emperors, Caligula appeared as Venus, Nero presented his backside after marrying his new “husband” (the successor of the abused, castrated Sporus), and Elagabalus liked to dress in soft, women’s clothes; see Suetonius, Cal. 36, Nero 29 (also playing the lead role in Canace in Childbirth; see Nero 21) as well as Herodian 5.5.3-5 and 5.8.1-2. Ovid maintains the former mind – human consciousness and inclination, however limited – in transformed bodies (Actaeon in Met. 3.203: mens tantum pristina mansit; cf. Callisto, nymph transformed to bear, in Met. 2.485).

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The poet Ovid “speaks” as a woman (transvocalism?) in the lonely Heroides and often again in the Metamorphoses. He takes transgendered prosopopoeia (Enterline 2000: 21) further, when he thinks himself into the bodies of vulnerable women in the Metamorphoses. His women recognize that they do not own themselves or their bodies – unless a she becomes a he, by change of dress and/or sex. Caenis/eus, we shall see, clearly articulates that solution and outcome. Ovid’s violated women, especially artists like “foolish” Arachne and clever Philomel, often restage his own predicaments. Arachne’s woven artistry made and unmade her, as poetry made and unmade Magister Naso. If one equates other heroines’ often exceptionally good looks and the attention it draws with his exceptionally good poetry (cf. Enterline 2000: 235 n. 54; Forbis 1997), Ovid’s interest in their victimization seems no coincidence. The “god” Augustus burned the body of his erotic works, drove him bodily overseas, and made this poet self-censor himself and his words. Augustus “disappeared” him to Romania in order to alter his Roman identity. Ovid equates his poetry, specifically the Metamorphoses, with himself, his body’s innards (Trist. 1.7.1920; cf. 1.1.114: his children): (...) mecum peritura libellos imposui rapidis viscera nostra rogis. “I placed my books of poetry – about to perish along with myself – my own guts, on the fast-burning funeral pyre.”

Human bodies are fragile, composed of members that more powerful beings can chop up, dismember.12 Ovidian bodies suffer sexual and other violence and dissolution. The many rapes do no victim a benefit. Bodies deceive, as when Leucothoë and Pomona admit pseudo-crones to their private rooms or enclosures, convinced by fraudulent presentations that their visitors are post-sexual females. Cross-dressing (if not cross-sexing) as women offered the gods a throwaway tool for rape. Bodies can be beautiful, and “the rhetoric of the body” (Enterline 2000) produces powerful persuasion. Bodily beauty overcomes good sense for, e.g., the females Europa, Salmacis and Echo, and the males Narcissus, Iphis II and Apollo. Divine bodies have no fixed boundaries and remain invulnerable or quickly restore themselves. All humans have vulnerable bodies and women more so. As genitals determine gender, so speech organs define functional humanity. After the tongue 12

Actaeon’s hounds, Pentheus’ relatives and Orpheus’ admirers dismember them; Apollo flays Marsyas; Tereus cuts out Philomela’s tongue; Procne daydreams of gouging Tereus’ eyes, cutting out his tongue and cutting off his penis (Met. 6.616, 6.644-646) before she and her sister butcher and joint her son. Collecting the re-membered body is part of Euripides’ tragedy but not Ovid’s comedy. Some who retain their tongues after metamorphosis still lose their speech, such as the bestialized Lycaon, Io, Actaeon or the partly disabled, fully disembodied spirit of Echo.

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fails or fades, many Ovidian bodies continue speaking in a tongueless language, body language, often to beg for love or pity from someone who feels and provides neither. This ugly disconnect produces sympathy in the reader. Bodies, in biological reality, exhibit one sex or the other.13 Changing one’s birth sex by arranging a change in one’s sex organs has always been a rare but possible outcome produced by nature through hormonal abnormalities, usually at puberty.14 Change of sex, however, by surgical intervention was almost impossible in antiquity. Only recently have physicians become able or willing to offer this ethically fraught surgical choice of defining somatic features.15 The decision to cross the binary sexual divide obviously perplexes and often angers the transsexual’s family and earlier acquaintances. Shifting identities, return to old ones, and/or existence in between as a hermaphrodite, neither fish nor fowl (to mix metaphors), cause even more discomfort.16 Clothes and accessories modify and adapt our bodies to circumstances, internal and external. Pants or earrings, neckties or high-heeled shoes, also send significant messages to audiences about whether and when we are serious and what sort of business we mean.17 Clothes protect the body, but they also conceal and enhance it. Clothes, by their gendered attributes and associations, make the man or woman (sex) a man or woman (gender). The revelation and concealment of precisely the primary and secondary sexual characteristics have focussed the energies of clothiers and couturiers and drawn the attention of artists and authors. For them as well as for casual interlocutors, universal 13

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Nature, in one of every 300,000 births, produces an hermaphroditic baby (Miller 1999: 224 n. 3) and so violates this cultural dichotomy. Many such births undergo rapid surgical intervention, with families and medical establishments in agreement. This unadvertised fact distorts current perceptions of the frequency of hermaphroditism. Pliny the Elder reports cases of androgynes or hermaphrodites (Nat. hist. 11.262) and sexchanges (Nat. hist. 7.36). Diodorus (22.11.1-4, 32.10.2-9) provides further examples. Phlegon of Tralles’ Book of Marvels (4-10; see Hansen 1996) reports on largely pubescent changes of sex. Galen discusses female genitalia as inverted or “outside in” male genitalia (De usu part. XIV.6 [II 296-297 Helmreich, IV 158-160 Kühn]). Foucault pondered the analogous case of extrusion of male genitalia in his 1980 introduction, dossier and published memoir of Adelaide Herculine Barbin. Her parents registered her as a girl at birth (1838), but s/he died a man at 30. Barbin was disturbed when he read Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Foucault 1980: 18). Bullough & Bullough (1993: 203-225) provide a convenient history of the medicalization of sexual transformations. Christine Jorgensen and Jan (James) Morris composed two famous twentieth-century autobiographies, from the inside out, of surgical “sex reassignment”. Jeffrey Eugenides’ novel Middlesex (2002) imaginatively pictures the mental, emotional and physical problems of a hermaphrodite from inside, from a first-person point of view. Ovid’s story unexpectedly appears as the protagonist Calliope’s memoir of her stint in a San Francisco sex-shop’s peephole production in a pool (490-491). Griggs (1998) provides a nonfiction account of herself and others who have changed clothes and sex. Ekman and Friesen’s (1969) term “adaptors”, with three sub-categories of self-, alter- and object-, has seemed awkward to many, but for this essay it usefully covers self-grooming, touching (haptics) and clothing.

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sex and sartorial differences provide apparently essential information.18 There is general discomfort in the presence of a person of indeterminate gender. The long-standing fuss over cross-dressing may indicate “an ideal site for the study of cultural discourses about gender and sexuality” (Garber 1992: 5). Crossing attributed sex and gender boundaries violates near universal taboos. Gendercoding exceptions exist for carefully demarcated and structured rituals and for certain social roles such as Asiatic shamans, Indian hijras and Omani xaniths (cf. Bullough & Bullough 1993: 8-13). In vestments known to belong to the ‘other’ sex or with physically altered genitalia, an individual disturbs social hierarchies and transgresses political and religious commandments. Seemingly non-negotiable “facts” are contradicted – often with unfortunate consequences for the deceivers and/or the deceived. Ovid deployed somatic and sartorial transmogrifications in his extended trigonometric exploration of sex, gender and power. In the Metamorphoses, gods take on the clothes and bodily features of humans (male or female), birds and animals, occasionally an aspect of the atmosphere such as shower or cloud (Met. 1.599-600, 4.611), usually for sexual ends.19 When gods change sex or clothes or leave their default (?) anthropoid forms entirely, amatory pursuit always motivates their deceptions (ludo is the thematic verb). The artist Arachne’s crowded exposé (Met. 6.103-126) amply attests this mythic fact of Ovid’s universe. Ovid, here as often, drinks from the font of anthropomorphic epiphanies, namely Homer, and his many imitators, including Vergil (Aen. 1.314-320: Venus, 5.647-649: Iris, etc.). The disguises of the gods already enrich Homer’s epics, revealing and concealing themselves to meddle the better in the amusing human realm. Sometimes they come to human playgrounds expecting sex, solace or for testing their toys’ behaviour.20 Other times they appear briefly on earth to yank hair, duel, tussle or gently advise their human protégés. Athena interacts with many characters in the Odyssey in the (dis-)guise of a man, indeed of many different men and several women, and once of a prepubescent

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See Garber (1992) and Hoberman (1997) for literary interest in the nineteenth and twentieth century, in particular, for the subject of transvestism. Bullough & Bullough’s (1993) chapters 1-8 provide a longer durée. Jupiter creates a cloud to rape Io and to hide his escapade from his justly suspicious wife. Arachne in her catalogue of divine disguisings reprises Danaë and adds Aegina fooled by a flame in the same line (Met. 6.113: Ovid’s flame is elsewhere unknown). E.g. the Homeric Hymns to Aphrodite (sex with Anchises; and cf. Il. 2.820), Demeter (solace for Persephone’s rape by Hades), the Odyssey (e.g. 17.484-487: testing by entertaining angels unawares). Theological comprehensiveness requires mention that such transformations also can come as a punishment for behaviour irritating to Zeus, the case with Aphrodite’s forced sexual venture, what looks like the date rape of Anchises. Other reasons for gods’ earthly sojourns include inflicted service to mortals, wandering exile from Olympus and quests.

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girl (Homer, Od. 7.19-38). Humans can penetrate divine disguises, as both Ajax and H. J. Rose (1956) noted: gods’ gait, smell, complexion and clothing identify them, especially (oddly) when seen from behind.21 The goddess also works her plastic will and skills on her favourite mortal hero, Odysseus. She alters into advanced decrepitude, for his protection, his skin, eyes and hair, and also his clothing and accessories – rag, hide, staff, wallet with rope (Homer, Od. 13.429-438, 16.173-175, 16.430-433: body-adaptors). She reverses these at opportune moments with her wand. She can also hyper-beautify him after a bath, when the time is ripe (e.g. Od. 6.229-237 and 23.153-163), or hide him in a localized “divine” fog (Od. 7.41-42). Homeric precedent validated further aetiological experiments by Ovid’s predecessors and Ovid himself.

2. Transsexuals This generally one-way transformation22 consists in Ovid’s narratives of human bodies crossing the sharp gender boundary in extreme mythic circumstances.23 Women elect to change into men to gain status and various advantages in the highly male-privileged ancient classical myths. Men find themselves occasionally changed against their will into women. They thereby lose status and suffer gender-dimorphic degradation of strength and privilege (Osmun 1978: 75; Bullough & Bullough 1993: 24). In the fluid world of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, this sexual change process occurs, in varied forms, arguably seven times (Tiresias, Sithon, Hermaphroditus, Mestra, Iphis, Caenis and the Coronids). The change of genus and species, into bird, animal, or river or tree is a thousand-fold more common. While literary critics must focus on the texts 21 22

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Ajax (Il. 13.71-72) perceives a god, Achilles does not (Il. 21.600). Goddess Athene mystifies Diomedes by means of mist (Il. 5.127-128). Gods and goddesses masque themselves by sex, age and status but can and do revert (anamorphosis) to their divine gender defaults instantly and at will. The Latin words imago, figura and forma do not clarify whether a male god has assumed the outward disguise (clothes, jewelry, cosmetics) of a woman while keeping his male body, or changed into the body of a woman. When Jupiter becomes, e.g., a bull “for” Europa (Met. 3.1, 6.103, 8.122), the metamorphosis of the body is clearly conveyed, and so I assume for the merely transsexual divine imagines. Vertumnus was the imago of a real reaper, and devised many other formae to gain entry to Pomona’s presence, including the devious anus, but in iuvenum rediit (“reverted to a male youth”), when his elaborate disguises failed of their lubricious purpose. I believe Ovid had in mind a complete bodily transformation, since a god has no reason to hesitate and can later re-form himself with his proper genital equipment. Perhaps the myths of sex change grew out of surviving, incomprehensible rituals of dress change, although Forbes Irving (1990: 150), in a salubrious review of unprovable hypotheses, expresses skepticism. The aetiologies present in such stories matter nothing for Ovid’s expositions, except as one notes his parody of Hellenistic learned antiquarianism. Transsexuals of social necessity change their garb to match their altered sex, so the more severe – less reversible – change often entails the lesser change of clothes.

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as given, this disproportion seems significant of Ovid’s perception of sexchange as more difficult for readers to accept. The important exceptions to the Ovidian one-way change rule consist of one man, Tiresias, and several gods who briefly become crones to penetrate women’s quarters and worm their way into the graces of attractive young maids. Proxemic protocols inhibited, and generally prohibited, virile males (not boys or geezers) from approaching young women. Sol deceives and forces Leucothoë thus, as old lady. Apollo rapes Chione after donning such a role (Met. 11.310: Phoebus anum simulat). Vertumnus does the same with and to Pomona.24 Let us examine in detail Ovid’s seven examples of sex-change. 1. Tiresias changes sex (Met. 3.316-338: deque viro factus (mirabile!) femina) after having seen and struck the forbidden, here a pair of copulating snakes. Transformed from male to female for his violation, he is temporarily unmanned, in all senses. Later, he learned how to transform herself (sic) back again to male and did so. His desired and enacted anamorphosis signals the preferability (to this Theban male, at least) of being male. Juno and Jove, subsequently, engaged in a pleasant marital dispute (de lite iocosa). On a whim, they consulted him on the issue of which sex enjoys greater voluptas in acts of sex. His response, informed by unique experience, was that women find more pleasure in sexual intercourse (Met. 3.323: Venus huic erat utraque nota). His answer led to unpleasant ocular consequences (eye gouging = Freudian castration?) for him. Tiresias now became both blind as a result of Juno’s anger and prophetic from Jove’s desire to compensate him for his loss and pains. 2. Alcithoë, the last of the anti-Bacchic Minyeides sisters to tell stories, prefers novelty and refuses to relate the sex change of a certain Sithon (Met. 4.279; a cipher in mythology, as far as modern editors know). This praeterition introduces her extended story of a different, permanent sex change for Hermaphroditus. Sithon conveniently starts with a gender-ambivalent name but a malegendered epithet (4.280): ambiguus fuerit modo vir, modo femina Sithon. Perhaps he switches sex once, or he becomes someone of uncertain sex. More likely, in view of the meaning of modo ... modo,25 he repeatedly varied his sex, “now a man, then a woman”, in a uniquely disturbing change of the laws of na24

25

Ovid closely models the nymph Salmacis’ cautious approach and seductive speech to Hermaphroditus on the prototype of Odysseus and Nausicaa, but he inverts the aggressive gender (Od. 6.149-161, Met. 4.320-328). Odysseus’ total lack of clothing (except a branch) compounded his hungry, shipwrecked dilemma in approaching the nubile Nausicaa at the beach. Pomona/Pomus her/himself was of indeterminate gender (Pomonus appears in the Iguvine tablets), although not in Ovid. OLD s.v. 6, citing also the similar Met. 2.189, 13.922 etc. Better: Met. 2.206, 2.414, 2.866867, 4.722, 5.483, 6.123, 7.781 and 8.873 (nunc ... nunc ... modo ... modo). There are eight other examples later in the Metamorphoses.

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ture: naturae iure novato (4.279). Readers never learn from the internal narrator Alcithoë’s self-conscious, laconic praeterition (her word) any details of Sithon’s story, such as when s/he went in which direction. After the praeambulum, Alcithoë delivers her main narrative, boasting of a precious novelty in Hermaphroditus’ history. The honorific Alexandrian narratrix Alcithoë cherishes this infamis story because she will not repeat “your well known loves of a shepherd” (4.276: vulgatos taceo ... pastoris amores). She holds her sisters’ attention with a story unknown (4.284: dulcique animos novitate tenebo). 26 Since sources for Hermaphroditus are much richer than for Sithon’s obscure tale,27 Ovid plays a joke on readers, recasting the tale of the more familiar figure without narrating the less familiar. 3. Hermaphroditus (Met. 4.285-388) alters from a presexual fifteen-year-old male (nescit enim, quid amor) to an asexual rejecter of Salmacis’ unwelcome amor (4.336: ‘desinis an fugio tecumque’ ait ‘ista relinquo?’) to finally a bisexual amphibian, the originating hermaphrodite and the cause of the pool’s damaging qualities.28 His telltale name, like so many (e.g. Lycaon, Pentheus, Iphis), foreshadows his unintended, inflicted endgame. Unfamiliar with amor, he becomes Salmacis’ luscious, unwilling prey in her inescapable, violent octopus embrace (4.366: ut ... polypus). The constricting nympho-maniac seeks union at any price.29 The story initially describes the lovely puella at her toilette, heightening by hair-do and cosmetics her already considerable sexual allure. Salmacis is an anti-Daphne or Callisto – a nymph in Diana’s service but uniquely only interested in varying styles of couture and in arranging her hair for beaux. She scorns hunting and killing animals (4.302-316: nec venatibus apta). Thus, she avoids her chaste and oft chiding, anti-sexual sisters. Diaphanous clothing suits her interests and beauty (4.313). She plucks flowers, like Persephone before

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This Book Four began with one of the Minyeides, Callimachean composers before the fact, telling the unfamiliar tale of Pyramus and Thisbe because hoc placet; haec quoniam vulgaris fabula non est (Met. 4.53). Aside from the later sources mentioned below, see Delcourt’s monograph (1961: 53-55 discuss Ovid’s treatment) and the puzzlingly rich, gamy visual records of hermaphrodites. Certainly, Alcithoë’s other examples, aside from Daphnis – Celmis, Smilax, Crocos – are obscurities. All previous versions of the myth present Hermaphroditus as bisexual from birth, not the result of a metamorphosis (Delcourt 1961: 54), a fact leading scholars to posit considerable Ovidian invention here. Most Ovidian nymphs shun sex, although Echo and the catalogue of all the woodland nymphs who panted for fifteen year-old Picus (Met. 14.326-332) are obvious exceptions.

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her rape, but this time, more logically, the plucker is the rapist and not the victim.30 Before approaching her wandering lover at first sight, she considers the state of her amictus and vultus: she must be formosa videri, an attractive object for him (4.318-319). Her seductive lines do not then amuse or engage the less worldly, male virgin Hermaphroditus. Yet, after threatening his own departure, her apparent departure tricks him into enjoying and diving naked into her, that is, her warm and lovely pool. Although he then thrashes manfully in the water, the white-skinned lad cannot escape and becomes both the sexual victim of her groping and a new creature. More vulnerable without the protection of land and the self-esteem of sex-identified clothes, Hermaphroditus’ story ends with his entwinement and capture. He loses his virility and gains (not necessarily his view) a new sexual genus, a being endowed with both male and female sexual organs (4.286): Salmacis enervet tactosque remolliat artus (“She unstrung [desexed]31 him, and by touch she tenderized his limbs”). His voice too was unmanned (4.382: non voce virili – a paralinguistic observation; cf. 12.204, Caeneus). The unmanned male grafted to the embracing female becomes half of a biform. He thus dissolves the Roman and still dominant binary sexual system in a barely translatable pair of lines (Met. 4.378-379): nec duo sunt sed forma duplex, nec femina dici nec puer ut possit, neutrumque et utrumque videntur. “They are not two but have a dual appearance, not describable as woman or boy, they appear neither – and both.”

His paradoxical, clearly unwelcome bisexuality (semimas, semivir, mixta duorum) leads to linguistic bivalency, singular subject/plural verb, pronominal paradox, category crisis – who does what to whom? (cf. Nugent 1990: 174175). Ovid’s Hermaphroditus and his malicious spring perhaps “explained” for some the origin of passive [mollis] homosexuality, the necessary aspect of same-sex coupling (penetrated vs. penetrator) with which the Romans, at least, were uncomfortable. Previously, the learned narratrix claims, this aetiology (of the spring) was unknown (causa latet). Hermaphroditus/Salmacis is/are the only creature(s) in the poem to enjoy or suffer simultaneous bisexuality, not successive, as Tiresias and Caenis/Caeneus did. The name, itself a copulative

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Nugent (1990: 168-169) remarks how Ovid has here attributed to Salmacis, a female, the gaze, force and speed of male desire. This pun on an elegiac euphemism for penis well illustrates the intergeneric interests of the longtime elegist (e.g. Am. 2.10.24, 3.7.35). The OLD does not notice the elegists under nervus, 1b. Salmacis’ total body immersion of him in her [waters] demasculates him both sexually and in terms of gender.

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compound honouring two gods of “opposite sex” often jointly venerated (e.g. at Halicarnassus, Samos, Argos, Athens, Kato Syme), takes a masculine gender in grammar, but denotes an individual of effeminated gender in the story (Brisson 2002: 169 n. 34). Salmacis’ excessive and unwanted embrace evokes Ouranos’ embraces of Gaia (in Hesiod’s Theogony). The primeval divine sexual attacks paradoxically blocked any further generation. The uncomfortably eternal copulative union of Sky and Earth, like that of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, reverses a steady trend towards increasing cosmic differentiation. So, it produced sterility (Brisson 2002: 58). 32 Two individuals become one, or fewer, in union. Two potentially fertile beings become only one, semisomething and a non-productive monster by standards of nearly all eras (4.378-381, 4.386). Pythagoras too condemns the resulting “obscene” waters (Met. 15.319). The sterile Hermaphroditus with outstretched hands and a woman’s voice ironically invokes his parents’ philoprogenitive pietas in liberos (Met. 4.380-388). Salmacis – already ultra-feminine in dress, self-absorption, and form – seizes Hermaphroditus, a male who is not yet fully masculine, still only an adolescent puer of fifteen years (Met. 4.288, 292, 316, 320). Elements of narcissism, penis envy and castration anxiety, to use modern Freudian terms, emerge. The boy’s “disturbing indistinction” and Salmacis’ extreme femininity produce a combined being that can be only half-male, diminished at best.33 Ovid’s contemporaries, the Roman Vitruvius (De arch. 2.8.11-12) and the Greek geographer Strabo (14.2.16) wrote extant accounts of the spring. Ovid writes: vis est notissima fontis (Met. 4.287). No known previous version, however, of this aetiological myth exists. Strabo and Vitruvius react negatively to the unscientific ascription of demasculinizing power to the waters of the spring. Hermaphroditus is a deprived and maleficent being, not an enriched and beneficent one. Ovid uses the spring’s unsavoury contemporary reputation to explain something more important to him: how the passive role in homosexual love came to be. At Met. 10.79-85 and 152-154, his narrator Orpheus turns to paederastic homosexuality and tales of explicitly illicit sexualities after the loss of his heterosexual love and wife Eurydice. The “aesthetics of ambiguity” attracted Ovid. Betwixt and between liminal states attract his wonder and narratorial intrusions (e.g. Met. 4.661). Although the world is happier, more relaxed, when genus and gender stay fixed, or complete a change, Ovid often emphasizes the becoming more than the before and after, the cause and effects. His Pythagoras ponders transmutation of bodies as 32 33

One might argue that Ovid’s new creature is asexual in fact and intends harm to all who visit his/her waters. This paragraph is indebted to Delcourt (1961), Nugent (1990) and Brisson (2002: esp. 42, 45, 60).

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well as transmigration of souls (Met. 15.317-321, 15.408-410). Ovid’s mouthpiece of sorts, the Crotoniate sage and narrator, says that the hyena34 alternates between male and female stages (Met. 15.409-410): alternare vices et, quae modo femina tergo passa marem est, nunc esse marem miremur hyaenam. “The alternation of [sex] roles: the female [hyena] that just before allowed a male to mount her, but now we marvel to find [her] a male hyena.”

Hermaphroditus presents a new sight in one of Ovid’s dangerous poolscapes (cf. Actaeon, Narcissus). Object of Salmacis’ desire, he enters the pool as a handsome boy with womanish features (blush, skin colour or hue, slender limbs) and deportment. He remains stuck there forever as a watery half-man. Like an ivory figure encased in glass (4.354-355), he has become a novelty, objectified, immobilized and aestheticized (Hinds 2002: 138). Ovid’s story does not celebrate this middlesexed person; both parties seem neurotically selfinvolved. 4. King Erysichthon sold his daughter, Princess Mestra, into sexual slavery, prostitution (Met. 8.847-874), once the sacrilegious ax-man had consumed his other marketable goods and riches. After her father counted his price, she had the power of shifting shape/sex to males (such as a fisherman, or other animals – at any time and repeatedly). Neptune granted such magical power to this beautiful woman as (some) recompense for raping her. Thereafter, whenever her father hungered condignly because of his hybristic sin against the foodgoddess Ceres, he sold his daughter. After the sale, in a trice, she would shift shape (8.871: transformia corpora). When human, she (as a he) would inform any recent purchaser of her concupiscible flesh that she had not seen that day any one (man) or any woman but ‘himself’, i.e. herself (8.867-868: nemo iamdudum … me tamen excepto nec femina constitit ulla). Her clothes and badges of identity (object adaptors), when posing as a fisherman, fit her assumed male identity – including a phallic fishing rod (cf. Cephalus’ or Caeneus’ phallic spears). 5. Isis transsexes Iphis, female to male (Met. 9.668: Iphide mutata) in the nick of time (unusque dies restabat) on his/her wedding day. The indigent father-tobe, Ligdus, had insisted that the mother dispose of the child, if it arrived a girl.

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Aristotle already denied the bisexuality of the hyena (Hist. anim. 579b), but Pliny the Elder reproduced it in Latin pseudo-science. Pliny’s Naturalis historia shows interest in sexual as well as other abnormalities (Nat. hist. 8.44: bisexual, transsexual in alternate years and capable of virgin births). Cf. Viarre (1985: 243).

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He unhappily demands infanticide (‘si femina partu /… necetur’). 35 Her/his mother Telethusa (of ominous name: “Sacrifice for Rituals”), before the birth and again before the marriage, offers fervent pleas to the goddess in hopes of her miraculous intervention and solution. At the behest of Counsel Isis, mother had kept and raised her child (9.699: tollere quidquid erit), somehow successfully concealing her sex and reversing her announced gender. Telethusa deceives her husband who in ignorance coincidentally (not providently) selected for the child his/her grandfather’s name, the bisexual appellation Iphis. Father Ligdus’ choice of Iphis’ name is unintentionally ambivalent and so not deceptive, to the anxious mother’s delight (9.710): quod commune foret nec quemquam falleret illo. While still a little girl, she presents as a boy (pia mendacia), first, so that her mother can keep her father in the dark. Second, the mother stays faithful to Isis’ promise of a good outcome, if the child be raised (9.678-679, 697-701). Mother and daughter keep the girl’s sex hidden from both father’s private and Phaestian public knowledge. The child grew up beautiful to the marriageable age of thirteen still wearing boys’ clothes and of indiscernable sex in her attractive physical appearance (9.712-713): cultus erat pueri; facies, quam sive puellae sive dares puero, fieret formosus uterque.36 “The clothes and grooming were a boy’s; the face, whether to a girl you gave it or to a boy, would be good looking on either.”

Her father the patriarch, the ever-absent presence (9.715, 9.766-770), in his ignorance forces the issue by marrying off his “son”. The choice of Ianthe is welcome, but the problem persists. The beautiful bride-to-be Ianthe’s teenaged reciprocal passion for charming Iphis, a girl still but ‘passing’ as a ‘boy’, enables Ovid to craft sly tropes and jokes about Iphis’ parlous situation. She knows what she is. Ovid provides polyptotic clauses in Met. 9.725 (ardetque in virgine virgo) and 9.734 (femina femineo), and the ambiguities of common gender noun and adjective at the transformational climax (e.g. 9.786-789: comes, acrior). Iphis soliloquizes a hexameter diatribe against her own samesex love, based on a common, if incorrect, view of an entirely and uninterruptedly heterosexual animal kingdom. 37 The conclusion of her self-suasoria 35 36 37

The preference for male progeny, never surprising in patriarchal societies, appears in the papyrological record, e.g. P. Oxy. 744. Ovid emphasizes more than once this bisexual character of pubescent good looks. Met. 9.734: femina femineo correpta cupidine nulla est. Aside from zoology, innocent Iphis seems unaware of other Sapphic romances in Greek mythology. In the same book (9.468519), indeed the immediately previous story, Byblis in her clever soliloquy constructs a case for violating another norm, the incest taboo. Ovid may contrast the wicked sister’s erotic passion and catastrophe and the pious, innocent lover’s erotic passion and reward.

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against violating the same-sex taboo arrives: vellem nulla forem (“I wish I were not a girl at all”). 38 In her gender dysphoria, she idly daydreams that some clever Daedalus could change her sex, or her fiancée Ianthe’s, by his magic arts (9.743-744). Rather, she faces an impossible situation where “we two girls marry” (nubimus ambae) – the institutional verb of marriage not at all suiting a female marrying another woman.39 Only after Iphis’ mother’s frantic but necessary delays of the problematic, paternally arranged wedding and many prayers does Isis fulfil her original promise. Telethusa, the observant devotee of Isis, takes her “daughter” to the goddess’s temple, removes their hair bands, and after letting down their hair, she embraces the altar (9.770-772) – gestural signs of extreme neediness. The loosened hair is also Bacchic and oriental, perhaps Isiac (Hill 1999: ad loc., referring to Aen. 7.401-403 and Met. 4.6-7, 4.521, 7.257). The mother’s renewed prayers for a miracle contain the standard kletic elements: invocation, four divine Egyptian “addresses”, past dealings and petition. The goddess moves the nearby unmovable objects, providing propitious omens. Now, Iphis leaves the Cretan temple, a differently sexed person, identified by non-verbal cues. Her features, self-presentation and gestures “naturally” change when her sex does. She leaves the precinct with longer strides, darker skin, greater muscles, shorter hair; she greets a new day as a genitally endowed male. She now is the male she had heretofore pretended to be. One presumes that she keeps her already male clothes, in conformity with her successful passage into marriageable gender (and age).40 In an ecstatic apostrophe, the anonymous Ovidian narrator states: femina nuper eras, puer es. date munera templis. The consequent epigraphic titulus reads (9.794): DONA PUER SOLVIT QUAE FEMINA VOVERAT IPHIS (“Iphis the boy fulfilled the vows which [Iphis the girl] had vowed”). Isis successfully erased the unwanted gender of girl and granted Iphis’ protreptic dream-wish of becoming a boy (9.666-797). Venus, Juno and Hymenaeus all bless the win-win marital union (9.796-797).41 38 39 40

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Or “I wish I were nothing/dead”, an interpretation preferred in the commentaries of Bömer (1977: 495) and Hill (1999: 163). The verb for a male entering into marriage (ducat) appears in the same verse (Met. 9.763). Relevant here are Spartan customs in which a woman on her wedding night shaves her hair from her head and waits in men’s clothes for her new husband. At Argos, newly married women wore a false beard; at Cos, on the wedding-night, men put on women’s clothes to await their bride (Plutarch, Lyc. 15.5; Mor. 245e-f; also summarized in Bullough & Bullough 1993: 26). Greek marriage occasioned dramatic tableaux of gender differentiation. This transvestism marked/forced the end of childish uncertainty (Leitao 1995: 162). Miller (1999: 243) notes that weddings provide “the best attested type of rite de passage cross-dressing in the Greek world.” This double-switch of clothes and sex has a happier ending than our other tales.

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Of the thirteen tales of transsexuality and transvestism that Ovid relates and we discuss, only Iphis’ comedy involves and specifies both one gender’s cross-dressing as the other and that person’s permanent change (not a brief disguise) of sex. That unique combination and the happy wedding tale’s placement at the end of a book, Nine – immediately prior to the catastrophe of Orpheus and Eurydice’s wedding that begins Book Ten and continues with all sorts of illicit passions (Met. 10.153-154: inconcessae ignes; cf. 9.639) – marks the story as one of particular significance in Ovid’s heterogeneous collection. Aperture and closure are two secrets of Ovid’s workshop not yet fully revealed. 6. Caenis/eus (Met. 12.169-209) changes from fair maid to impenetrable male warrior. 42 Neptune raped Caenis, Thessaly’s loveliest female and one disinclined to marriage – despite the usual hordes of suitors (12.190, 192, 195-196). The transformation delivers limited recompense for rape; not the first such unequal commercial transaction between gods and women that Ovid develops. Her rape is the cost of her biological “progress” into impenetrability, sexual and military (corpore non laeso). Her beauty was her downfall. Her boon is a wish for a change of sex that the sea god instantly fulfils, as her deepened voice declares before she is finished wishing (12.203-207). She laconically wishes to become a non-female (ergo, male), so that she not be subject to further sexual manhandling or rape: da femina ne sim. She changes sex and clothes. Now she can exercise with the men (studiis virilibus), become a hyper-aggressive warrior, long before his final heroic battle with the centaurs. Caeneus proceeds from less than a man to something more than a man (Forbes Irving 1990: 162). Nestor relates Caeneus’ sequential sexual history, introducing the (first) metamorphosis with (12.174-175): (...) quoque id mirum magis esset in illo, / femina natus est. Later, in the parody of epic symposiastic mayhem and weaponry,43 Nestor provides the epic catalogue of Caeneus’ kills and “Barker” Latreus’ sexist insults (12.459-476). Latreus himself is a biform (bimembris) Centaur freak, betwixt and between even in his polysyndetic and homoioteleutic age: inter iuvenemque senemque. In good epic style, he vaunts and taunts his final opponent, Caeneus (12.470-476: tu mihi femina semper) for his birth, his having suffered rape, and his false exterior (viri falsam speciem). He urges him to return to women’s work, distaff and wool baskets (Ovid is thinking of Andromache and Hector in Il. 6.490-492). In sum: bella relinque viris. For his repeated and pointedly fruitless pains in wielding his sword on Cae-

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Caenis’ equation between sexual and battle vulnerability ratifies the Roman penetratorpenetrated conceptual dichotomy. See Homer, Od. 21.295-298 for the incautious suitor Antinous’ cautionary tale, the ironic mythological paradigm of the Lapiths and the Centaurs’ drunken brawling.

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neus, in striking the invulnerable, impenetrable (imperfossus) transsexual, Caeneus kills him, polyptotically ripping his guts out (12.493: vulnusque in vulnere fecit). Monychus the ‘One Hoofed’, also of duplex natura, complains that Caeneus, although vixque vir and semimas (12.500, 12.506), shows himself more a man than he and his fellow Centaurs (12.500-501): nos segnibus actis / quod fuit ille [a woman!], sumus. The irony that centaurs are males but not men is evidently lost on him. Eventually the monsters bury under tree trunks him/her whom they cannot kill by the usual penetrative wounding. So perished maxime vir quondam (12.530), Nestor’s heartfelt, if ironic, tribute to Caeneus’ bent or second, assumed gender. Whether he suffocated under the logs or escaped the pile as a tawny bird, as only Nestor and Mopsus opined, exitus in dubio est.44 7. A great artist has engraved the Theban daughters of Orion, eventually called the Coronids (“Garlands”?, Met. 13.692-699; cf. Lafaye’s list [1904: 248]), on a large drinking bowl. Orion’s virgin daughters sacrifice themselves to save their seven-gated city. Their self-sacrifice goes beyond expectations of the ‘weaker sex’ (13.693: non femineum iugulo dare vulnus aperto). It won them, or at least their ashes, the reward of rebirth as young men (13.697-698: de virginea geminos exire favilla / … iuvenes). Their reward confirms the comfortable, sexist Roman term of ultimate approbation, vir-tus. Anius the king ceremoniously presents the long ecphrasis as a heroic guest-gift for Aeneas when he leaves Delos.45 These seven human changes of sex provide both rewards and punishments. The narrator Priest, Delian Anius, makes a discomfiting remark just before telling the Coronid story to Aeneas. Ending the tale of Bacchus transforming the King’s own daughters into white doves for their protection and security, he wonders and worries “if to lose one’s proper [human] form can be called [a god’s real] help” (13.670-671: si miro perdere more / ferre vocatur opem). That is, does a total change of identity provide a desirable benefit? – an important issue in this poem. Tiresias and Hermaphroditus found no good or pleasure in their demasculation. Mestra, Iphis and Caeneus certainly benefitted 44

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Both the issue and the two final words are elided. Nestor’s dramatic apostrophe italicizes the escape (Met. 12.522, 12.531): “avis nunc unica, Caeneu.” Livy 1.16 already discussed variant versions of the end of Romulus, snatched by a whirlwind or disembodied in an effigy rising from his proleptically imperial pyre. The “variant version” alternatives (frequent in Herodotus) are a pseudo-historical method of having your cake and eating it. Here some say that Caeneus was crushed and suffocated and others say that some part of him escaped and morphed into a tawny bird. We find great men’s ominous airborne spirits rising from later pyres also in, for example, Suetonius, Aug. 100.4 (imago), Dio 56.42.3, 56.46.2, and the winged Genius figure (?) on the base of the column of Antoninus Pius. Cf. Met. 2.1-18 for the Sun’s doors engraved by Vulcan. Ovid’s engraved wine cup also reflects the heroic prize of Iliad 23.740-745, Theocritus 1.27-56 and Vergil, Ecl. 3.35-48.

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from their defeminization – liberation from slavery, enjoying a desired marriage and the end of justified sexual terrorization. The Thebans regard the rebirth of the female Coronids as males to be a divine reward. (Sithon evades classification, as explained above.) Ovid’s erotic teratologies have no clear direction, 46 despite any evolutionary trend found in his early creation stories. Even that brief positive spin produced by a melior natura (Met. 1.21) soon leads to the inverse allegory of the ages. In this unsettling regression, things become only worse and worse (Met. 1.89-162). For the pessimistic Ovid, Hesiod’s degeneration trumps Protagoras’ evolution. We turn to the less drastic transformation, adopting the clothes of the “opposite” sex.

3. Transvestites Dress, a significant, well nigh universal division of non-verbal behaviours (body-alteration, adaptation), is a variable and reversible expression of gender, class, ethnicity, age and race. Persians wore trousers, for instance, slaves wore chitons, women wore peploi, and Roman citizens wore togas. While Greek and Roman clothing was not as patently class- and gender-specific as European and American garb of the nineteenth and most of the twentieth centuries (think of blue jeans vs. business attire, or neckties vs. dresses and high heels, or restroom symbols), ancient texts generally do not express any doubt as to the gender of an interactant. Clothes have usually complemented audible features (voice timbre) and other visible body features such as skin hue, musculature, torso size, hair treatment, facial hair and cosmetics that clarify one’s sexual identity as male or female. Garb, however, can hide or deceive others about one’s sex. Not surprisingly, in history as well as literature, clothing has served such purposes, as Garber (1992) demonstrates. One can describe crossdressing as a form of second-class cross-gendering (for those who have no metamorphic powers). Without worrying about scalpels or second thoughts – with no permanent side effects – some few people can change their gender at any moment for social situations by merely changing their clothes. Ovid’s epic notices both kinds of changes. The catalogue of six Ovidian transvestic instances (three gods, three humans: Jupiter, Pentheus, Sol, Procris [?], Achilles and Vertumnus) may be fewer than expected. These transvestite additions, 46

Viarre (1985: 241-242) claims there is a positive progression (ascending epic movement) in the sequential ensemble of Tiresias punished, Hermaphroditus as checked or neutral, Iphis advancing to mortal adulthood and Caeneus becoming immortal. This analysis (“du châtiment à l’ascension”) seems forced, since Hermaphroditus bitterly laments his sexual status before seeking and getting revenge (4.388: incesto fontem medicamine tinxit). Caeneus’ alleged immortality (really he experiences only transformation into a bird) arises only from the contested view of two eye-witnesses (12.522): exitus in dubio est.

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however, complement, complete and certainly differ from Ovid’s transsexual narratives of physically altered identities.47 Ovid stresses appearances – attractiveness, deportment and clothing – in the Ars amatoria especially (e.g. 1.505-524, 3.101-125). The presentation of self promotes or prevents amatory success. The Ars and the Amores provide prolegomena to the many seduction sequences in the Metamorphoses. Human and divine failures in wooing recall the “surefire” but somehow ignored erotodidaxis of the earlier works.48 The transvestites employ extreme cultus to obtain their “off-limits” wishes. We next consider the six valid examples and two near misses (nos. 2 and 6). 1. Callisto exhibits a lovely girl’s lack of interest in men or marriage often noticed, regretted (e.g. Chione in Met. 11.302: mille procos habuit; Atalanta II in Met. 10.568: turbam procorum), and targeted by Ovid. She similarly disdains attention to hairstyles, clothes or weaving (Met. 2.410-416). She joined the inviolate virgin goddess Diana’s Arcadian girl-pack with spear and bow for the hunt. The forest hunt and the domestic hearth are one of the frequent polarities in Ovid’s structured poem (Davis 1971: passim). Jupiter, having espied the “loveliest” nymph, deceived Callisto by a transgendered disguise, taking Diana’s form, face and dress (2.425: faciem cultumque). After successfully ingratiating him/herself as the goddess Diana herself, he raped and impregnated her. Nine months later, this story jumps to a hot day’s swim-time period of relaxation and ends in the exposure of the distended pretender. In the presumed safety of a secluded forest poolscape, the virgin goddess’ familiars undress themselves to swim. They strip recalcitrant Callisto, already the victim of rape and now, with her belly bulging, the victim of shaming. Then, they expel the false virgin. She is de-initiated and ostracized from the eternally virgin “girls”. The source of Ovid’s account underlined the necessity of virginity for the nubile (menarchal?) female wishing to serve and accompany the initiatory goddess of teenaged girls. Ovid’s account emphasizes the unwary maiden’s naiveté, divine indifference to human consequences, and human (or nymphal) lack of charity.

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One could add Iphis here, since we saw that this tale features both transsexuality and transvestism. Iphis’ mother had to cross-dress her girl-child to save its life. In addition, the brief account of Apollo’s deception of Chione (dotatissima forma) features an apparent change of sex and/or dress and rape in one verse (Met. 11.310). Below we mention, although Ovid omits that element, two more traditional tales (Daphne’s duplicitous swain, Calydonian Atalanta) that include cross-dressing. Sharrock (2002b: 161) notes similar intratextuality between Ars 3.33-40 and Rem. 47-72: if Medea, Pasiphaë, Dido, Ariadne and Paris (even Tereus!) had read one or the other text, their tragic stories would have ended differently or been aborted for literature.

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[2.] Ovid probably knew but did not narrate another sex-driven Arcadian transvestic story. This one reports a known male transvestite trespassing in the myths of the arch-nymph Daphne. Daphne too, like Callisto and Atalanta, had no interest in men or marriage (Met. 1.474-490). Parthenius (Path. 15.2) and Pausanias (Perieg. 8.20.4) preserve a curious Arcadian version of Daphne’s story. In this account, an Elian prince, another Leucippus,49 cross-dressed himself as a young virgin. The successful ploy brought him “up close and personal” with Daphne. One day, after they became friends, she and her female companions decided to cool down and relax by swimming in the river Ladon. They forcibly undressed the necessarily bashful deceiver, saw his sex and killed the phoney female. They expose another pretender, this time a male, passing as a phoney virginal female among the teenaged initiates of Diana. Ovid preferred to develop the story in which an innocent victim was punished. This Leucippus’ story, a cautionary tale for voyeurs and transvestites, poorly suited his satires of powerful and divine libido. 3. Perhaps the most famous cross-dresser in the Classical tradition is Euripides’ adolescent King Pentheus of Thebes. Therefore, Ovid, ever eager as a student of both Euripides and Callimachus not to tread the wide and familiar path, assumes his audience pictures the tragedian’s successive confrontations with Dionysus. He repeats nothing of the highly visual Euripidean crossdressing scene. This element, prominent in Pentheus’ impious plot to view the crazed Bacchae (Euripides, Bacch. 821-861, 914-944), obviously suited the mimetic stage. Ovid describes Pentheus’ scopophilia and σπαραγμός. While Ovid eschews mention of Pentheus’ attempts to disguise his looks or clothing (Met. 3.701-718), he expects his audience to fill in this familiar part of the story. 4. Sol lusts after Leucothoë. Unable to reach her in her protected domestic space, he takes on the disguise – presumably the sex and garb – of her once most fair mother, Eurynome. Entering her private quarters, the thalamus, he dismisses her handmaids because, he avers, s/he has a mother’s secrets to share (Met. 4.218-224). When the servant women leave, his mother’s tender kisses transform into a rapist’s threats of forced sex. In her fear, Leucothoë submits to the bright Sun. Comparisons to the Sun’s radiance in this poem mark erotic violence.50 More fiery yet is Jupiter’s incineration of his quondam love in a lightning epiphany, after the overly curious Semele demanded to see him as he appeared 49 50

Dowden (1989: 59-68) catalogues nine mythical men of this name that Greek fabulists conjured with. Gentilcore (1995: 119 n. 22) provides further references to heated approaches: Met. 3.183185, 4.228-233, 5.388-389.

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for sex to Juno (Met. 3.298-312). The temporary sexual metamorphoses and other more drastic and fantastic disguises of the gods Jupiter, Apollo and Vertumnus (below) differ from permanent human sex change, but the catalogues overlap in intentions and outcomes. For example, recall Ovid’s description elsewhere of Achilles’ cross-dressing on Scyros (Ars 1.681-704). Here his hero-lover’s girlish outfit serves not as a draft-dodging ruse but an explanation for how he gained proximity to Princess Deidamia’s body – the “girls” shared a room that enabled easy access, intimacy and, finally, rape.51 Heroes suffer for their transgressions, such as Hercules and Cephalus. Gods get away scot-free after they have taken their sexual pleasures. They thus cannot seem tragic to us, but they have comic potential, at least for male audiences, as they rape their way across the Ovidian beaches and landscapes. Ovid exploits this male fascination with fantasies of gender and species masquerade followed by successful sexual escapade. No goddess dresses as a man in this poem, unlike (for a not so common instance) Athena in the Odyssey. In the more successfully gender-segregated world of myth, any male intending to approach a maiden profits by being a woman (difficult to achieve) or appearing to be one (significantly easier). Elderly women had an even greater freedom of female mobility than those still subject to pregnancy.52 Iris briefly became the Trojan crone Beroë in order to visit more easily the Trojan women in the Aeneid (5.605-620), and Ovid’s Juno intertextually plagiarizes her name to approach her sexual rival Semele. She pretends to be – Beroë, Semeles Epidauria nutrix.53 5. Cephalus, in order to test his wife Procris’ marital fidelity, left home and created a disguise as another man. Under his assumed new identity, he offered Procris rich gifts in return for sex. Eventually she capitulated to his seductive offers for copulation. Once exposed, she ran away in shame. Cephalus, who here is Ovid’s tearful but self-protective narrator, chose not to tell another, less savoury part of the story (he alleges that pudor restrains him).54 Ovid, never-

51

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The praeceptor amoris insists that the girl was entirely willing. Even if one is not adopting a false sexual identity, Ovid insists any friendship can develop into sexual relations (Ars 1.720): intret amicitiae nomine tectus amor. Thus, Pratt (2000) explains the wisdom of Demeter’s disguise as a homeless old woman in the Homeric Hymn. Met. 3.275-279; cf. Athena’s epiphany as a crone to caution Arachne (6.26-27: falsosque in tempora canos and a cane). Apollo selected an epiphany as crone to gain access to Chione (11.310). Met. 7.687-688 seems corrupt and no solution popular. Anderson’s Teubner edition cautiously prints a text of the locus desperatus while Tarrant’s OCT rejects all transmitted versions (seclusi, finxi). Ovid’s sly intertextual reference to the transvestite travesty should somehow be preserved. The equipotent marital ‘double-cross’ version appears most fully in

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theless, clearly hints at it by pivoting the tale on Cephalus’ unusual “spear”. This suppressed, complementary but uncomplimentary, tale involves his wife’s own later disguise, in which she cross-dressed. The mythographers preserve version(s) of this incident in which plucky Procris, after being deceived by Cephalus (or not really deceived, in some versions), cross-dressed as yet another man. Then she seduced Cephalus, her husband, with her/his own homoerotic offers and advances based on the offer of special toys.55 She thus shows that her spousal deceiver was no better, and arguably worse (as homosexual), than she was at withstanding the allures of material and sexual seduction. Behind Cephalus’ self-serving revision of his homicidal marriage “lies a lurid saga of adultery, corruption, bribery, transvestism, possible sodomy, and (in … one early version …) deliberate murder.” 56 Disguise for purposes of sexual deception is central to nearly all the cross-dressing tales (Tiresias is exceptional). Ovid in both versions of the Cephalus and Procris tale (also, Ars 3.685-746) presents a story that is “unsavoury and scandalous”, further, an incongruous choice of exemplar for its present didactic point in the Ars amatoria: “girls, don’t jump to conclusions”. In the Metamorphoses (7.665-865), the self-exculpatory survivor Cephalus narrates the story of the spear – the gift (merx) his wife gave him in suspicious circumstances and the very spear by which he killed his wife. The story presents no celebration of true conjugal love to those readers who come to Ovid with knowledge of the weapon’s prehistory. Cephalus sexually betrays Procris at least five times in the myth’s tradition. Arriving in disguise to test his spouse, he bribes her to have sex with another man in Cephalus’ “absence”. He enjoys sex with the goddess Aurora (as early as Hesiod, Theog. 986-987). Procris, responding to his fraud by disguising herself as a man, successfully seduces him with fabulous gifts (unerring spear, never failing hunting dog) granted in return for his submitting to pathic sex with him/her. They somehow reconcile. He continues his solitary hunting. One hot day, as often, he calls on Aur[or]a in unmistakably erotic language to come to him now to cool his overheated body. A busybody overhears and misunderstands him, at least as he tells the story. Procris, told of his erotic-seeming preorgasmic blanditiae then follows him to the hills on the chase (game and sex) to test her aroused suspicions. He calls for relief again, and she groans (gemi-

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the late mythographers, but Pherecydes’ account shows how early it arose. Cephalus’ explicit praeteritio is Ovid’s common intertextual signal, a wink to the cognoscenti. Pherecydes, FGrHist 3 fr. 34 (= Schol. Od. 11.321). Met. 7.687-688; cf. Antoninus Liberalis, Met. 41.6, Hyginus, Fab. 189.7-8. Green (1979: 17-18) points out how irrelevant, even contradictory, such spousal fidelity is to the Ars amatoria. He appreciates Ovid’s respect for, and expectation of, readers’ awareness of the squalid erotic elements.

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tus) to have her suspicions apparently confirmed. Cephalus thinks her sounds come from a lurking animal and lethally spears Procris’ body (mistaken or not as his legitimate hunting quarry). The gift of the spear brings them both to grief. Both learn their truths too late. Cephalus holds his wife’s moribund body suffering her death throes, non-orgasmic cries and murmurs. If one dwells longer on this tawdry series of deceptions, in the myth of Cephalus and Procris, as we recover it from earlier sources, both distrustful parties deceive their mates and provide a paradigm of infidelity, unromantic testing, justified mistrust and tit-for-tat payback to the spouse.57 Procris employs her husband’s homosexual lust or sheer greed for hunting tools to double-cross him, to persuade him to agree to submit to the boy’s pathic role in sex (anal or intercrural intercourse). After “an uneasy reconciliation” of the couple, Cephalus utters his sexy appeals to “Breeze”, Aura, by vocibus ambiguis (expressing anxieties relevant to both erotic and atmospheric needs). Asking any female being to come to cool his overheated person, to pleasure him in a place of his former adulterous trysting with the similarly named goddess Aurora, was unwise, to say the least. Having used language of innuendo appropriate for meeting a paelex (Servius in Aen. 6.445),58 Cephalus flushed out and killed his reasonably suspicious wife with his (and her) own spear. The female hunter became the hoisted hunted. In sum, Cephalus first deceived to seduce and expose his faithful wife. Later, he was ready to cheat on her, basely to serve her, a putative male lover, as a boy/woman. Procris cross-dressed, bribed and deceived to seduce and expose her husband as equally unfaithful. The master of Topsy-Turvy, Ovid twice turned to this couple’s squalid marriage: for a paradigm for women (!) to trust their male partners while they are engaged in their extra-marital affairs (Ars amatoria), and for a long answer to an idle question about Cephalus’ handsome, phallic weapon – his spear (Met.). Disingenuous Cephalus’ weepy apologia pro vita sua (Green’s witty phrase) explains the gift as both granted by his wife (occasion left unspecified) and lethal for his wife. Killing her was a result of his own foolish haste, he says, not his intention in a rage at her “tailing” him (as Pherecydes implies).

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Green (1979: 20-21) catalogues Procris’ dubious activities and sex-life while staying with randy Minos in Crete during her marriage’s period of unpleasant separation, before their uneasy reconciliation. Pasiphaë is a competitor. See Green (1979: 22-23). In the verse Servius elucidates, Vergil has placed Procris in the Fields of Grief between Phaedra and Eriphyle, two wives not celebrated for their marital fidelity. Either Vergil is not aware of what he is doing (a bad hypothesis), or his Procris too is no model of wifely behaviour. Homer (Od. 11.321) mentions Procris between Phaedra and Ariadne, a slight improvement for the women’s team but hardly a happy pair of precedents. Davis’ 1971 monograph unravels many complexities of Ovid’s anti-romance of Procris.

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[6.] Atalanta, unmistakably female in Ovid’s poem,59 wears the dress (cultus) of a doughty huntress and ties her (long) hair in a knot. Ovid, however, has his grammar appropriately cross cases in the description of the male-identified hunter female. He describes her sexually ambiguous face with a sexual chiasmus (“crossing”) of noun and adjective (Met. 8.322-323): dicere vere / virgineam in puero, puerilem in virgine possis.60 7. Ulysses briefly recounts young Achilles’ early, unheroic battle- and deathdodging transvestism (Met. 13.162-169). His mother had deceived everyone by dressing her son in girls’ clothing (13.163-164: dissimulat cultu natum; sumptae fallacia vestis). Disguised as a merchant, Ulysses purposefully hid some weapons appealing to virile tastes among women’s gewgaws (femineis … mercibus). Wily Ulysses’ ruse snared Achilles, still accoutered in his young woman’s wardrobe (virgineos habitus). He grabbed men’s gear including spear and shield, and went off to the Trojan War. 8. Vertumnus’ extended story (Met. 14.609-771),61 whether truly transsexual or merely transvestite, provides a major rape or deception narrative, again fancifully misunderstood by some recent critics as a positive presentation of heterosexual love with a satisfactorily amorous ending.62 The twisty and twisted oafish suitor, equipped with clumsy versions of suitable elegiac topoi (cf. Polyphemus in Met. 13.755-884), deceives and sexually subjects the fecund farmer girl Pomona. Ovid’s narrative exposes both the excesses of erotic pas-

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Plato’s Atalanta (Rep. 10.620b) became a male athlete in her next life, clarifying her transsexual inclinations. Pasiphaë (Met. 8.131-137) poses a troubling eccentricity for the usually wholly anthropoid transsexual and transvestite categories. A woman and wife, she ‘dressed up’ in an animal disguise for bestial sex. Climbing into a hollow, roomy wooden statue of a cow (Met. 9.739), she had arranged for the image to sport an opening in the proper place to attract the sexual attentions of a bull. Their “adulterous” sexual union begot the Minotaur, a hybrid or crossbreed (discordemque utero fetum tulit). Pasiphaë’s creative innovation (with Daedalus as artifex; see Met. 8.159) is not the cross-dressing between genders that we see elsewhere in Ovid but sodomy between genera. She has not attracted the sympathy that readers of Ovid’s other sexual experimenters and deviants have, although Euripides in his Cretans allowed her to defend her bestial, agalmatophilic conduct. Romulus’ following story has only half the verses – so much for Ovid’s desire to feed Augustus’ fervour for religious antiquarianism (Myers 1994: 246). The list of so-called romances of successful love usually includes Pyramus and Thisbe, Cephalus and Procris, Baucis and Philemon, Ceyx and Alcyone as well. Deception, violence, objectification, or hysterical attachments pollute each of these tales, despite the optimistic arguments of Brooks Otis (21970: 263-277) and others promoting conjugal ideals in Ovid. Davis’ study (1971) of Cephalus and Procris and the problematics of passions and marriage in the Metamorphoses can be applied to these other tales of apparent marital bliss.

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sion and the failures of rational amatory strategies.63 After many other disguises (without bodily transformation) gain him entry (much, but no more) into the walled garden of Pomona, nubile but reluctant to marry,64 Vertumnus’ final rustic figure is that of a crone with a bonnet and cane (14.652-660: instrumenta, useful object-adaptors), either a disguised transvestite or a transsexed divinity. He, as an elderly she, penetrates the walled, beautifully cultivated garden, a familiar symbol or double of the female sexual organs in NearEastern and Hellenic poetry. Gentilcore (1995: 114) states: “The crossing of the border which demarcates her pomaria metaphorically [already] represents Pomona’s rape.” S/He (Vertumnus) kisses her passionately (other-adaptors), signs of affection inappropriate and in contradiction to his deviously assumed age, accoutrements (self-adaptors) and gender (14.658-659): dedit oscula, qualia numquam / vera dedisset anus. Vertumnus (“Turner”) tells her an ironic truth, that s/he loves her more than any ardent (human) suitor does.65 The randy god tells an appropriate and pathetic story of the unsuccessful and Cypriot lover, Iphis II, and his indifferent object of desire, Anaxarete. Anaxarete had suffered an appropriately petrifying condign punishment for failure to appreciate, much less reciprocate, human affection. The vengeful gods (ultores deos) turn this hardhearted elegiac mistress into the unfeeling stone that her behaviour imitates. Metamorphosis actualizes the poetic metaphor. She will become what she already metaphorically is. The wonderful ‘old lady’s’ Cypriot story, however, completely fails to achieve its intended cautionary effect on the still unaroused and virginal Pomona. Vertumnus, having no profit from his tools of deceit, logic and storytelling, quits his anile pretense and transvestite tricks. He resumes his original male appearance and puts off his cross-clothing (14.765-767): haec ubi nequiquam formae deus apta senili edidit, in iuvenem rediit et anilia demit instrumenta. “When the god in vain spoke these words suited to an older-looking person, he returned to a young [man] and removed his crone’s equipment.”

In his glory, the scorned bully threatens to force the object of his desire. Pomona, for reasons that remain unclear, gives up her body (14.770-771). Vertumnus has manipulated gender, gender-indicators, race (divine), age and

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Gentilcore (1995) analyses the story and refutes optimistic readings of the double-cross and rape. She has rebuffed mille viri (...) et semideique deique (Met. 14.674) and yet other numina. Met. 14.675-678, verses full of deceptive irony and elegiac innuendo: sed tu si sapies, si te bene iungere anumque / hanc audire voles, quae te plus omnibus illis, / plus quam credis amo, vulgares reice taedas / Vertumnumque tori socium tibi selige (...).

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marital status to insinuate himself into Pomona’s graces – nequiquam! Force, however, gains his end. Dowden (1989: 176) sagely states that “a friendship based on [deceptive, unannounced] transvestism calls for a dénouement.” Males in disguise as females penetrate hidden spaces such as Pomona’s fruited garden. The frauds promote a misperception of peaceful surfaces, engendering both conversational and interaction-ritual (non-verbal) ironies concerning dangerous sub-surface intentions known to the readers. The male pleasure of the text arises from insufficiently guarded Pomona’s (or Dornröschen’s or Rotkäppchen’s) misrecognition of a terrible frenzy of sexual violence about to be unleashed at her expense. The audience enjoys a very vicarious peril. The male gaze imperils and unveils hidden female personality and person (body).

4. Conclusions Ovid deconstructs our confidence in identity; for him selfhood is more fluid, and many, like Niobe, Hermaphroditus and Marsyas, become fluids. Amidst many disguises and catastrophes, however, Ovid presents gender as generally constant, even when a human turns into a stag or a god turns into a human male. It seems that Ovid and his sources shied away from any celebration of transvestites. His characters’ masquerades do not proceed from a desire to belong to the other sex but, at most, to profit from a brief misapprehension. Male gods never abandon their birth assignment of a penis. These divine mendressed-as-women (MTFs) cross-code gendered clothing and adopt feminine grooming for sexual advantage, but their male inclinations quickly reveal themselves. The transsexual woman-dressed-as-man (FTM) humans (Tiresias, Mestra, Iphis, Caeneus, the Coronids) gain the superior status and privileges of males. Tiresias never wanted to be female, and Caenis welcomes her miraculous macho impenetrability. The rare cases of MTFs (Tiresias, Sithon and Mestra) suffer unwished for changes. The self-sacrificing but magically anamorphic Mestra uniquely prefers her original, female assignment, but she maintains her options. Hermaphroditus obviously regards his new situation as a repugnant humiliation and wants revenge.66 Few Ovidian characters, like few contemporary MTF and FTM transsexuals, ever choose to oscillate between sexual identities in their sexist worlds.67 It is too confusing for life or literature. Even once to switch the clear signals of

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Cantarella (1992: 212-213) clearly phrases the male point of reference in historical and literary records. Time of life, place, persons and positions severely limited perceptible ancient toleration of homosexual “impulses”. Griggs (1998: 102-105) describes “intermittent gender cross-coding”.

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one’s own gender assignment is difficult. These signals determine the social reactions of others that in shock can turn violent or even lethal. Sharrock (2002a: 96) describes Pentheus, Hermaphroditus and Narcissus as adolescents exhibiting arrested gender identity formation, incomplete passage to adult gender acquisition rather than reversal. Recalcitrant virgin females, such as Daphne, Atalanta II and Pomona, desire perpetual virginity and reject throngs of suitors and the very idea of marriage. Their refusal of adult gender roles produces their eventual downfalls. Their stories show inadequate acquaintance with adult sex roles, expectations and duties. The boys and girls suffer in a sexual universe for their failed or asexual responses. Ovid enjoys destabilizing static images of conventional morals, Olympian gods and heroic epics. His inclinations ran counter to the sticky lies of Augustan pseudo-culture that eventually censored, trapped and destroyed him. His “heroes” experience emasculation (Ancaeus), demasculation (Hermaphroditus) and occasional remasculation (Tiresias, gods). His victims occasionally gain masculation (Iphis, Caenis, the Coronids). Morgan (2003: 69-74) has justified the “boyisms” (Dryden’s term) of his (seemingly) flippant epic as suited to the poet’s tickling “oppositional relationship” to the binary sexual obsessions of Roman patriarchy, and his two recent authority figures – Augustus and Vergil. The grand ideology of the Aeneid requires its virile vir Aeneas to train his motherless, virtuous (although nearly voiceless) son, Ascanius, to be a killer kid, debellare superbos (enemies like Remulus Numanus, Aen. 9.592-637), not to be a Trojan “girlie boy” (Aen. 9.614-620, 641-642). Ovid, however, inverts the defining masculine pretensions or orthodox Roman power structures and expectations of traditional Latin epic. While Vergil’s Apollo confirms Ascanius’ aggressive way up to the stars, Ovid’s regal or privileged pueri subversively crash down from the heavens (Phaethon, Icarus) – without dignity. Others lose their fragile human male bodies and identities (Actaeon, Narcissus, Pentheus, Hermaphroditus). Ovid transgressively turns Vergil’s classical male body into the grotesque. What was static, elevated and transcendant becomes vulnerable, split, a decomposing object in process.68 Blustery, paternal instruction and boyish, insubordinate aspirations become futile perspiration, puerile rebellion, and leave ashes, ripped flesh and flotsam. The ignorant characters and their ludic poet are mischievous, often deficient in their attention to admonitions (Met. 8.199-204): Icarus lusuque suo mirabile patris / impediebat opus. He wears feathers not his own (failed transformation), and he can only ape and forget his father’s skills. No amount of expert instruction saves the child. His waywardness kills him, as had Phaethon’s. They are out of place, decentered, in error, pushed to the edge and over.

68

Cf. Stallybrass & White (1986: 21-22), an approach based on Bakhtinian inversion.

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Ovid, like many of his characters, liked to break the rules and elude parental career expectations (Trist. 4.10.15-40). Deficient in respect for religious authority, for hypocritical Augustus’ sexual statutes and pseudo-republican ideology, not to mention for generic literary expectations and epic decorum for sexual episodes, Ovid violated hoary traditions, imposed pseudo-traditions and unconstitutional authority. He found the brittle humour in the laws of force, rules imposed by the brutal Triumviral proscriptions, murders carried out by indifferent legionaries. He possessed both summum ingenium and iudicium, but his unique poetics (animus) chose to celebrate, not suppress, licentiam carminum suorum (Seneca, Contr. 2.2.12). His transsexualities and transvestisms likewise consciously and intentionally transgress “natural” and cultural (gender) limits in pursuit of disrespectable, even supposedly degenerate (cinaedi!) desires and whims. One character when flayed (disvestism) emits disembodied screams of the poet’s pure pain and wound. Marsyas has a very short story (Met. 6.386-388): “a! piget, a! non est” clamabat “tibia tanti” clamanti cutis est summos direpta per artus, nec quidquam nisi vulnus erat. “ ‘Oh, I am sorry. But, oh’, he screamed, ‘the flute is not so important.’ The skin is torn from the surface of the screamer’s limbs and nothing but wound was he.”

Ovid’s treatment of transsexualities and transvestisms, with one possible exception, dwells on the instrumental and social consequences of their transits. Mestra, Jupiter, Sol, Apollo and Vertumnus transit sexes briefly to avoid sexual slavery or to gain a sexual end. Caenis’ wished-for reward, malehood, frees her from rape; Achilles’ femalehood frees him from military service at Troy. Tiresias’ two changes provide punishment and reward (reward likewise for the Coronids). In the semi-suppressed transvestic accounts, Pentheus wants to see the gender-forbidden, Procris wants to pay back in kind (quid pro quo) her deceitful spouse. The exception, if such s/he be, is Iphis who wants to be maleequipped to marry her/his beloved Ianthe and avoid the wrath of his father. Only s/he is given a proper Ovidian monologue, this poet’s equivalent of modern narrators’ psychological analysis (Met. 9.726-763). She expresses feelings of forsakenness on account of her “unnatural” love. If she must suffer, she wants a naturale malum saltem et de more. Even Pasiphaë had a hope for heterosexual sex with her bull, not suffering such stultos ignes as she does. For her, res (biological reality) cancels all spes (hope of fulfilment). Adolescents yearn for the ratification of their passions. When their starcrossed beloved is someone of their own sex, they have but two choices, at best: to accept their homosexuality or, more drastically, change sexes. The latter solution required Isis, before the day of plastic reconstructive surgery.

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Seeking acceptance for their feelings, such youngsters experience the wretched confusions of literary and actual pre-transsexuals. They too may perceive themselves as minds in the wrong bodies, males in female bodies or vice-versa. Normal binarity is a cultural ideal, not everyone’s lot, as Herculine Barbin realized or Calliope Stephanides discovers in Eugenides’ unusual neither-nor novel.69 Ovid’s often sexual epic explores “abnormal” inclinations such as incest, pedophilia, scopophilia, bestiality, homosexuality and transsexuality. His stories disrupt “common sense” categories of normality, including binary sex, as too “cut” and dried. Garber (1992: 12-13) recognizes that any third, new category creates a crisis for the community, since it questions recognized identities and stability. Iphis’ tidy, happy change-of-sex ending fits the dominant view of Ovid as the celebrant of heteronormativity and marriage (e.g. Otis 1970: 266, 270). Hermaphroditus’ most unhappy half-and-half ending as a marginal man-woman, however, invites readers’ anxieties, their further thoughts concerning acquaintances’ typical and limited expectations of sex and gender. Identity poses problems and creates opportunities for nearly all characters in Ovid’s epic. Gender, race and class supply one current academic trinity of investigation, but sex, marital status, life-style, ethnicity (Roman, Cretan, Egyptian etc.) and age are other important markers by which associates judge us. Ovid has interesting things to say about all these categories, especially sex and gender and their permeable boundaries. Both self and others can reconstruct, misrepresent or conceal biological sex and socially constructed gender. Ovid collected and concocted violent variations on humanity’s primal romantic scenarios of binarity – boy meets girl. He dramatizes sexual violation, contests the “natural”, binomial gender system, tests the expectations of “normal” society and gladly disrupts his culture’s staged reality and normality.

Bibliography Balsdon, John P. V. D. (1966): Fabula Clodiana. In: Historia 15, 65-73. Bömer, Franz (1977): P. Ovidius Naso. Metamorphosen (Vol. 8-9), Heidelberg. Brisson, Luc (2002): Sexual Ambivalence. Androgyny and Hermaphroditism in GraecoRoman Antiquity (transl. Janet Lloyd), Berkeley. Bullough, Vern L. & Bonnie Bullough (1993): Cross Dressing, Sex, and Gender, Philadelphia. 69

Ordinary and élite people take pleasure in briefly “playing the other”, and the more other, the merrier. Carnival costumes, masked balls, Hallowe’en disguises and male club theatricals provide opportunities; for several theories, see Garber (1992: passim) and Miller (1999: 251252, with further references).

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Cantarella, Eva (1992): Bisexuality in the Ancient World (transl. Cormac Ó Cuilleanáin), New Haven. Davis, Gregson (1971): The Death of Procris. “Amor” and the Hunt in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Rome. Delcourt, Marie (1961): Hermaphrodite. Myths and Rites of the Bisexual Figure in Classical Antiquity (transl. Jennifer Nicholson), London. Dowden, Ken (1989): Death and the Maiden. Girls’ Initiation Rites in Greek Mythology, London & New York. Ekman, Paul & Wallace V. Friesen (1969): The repertoire of nonverbal behavior. Categories, origins, usage and coding. In: Semiotica 1.1, 49-98. Enterline, Lynn (2000): The Rhetoric of the Body from Ovid to Shakespeare, Cambridge. Eugenides, Jeffrey (2002): Middlesex, New York. Forbes Irving, Paul M. (1990): Metamorphosis in Greek Myths, Oxford. Forbis, Elizabeth P. (1997): Voice and voicelessness in Ovid’s exile poetry. In: Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 8, 247-267. Foucault, Michel (ed.) (1980): Herculine Barbin. Being the Recently Discovered Memoirs of a Nineteenth-Century French Hermaphrodite (transl. Richard McDougall), New York. Garber, Marjorie (1992): Vested Interests. Cross-Dressing & Cultural Anxiety, New York. Gentilcore, Roxanne (1995): The landscape of desire. The tale of Pomona and Vertumnus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In: Phoenix 49, 110-120. Green, Peter (1979): The innocence of Procris. In: Classical Journal 75, 15-24. Griggs, Claudine (1998): S/HE. Changing Sex and Changing Clothes, Oxford. Hansen, William (ed.) (1996): Phlegon of Tralles’ Book of Marvels, Exeter. Hill, Donald E. (ed.) (1999): Ovid Metamorphoses IX-XII, Warminster. Hinds, Stephen (2002): Landscape with figures. Aesthetics of place in the Metamorphoses and its tradition. In: Philip Hardie (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Ovid, Cambridge, 122-149. Hoberman, Ruth (1997): Gendering Classicism. The Ancient World in TwentiethCentury Women’s Historical Fiction, Albany. Janan, Michaela (1991): The labyrinth and the mirror. Incest and influence in Metamorphoses 9. In: Arethusa 24, 239-256. Keuls, Eva (21993): The Reign of the Phallus. Sexual Politics in Ancient Athens, Berkeley. Lafaye, Georges (1904): Les métamorphoses d’Ovide et leurs modèles grecs, Paris. Leitao, David (1995): The perils of Leukippos. Initiatory transvestism and male gender ideology in the Ekdusia at Phaistos. In: Classical Antiquity 14, 130-163. Miller, Margaret C. (1999): Reexamining transvestism in archaic and classical Athens. The Zewaldski stamnos. In: American Journal of Archaeology 103, 223-253.

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Möllendorff, Peter von (2009): Man as monster. Eros and hubris in Plato’s Symposium. In: Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin & New York, 87-109. Morgan, Llewellyn (2003): Child’s play. Ovid and his critics. In: Journal of Roman Studies 93, 66-91. Myers, K. Sara (1994): Ultimus Ardor. Pomona and Vertumnus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 14.623-771. In: Classical Journal 89, 225-250. Nugent, S. Georgia (1990): This sex which is not one. Deconstructing Ovid’s Hermaphrodite. In: Differences 2.1, 160-185. Osmun, George F. (1978): Changes of sex in Greek and Roman mythology. In: Classical Bulletin 54, 75-79. Otis, Brooks (21970): Ovid as an Epic Poet, Cambridge. Pratt, Louise H. (2000): The old women of ancient Greece and the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. In: Transactions of the American Philological Association 130, 41-65. Rose, Herbert J. (1956): Divine disguisings. In: Harvard Theological Review 49, 63-72. Sharrock, Alison (2002a): Gender and sexuality. In: Philip Hardie (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Ovid, Cambridge, 95-107. Sharrock, Alison (2002b): Ovid and the discourses of love. In: Philip Hardie (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Ovid, Cambridge, 150-162. Suhr, Elmer G. (1953): Herakles and Omphale. In: American Journal of Archaeology 57, 251-263. Stallybrass, Peter & Allon White (1986): The Politics and Poetics of Transgression, Ithaca. Viarre, Simone (1985): L’androgynie dans les Métamorphoses d’Ovide. À la recherche d’une méthode de lecture. In: Jean Marc Frécaut & Danielle Porte (eds.), Journées ovidiennes de Parménie, Bruxelles, 229-243.

Body-Modification in Classical Greece Mireille M. Lee Abstract: Body-modification may seem at first glance to be a superficial aspect of Greek culture; but modifications to the body reflect Greek ideology in a profound way. This chapter considers the textual, visual and archaeological evidence for Greek practices of bodymodification, and shows how such behaviours constructed gender, status, and ethnicity. The nude male body was presented as the ideal in classical Greece. But this body was not natural; it was achieved by means of body-modification. The diaita, a regimen of diet, exercise and bathing, ideally resulted in a lean, muscular, tanned body. In general, men’s body-modification took place in the public arenas, such as the palaestra and the barbershop, which underscores the importance of personal display and the homoerotic gaze. In contrast, women’s practices were private and domestic. Feminine bodymodification, which included bathing, the removal of body-hair, arrangement of the coiffure, and the application of perfume and cosmetics, is a more intimate process, involving at most an attendant or two. The self-referential nature of feminine bodymodification is underscored by the prevalence of mirrors in scenes of feminine adornment: women regularly gaze at their own appearance in mirrors, whereas men, as a rule, do not. What both genders share in terms of practices of body-modification is that they are all temporary: they require repeated performance, allowing multiple opportunities for display and conspicuous consumption. The aristocratic elite used temporary bodymodification as a means of maintaining their identity vis-à-vis non-elites and especially non-Greeks. Permanent body-modification, especially tattooing and circumcision, was reserved for barbarians. Such permanent forms of body-modification ensure that nonGreeks have no opportunity for transgressing ethnic boundaries by means of performance.

1. Introduction The boundaries of bodies are not so clearly defined as we might imagine.1 Where does the body begin? Where does it end? Is the body bounded by the skin? What about the hair and nails? What is the relationship of hair- and nail1

I wish to thank all the participants of the very stimulating “Bodies” conference at the Center for Hellenic Studies, and in particular Thorsten Fögen for his insightful comments on an earlier draft of this paper. All translations are from the Loeb, unless otherwise specified.

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clippings, or other bodily products such as excreta, breast milk or saliva, to the body? Mary Douglas argued that the body serves as a metaphor for society, and that the boundaries of the body reflect the boundaries of society (Douglas 2002). Michel Foucault understood the boundaries of the body as the site at which societal structures of power are inscribed upon the individual (Foucault 1977). But the boundaries of the body do not simply reflect or reinforce a static social structure. Rather, bodily boundaries comprise an essential means by which social boundaries are constituted. As formulated by Pierre Bourdieu, the boundaries of the body are not fixed, but negotiated by individuals on a daily basis in the habitual construction of social identities (Bourdieu 1977). Modifications to the body, which mark the boundary between self and society, are fundamental to the construction of identities. Hence, bodymodifications are strictly policed (Entwistle 2001: 37). Body-modifications may include transformations of the hair, skin, nails, muscular/skeletal system, teeth and breath; they may be temporary or permanent (Eicher & RoachHiggins 1992: 18). Although we tend to think of body-modification in terms of such extreme practices as tattooing, piercing or cosmetic surgery, the mundane habits of diet, exercise, bathing, the application of perfume and cosmetics, and the maintenance of body- and cephalic-hair are also significant. All cultures engage in body-modification in some form; it is one of few human universals. This chapter considers the social functions of body-modification in classical Greece.2 Although individual practices of body-modification have been reconstructed from the textual, visual and archaeological evidence, they have not been considered as part of a coherent system by which the Greeks negotiated the social constructs of gender, status and ethnicity. As has been well established, the elite male comprised the norm in Greek society. Greek practices of body-modification were essential to the construction of the normative status of the elite male; “other” bodies, that is, the bodies of women and barbarians, were marked as deviant by means of body-modification.

2. Diaita and difference The δίαιτα, a daily regimen of diet, exercise and bathing, were fundamental to the construction of elite identity, and especially elite masculinity. 3 Each of these behaviours of bodily modification worked in concert with the others to maintain a proper balance of hot and cold, wet and dry. Men’s bodies were 2 3

Archaic and Classical practices are discussed in greater detail in my forthcoming book Kalos Kosmos. The Βody, Dress and Gender in Early Greece. For Roman practices, see Baertschi & Fögen (2005), with further references. An excellent overview of the δίαιτα is Craik (1995: 343-350). Ancient “dietetics” are discussed by Foucault (1990: 95-116); for a corrective, see Detel (1998: 93-117).

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thought to be naturally hot and dry compared to the bodies of women. Hence their δίαιτα, as prescribed by the Hippocratics, included vigorous exercise and “drying” foods such as wheat bread and roasted meats, whereas the women’s regimen specified the opposite. Diet also depended on the season and climate. Certainly the consumption of food is a primary means of body-modification, as evidenced by the modern diet industry. In classical Athens, overindulgence in food, resulting in obesity, was frequently satirized in comedy; abstinence from eating, leading to emaciation, was linked with philosophers (who reject bodily needs in favour of intellectual pursuit), the elderly and the dead (Wilkins 2000: 27). Despite the attention paid to food and its effects on the body in the textual sources, overweight or excessively thin persons are conspicuously absent from Greek art of the Classical period, and images of dining practices are rare.4 Conversely, scenes of exercise and bathing are common in vase-painting starting in the late archaic period, and in sculpture beginning in the early classical. Robin Osborne has argued that the palaestra was the primary context for the performance of elite masculinity (Osborne 1998: 29). The extensive archaeological, visual and literary sources pertaining to Greek athletics underscore their central importance for ancient society. The activities of the palaestra are depicted on numerous Attic vases, such as the red-figured dinos in the manner of the Dinos Painter in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (fig. 1). As is invariably the case in Greek art, the athletes are depicted nude, in contrast to their trainers, who are clothed. The literary sources confirm the practice of athletic nudity: Herodotus (1.10.3) and Plato (Rep. 5.452c) identify exercise in the nude as a uniquely Greek institution that distinguished Greeks from barbarians. Given that only the aristocracy could afford the luxury of leisure time in the palaestra, athletic nudity also marked elite social status (Osborne 1998: 29). Athletic nudity is important for our investigation of body-modification, because it underscores the significance of bodily display within the context of the palaestra. The performance of Greek athletics was not limited to the actual workout, but included a kind of ritual preparation before and restoration following exercise. These activities would have been witnessed by others within the palaestra, and are recorded in detail on the vases. Prior to exercise, the athlete would anoint himself with oil from an aryballos, as shown in the tondo of a red-figure cup by the Antiphon Painter in Berlin (fig. 2). The Greeks believed that anointing the body with oil gave the athlete greater strength (Ulf 1979). It also would have enhanced the tanning effects of the sun, softened the skin and made it shine. Some late literary sources also mention the practice of sprinkling the oiled body with a fine powder. Philostratus (On Gymnastics 56) 4

For images of both emaciated and obese persons in later Greek and Roman art, see Grmek & Gourevitch (1998: 145-182).

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notes that “yellow dust also adds glisten and is a delight to see on a nice body which is in good shape”,5 but we cannot be sure that this was a classical practice.

Figure 1: Red-figured dinos, manner of the Dinos Painter, c. 430-420 B.C., Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, no. 96.720. © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

The custom of infibulation is likewise absent from classical literary sources, though it is represented on several vases. In the tondo of a red-figured cup by Onesimos in the Hermitage, an athlete is in the process of tying up his foreskin (fig. 3). The purpose of infibulation has been debated: some have suggested that it served as a kind of proto-jock-strap, or to control sexual impulses

5

Translation from Miller (²2004b: 22).

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(Sweet 1985). 6 But the appearance of infibulated komasts in symposium scenes suggests that it was not exclusively an athletic practice. Rather, it served as a means of preventing accidental exposure of the glans during any vigorous movement, which would have been considered unseemly (Hodges 2001: 382-383). Athletic activity was itself an important means of body-modification. Vigorous exercise outdoors in the nude would have created a deep, dark tan and well-defined muscles. Indeed, these features were emphasized in the many bronze sculptures made to commemorate Greek athletes, such as the so-called Antikythera bronze (fig. 4). As was noted even in antiquity, the original appearance of the polished bronze approximated the tanned, oiled, skin of athletes (Mattusch 1996: 24-25, 88-89). Western viewers have internalized such monuments as representing a generic Greek type, but it is important to understand them within the context of the palaestra. These sculptures represent the ideal body to which all aspired. Such images may have contributed to athletes’ anxieties in the same way that idealized images in the media today create standards that are generally unattainable. Cleansing of the body following exercise was likewise an opportunity for bodily display. A red-figure kylix by the Codrus Painter in the British Museum (fig. 5a) depicts several youths in process of scraping the accumulated sweat and oil from the body using a strigil, of which many examples have been preserved archaeologically, primarily as offerings in graves. The particular significance of this process of body-modification may be suggested by the fact that the scrapings, called γλοιός, were preserved and sold for medicinal purposes, though we have no secure literary testimony for this practice prior to Pliny the Elder (Nat. hist. 28.50-52; see Miller 2004a: 16; Miller ³2004b: 213). The opposite side of the kylix (fig. 5b) depicts the next stage of the cleansing process, the cold-water bath: three young men stand around a louterion; the man on the right holds out a sponge for washing. To the right of this group, a man has dipped water from a well to pour over the head of a kneeling comrade. The overall significance of the body-modifications performed by the Greek athlete is underscored by the iconic appearance in vase-painting of the athlete’s kit, which contained the necessary tools: the aryballos and strigil, and sometimes also a sponge (e.g. fig. 3). It is clear from both the literary sources and the visual representations that the palaestra was an erotically charged homo-social environment (Scanlon 2002: 199-273). Some of the vases are more explicit than others: καλός names are frequent; trainers often gaze at the genitals of the athletes, or gesticulate

6

Late lexicographers refer to the cords as κυνοδέσμαι (‘dog leashes’); see Miller (2004a: 1213).

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Figure 2: Red-figure kylix, Antiphon Painter, c. 500-450 B.C., lost, formerly Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung, Berlin, no. 2314. Photograph: Bildarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz/Art Resource, NY

Figure 3: Red-figure kylix, Onesimos, c. 500-450 B.C., State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, no. B1534. Photograph: State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg

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Figure 4: Bronze statue of an athlete, found off the island of Antikythera, c. 340 B.C., National Archaeological Museum, Athens, no. 13396. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture/Archaeological Receipts Fund

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Side A

Side B

Figures 5a and 5b: Red-figure kylix, Codrus Painter, c. 450-400 B.C., British Museum, London, no. E83. © The Trustees of the British Museum

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towards them with their switches. In this arena of bodily display, individuals perform their social identities in part by means of body-modification. The habitual repetition of exercise and bathing reinforces individual identities; the erotic gaze of other men assures identification with the group of masculine elite. Women are conspicuously absent from the palaestra. In general, elite women did not engage in vigorous exercise outdoors, but ideally remained indoors overseeing the operation of the oikos. In Xenophon’s Oeconomicus, the performance of household chores is adequate exercise for the young wife (Oec. 10.11).7 Whether or not the texts mirror reality, the visual record (especially classical grave reliefs, but also vase-painting) emphasizes the ideal image of an elite woman seated on a high-backed chair, feet elevated on a footrest, suggesting an interior, static, existence. As with other aspects of the δίαιτα, women’s practices are the opposite of men’s. But although women are excluded from the palaestra, they do engage in elaborate bathing practices, often in the company of other women. Here we are somewhat hampered by the evidence: although Greek vases provide extensive evidence of feminine bathing and grooming practices, it is difficult to discern in many cases whether the women represented are proper women or hetairai.8 And if they do represent courtesans, as is likely on symposium vessels, to what degree were bathing practices shared by women of all social classes? The literary sources are likewise ambiguous in most cases, which is not surprising given that feminine adornment took place primarily in private contexts. Of course, both the vases and the texts were created primarily by men for an intended male audience, and we cannot be sure that either reflects actual feminine practices. The Hippocratic Diseases of Women (II 71.60) prescribes warm water bathing for women, as part of a “moist” regimen. But images of women bathing in vase-painting are in some ways indistinguishable from representations of men’s cold water bathing. The red-figure amphora in Munich by the Group of Polygnotos (fig. 6) depicts three naked women standing around a louterion not unlike that in the palaestra scenes. Other features of men’s bathing, however, are absent, namely the strigil and aryballos (the figure in the center holds 7

8

According to Athenian (and Roman) literary sources, Spartan women exercised in order that they might give birth to healthy baby boys. Whether or not they actually did so cannot be established with certainty. It is quite likely that the textual evidence reflects construction of Spartan “otherness” vis-à-vis Classical Athenian practices. For a recent discussion of women’s athletics at Sparta, see Scanlon (2002: 121-138). Other examples of women’s athletics are restricted to ritual, especially girls’ rites of passage, e.g. the Arkteia at Brauron and the Heraia at Olympia (see most recently Scanlon 2002: 98-120, 139-174). These events occurred only sporadically, and would not have resulted in any appreciable bodily modifications. The literature on hetairai is extensive. See most recently, Faraone & McClure (2006).

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a woman’s alabastron, not an aryballos). It seems likely, then, that this is a domestic space as opposed to the public realm of the palaestra.9 The social status of the women represented on the vases is debatable: the conventions of female nudity in this period would argue for their identification as hetairai, especially the frontal figure in the center, whose direct gaze would not have been appropriate for proper women. On the other hand, similar scenes of washing, especially hair-washing, are common in bridal scenes (Pfisterer-Haas 2002: 40-47; Sabetai 1997: 320-321), which suggests that bathing practices were shared by proper women and hetairai alike.

Figure 6: Red-figure amphora, Group of Polygnotos, c. 475-426 B.C., Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlungen, Munich, no. J349. Photograph: Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München

9

A very few images depict women with strigils in apparently public settings (e.g. red-figure column krater by the Göttingen Painter, Bari, Museo Archeologico Provinciale 4979; redfigure column krater by the Painter of Tarquinia 707, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum 2166). It seems quite likely that these vases do not represent actual bathing practices (Bérard 1986), but a kind of erotic male fantasy (Kotera-Feyer 1998: 111-112).

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The diaita comprised the primary means of body-modification for both men and women in classical Greece, and also an essential means for the construction of elite identity. Both men and women were prescribed certain foods according to their sex, in order to maintain the proper balance of warm and dry, cool and moist. Such recommendations were intended for those with the luxury of dietary choice. Certainly those of lesser means would not have access to such a range of foodstuffs; they were not the intended audience of such prescriptive works. Exercise was likewise a means of distinguishing male from female, elite from non-elite. Only the wealthy could afford leisure time in the palaestra. The distinctively Greek practice of athletic nudity underscored ethnic identity as well as the essentially male character of the palaestra. Nudity further emphasized the practices of bodily modification that took place in that public context. Both athletics and bathing in the nude allowed multiple opportunities for bodily display and the voyeuristic gaze. The repeated performance of these elements of the δίαιτα was essential to the construction of elite masculinity. Conversely, women were excluded from the palaestra, and therefore remained outside the ideal. But, they did perform their feminine, elite status in other ways, by abstaining from physical activity and bathing in an interior, domestic space. On the other hand, the social status of some female bathers is somewhat ambiguous. Bathing, like some other aspects of body-modification, may have served more as an indicator of gender rather than status.

3. Care of the hair Hairstyles and the maintenance of body-hair were important for the construction of both gender and ethnicity in classical Greece. Hair has special significance in many cultures. It is part of the body, but not itself alive; it is painlessly and easily transformed by means of cutting, shaving, plucking, colouring, curling, binding or covering; it is highly visible, especially that on the head and face. This visibility, combined with the ease with which it may be transformed, makes it especially effective as a marker of changes in social status, especially age (Synnott 1987, with earlier references). In classical Greece, maintenance of cephalic hair was an essential component of an individual’s kosmos.10 Dishevelled hair was a sign that one was outside the proper order of things, for example the disaffected, philosophers, women in mourning and old people. Properly arranged hair reflected proper social order.

10

The term κόσμος originally meant ‘combing’, ‘hairdo’, and later acquired the more general meanings of ‘arrangement, ordering’ on the one hand, and ‘adornment, beautification’ on the other (Puhvel 1976: 159).

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Figure 7: Red figure bell krater, Dinos Painter, c. 450-400 B.C.,

Sackler Museum, Harvard University, Cambridge, L9.1988. Photograph: Michael A. Nedzweski. © President and Fellows of Harvard College

Most men visited barbers for the maintenance of the hair and beard. 11 We know from several literary sources that barbershops were popular gathering places for Athenian men, and a source of gossip and news (Lewis 1995). Although barbers are not represented in vase-painting, several Boeotian terracottas represent barbers with their customers. 12 In contrast to men’s practice, women attended to their own coiffures in the privacy of their own homes. The red-figure amphora by Polygnotos (fig. 6) depicts a woman perfuming her hair with a wand, perhaps with a sponge attached. Other vases depict women washing, combing and arranging their hair (e.g. fig. 8), often with the aid of personal attendants. As with bathing, women’s practices take place in the private context of the oikos, whereas men’s practices take place in a public venue.13 In 11 12 13

According to Artemidorus, admittedly a late source, to dream of having one’s hair cut by a barber is a good sign, because no-one ever cut his own hair unless he is poor or in difficult circumstances (On Dreams 1.22). E.g. Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antiken-Sammlung 6683b. Women’s hair-care was also a domestic activity in the Roman period (Baertschi & Fögen 2005: 218).

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this way, the performance of bodily modifications is nearly as important as the net result. Habitual visitors to the barbershop performed their identities publicly on a repeated basis. The social significance of hairstyles is as yet poorly understood, in part on account of the complexity of the evidence. As a rule, in the classical period, men’s hair is cut short, while women’s hair is long, but bound up in a fillet, sakkos or mitra. These gendered distinctions seem to over-ride social status, as proper women and hetairai engage in similar practices. As noted by Molly Levine in her essay on the social meanings of hair, the tradition of binding and covering women’s hair reflects societal concern for control over women’s sexuality (Levine 1995). Hair also plays an important role in the construction of age. Children of both sexes generally wore their hair long. Upon maturity, boys and girls cut their hair in a coming of age ritual, dedicating the locks to Artemis and other protective divinities. The visual sources display a clear progression in feminine hairstyles, with young girls displaying loose locks with a simple topknot, παρθένοι wearing bound ponytails, and γυναῖκες with their hair bound up completely in a sakkos or mitra.14 The lack of similar categories for boys and men suggests a special concern with feminine sexuality and social control. On the other hand, facial hair played an important role in the construction of age-grades for boys, and especially in the strict rules governing sexual relationships between older and younger men and boys. Older men are generally identified by their thick, full beards, while younger men and boys are beardless. The ideal ἐρώμενος was an adolescent on the cusp of manhood, as indicated by the presence of “peach-fuzz” of the boxers in fig. 1 (compare also the bearded trainer). Gloria Ferrari has eloquently explained the transitional period between παῖς and ἀνήρ, delineated by the first appearance of facial hair and the development of a full beard (Ferrari 2002: 135-137).15 Although contemporary literary sources are silent on the subject, this liminal period might have been extended artificially by means of plucking or shaving (Dover 1989: 244).16 The removal of body-hair was especially associated with women in classical Athens, as indicated by the humorous passage in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae in which the women of Athens disguise themselves as men in order to infiltrate the assembly. One woman claims to have “armpits bushier than underbrush” (Eccl. 60-61); her companion chimes in: “Me too. I threw my razor

14 15 16

This pattern is especially discernible in vase-painting. See Lewis (2002: 27-28). That beards were considered markers of adult masculinity is demonstrated in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, in which Praxagora and her co-conspirators don false beards in order to pass as men in the assembly (24-25, 68-72, 126-127). The erotic construction of adolescent facial hair continues well into the Hellenistic period (Tarán 1985).

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out of the house right away, so that I’d get hairy all over and not look female at all” (65-67). Although body-hair is clearly gendered male in the texts, the visual evidence is less emphatic. A few examples of chest-hair on mature men are discernible in vase-painting, though no obvious patterns emerge; armpit hair is likewise generally absent. Pubic depilation was a decidedly feminine practice. Aristophanes makes several references to women removing their pubic hair by means of singeing and plucking, in order to make themselves sexually attractive.17 In the Ecclesiazusae, Praxagora, the leader of the women’s movement to take over the assembly, sings the praises of her lamp: “You alone illuminate the ineffable nooks between our thighs, when you singe away the hair that spouts there” (Eccl. 12-13). The effectiveness of the sex-strike in the Lysistrata is guaranteed by the woman teasing their husbands by wearing diaphanous garments with their “pubes plucked in a neat triangle” (Lys. 151). Given the dramatic context of these passages, it is difficult to ascertain whether depilation was practised by proper Athenian wives, or whether it is mentioned for comic effect. The visual sources are likewise ambiguous as to the social status of depilated women. Two (perhaps three) vases depict the actual process of depilation by singeing with a lamp. The tondo of an archaic red-figure cup in the manner of Onesimos in Oxford, Mississippi depicts a nude woman squatting over a basin. This figure is generally identified as a hetaira on the basis of her nudity and her bold frontal pose (and possibly the amulet on her thigh). On the other hand, a classical red-figure bell krater by the Dinos Painter in the Sackler Museum (fig. 6) depicts a seated woman performing her own depilation, while a standing woman is depilated by Eros. The presence of Eros suggests a parallel with wedding scenes, making the identification of these women as hetairai problematic.18 Whether practised by proper women or hetairai, depilation had connotations of eroticism and femininity.19 Hair that grows on the body is often particularly meaningful, on account of its borderline relationship with the flesh and with clothing (Barcan 2004: 25-30, 144-150). For the ancient Greeks, body-hair functions on a fundamental level as an indicator of the division between male and female, child and adult, human and animal. Vivid testimony to the dynamic relationship between humans and animals is found in the Pseudo-Aristotelian Physiognomics (812b14-19):

17 18 19

The literary sources are collected in Bain (1982a: 7-10) and Bain (1982b: 111). On the identification of hetairai, see Paul (1993: 330). A few passages in Aristophanes refer to the punishment of male adulterers by means of depilation, but these should be read as jokes: because they lacked control of their sexual impulses like women, they would be plucked like women (Roy 1991: 73-76; Cohen 1985: 385-387).

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Οἱ δασείας ἔχοντες τὰς κνήμας λάγνοι· ἀναφέρεται ἐπὶ τοὺς τράγους. οἱ δὲ περὶ τὰ στήθη καὶ τὴν κοιλίαν ἄγαν δασέως ἔχοντες οὐδέποτε πρὸς τοῖς αὐτοῖς διατελοῦσιν· ἀναφέρεται ἐπὶ τοὺς ὄρνιθας, ὅτι ταῦτα τὰ στήθη καὶ τὴν κοιλίαν δασυτάτην ἔχουσιν. Οἱ τὰ στήθη φιλὰ ἄγαν ἔχοντες ἀναιδεῖς· ἀναφέρεται ἐπι τὰς γυναῖκας. ἐπειδὴ οὖν οὔτε ἄγαν δασέα δεῖ εἶναι οὔτε φιλά, ἡ μέση ἕξις κρατίστη. “Hairy legs mean lasciviousness, as in goats. Too much hair on the breast and belly mean lack of persistence, as argued from birds, in which this bodily characteristic is most developed; but breasts too devoid of hair indicate impudence, as in women. So both extremes are bad, and an intermediate condition must be best.”20

4. Cosmetics The locus classicus for the use of cosmetics in classical Greece is Xenophon’s Oeconomicus (6.10), in which Ischomachus chastises his wife for making up her face “with a great deal of white face powder (ψιμύθιον) so that she might appear paler than she was, and with plenty of rouge (ἔγχουσα) so that she might seem to have a more rosy complexion than she truly had” (10.2).21 Some have cited this passage as proof that proper Athenian women wore cosmetics; others have argued it proves that make-up was used primarily by hetairai.22 The archaeological evidence suggests that the use of cosmetics was widespread among women of varying social classes. Pyxides containing tablets of ψιμύθιον (white lead carbonate) and ἔγχουσα (red alkanet) are common finds in women’s graves throughout Greece, as are cosmetic spoons and applicators in ivory and bronze. Perhaps Ischomachus’ real concern was the over-zealous application of cosmetics. As far as I know, we have no images in classical vase-painting of women applying cosmetics, nor images of obviously made-up women. Some have argued that make-up was painted on marble sculpture, but studies of the remaining polychromy have not confirmed this. An interesting detail of the Oeconomicus that has escaped comment until recently is a reference to men using a type of skin-colouring. Ischomachus asks

20 21

22

Translation from T. Loveday and E. S. Forster (in Barnes 1984: 1248). Translation from Pomeroy (1994: 161). This is followed by the passage extolling the virtues of housework as a form of exercise (discussed above, p. 163). Certainly the primary aim of the text is to emphasize the high moral value attached to feminine beauty achieved without the artifice of cosmetics. Cf. Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.1.22, in which the personification of Vice is identified as a highly made-up woman. The association between cosmetics and inappropriate sex is evident in several passages in Aristophanes in which an older woman tries to attract a younger lover by plastering her face with make-up (Eccl. 878, 928, 1072; Wealth 1064). In Lysias’ speech On the Murder of Eratosthenes (1.14), the defendant Euphiletus suspects his wife’s affair because she left the house wearing face powder.

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his wife how she would respond if he approached her for sex having smeared his body with miltos, a type of red ochre. It has been argued that men did employ miltos to enhance the colour of the skin, either in the form of a coloured unguent, or as a dry powder – perhaps that with which athletes powdered themselves at the palaestra (Hannah 2004). Elsewhere in Greek literature, the only men who employ cosmetics are barbarians: Herodotus names several African tribes who smeared their bodies with miltos (4.191, 4.194, 7.69); Xenophon claims that Cyrus encouraged the use of eye-make-up and cosmetics for the skin (Cyr. 8.1.41), and that Astyages wore eye-liner, colourful make-up, and hairpieces, according to the custom of the Medes (Cyr. 1.3.2). The barbarian (and also feminine) connotations of cosmetics suggest that the masculine elite did not view them positively.

5. Perfumes and body-odours Exotic perfumes likewise carried barbarian connotations. According to Herodotus (1.195) Babylonian men perfumed their entire bodies, and Xenophon (Oec. 4.23) remarks that the Persian king Cyrus smelled of perfume.23 Several passages in tragedy underscore the negative value attached to barbarian fragrances: in the Orestes of Euripides, the wanton Helen returns from Troy accompanied by slaves to hold her mirror and perfumes (1110-1113); in Euripides’ Bacchae, the “Lydian foreigner” (the god Dionysos in disguise) is identified by his blond, perfumed locks (235). Given the barbarian connotations of perfumes, it is no surprise that perfumes are most often associated with women, especially in erotic contexts. A fragment of Antiphanes’ play The Men of Thorikos or The Miner (fr. 106) describes an entire wardrobe of perfumes employed in a young woman’s toilette: Egyptian perfume for the feet and legs, palm oil for the cheeks and breast, bergamot for one arm and melilot for the other, marjoram for the hair and eyebrows, and thyme for the neck and knees (fr. 106). The explicitly erotic function of perfumes is demonstrated in the charming passage of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, in which Myrrhina teases her husband with the promise of sex, pretending to fumble over the appropriate scent (938-947). In Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, when Blepyrus suspects Praxagora of infidelity, her defense is: “See if you can smell perfume on my head”, to which he replies: “What? Can’t a woman get fucked even without perfume?” (523-525; cf. 1117-1118).24 23 24

Pliny claims that perfume was invented by the Persians to conceal their foul stench, and that it was not adopted by the Greeks until the campaigns of Alexander (Nat. hist. 13.3). For the anointing of hair with perfume, see Lilja (1972: 82-83). Perfume could also be applied to the beard, moustache and eyebrows (as described in the passage of Antiphanes, above).

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The use of perfumes by Greek men is met with some ambivalence by the ancient authors. Men certainly used perfumes in the context of the symposium, on account of its luxurious and erotic qualities (e.g. Aristophanes, Eccl. 841842). Whether men wore perfume on a daily basis, or specifically in the context of the gymnasion, is an open question. In Xenophon’s Symposium, Socrates claims that just as men and women wear different clothes “the smells that suit men and women are different. (...) the smell of oil in the gymnasia gives more pleasure by its presence than perfume gives to women, and excites more longing by its absence” (2.3-4).25 Theophrastus displays no negative attitudes towards men’s use of perfumes, but like Socrates, specifies that they are different than women’s scents: “The lightest [perfumes] are rose-perfume and kypros, which seem to be the best suited to men, as also is lily perfume” (Concerning Odours 42). For women he recommends “myrrh oil, μεγαλεῖον,26 the Egyptian, sweet marjoram and spikenard: for these owing to their strength and substantial character are not easily made to disperse, and a lasting perfume is what women require” (Concerning Odours 42). On the other hand, he later describes perfume powders for sprinkling on bedding, in order to give men’s bodies a long-lasting scent (Concerning Odours 57-60). It seems likely that the use of perfume in itself was not an indicator of gender; rather, the quality of the scent, and its strength, may have been most significant. Naturally occurring body-odours were likewise gendered. In Xenophon’s Symposium, Socrates claims that “women, especially if they are young, do not need any additional perfumes, because they are fragrant themselves” (2.3).27 The gendered determination of body-odours is underscored in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, when the men, and later the women, remove their clothing in order to release their respective scents (662-663, 686). Body-odour was also determined by social class, as in Aristophanes’ Clouds when the rustic Strepsiades describes his marriage to a wealthy city girl: “When I married her I climbed into bed smelling of new wine, figs, fleeces and abundance; and she of perfume, saffron, tongue kisses, extravagance, gluttony (...)” (46-52). Foul bodyodours were likened to the smell of animals, especially goats (Aristophanes, Acharnians 852; Peace 813; Aristotle, Probl. 13.9). The negative connotations of animal and human body-odours underscore the ideological distinctions between human and animal bodies.

25 26

27

Translation from Tredennick & Waterfield (1990). This passage is generally taken to mean that the olive oil used by athletes was unscented (see above, p. 157). μεγαλεῖον, invented by the Athenian perfumer Megallos, was a popular scent composed of myrrh, burnt resin (probably pine), cassia and cinnamon, and was tinted pink with the addition of alkanet (also used for rouge; see above, p. 169). For a modern recipe for μεγαλεῖον, see Pointer (2005: 212-213). Translation from Tredennick & Waterfield (1990).

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Perfumes and body-odours are closely associated with bathing practices (see above, pp. 159, 163-165). The application of scented oils to the skin and hair was a regular feature of the bath, especially for women. Conversely, infrequent bathing would have resulted in increased body-odour. Given that regular bathing was a privilege of the elite, it follows that artificial scent in the form of perfume was reserved for those of high status, while naturally occurring bodyodour was associated with low status, as reflected in the literary sources. Perfume was certainly a luxury product, especially exotic formulations of imported flowers and spices. The barbarian associations of perfume made it especially appropriate for women’s use, though it is clear that men used certain types of perfumes in particular contexts, especially the ritual context of the symposium. The erotic connotations of perfume likewise suggest that it was gendered feminine.28 Despite the fact that the nude male body was presented as the ideal in classical Greece, this body was not natural,29 but was achieved by means of bodymodification: exercise, bathing, grooming, and other manipulations such as infibulation. Many of these practices took place in public arenas, such as the palaestra and the barbershop, which underscores the importance of personal display. But it should be noted that such modifications to the body were only temporary; they required repeated performance in order to maintain the ideal of the masculine elite. Whereas masculine body-modification took place primarily in the public contexts of the palaestra and barbershop, feminine body-modification was private and domestic. And whereas masculine body-modification is characterized by personal display and the homoerotic gaze, feminine body-modification is a more intimate process, often performed alone or with only an attendant or two. The self-referential nature of feminine body-modification is underscored by the prevalence of mirrors in scenes of feminine adornment, as on a red-figure amphoriskos by the Eretria Painter in the Ashmolean (fig. 8) depicting a seated woman arranging her hair. (Note also the alabastron hanging on the wall behind her, another symbol of feminine beauty.) Women regularly gaze at their own appearance in mirrors, whereas men, as a rule, do not (Frontisi-Ducroux

28 29

For the relationship between feminine sexuality and perfumes in modern culture, see Cohen (1992: 48-78). Social theorist Pasi Falk notes: “The Western body-image is dominated by a deep rooted idea of ‘the natural’. This may be traced back to Greco-Roman body-aesthetics on the one hand, and the Judeo-Christian tradition on the other. The Greco-Roman cult of natural, bodily beauty of both men and women, so richly expressed in the pictorial art of antiquity, was part of a whole ‘aesthetic of existence’ (Foucault 1987), but it allowed decoration and painting of the body only as far as it served the ideal of ‘natural’ beauty. Other kinds of body-moulding, or permanent marking of the body were disapproved of, irreversible markings were restricted to stigmatizing uses” (Falk 1995: 100).

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1996). The essential equivalence between mirrors and femininity is indicated by the fact that mirrors function as a kind of icon for feminine beauty just as the athlete’s kit represents the masculine ideal.30 What both genders share in terms of practices of body-modification is that they are all temporary: they require repeated performance, allowing multiple opportunities for display and conspicuous consumption, especially of luxury goods such as perfume, and the services of barbers and slaves. The aristocratic elite used temporary body-modification as a means of maintaining their identity vis-à-vis non-elites and especially non-Greeks.

6. Bodies of barbarians Barbarians were marked as “other” in Greek society by body-modifications that were the opposite of Greeks. Whereas Greek men and women ideally adhered to the prescriptions of the δίαιτα, no provisions are made in the texts for the diet, exercise, or bathing practices of non-Greeks. Whereas Greek men and women attended carefully to their hairstyles, beards and body-hair, barbarians are repeatedly represented with wild, dishevelled hair, as seen on the Thracian woman depicted on the red-figure column krater by the Pan Painter in Munich (fig. 9); or with bald, shaved heads and faces, as on the red-figure pelike in Athens, also by the Pan Painter, depicting the Egyptian priests of Bousiris (fig. 10). As described above, cosmetics and perfumes had strong barbarian connotations. But certainly the most distinctive feature of barbarian body-modification is that they engaged in permanent practices, whereas the Greeks, as a rule, did not. As seen in fig. 9, Thracian women are regularly identified in vase-painting by elaborate tattoos on their arms, legs, neck and face. That the designs were permanent and not simply painted on is indicated by descriptions of stigmata in various (mostly late) medical sources.31 Another decidedly non-Greek practice is circumcision. 32 Herodotus (2.104) identifies circumcision with various ethnic groups of the Eastern Mediterranean but especially with Egyptian priests, who “value cleanliness more than comeliness” (2.37). And, indeed, the red-figure pelike in Athens by the Pan Painter depicts the Egyptian priests of Bousiris with large, circumcised genitals in contrast to the petite, uncircumcised genitals of Heracles. 30 31 32

For example, in fig. 6, a mirror hangs on the wall as a general symbol of feminine adornment. Jones (1987: 142); see also Jones (2000). The earliest evidence for female circumcision (also known as female genital mutilation or FGM) is a second-century B.C. papyrus from Memphis, Egypt (Cohen 2005: 56-57; Knight 2001). Strabo reports that the Egyptians “circumcise the males and excise the females” (Geography 17.2.5).

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Figure 8: Red-figure amphoriskos, Eretria Painter, c. 450-400 B.C., Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, no. G303. Photograph: Ashmolean Museum

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Figure 9: Red-figure column-krater, Pan Painter, c. 470 B.C.,

Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlungen, Munich, no. J777. Photograph: Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München

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Figure 10: Red-figure pelike, Pan Painter, c. 470 B.C.,

National Archaeological Museum, Athens, no. 9683. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture/Archaeological Receipts Fund

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Perhaps the most dramatic example of permanent body-modification is the head-binding practised by the tribe of Makrokephaloi (‘Longheads’), as described in the Hippocratic Airs, Waters, Places: “As soon as a child is born they remodel its head with their hands, while it is still soft and the body tender, and force it to increase in length by applying bandages and suitable appliances, which spoil the roundness of the head and increase its length” (Airs, Waters, Places 14). Aside from ear-piercing for women, which may have had foreign connotations given the tradition of ear-piercing in the Near East, Greeks never engage in permanent body-modification. 33 Such permanent forms of bodymodification ensure that non-Greeks have no opportunity for transgressing ethnic boundaries by means of performance. As Pasi Falk notes in reference to modern body-modification: “The irreversible reshaping of the body and its permanent marking manifest the stable and static character of relations in society” (Falk 1995: 99).

7. Summary Although body-modification may seem, at first glance, a superficial aspect of Greek culture, it reflects Greek ideology in a profound way. The elite male is the ideal in Greek society; hence, his body is the ideal. This body is habitually constructed by means of body-modifications; other bodies are marked as deviating from the normative male body. Whereas men exercise outdoors in the nude, acquiring deep, dark tans and defined musculature, women remain indoors, retaining pale white skin. Whereas men oil and scrape their bodies, and bathe in the public arena of the palaestra, women bathe in a private, domestic, context. Whereas men cut their hair short, women grow their hair long and bind it with fillets and hairnets. Of course some dress practices are biologically impossible for women to achieve, for example infibulation, or the growing of chest-hair or beards, which underscores the “natural-ness” of the normative Greek male. On the other hand, some practices of body-modification are shared by men and women: the process of bathing, for example, is not so different for both genders, and both use perfumed oil and, perhaps, skincosmetics, though in different ways. These points of convergence may therefore indicate other aspects of identity, elite vs. non-elite status, for example, which is most effectively achieved by the consumption of luxury products such as perfume. On the other hand, it seems that elite women and hetairai shared certain dress practices, not only bathing and the use of perfume and cosmetics, but also the treatment of head- and body-hair, which function as strong indica33

Men do wear earrings in the so-called Anacreontic vases, but it is unclear whether men actually pierced their ears for this purpose.

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tors of status among men. Again, it would seem that the primary social distinction conveyed by these practices was gender as opposed to status. On the other hand, it may suggest that the dichotomy between wife and courtesan was not so strict as we might think; the potential for being mistaken for a prostitute itself functions as a means of social control for proper women. But some “others” will never be able to manipulate their identities by means of bodymodification: tattooing and circumcision mark barbarians as permanently other-than-Greek. It may seem counter-intuitive that the masculine Greek elite, who presumably would never wish to relinquish their elite status, should not choose permanent body-modification for themselves. But it is in the repeated performance of body-modification that the subtleties of social identity are constructed and maintained. It is in the negotiation of the boundaries of bodies that Classical Greek society defined itself.

Bibliography Baertschi, Annette M. & Thorsten Fögen (2005): Schönheitsbilder und Geschlechterrollen im antiken Rom. Zur Bedeutung von Kosmetik, Frisuren, Kleidung und Schmuck. In: Forum Classicum 48, 213-226. Bain, David M. (1982a): Κατωνάκην τὸν χοῖρον ἀποτετιλμένας (Aristophanes, Ekklesiazousai 724). In: Liverpool Classical Monthly 7, 7-10. Bain, David M. (1982b): Addenda, corrigenda, retractanda. In: Liverpool Classical Monthly 7, 111. Barcan, Ruth (2004): Nudity. A Cultural Anatomy, Oxford & New York. Barnes, Jonathan (1984): The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton. Bérard, Claude (1986): L’impossible femme athlète. In: Annali dell’Istituto universitario orientali di Napoli 8, 195-202. Bourdieu, Pierre (1977): Outline of a Theory of Practice (transl. Richard Nice), Cambridge. Cohen, Colleen B. (1992): Olfactory constitution of the postmodern body. Nature challenged, nature adorned. In: Frances E. Mascia-Lees & Patricia Sharpe (eds.), Tattoo, Torture, Mutilation, and Adornment, Albany, 48-78. Cohen, David (1985): A note on Aristophanes and the punishment of adultery in Athenian law. In: Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte 102, 385387. Cohen, Shaye J. D. (2005): Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised? Gender and Covenant in Judaism, Berkeley. Craik, Elizabeth (1995): Hippocratic Diaita. In: John Wilkins, David Harvey & Mike Dobson (eds.), Food in Antiquity, Exeter, 343-350. Detel, Wolfgang (1998): Foucault and Classical Antiquity. Power, Ethics and Knowledge (transl. David Wigg-Wolf), Cambridge.

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Douglas, Mary (2002): Purity and Danger. An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London & New York. Dover, Kenneth J. (1989): Greek Homosexuality, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Eicher, Joanne B. & Mary-Ellen Roach-Higgins (1992): Definition and classification of dress. Implication for analysis of gender roles. In: Ruth Barnes & Joanne B. Eicher (eds.), Dress and Gender. Making and Meaning in Cultural Contexts, Oxford, 8-28. Entwistle, Joanne (2001): The dressed body. In: Joanne Entwistle & Elizabeth Wilson (eds.), Body Dressing, Oxford, 33-58. Falk, Pasi (1995): Written in the flesh. In: Body and Society 1.1, 95-105. Faraone, Christopher A. & Laura McClure (eds.) (2006): Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World, Madison, Wisconsin. Ferrari, Gloria (2002): Figures of Speech. Men and Maidens in Ancient Greece, Chicago & London. Foucault, Michel (1977): Discipline and Punish, New York. Foucault, Michel (1990): The History of Sexuality. Vol. 2: The Use of Pleasure (transl. Robert Hurley), New York. Frontisi-Ducroux, Françoise (1996): Eros, desire, and the gaze. In: Natalie Boymel Kampen (ed.), Sexuality in Ancient Art, Cambridge, 81-100. Grmek, Mirko D. & Danielle Gourevitch (1998): Les maladies dans l’art antique, Paris. Hannah, Patricia A. (2004): The cosmetic use of red ochre (miltos). In: Liza Cleland, Karen Stears & Glenys Davies (eds.), Colour in the Ancient Mediterranean World, Oxford, 100-105. Hodges, Frederick M. (2001): The ideal prepuce in ancient Greece and Rome. Male genital aesthetics and their relation to lipodermos, circumcision, foreskin restoration, and the kynodesmé. In: Bulletin of the History of Medicine 75, 375-405. Jones, Christopher P. (1987): Stigma. Tattooing and branding in Graeco-Roman antiquity. In: Journal of Roman Studies 77, 139-155. Jones, Christopher P. (2000): Stigma and tattoo. In: Jane Caplan (ed.), Written on the Body. The Tattoo in European and American History, Princeton, 1-16. Knight, Mary (2001): Curing cut or ritual mutilation? Some remarks on the practice of female and male circumcision in Graeco-Roman Egypt. In: Isis 92.2, 317-338. Kotera-Feyer, Ellen (1998): Die Strigilis in der attisch-rotfigurigen Vasenmalerei. Bildformeln und ihre Deutung. In: Nikephoros 11, 107-136. Levine, Molly Myerowitz (1995): The gendered grammar of ancient Mediterranean hair. In: Howard Eilberg-Schwarz & Wendy Doniger (eds.), Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture, Berkeley, 76130. Lewis, Sian (1995): Barbers’ shops and perfume shops. ‘Symposia without wine’. In: Anton Powell (ed.), The Greek World, London & New York, 432-441. Lewis, Sian (2002): The Athenian Woman. An Iconographic Handbook, London & New York. Lilja, Saara (1972): The Treatment of Odours in the Poetry of Antiquity, Helsinki.

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Mattusch, Carol C. (1996): Classical Bronzes. The Art and Craft of Greek and Roman Statuary, Ithaca. Miller, Stephen G. (2004a): Ancient Greek Athletics, New Haven & London. Miller, Stephen G. (³2004b): Arete. Greek Sports from Ancient Sources, Berkeley. Osborne, Robin (1998): Sculpted men of Athens. Masculinity and power in the field of vision. In: Lin Foxhall & John Salmon (eds.), Thinking Men. Masculinity and Its Self-Representation in the Classical Tradition, London & New York, 23-42. Paul, Aaron J. (1993): Eros and a depilation scene by the Dinos Painter. In: American Journal of Archaeology 97, 330. Pfisterer-Haas, Susanne (2002): Mädchen und Frauen am Wasser. Brunnenhaus und Louterion als Orte der Frauengemeinschaft und der möglichen Begegnung mit einem Mann. In: Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 117, 1-79. Pointer, Sally (2005): The Artifice of Beauty. A History and Practical Guide to Perfumes and Cosmetics, Stroud. Pomeroy, Sarah (1994): Xenophon: Oeconomicus. A Social and Historical Commentary, Oxford & New York. Puhvel, Jaan (1976): The origins of Greek kosmos and Latin mundus. In: American Journal of Philology 97, 154-167. Roy, James (1991): Traditional jokes about the punishment of adulterers in ancient Greek literature. In: Liverpool Classical Monthly 16, 73-76. Sabetai, Victoria (1997): Aspects of nuptial and genre imagery in fifth-century Athens. Issues of interpretation and methodology. In: John H. Oakley, William D. E. Coulsen & Olga Palagia (eds.), Athenian Potters and Painters, Oxford, 319-335. Scanlon, Thomas F. (2002): Eros and Greek Athletics, Oxford. Sweet, Waldo E. (1985): Protection of the genitals in Greek athletics. In: Ancient World 11, 43-52. Synnott, Anthony (1987): Shame and glory. A sociology of hair. In: British Journal of Sociology 38, 381-413. Tarán, Sonya Lida (1985): ΕΙΣΙ ΤΡΙΧΕΣ. An erotic motif in the Greek Anthology. In: Journal of Hellenic Studies 105, 90-107. Tredennick, Hugh & Robin Waterfield (transl.) (1990): Xenophon: Conversations of Socrates, London. Ulf, Christoph (1979): Die Einreibung der griechischen Athleten mit Öl. Zweck und Ursprung. In: Stadion 5.2, 220-238. Wilkins, John (2000): The Boastful Chef. The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy, Oxford.

“Clothes Make the Man”: Dressing the Roman Freedman Body Lauren Hackworth Petersen Abstract: This paper examines how social identity can be inscribed on Roman bodies by means of clothing (or lack thereof) and other adornments, paying particular attention to the bodies of individuals outside the elite inner circle. Although the study of freed slaves or freedmen has been in vogue lately, this essay focusses on a hitherto understudied aspect of former slaves, namely their appearances as depicted in both Roman art and literature. Invoking literary sources and visual testimony, this paper shows how dress and the presentation of the ex-slave body prove far more ambiguous than has been suggested. Throughout I show where visual representations taken from the funerary realm and frescoes seeming to depict everyday realities do not always reflect ideals as articulated by the elite. I suggest that ancient rhetoric about how one should appear to others, along with jabs at ex-slaves’ inappropriate dress, may offer insights more generally about the elite’s desires and struggles for self-definition. To this extent, ex-slave bodies were constructed to embody the limitations of a system so heavily dependent on dress and outward appearances. The paper concludes that, neither slave nor freeborn, the freedman body was cultivated rhetorically by the elite as a site of paradoxes, and hence source of anxieties, blurring as it did what were intended to be visible and defined social boundaries.

Mark Twain is often credited with having declared: “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society”. Whether this unsourced quote can be linked to Twain so precisely, we can be fairly certain that modern society was the target of the observation.1 In any case, the statement acutely

1

There is, however, the Latin proverb vestis virum reddit or, in a slightly different form, vestis virum facit (Erasmus, Adagia 3.1.60). In the passage from the Adagia, Erasmus quotes Quintilian (Inst. orat. 8 pr. 20: et cultus concessus atque magnificus addit hominibus, ut Graeco versu testatum est, auctoritatem) and supposes that this line goes back to Homer (Od. 6). However, the phrase vestis virum facit does not occur in any ancient Roman text. See Otto (1890: 100) on the Quintilian passage: “Das griechische Original ist nicht erhalten, die Formel εἵματ’ ἀνήρ rührt von Scaliger her, kann aber die richtige nicht sein, weil sie der Überlieferung bei Quintilian nicht entspricht”, and Walther (1967 [vol. 5]: 696, no. 33265a) for further references. For modern times, one certainly thinks of Gottfried Keller’s novel Kleider machen Leute (1874), which is part of his cycle Die Leute von Seldwyla. I owe these references to Thorsten Fögen.

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achieves two goals. On one hand, it reveals a preoccupation with dress in presenting oneself to society. Clothing could define an individual with regard to gender, class, profession, among other status indicators. On the other hand, the observation’s effectiveness is accomplished lightheartedly by presenting an extreme – naked people have no influence. Kings and political leaders are typically shrouded in symbols of wealth and power, while bare bodies wield no symbols of authority, are exposed, and are thus rendered powerless, if not unhuman. What authority-figure, after all, conducts business utterly naked in western, industrialized society?2 This paper takes the modern quip as a point of departure and explores how the body in ancient Roman society could also serve as a locus of self-definition, or objectification by others, by examining how clothing, or lack thereof, did indeed “make the man”, if not always in a straightforward way. Looking at visual and literary evidence, this essay proposes that the Roman body – and its adornment – was often a highly charged and nuanced site for expressing social status, particularly for individuals outside the elite inner circle. To begin, I reiterate a point made eloquently by Jaś Elsner: “In several significant ways, the Roman world was a visual culture” (Elsner 1998: 11). Romans were accustomed to and highly attuned to visual modes of communication so that visual literacy reigned supreme over verbal literacy; pictures and visual clues often took priority over words. For instance, the finely carved, second-century funerary stele of Caius Julius Helius prominently displays a portrait bust of the deceased. Depicted in the pediment above the portrait, two shoe lasts (with one filling a sandal) announce visually that the individual shown was a shoemaker (fig. 1). Below, in somewhat small letters, the first line of the epitaph reads: C(aius) Iulius Helius sutor (“Caius Julius Helius, shoemaker”) and plays only a supporting role in the projection of this individual’s identity for those relatively few who could read. 3 The importance of Rome’s visual culture should also be set into perspective by coupling it with a rather obvious statement about the structure of Roman society, namely, that it was hierarchical. Although the social orders were rigidly defined – the imperial family, senators, equestrians, local council men, ordinary folks, freed slaves, slaves etc. – some groups could experience social mobility not known, for example, in the Greek world. Moreover, much was at stake in articulating one’s

2 3

Apart from the figure of the king in Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy-tale Keiserens Nye Klæder (“The Emperor’s New Clothes”), which seems to go back to a Moorish tale. CIL 6.33914: C(aius) Iulius Helius sutor a / Porta Fontinale fecit sibi et / Iuliae Flaccillae fil(iae) et C(aio) Iulio / Onesimo liberto libertabusque / posterisque eorum v(ivo) f(ecit) (“Caius Julius Helius, shoemaker at the Porta Fontinalis, built this monument, while living, for himself, Julia Flaccilla, daughter, Caius Julius Onesimus, freedman, and his freed slaves and theirs”). On Roman literacy rates, see Harris (1989: 147-322) and the essays in Beard & al. (1991).

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Figure 1: Stele of C. Julius Helius, Rome, A.D. 120-130. Photograph: Rossa, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1977.1705

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Figure 3: Column of Trajan, Rome, A.D. 113. Photograph: Alinari / Art Resource, NY, ART27440

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role in Roman society, marked as it was by external appearances and, by extension, by the legibility of those appearances. As Barbara Kellum has stated, a Roman was, for all intents and purposes, what he appeared to be, so that “the self was literally a projection of exterior signs” (Kellum 1999: 288). As we shall see, to under- or overstate visually one’s social standing could invite unwelcome consequences. I should also specify at the outset that by external appearances I mean monumental and personal appearances, with the latter being bodily expressions as represented in art and literature. This is not to suggest two mutually exclusive categories. That monumental and personal appearances could intersect in the formation of social identity is nicely illustrated, for instance, with the wellknown Column of Trajan (figs. 2 and 3). The frieze adorning the column celebrates the military achievements of the emperor, who is shown repeatedly, usually larger in scale than others, elevated on a platform, in military garb, gesturing and commanding the gazes of his army or the barbarians. His body is the dominating presence, and not coincidentally, the column functioned as a pedestal for a monumental statue of Trajan, placing him, in no uncertain terms, above the citizen body. The column, an honorific art form, and its figural images worked together to define and legitimize the authority of the emperor. The same monumental and pictorial conventions could also hold true for citizens more generally. For example, on the Tomb of the Baker in Rome, the baker, Eurysaces, declares in two inscriptions his profession as a baker and contractor of bread (fig. 4).4 Moreover, the sheer scale of the monument suggests that he was a rather wealthy owner of a baking enterprise. Three pictorial friezes survive from the top of the monument, each showing an aspect of bread-making, and within each the workers, probably slaves, are clearly distinguished from citizens or state officials through vigorous work activity. Although we cannot be certain if Eurysaces is present in any of the friezes, he may have defined himself vis-à-vis the bodies of others. For example, one relief depicts the weighing of loaves of bread before magistrates (fig. 5). The differences between the bodies of workers and magistrates are encoded visually in the following ways. The workers themselves are shown busily attending to their tasks; their dynamic poses separate them from the vertical, and hence, relatively statuesque figures of the magistrates at right. Costume reinforces the degree of movement each person is capable of undertaking. The short tunic,

4

CIL 1.2.1204: Est hoc monimentum Margei [sic] Vergilei Eurysacis / pistoris redemptoris apparet (“This is the monument of Marcus Vergilius Eurysaces, baker, contractor, public servant [?]”). CIL 1.2.1203: [Est hoc monimentu]m Marcei Vergilei Eurysacis pistoris redemptoris apparet (“[This is the monument] of Marcus Vegilius Eurysaces, baker, contractor, public servant [?]”). On the interpretations of the inscriptions and for a discussion of the tomb itself, see Petersen (2003: 230, 249, 252 n. 2).

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belted at the waist, exposes the legs and arms to allow for significant movement as the workers lift heavy items onto the scales. In contrast, the long toga severely limited, if not physically prevented, such movements. Indeed, as is well known, the toga was the garment that signified Roman citizen status (slaves and other non-citizens were prohibited from wearing the toga altogether). The togate figures therefore telegraph both citizenhood and, equally important, a status far removed from that of the manual workers, whether slaves or otherwise. Ancient viewers must have understood the proprietor of this large and noticeable monument, Eurysaces, not as one of the workers but as the owner of the labour, and a bridge between it and the magistrates. His body, it would seem, is rendered metonymically (as well as possibly being depicted in one or more relief).

Figure 4: Tomb of M. Vergilius Eurysaces, Rome, late first century B.C. Photograph: Stephen Petersen

The distinction between the enslaved and the free, as we tend to see it articulated on the baker’s tomb, was perhaps the starkest division that could be drawn in Roman society.5 Among those who were free, it seems that individuals often donned clothing, whether of wool, linen, or silk, and accessories to the extent that their wealth and social standing permitted. Given the low social standing of slaves, one would expect that slave dress be kept to a minimum so as to facilitate work and establish the humble social standing of its bearer. Yet, 5

On representing slave bodies in the ancient world and beyond, see Wiedemann & Gardner (2002).

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Figure 6: Couple in bed and a cubicularius, House of the Caecilii, Pompeii, A.D. 62-79. Photograph: Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici delle province di Napoli e Caserta, neg. 5556

there is no single dress or uniform of Roman slaves. In fact, slave bodies, particularly domestic slaves in wealthier households, could be easily modelled according to a master’s whims, as displays of conspicuous consumption (Bradley 1994: 87-106; George 2002: 41-54). Clothing of fine materials and even jewelry could put some slaves at material advantage over working poor citizens.6 For example, at the House of the Caecilii in Pompeii, a fresco showed, at the time of excavation, a cubicularius (bedchamber servant) dressed in elegant attire, including a gold hairnet and armlet, both depicted in applied gold (Clarke 6

On jewelry worn by slaves, see Seneca, De tranqu. an. 1.8.

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1998: 156) (fig. 6). Whether this image projects a reality – the masters at this house adorned their esteemed slaves in finery – or a projection of an ideal – made tangible through the application of actual gold – remains unknown. But the very idea that domestic slaves could be represented in attire that far surpassed that of the working poor suggests that dress codes and social boundaries were by no means fixed, but were made permeable according to a master’s desires for self-promotion. Slave bodies, as extensions of a master’s property, could thus be used, in effect, to inscribe the social standing of the master.

Figure 7: Bronze slave collar, fourth century (?) Photograph: Musée du Petit Palais, Paris, no. 24173-2. © Patrick Pierrain / Petit Palais / Roger Voillet

Likewise, slave collars and bullae adorned slaves, but with brutal effect (fig. 7). Slave collars and bullae were meant to discourage escape or to assist in recapture if a slave had escaped. About thirty-six collars (including those with bullae attached) have been recovered from the late-Roman world. These were individually inscribed, but a formulaic message predominates and can be distilled as follows: ‘Catch me. I have run away. Take me back to my master’.7 Clearly the metal collar was a stark signifier, as it effectively announces, both visually and verbally, the status of its bearer – a slave, no longer a body but an object in someone else’s possession. As if such indignities were not enough, Romans, as with the Greeks, practised penal tattooing among criminals and slaves. This form of corporeal punishment was permanent and highly visible, marking the face or head with either well-known inscriptions of runaway slaves (fugitivorum epigramma) that were reminiscent of those on slave collars, or, more likely with a simple ‘F’ on the forehead (for fugi: “I have run away”).8

7

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See Thompson (2003: 238-240). The inscription on the collar as illustrated (CIL 15.7182): Tene me et reboca me Aproniano Palatino ad mappa(m) aurea(m) in Abentino, quia fugi (“Catch me and return me to Apronianus Palatinus, on the Aventine, near the golden map, from which I fled”). On fugitivorum epigramma, see Petronius, Sat. 103. On tattoos, see Jones (1987) and Thompson (2003: 241-242).

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Figure 8: Funerary relief of the Furius family, Rome, 13 B.C. – A.D. 5. Museo Lateranense, Vatican Museums, Vatican State. Photograph: Alinari / Art Resource, NY, ART369971

That slave bodies endured humiliation and degradation is a given. On the other hand, to have been enfranchised as a citizen, a Roman freedman or freedwoman lived in a world that must have seemed filled with opportunities. Those opportunities included, but were not limited to, the right to marry legally, to produce a legitimate Roman family and to acquire wealth. Yet behind every new advantage, a reminiscence of one’s servile past could potentially dim that new opportunity, a circumstance that distinguished Roman ex-slaves (libertini) from freeborn citizens. Although they were permitted to participate in the political process by voting, libertini could not stand for prestigious elected office.9 Although able to accumulate property, a freed slave might have had to hand over a portion of his estate upon death to the former master. And even as they were slave owners themselves, many freed people remained tied by bonds of obligations to their own former owners (Duff 1928: 36-49; Fabre 1981; Treggiari 1969: 68-81). As the very designation “libertinus” makes explicit, an ex-slave’s past clung to his or her social identity at least as much as did the newly acquired citizen status. For instance, a funerary relief (CIL 6.18795) de9

Duff (1928: 129-142) and Treggiari (1969: 162-193). For a succinct and insightful account of the Roman freedman, see Andreau (1993).

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picting five individuals repeatedly calls attention to citizen and former-slave status via the inscribed ‘L’ (standing for libertus / liberta) here integral to the five ex-slaves’ nomenclature (fig. 8). It would seem that these individuals, for reasons that may not be entirely clear, are insisting on declaring their freed status epigraphically, even though the bodies of the commemorated are depicted in no uncertain terms in citizen attire: the toga for men and the stola and palla (mantle) drawn up to veil the head for matrons.10 Although the study of Roman freed slaves has been in vogue lately,11 I wish to delve into a hitherto understudied aspect of freedmen, namely the bodies of libertini as depicted in both Roman art and literature. To do so, it will be important to consider the adornment of both slave and citizen bodies; ex-slaves knew both realities. I take as a point of departure a funerary stele that has received relatively little scholarly notice (fig. 9). The monument, dated to the late Republic or early Empire, was commissioned by Marcus Publilius Satyr from Capua and firmly belongs in the tradition of Roman funerary art.12 It features portraits of the deceased, in the form of two full-length figures, wrapped in Republican-era togas, who command our attention as they gaze steadily at us. The bodies, as defined by the toga, signify Roman citizenship, individually and collectively. The relief below depicts a scene taken from everyday life, the sale of a slave who stands upon a raised platform (catasta) with his feet in shackles. Although a platform in Roman art typically serves to elevate the status of those represented on it (as with the Column of Trajan), the relative nakedness of the individual, shown only in a loincloth and shackles, combined with his stiff and awkwardly placed arms utterly reverses that reading. Representations of slave markets are few, but ancient observers make clear how this image is to be read.13 The younger Seneca writes (Epist. 80.9): (...) detrahis vestimenta venalibus ne qua vitia corporis lateant. “You pull off the garments from slaves that are advertised for sale, so that no bodily flaws may escape your notice.”14

10 11 12 13 14

Ex-slaves were not obliged by law to declare their status on funerary reliefs, and indeed such declarations fall out of favour by the second century (see Taylor 1961). On civilian attire for Roman men and women, see Stone (2001) and Sebesta (2001). Also see Croom (2000). For example, see the essays in D’Ambra & Métraux (2006), Hughes (2001) and Petersen (2006). For the most recent assessment of this image and relevant bibliography, see Hughes (2001: 168-170, 221-222). On slave markets and their representations, see most recently Bodel (2005), Fentress (2005) and Pucci (2005). Also see Harris (1980). As translated in the Loeb edition (Seneca: Ad Lucilium Epistulae morales, vol. 2. With an English translation by Richard M. Gummere, Cambridge, Mass. & London 1970, 217). Discussed in Hallett (2005: 67-68).

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Figure 9: Stele of M. Publilius Satyr, Capua, late Republican or early Imperial period. Photograph: Eisner, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1964.1859

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Figure 10: Portrait of a man, Ostra (province of Ancona), Trajanic. Photograph: René Steffen, Musée d’art et d’histoire, Geneva, inv. no. 8938(1) © Musée d’art et d’histoire, Ville de Genève

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Plainly, slaves were not people but commodities and subject to inspection before purchase. Their bodies were exposed and treated simply as objects, hence the seeming “unnaturalness” of the body’s pose. To be sure, Christopher Hallett has recently demonstrated that Romans, unlike the Greeks, had a strong and persistent taboo against being seen naked in public (Hallett 2005). When Romans adopted the male nude portrait of the Greeks, it was adapted as a kind of “costume” to signify heroism, so that the portrait features of a mature man are juxtaposed with a youthful, classically inspired body (fig. 10). Importantly, such figures were typically adorned, albeit barely, with the military cloak (chlamys), sandals and a sword held in a parade grip. Hallett shows how this type of image, although often startling to modern eyes, effectively transported the individual out of the realm of contemporary life and into the mythical world of heroic action and was thus regarded as an appropriate honorific portrait for an individual who enjoyed a successful military career. In contrast, slaves could be shown as stripped bare (nudi), save the undergarment (subligaculum) – so strong was the taboo against total nudity. Indeed, skimpy clothing often symbolized a degraded condition and was thus worn by actors, workers, slaves, athletes and the like (Olson 2003: 205-208). A fragment of a second-century mosaic from Tunisia shows the vicious execution of a prisoner in the arena (fig. 11). Despite his undergarment, his body is to be read as naked, vulnerable and defiled and thus entirely un-Roman. Just as the condemned criminal was on display in the arena, so is the slave displayed on the funerary stele of Marcus Publilius Satyr (fig. 9). The slave’s body has been subject to the penetrating gaze of the prospective buyer at right, who faces the viewer as he points to the slave body, inviting our inspection as well, thereby affirming power relations between slave and potential master, and between slave and viewer. For the Romans, the gaze is always male in that it is active. To be the object of the gaze risks assimilation of the self with the penetrated body of the female.15 The slave, stripped naked, is therefore depicted as feminized and passive. He has lost control over his own body and is rendered as Other as he is possessed by another and his gaze. At left is an advancing figure, dressed, according to one scholar, in Greek garb.16 He might just as likely be wearing a Roman-style knee-length tunic and a cloak that flutters with his movement, however. The figure’s relatively wide stance combined with his gesture signal motion; he is the energetic seller. In contrast, the togate figure at right retains a quiet dignity and, importantly, control. Together all three bodies – from the slave to the slave seller to the slave buyer – visually reinforce social boundaries through matrices of dress, undress, action and inaction. 15 16

On the rhetoric of active and passive and its links to masculine and feminine realms in the Roman world, see Richlin (1992). On the power of the gaze, see Parker (1999). Frederiksen (1959: 115). Also see Pucci (2005: 237).

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Figure 11: Floor mosaic of a condemned prisoner being executed by a leopard, El Djem, Tunisia, second century A.D. Photograph: Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1964.0542

The pictures become even more complex when the accompanying inscriptions are taken into account (CIL 10.8222). Above we are informed that M. Publilius Satyr, a freedman, commissioned this stele for himself and for a fellow libertinus, Stepanus: [M.] Publilius M. l. Satur de suo sibi et liberto M. Publilio Stepano “M. Publilius Satyr, freedman of Marcus, made this monument with his own money for himself and for the freedman M. Publilius Stepanus.”

We can fairly assume that both are represented as the statuesque togate figures, so that although the inscriptions clearly articulate their former-slave status, their portraits telegraph first and foremost Roman citizenship via the toga. A smaller inscription appears between the two relief fields and provides the names of two more libertini: Arbitratu M. Publili M. l. Cadiae praeconis et M. Publili M. l. Timotis “By the free will of M. Publilius Cadia, freedman of Marcus, public crier, and M. Publilius Timotes, freedman of Marcus.”

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That one of the ex-slaves is identified as a praeco, means that he could be a slave seller at auction and thus the individual shown at left below. Worlds collide as a former slave transforms to slave seller. In an attempt to explain the inclusion of the scene below, it has been hypothesized that Publilius Satyr wanted to record his origins in slavery.17 More likely, however, Publilius Satyr himself might have been engaged in the slave trade, in which case the image would make reference to his profession as an associate of the praeco (Frederiksen 1959: 115). Although we cannot be entirely certain of the relief’s meaning, what is remarkable about this image is that it really does double duty. While it shows the sale of a slave and seems to affirm simple social hierarchies through the adornment of the bodies, it also suggests the complex status of Roman society’s newest citizens shown above − by displaying a slave on the auction block, a subtle, if inadvertent, reminder of the past each had left behind (somewhat analogous to the ‘L’ as part of the nomenclature). Functioning as a referent, the naked slave body potentially tarnishes the social identity of the togate citizens shown above, thus visually encroaching on the boundary between slave and citizen for these libertini. Such an effect was perhaps unintentional, but in a society where external appearances mattered a great deal, it brings to the fore potential tensions in self-definition: nothing could be absolute and certain. These tensions became more acute when more was at stake. Ancient writers, as keen observers of contemporary life, often disparaged, from an emphatically elite perspective, those who had come from the lower orders. Some individuals, despite their relatively undistinguished family standing, had become wealthy and hence increasingly visible in Roman society. That is, by affecting the elites in appearance, they could begin to obfuscate social distinctions. Freed slaves were frequently the source of the elite’s jabs, being that they were upwardly mobile individuals, exemplified by Horace’s father, a freedman himself, who knew all too well the importance of self-presentation, even when sending his son off to school. Horace writes (Sat. 1.6.78-80): vestem servosque sequentis, in magno ut populo, si qui vidisset, avita ex re praeberi sumptus mihi crederet illos. “Anyone who saw my clothes and attendant slaves – as is the way in a great city – would have thought that such expense was met from ancestral wealth.”18

17 18

See Pucci (2005: 237) for bibliography. As translated in the Loeb edition (Horace: Satires, Epistles and Ars poetica. With an English translation by H. Rushton Fairclough, Cambridge, Mass. & London 1970, 83).

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Figure 12: Altar of the vicomagistri of the Vicus Aesculeti, Rome, A.D. 2. Photograph: Koppermann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1960.1472

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The archaeological record, too, reveals traces of freed slaves who achieved some distinction, if only at a local level. For example, the Altar of the Vicus Aesculeti, dedicated in Rome in A.D. 2, features four togate vicomagistri, minor officials of a neighbourhood, performing a sacrifice at an altar in honour of the emperor (fig. 12). Also in attendance are a flute player, a lictor and two attendants who bring forth a bull and pig for sacrifice. Although the inscriptions are in a fragmentary state, two give the names of two of the vicomagistri, both of whom are identified as libertini.19 With their heads covered (capite velato) and adorned with laurel crowns, these freed slaves-turned-local-officials evoke the world of the emperor and his retinue. It was precisely this potential for status dissonance that elite authors disdained. Perhaps the sharpest critic of contemporary Roman life is none other than Petronius, the presumed author of the Satyrica working in Nero’s imperial circle. In one famous chapter of this satire, the Cena Trimalchionis, the protagonist Trimalchio, an unforgettable, fabulously rich and ostentatious freed slave, exposes elite stereotypes about the freedman’s place within the Roman citizen body. I would like to propose that the fictional character Trimalchio, along with his ex-slave companions, also exposes Rome’s social fluidity and thus some elite anxieties, as expressed through the freedman body. More specifically, his character might reveal the difficulties – and perhaps even the delight – Romans could experience as they sought to articulate their perceived place in society. Before delving into Petronius’ depiction of Trimalchio, it might be worth further considering the significance of the toga, which, as we know, functioned as a national dress of sorts. In an oft-cited passage, Vergil identifies the Romans as the gens togata, with the toga signifying, as noted, Roman citizenship (Aen. 1.282).20 And yet, I hasten to add that this picture is not so straightforward. Although boys and girls could wear the toga (toga praetexta) before coming of age and a woman could wear a toga during the Republic, a woman who wore the toga during the early empire and beyond was considered a pros titute or adulteress, the very antithesis of the ideals of matronly Romanitas.21 Context mattered when wearing a toga. But by the time of Augustus, the toga was, ideally, the dress of adult male Romans. Indeed, Augustus required that all citizens conducting business in the forum wear the toga and thus be distinguished from non-citizens, including foreigners and slaves (Suetonius, Aug. 40). A similar dress code prevailed in the theatre, and it is not without coincidence 19 20 21

CIL 6.30957. For a description of this altar and relevant bibliography, see Lott (2004: 142144, 199-200). The standard works on the toga are Goette (1990) and Wilson (1924). On ancient references to the significance of the toga, see Goette (1990: 10-19). See Davies (2005), Sebesta (2005) and Sebesta (2001: 46-48, 50-51).

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that this dress code appeared alongside Augustus’ rigid seating regulations in the theatre, so that individuals were seated according to social rank (Suetonius, Aug. 44). The body not only encoded social status through dress but also enacted it.22 The toga, in combination with the tunic (an undergarment), could signal much more beyond “citizenship”, however. Purple stripes of varying widths were intended to announce the precise social standing of the wearer. The wider the stripe, the higher the standing, so that senators wore tunics adorned with wide purple stripes (latus clavus), the equestrian order wore tunics with narrow stripes (angustus clavus), and magistrates and high priests wore the toga praetexta with its purple stripe along the border in addition to the striped tunic. The toga of the ordinary Roman citizen (toga pura), made of wool, simply retained its natural, off-white / grey hue.23 Ancient paintings have often been invoked as a means of bringing to life the importance of dress and its colour in defining oneself in Roman society (any colour that adorned Roman statuary is long gone). For instance, in what appears to be a Pompeian shop sign, the garment maker Verecundus stands displaying a cloth decorated with narrow, purple stripes (Fröhlich 1991: 333-335; Sampaolo 1999) (fig. 13). Directly above him stands a genius, the family’s protective spirit, appropriately dressed in a double-striped tunic and veiled in the toga praetexta as he extends a patera in a ritualistic gesture. In sharp contrast, next to Verecundus stand four robust felt workers who manipulate wool at tables and a furnace. They wear only dark loincloths, leaving their chests, backs, arms and legs exposed as they perform manual labour. For all intents and purposes, these individuals are naked. Relative social hierarchies are thus expressed and maintained through bodily actions and through the very garments themselves. But what does it mean that Verecundus advertises the purple-striped cloth in a colony of Rome, where there were no senators and probably few equestrians, but only a local elite that may have been relatively limited in terms of numbers? It would seem that rigid ideals in dress codes could be far from more fluid realities. A series of frescoes from a tavern in Pompeii shows a slice of daily-life: gambling, drinking and eating (fig. 14).24 As to be expected in this particular context, individuals don the less formal outerwear, the tunic. The tunics of both guests and servers, however, are adorned with magisterial stripes. The imagery suggests that stripes, no matter how narrow, were worn by almost anyone, even in the absence of a toga.25 While it must be borne in mind that what we are 22 23 24 25

See Parker (1999) for an excellent discussion of how the theatre could also be a space for contesting social identities. See Stone (2001: 15). Also see Sebesta (2005). For a discussion of the tavern paintings and bibliography, see Bragantini (1993) and Fröhlich (1991: 214-222). An observation already made by Wilson (1938: 61).

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Figure 13: Shop of Verecundus, Pompeii, first century A.D. Photograph: SAP / AFS 80887 (su concessione del Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali − Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei)

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Figure 14: Tavern scene with guest and server, Caupona on the Street of Mercury, Pompeii, first century A.D. Photograph: Sandra Joshel

looking at is a representation, not necessarily a depiction of reality, literary testimony seems to support the visual record. Pliny the Elder observed that senators were no longer distinguished by their tunics, as public criers wore the wide purple. 26 Priorities may have shifted so that other factors, in place of status alone, determined who could wear the purple stripe. Verecundus may just as well display his goods to those, whether freeborn or freed slave, who could afford the expense of added purple to their garments, and the elite took notice of this slippage of status markers. I return now to Petronius’ literary depiction of Trimalchio’s dinner party, which I argue, brings to the fore fissures in Roman codes of appearances. When one of the guests, the narrator Encolpius, arrives at Trimalchio’s home, he becomes absorbed in a monumental series of biographical frescoes recount26

Pliny, Nat. hist. 33.29; discussed in Wilson (1938: 61). Also see Maguire (1999: esp. 10-13) for an assessment of the striped tunic as a framing device for an individual, thus transforming the body into a “monumental presence”.

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ing the early life of the host, from the slave market with Trimalchio for sale as a young man, his hair in slave fashion, to the various stages of his career and his manumission (Petronius, Sat. 30). Once the guests have seated themselves in one of Trimalchio’s many dining rooms, they anxiously await the arrival of their host. When Trimalchio finally does appear, he does so with great fanfare. Encolpius describes Trimalchio’s jaw-dropping entrance as follows (Petronius, Sat. 32.1-33.1; ed. Müller & Ehlers): In his eramus lautitiis, cum ipse Trimalchio ad symphoniam allatus est positusque inter cervicalia minutissima expressit imprudentibus risum. Pallio enim coccineo adrasum excluserat caput circaque oneratas veste cervices laticlaviam immiserat mappam fimbriis hinc atque illinc pendentibus. (...) Ut deinde pinna argentea dentes perfodit, (...) inquit (...). “We were nibbling at these splendid appetizers when suddenly the trumpets blared a fanfare and Trimalchio was carried in, propped up on piles of miniature pillows in such a comic way that some of us couldn’t resist impolitely smiling. His head cropped close in a recognizable slave cut, protruded from a cloak of blazing scarlet; his neck, heavily swathed already in bundles of clothing, was wrapped in a large napkin bounded by an incongruous senatorial purple stripe with little tassels dangling down here and there (...). He was picking his teeth with a silver toothpick when he first addressed us (...).”27

Here Petronius presents an ex-slave who strives to define himself through his dress, with the result that his appearance is one of jarring incongruity. Nowhere is this incongruity more notable than in the “confused” juxtaposition of Trimalchio’s closely cropped hair in the fashion of a slave cut and the napkin, of all things, that bears the senatorial purple stripe and is wrapped around his neck.28 Neither the slave cut nor the displaced senatorial stripe truly reflects Trimalchio’s legal status and identity, namely, as a former slave, now a Roman citizen, who could never attain the elite rank of senator. On one hand, the freedman struggles with his self-image as his face is literally framed by references to both his servile past and, despite his fabulous wealth, his impossible aspirations. On the other hand, the ex-slave seems to take pleasure, if naively, in transgressing social boundaries. Trimalchio’s body humorously under- and overstates his social position. Petronius’ portrayal of Trimalchio’s failed attempt in dress makes an acute point. The freedman body was not fixed, but in a continual process of change and modification; the slave body has become a citizen body. What makes Trimalchio’s appearance so jarring, however, is that he has inscribed his extreme change in status in an accumulative fashion so that his past is made just as 27 28

As translated by William Arrowsmith (New York 1959). See Walsh (1970: 138) for the correspondence between Petronius’ depiction of Trimalchio wearing a napkin and Suetonius’ account of Nero appearing in public with a napkin around his neck (Suetonius, Nero 51).

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visible as his present circumstance. It could be argued that Petronius calls attention to the fact that relatively little made an ex-slave visually identifiable as one, save for (or hence) the absurdity of his character’s dress. Granted, some freed slaves may have borne permanently the bodily markings of slavery, such as scars from whippings and tattoos (stigma) on the forehead, and may have attempted to conceal such markings.29 Because these slave bodies had been violated in no uncertain terms, Augustus “ruled that no slave who had ever been in irons or subjugated to torture could become a citizen, even after the most honourable form of manumission” (Suetonius, Aug. 40.4),30 thereby adding insult to injury. Needless to say, without citizen status, such marked libertini were prohibited from wearing the toga altogether. There was, however, one item of clothing that could identify an individual as a freed slave – the conical cap of freedom (pilleus), worn infrequently. Ex-slaves were only required to wear the pilleus at the funeral of their patrons and at times when they called on their former masters. Representations of the pilleus are few, but a relief from the Tomb of the Haterii in Rome depicts four freed slaves wearing these caps as they mourn.31 Meanwhile, during more usual circumstances, freed slavesturned-citizens were required to wear the toga at the theatre and in the forum, potentially making ex-slave bodies difficult to distinguish from a mass of freeborn individuals, at least in these locales. And, if we can trust our visual and literary records, which suggest that by the first century purple stripes were rather commonplace, then some freed slaves might have acquired the trappings that once signified office but were now nearly empty, if contested, signs of prestige, at least from the elite perspective. It would seem that the ancient authors cited thus far express a pointed concern that they, namely the elite bodies, remain distinguishable from the ordinary citizen body and the ex-slave body, not to mention the slave body, and that these bodies, to a degree, remain identifiable as such. But to attempt to distinguish oneself was often in vain, and Trimalchio’s dress just might underhandedly expose the futility of dress in defining oneself. In a further twist, Seneca notes that the senate, acutely aware of the visual potency of dress, rejected a proposal to have slaves wear distinctive dress as a means to distinguish slaves from the free. The reasoning was sound. Lurking was the threat of danger (or revolt) once slaves saw how many others were enslaved in comparison to those who were not.32 Indeed, more often than not it was difficult to dis29 30 31 32

See Martial 2.29.9-10 for a quip about an ex-slave, dressed in fine trappings, such as a purple mantle, glistening white toga, and jewelry, who attempts to cover the tattoo on his forehead. (...) hoc quoque adiecit, ne vinctus umquam tortusve quis ullo libertatis genere civitatem adipisceretur. As translated by Robert Graves (London 1957). For an image and discussion, see Kleiner (1992: 196-199). Seneca, Clem. 1.24.1; discussed in Bradley (2001: 476).

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tinguish slaves from the free based on dress alone, an observation recently highlighted by Michele George (2002: esp. 43-45). An Augustan-era grave stele from Classis (modern day Ravenna) illustrates the extent to which clothing could blur social boundaries. The stele belongs to a shipbuilder, Longidienus, and his wife, both of whom are shown in the top niche in proper citizen attire (fig. 15). The inscription beneath the couple informs us that Longidienus was freeborn – it gives his filiation – and that he freed his wife (CIL 11.139): P. Longidienus P. f. Cam(ilia tribu) faber navalis se vivo constit uit et Longidienae P. l. Stactini[ae] “Publius Longidienus, son of Publius, of the Camilia tribe, shipbuilder, built this monument, while living, for himself and for Longidiena Stactinia, freedwoman of Publius.”33

The picture below shows a man at work building a ship; he wears a tunic belted at the waist and could easily be taken for a slave working for Longidienus’ ship-building business. The rectangular plaque, however, identifies the scene precisely: P. Longidienus P. f. ad onus properat “Publius Longidienus, son of Publius, busy at work.”

Again the inclusion of his filiation declares that Longidienus was a freeborn individual – no slave, no former slave, but a Roman to the core. He is among the hundreds of thousands of Romans who worked for a living. Because manual labour often necessitated a garment that facilitated movement, the tunic was the garment of choice among the myriad working Romans. The tunic is thus highly problematic in articulating differences between the enslaved and the free. Confounding matters further, in the centre of the stele are two funerary portraits of togate individuals who can be securely identified as citizens. Yet, as the inscription below makes clear, each is a freedman of Longidienus, both of whom contributed to the cost of the stele: P. Longidienus P. l. Rufio P. Longidienus P. l. Piladespou impensam patrono dederunt “Publius Longidienus Rufus, freedman of Publius, and Publius Longidienus Piladespotus, freedman of Publius, paid the cost to their patronus.”

33

For a discussion of the relief and bibliography, see Clarke (2003: 118-121) and Hughes (2001: 125-127, 199-201).

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Figure 15: Stele of P. Longidienus, Ravenna, 27 B.C. – A.D. 14. Photograph: Koppermann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1962.2149

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Tunic and toga here do little in marking precise status distinctions. It would seem that pictorial conventions sometimes have difficulty in marking the bodies of slaves as necessarily distinct from citizens, freeborn and freed slave alike. As has been well documented, the toga in the imperial period increasingly came to signal not only citizenship but also the political man, that is, the dress of elite persons who did not use their bodies to work for a living but who used their oratory skills (fig. 16). 34 The imperial toga was, after all, a large and heavy garment (its width measuring 15-18 ft.), and therefore expensive, nearly impossible to don without the aid of trained servants, and easily susceptible to dishevelment with the slightest touch or movement; any such dishevelment of the toga could signal its bearer’s lack of ability to control his own body.35 Despite its potential to bear prestige upon its wearer, the toga was cumbersome and hot as it literally wrapped the body of the citizen, rendering him nearly immobile, like Trimalchio as he is brought to his own dinner party. Paradoxically, the citizen body has become passive on account of its over-adornment. Perhaps, it should come as no surprise that the tunic had quickly become the garment of choice among ordinary Romans, a circumstance that prompted Augustus, as noted, to require thereafter that citizens wear the toga in the civic, religious and political centres of Roman life. Ideally then, boundaries between citizens and non-citizens could be maintained, although in reality the toga and tunic, as we saw, whether plain or striped, hardly distinguished the freeborn from the freed slave within the citizen body. Outside the forum and theatre, ambiguity prevailed for the largest segment of the population – those outside ultra-elite circles – owing to the fact that the simple, easy-to-wear tunic was worn by freeborn, freed slave and slave alike. In fact, Juvenal remarked: “there are many parts of Italy, to tell the truth, in which no man puts on the toga until he is dead”36 – an observation that just may as well make reference to pictorial conventions in funerary art, in which togate figures predominate, in addition to everyday realities. So, when one of Trimalchio’s guests exclaims, annis quadraginta servivi; nemo tamen sciit, utrum servus essem an liber (Petronius, Sat. 57.9),37 he may indeed be uttering a kernel of truth. In a society seemingly 34 35 36

37

For an important and insightful analysis of the toga in Roman rhetoric, representations and daily life, see Vout (1996) and the brief outline in Baertschi & Fögen (2005: 220-221). See Davies (2005) and Stone (2001: 17). On the importance of wearing a toga well, see Macrobius, Sat. 3.13.4 (discussed in Wilson 1924: 73-74); see also Quintilian, Inst. orat. 11.3.140-147 (discussed in Baertschi & Fögen 2005: 220). Juvenal, Sat. 3.171-172: pars magna Italiae est, si verum admittimus, in qua / nemo togam sumit nisi mortuus. As translated in the Loeb edition (Juvenal and Persius. With an English translation by George G. Ramsay, Cambridge, Mass. & London 1979, 45). The passage is discussed in Croom (2000: 40). “Forty years I spent as a slave, but no one could tell now whether I was slave or free”, following the translation by William Arrowsmith (New York 1959).

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Figure 16: Togate statue with portrait head of Titus, Rome. Braccio Nuovo, Museo Chiaramonti, Vatican Museums, Vatican State. Photograph: Alinari / Art Resource, NY, ART88092

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so preoccupied with external appearances in defining oneself, the fact that boundaries between social strata could become undone by the very ideals that were intended to define those boundaries must have been destabilizing, at least from the elite perspective. Although a slave could never wear a toga, a citizen was not always required to wear his badge of Roman citizenship in everyday life. On a daily basis, indeterminacies in bodily appearances must have prevailed more often than not. I conclude with two funerary monuments belonging to ex-slaves (figs. 17 and 18). Although a servile past marred a freedman’s newly acquired citizen status and potentially reinforced his marginal position in society, both of these individuals, Lusius Storax and P. Vesonius Phileros, had gained some rather significant social standing within their respective communities. Their epitaphs declare that each had achieved the highest office available to freedmen, that of Augustalis, which signalled both prestige, as significant contributors to their cities, and probable ineligibility for higher office on account of their formerslave status. The tomb of P. Vesonius Phileros prominently displays three individuals, presumably those named in the epitaph below – Phileros himself, his former master Vesonia and Marcus Orfellius Faustus, his friend. The group is presented, for all intents and purposes, as if it were a family. Indeed, if the inscription did not survive, we could easily mistake the figures for husband, wife and offspring or relative. Vesonius Phileros, whichever of the two togate figures he may be, engages Roman funerary pictorial conventions by appearing in citizen attire. How he dressed in daily life must remain unknown, but the toga, as a cultural symbol, securely identifies him as a Roman body within the citizen body.38 Dress and social standing are thus inextricably linked in this memorial. The relief of Lusius Storax makes this clear to an even greater degree. He is but one of many togate citizens, visible as a citizen but virtually indistinguishable as a freed slave, save for the epitaph.39 Writers such as Petronius do reveal, exaggeration aside, how a libertinus occupied a somewhat problematic position within society. By this I mean that a freedman visibly belonged to, but was also separated socially and politically from, the freeborn citizen body. Although freed slaves in the funerary record seem to insist on declaring their former-slave status via their nomenclature, they also seem to take pleasure in donning the newly won citizen attire. The passage about Trimalchio’s identity crisis within his home can function as a frame of reference, but not, to be sure, as a simple revelation of ex-slave attitudes and behaviours. Rather, it may offer insights more generally about the 38 39

On the toga as a cultural symbol, see Vout (1996). On the tomb of P. Vesonius Phileros, see Petersen (2006: 77-80). For a recent discussion of the tomb of Lusius Storax and bibliography, see Clarke (2003: 145-152).

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Figure 17: Tomb of P. Vesonius Phileros, Pompeii, first century A.D. Photograph: Stephen Petersen

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elite’s desires and struggles for self-definition in a society that was hierarchical, but whose status indicators could shift in varying contexts. The freed slave, at once fairly anonymous and perceived as overreaching, was also constructed to embody the limitations of a system so heavily dependent on dress and outward appearances. The freedman body, no matter how successfully integrated visually, needed to fail ideologically so that the more elite citizen body could preserve its stature. To return to the quote cited at the beginning of this paper, we can see its application in the Roman world, albeit limited. Clothes could make the freedman. Effectively erasing a servile past, bodily adornment had the potential to symbolize membership in Roman society. Neither slave nor freeborn, however, the freedman body was cultivated rhetorically by the elite as a site of paradoxes, blurring as it did what were intended to be visible social boundaries. In this way, the body of the freedman functioned precariously as a locus of self-definition, not only for the individual but also for society at large.

Bibliography Andreau, Jean (1993): The freedman. In: Andrea Giardina (ed.), The Romans (transl. by Lydia G. Cochrane), Chicago, 178-198. Baertschi, Annette M. & Thorsten Fögen (2005): Schönheitsbilder und Geschlechterrollen im antiken Rom. Zur Bedeutung von Kosmetik, Frisuren, Kleidung und Schmuck. In: Forum Classicum 48, 213-226. Beard, Mary & al. (1991): Literacy in the Roman World, Ann Arbor. Bergmann, Bettina & Christine Kondoleon (eds.) (1999): The Art of Ancient Spectacle, New Haven. Bodel, John (2005): Caveat emptor. Towards a study of Roman slave-traders. In: Journal of Roman Archaeology 18, 181-195. Bradley, Keith (1994): Slavery and Society at Rome, Cambridge. Bradley, Keith (2001): Imagining slavery. The limits of the plausible (book review). In: Journal of Roman Archaeology 14, 473-477. Bragantini, Irene (1993): VI.10.1: Caupona della Via di Mercurio. In: Pompei, pitture e mosaici (vol. 4), Rome, 1005-1028. Clarke, John R. (1998): Looking at Lovemaking. Constructions of Sexuality in Roman Art, 100 B.C. – A.D. 250, Berkeley. Clarke, John R. (2003): Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans. Visual Representation and Non-Elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C. – A.D. 315, Berkeley. Cleland, Liza, Mary Harlow & Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (eds.) (2005): The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, Oxford. Croom, A. T. (2000): Roman Clothing and Fashion, Gloucestershire.

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D’Ambra, Eve & Guy P. R. Métraux (eds.) (2006): The Art of Citizens, Soldiers, and Freedmen in the Roman World, London. Davies, Glenys (2005): What made the Roman toga virilis? In: Liza Cleland, Mary Harlow & Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (eds.), The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, Oxford, 121-130. Duff, Arnold M. (1928): Freedmen in the Early Roman Empire, Oxford. Elsner, Jaś (1998): Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford. Fabre, Georges (1981): “Libertus”. Recherches sur les rapports patron-affranchi à la fin de la république romaine, Rome. Fentress, Elizabeth (2005): On the block. Catastae, chalcidica and cryptae in early imperial Italy. In: Journal of Roman Archaeology 18, 220-234. Frederiksen, Martin W. (1959): Republican Capua. A social and economic study. In: Papers of the British School at Rome 27, 80-130. Fröhlich, Thomas (1991): Lararien- und Fassadenbilder in den Vesuvstädten. Untersuchungen zur “volkstümlichen” pompejanischen Malerei, Mainz. George, Michele (2002): Slave disguise in ancient Rome. In: Slavery and Abolition 23.2, 41-54. Goette, Hans R. (1990): Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen, Mainz. Hallett, Christopher (2005): The Roman Nude. Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 B.C – A.D. 300, Oxford. Harris, William V. (1980): Towards a study of the Roman slave trade. In: Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 36, 117-140. Harris, William V. (1989): Ancient Literacy, Cambridge, Mass. Hughes, Lisa (2001): Remembering the Dead. The “Liberti” of Late Republican Municipalities and Colonies of Italy, Ph.D. dissertation Indiana University. Jones, Christopher P. (1987): Stigma. Tattooing and branding in Graeco-Roman antiquity. In: Journal of Roman Studies 77, 139-155. Kellum, Barbara (1999): The spectacle of the street. In: Bettina Bergmann & Christine Kondoleon (eds.), The Art of Ancient Spectacle, New Haven, 283-299. Kleiner, Diana E. E. (1992): Roman Sculpture, New Haven. Lott, J. Bert (2004): The Neighborhoods of Augustan Rome, Cambridge. Maguire, Eunice Dauterman (1999): Weavings from Roman, Byzantine, and Islamic Egypt. The Rich Life and the Dance, Urbana-Champaign, Illinois. Olson, Kelly (2003): Roman underwear revisited. In: Classical World 92, 201-210. Otto, August (1890): Die Sprichwörter und sprichwörtlichen Redensarten der Römer, Leipzig. Parker, Holt N. (1999): The observed of all observers. Spectacle, applause and cultural poetics in the Roman theater audience. In: Bettina Bergmann & Christine Kondoleon (eds.), The Art of Ancient Spectacle, New Haven, 163-179. Petersen, Lauren Hackworth (2003): The baker, his tomb, his wife, and her breadbasket. The monument of Eurysaces in Rome. In: The Art Bulletin 85, 230-257. Petersen, Lauren Hackworth (2006): The Freedman in Roman Art and Art History, Cambridge.

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Pucci, Giuseppe (2005): Detrahis vestimenta venalibus. Iconografia della vendita di schiavi nell’antichità e oltre. In: Journal of Roman Archaeology 18, 235-240. Richlin, Amy (1992): The Garden of Priapus. Sexuality and Aggression in Roman Humor, New York (revised ed.). Sampaolo, Valeria (1999): IX.7.7: Officina coactiliaria di Verecundus. In: Pompei, pitture e mosaici (vol. 9), Rome, 774-778. Sebesta, Judith Lynn (2001): Symbolism and costume of the Roman woman. In: Judith Lynn Sebesta & Larissa Bonfante (eds.), The World of Roman Costume, Madison, Wisconsin, 46-53. Sebesta, Judith (2005): The toga praetexta of Roman children and praetextate garments. In: Liza Cleland, Mary Harlow & Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (eds.), The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, Oxford, 113-120. Sebesta, Judith Lynn & Larissa Bonfante (eds.) (2001): The World of Roman Costume, Madison, Wisconsin. Stone, Shelley (2001): The toga. From national to ceremonial costume. In: Judith Lynn Sebesta & Larissa Bonfante (eds.), The World of Roman Costume, Madison, Wisconsin, 13-45. Taylor, Lily Ross (1961): Freedmen and freeborn in the epitaphs of imperial Rome. In: American Journal of Philology 82, 113-133. Thompson, F. Hugh (2003): The Archaeology of Greek and Roman Slavery, London. Treggiari, Susan (1969): Roman Freedmen during the Late Republic, Oxford. Vout, Caroline (1996): The myth of the toga. Understanding the history of Roman dress. In: Greece & Rome 43, 204-220. Walsh, Peter G. (1970): The Roman Novel. The “Satyricon” of Petronius and the “Metamorphoses” of Apuleius, Cambridge. Walther, Hans (ed.) (1967): Lateinische Sprichwörter und Sentenzen des Mittelalters in alphabetischer Anordnung (vol. 5: Sim – Z), Göttingen. Wiedemann, Thomas & Jane Gardner (eds.) (2002): Representing the Body of the Slave, London & Portland. Wilson, Lillian M. (1924): The Roman Toga, Baltimore. Wilson, Lillian M. (1938): The Clothing of the Ancient Romans, Baltimore.

The Female Body in Late Antiquity: Between Virtue, Taboo and Eroticism Kathrin Schade Abstract: Women in late antiquity are well-known through the Christian patristic literature and medieval texts. Most prominently, these sources concern wealthy clarissimae feminae, pious members of the aristocratic elite, who sold their property, devoted themselves to an ascetic ideal of poverty and founded monasteries in the Holy Land. According to St. Jerome, the ideal image of a Christian ascetic woman was characterized by a thin body and a pale face (Epist. 45.5). But remarkably, the actual portraiture of the time does not show any of these features. The statues as well as the representations in mosaics or on vessels and ivories do not negate the female body – on the contrary: most of them emphasize its characteristics of gender. This contribution intends to demonstrate that the social relationships and boundaries ‘embodied’ in the late antique female portraits ultimately derive from the pagan Roman tradition, which associated the emphasis on the female body with typical female virtues like conjugal fidelity, motherhood and beauty. On the other hand, it will be argued that the boundaries between ‘virtue, taboo and eroticism’ become permeable in certain groups of late antique portraits, especially in the images of the empresses, which combine traditional features of female identity with new asexual elements. However, it is not an ascetic ideal, but a new concept of imperial mastery which is responsible for this innovative representation – the idea of “Kaiser von Gottes Gnaden”. The study concludes with a glance at the most important and successful creation of late antique female portraiture – the image of the Virgin Mary. It incorporates all the elements that had previously been designed for the clarissimae feminae and the empress: matronality and virginity, beauty, and finally also spirituality. In this process the image of the enthroned Virgin with Child is established as the new female ideal portrait.

1. Introduction ‘Women in late antiquity’ have been given prominent attention by the disciplines of historical text-research, especially by feminist theology and classics, during the last thirty years.1 One of the reasons for this certainly is the favour1

The number of secondary literature about this subject is so extensive that it is impossible to give a representative bibliography. Instead, see Antti Arjava, A Bibliography on Women and the Family in Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages (2nd to 7th century AD) (http://www. nipissingu.ca/department/history/muhlberger/orb/arjava3.htm) (last update: 17 January 2005),

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able source material. The late antique literary texts of the fourth and fifth centuries A.D. are especially rich in information on women – who never before had received so much appreciation in these sources. The texts, mainly Christian patristic literature, spiritual texts and medieval legends, picture the life of wealthy clarissimae feminae, pious members of the aristocratic elite, as positive examples of true Christian pietas. The noble ladies were prominent representatives and patrons of a new movement of asceticism in this period. Jerome, Rufinus and John Chrysostom were acquainted with clarissimae feminae as Paula, Melania the Elder and Olympias, who sold their property, devoted themselves to an ascetic ideal of poverty, accomplished pious deeds and founded monasteries in the Holy Land.2 Essential to this ascetic attitude towards life was a strict sexual renunciation, based on a radical concept of bodyspirit-dualism. Typical expressions of such “ascetic militancy”3 were aversions to personal hygiene, shame at one’s own nudity or even corporal self-punishment. The spiritual image of the ascetic Christian woman diminished the characteristics of the female sex in favour of physical neutrality. It was characterized, as Jerome states, by a thin body and a pale face (Jerome, Epist. 45.5). According to Mary Douglas, bodies are media of social significance; their shapes represent codes of cultural coherence in their social context (Douglas 1974: 99-123). The image of the female body in the spiritual patristic texts was claimed only for a very exclusive circle in late Roman society – that of Christian asceticism. Of course, this cannot be representative of the comprehension of female bodies in late antiquity generally. In order to gain a more complete picture of representations of women in late antiquity, it is necessary to consider also further embodiments of this discourse. The present contribution focusses on the portraiture of Roman women in different visual media: statues, mosaics, ivories etc. The discussed examples stem from the same period as the spiritual literature, i.e. the fourth and early fifth centuries A.D., and they portray – as far as we are able to tell – clarissimae feminae, female members of the late Roman elite. In late antiquity, portraits in three-dimensional sculpture, as a rule, result from the re-use of older statues, on which only the face and the hairstyle were altered. A prominent example for this is a sculpture in the Museo Capitolino in

2

3

and Thalia Gouma-Peterson & al., Bibliography on Women in Byzantium 2007 (http://www. doaks.org/WomeninByzantium.html). See also Thraede (1972: 197-269), Jensen (1992: esp. 11-27), Clark (1993) and the following notes. On Paula, see Jones, Martindale & Morris (1971: 674-675); on Melania the Elder, see Jones, Martindale & Morris (1971: 592-593); on Olympias, see Jones, Martindale & Morris (1971: 642-643). In general, see Krumeich (1993), Petersen-Szemerédy (1993), Wittern (1994), Feichtinger (1995), Laurence (1997), Steininger (1997), Lake (2006) and Clark (2006). Brown (1988: 411). See also Müller (2000: 185-203).

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Figure 1: Statue of the empress Helena. Rome, Museo Capitolino. D-DAI-Rom 77.1718 (Rossa)

Rome, probably depicting Helen, the mother of Constantine (fig. 1). 4 The statue represents a sculptural prototype that was developed during the classical Greek period and is commonly known as the Aphrodite-Olympias-type. Stylistic and technical details suggest that the statue was sculpted in the second century A.D. In the Constantinian era the head was recarved with the features of Helen and her fashionable hairstyle.5 Another example is a portrait in the Ny 4 5

Rome, Museo Capitolino, Stanza degli Imperatori 59, Inv. 496; see Fittschen & Zanker (1983: 36, no. 38 pls. 47 & 48). Blanck (1969: 56-57 n. 35, pl. 25), Arata (1993: 185-200) and Schade (2003: 173-175, no. I 9 pl. 28). Compare the statue (probably a replica) in Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi, Inv. 1914.171; see Schade (2003: 175-176, no. I 10 pl. 29.1-3).

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Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen depicting an unknown Roman lady (fig. 2).6 The statue itself, representing the Hellenistic Ceres-type, again is a product of the second century. An inscription at its plinth indicates that it portrays a “ΠΙΝΥΤΗ ΕΚΥΡΗ”, an intelligent mother-in-law. Both the inscription and the facial portrait were executed in the fourth century A.D.7 The Aphrodite-Olympias- as well as the Ceres-type were employed for female portraits during the Principate in order to associate women with the typical virtues of a Roman matron (Alexandridis 2004: 58-61, 222-223, 229231). According to the two examples above, also viewers of the fourth century continued to perceive these types as exempla for motherhood, beauty and intelligence. The conservative values of late antiquity were obviously linked to an affirmation of traditional female body shapes. In other words, older sculptures, which represented matronly body types, were ‘recycled’ in order to appreciate contemporary noble women (Schade 2003: 92-94, 141-144). Other typical media of late antique female portraits are mosaics, vessels and ivories. A mosaic from the thermal baths of Sidi Ghrib (Tunisia), supposedly made in early Theodosian time, depicts a woman at her toilet.8 Flanked by her two maids, she occupies the centre of the composition, which is surrounded by several articles of beauty care (fig. 3). The hips, upper arms and neck of the domina have soft rounded shapes, emphasizing her sensual femininity. The silver-casket of the so-called Seuso treasure, probably from the early fifth century, shows a lady in a similar scene.9 Although the volume of her body is somewhat reduced, the female curves of breast, abdomen and hips are still visible. The famous silver casket of the early Theodosian Esquiline treasure, today in the British Museum in London (fig. 4),10 and the well-known ivory diptych in Monza (fig. 5),11 both from the second half of the fourth century, portray married couples: the casket Proiecta and Secundus, the diptych probably the imperial niece Serena, her husband, the magister militum Stilicho, and her son.12 The female shapes of both Proiecta and the so-called Serena are

6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Kopenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek 552, Inv. 710; see Johansen (1995: 196-199, no. 87). Blanck (1969: 58-61, no. A 37 pls. 28 & 29) and Schade (2003: 181-182, no. I 19 pls. 34 & 35.3). Tunis, Musée du Bardo; see Ennabli (1986: panneau 5 pl. 14, bottom of page) and Schade (2003: 245-246, no. III 11, frontispiece). Marquess of Northampton 1989 Settlement; see Mundell Mango & Bennett (1994: 444, figs. 14.1-32) and Schade (2003: 247, no. III 17). London, British Museum, Inv. 66.12-29.1; see Shelton (1981: 72-75, no. 1 fig. 6 & 12 pls. 16 & 8-11) and Schade (2003: 246-247, no. III 16 pl. 15.1). Monza, Treasury of the Duomo S. Giovanni Battista; see Delbrueck (1929: 242-244, no. 63 pl. 63) and Schade (2003: 244, no. III 3 pl. 15.2). See, among others, Kiilerich & Torp (1989: 319-371).

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Figure 2: Statue of a woman. Kopenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek (photograph Selsing)

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Figure 3: Mosaic from the baths of Sidi Ghrib. Tunis, Musée du Bardo. From: Wulf Raeck, Modernisierte Mythen. Zum Umgang der Spätantike mit klassischen Bildthemen, Stuttgart 1992, fig. 17

Figure 4: Silver casket from the Esquiline Treasure (lid). London, British Museum. © Trustees of the British Museum, PS 019903

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not primarily defined through anatomical details; rather they are indicated by the volume of their clothes, belts and lines of the drapery.

Figure 5: Ivory diptych. Monza, Treasury of the Duomo S. Giovanni Battista. Fratelli Alinari 46950

All these examples demonstrate that late antique portraiture did not negate the female body: on the contrary, the statues as well as representations in mosaics, on vessels and ivories emphasized a physical presence. Unlike the ascetic literature, the portraits retained traditional characteristics of gender. It may be assumed that the textual sources and the visual testimonies are opposing pairs, arising from a common social reality. They reflect two polarized sides of one discourse, fulfilling different medial functions – on the one hand the transportation of an ascetic-theological ideology, on the other hand the distinctive representation of the Roman elite. Both patrons and artists aimed at characterizing the depicted person in the most exemplary manner. Roman portraits provided

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the possibility for personal or collective identification but also for distinguishable dissociation. As media of visual communication, they had a strong normative function. The depicted values and virtues were transmitted in specific aesthetic codes, visualized as patterns of iconography, gestures and style.13 The prerequisite for understanding the visual message was a social consensus based upon these codes. The habitual body shape includes this semantic dimension, too. The following considerations attempt to clarify which contemporary social conditions were responsible for the positive connotation of the female body still to be found in late antique imagery.

2. Matrimony and motherhood The toilet scene of the domina with her two maids (fig. 3) is only one part of the pavement in the thermal baths of Sidi Ghrib. The other part of the mosaic depicts the husband of the lady who is off to go hunting.14 On the Monza ivory diptych, wife and husband are placed each on one panel: the husband alone, the wife together with their son (fig. 5). She wears rich jewellery and makes an elegant gesture with the flower in her right hand, whereas her husband is equipped with insignia and the official costume. The couple on the lid of the Esquiline silver casket is set into a medallion, in traditional Roman poses (fig. 4). The accompanying inscription describes both as Christians: A XP Ω SECVNDE ET PROIECTA VIVATIS IN CHRI[STO]. In the period in question, i.e. the fourth and early fifth centuries A.D., the depiction of married couples and families is not limited to mosaics, ivories and vessels. They also occur on sarcophagi and objects of applied arts, such as gold glasses and wedding rings. Many sarcophagi portray the couples in medallions, in close physical contact.15 Commonly the wife embraces the shoulders of her husband with her left arm, touching his right upper arm. Emotional expressions are thus allocated to the portraits’ female half. Another traditional motif on sarcophagi, gold glasses, coins etc. is the dextrarum iunctio, the gesture of joining the right hands (fig. 6).16 In the imagery of the Principate this gesture was used as a symbol for successful personal, political or military alliances. On grave reliefs of the first century B.C. it demonstrated the closeness of married couples or other members of the family; starting in the second century A.D. it

13 14 15 16

See Douglas (1974: 104, 110-111) and Schneider, Fehr & Meyer (1979: 7-40). Ennabli (1986: 44-46, panneau 6 pl. 14, top of page). E.g. Deichmann, Bovini & Brandenburg (1967: 33-34, no. 39 pl. 12; 35-36 no. 40 pl. 13; 72 no. 87 pl. 26; 80-81 no. 112 pl. 29; 138-139 no. 239 pl. 53; 141-142 no. 244 pl. 55) and Schade (2003: 15, pl. 16.1-2). For examples, see Schade (2003: 125-128, pls. 4.7-8, 16.6, 17.1-3).

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Figure 6: Sarcophagus in Tolentino, Duomo (detail). D-DAI-Rom 60.1407 (J. Boehringer)

became a sign of the virtue of conjugal concord, even of the imperial couple.17 Almost 300 years later a solidus was emitted on the occasion of the wedding of the imperial couple Licinia Eudoxia and Valentinian III in Constantinople in the year 437.18 Bride and bridegroom join their right hands; the emperor Theodosius II, the father of the bride, stands in the centre of the composition, embracing the couple. Both his position and his gesture refer to the personification of conjugal concord, established in traditional Roman iconography. At the end of the Theodosian era, in A.D. 450, a similar solidus was emitted to mark

17 18

On the dextrarum iunctio in general, see Kantorowicz (1960: 4-16), Reinsberg (1983: 312317), Davies (1985: 627-240) and Alexandridis (2004: 23-24, 95-98 pl. 63.2, 63.6). Kent (1994: 260, no. 267 pl. 10) and Schade (2003: 50-51, 126 pl. 4.7); see also Kantorowicz (1960: figs. 21 & 22) and Reinsberg (1983: fig. 131).

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the wedding of Pulcheria and Marcian.19 Now is it Christ who, substituting Concord or the father of the bride, embraces the imperial couple. Throughout all periods of the Roman culture, matrimony was the main institution to guarantee legitimate heirs. According to the Stoics, it was to be a community of concord, love and equal responsibilities. During the Principate, the conjugal status strengthened the social position and the public reputation of the Roman woman.20 This concept was also reproduced in visual representations. The great number of images of the fourth and fifth centuries proves that the high esteem granted to women in the role of wife and mother continued on into late antiquity. Pictures of pagan as well as Christian couples represented the stoical virtues of affection, conjugal concord and fidelity, symbolized in the gesture of embracing or the dextrarum iuntio, which only gradually received an interpretatio christiana (see Schade 2003: 120-132). Domestic scenes with aristocratic women formed gender-specific counterparts to their husbands’ images, each with the typical symbols of status. These representations provided possibilities for aristocratic as well as female identification. The literary genre of the panegyrics, which has essential structural analogies to the visual representations in its medial function, appreciates the qualities of matrimony and motherhood in a similar way. In rich vocabulary, Claudian describes the female virtues of Anicia Faltonia Proba, the wife of the Christian consul of the year 371, Sextus Petronius Probus, in the panegyric to Olybrius and Probinus (Claudian, Panegyric on Probinus and Olybrius 192204; translated by Platnauer 1990: 16-17): Sic Proba praecipuo natos exornat amictu: quae decorat mundum, cuius Romana potestas fetibus augetur. credas ex aethere lapsam stare Pudicitiam vel sacro ture vocatam Iunonem Inachiis oculos advertere templis. talem nulla refert antiquis pagina libris nec Latiae cecinere tubae nec Graeca vetustas. coniuge digna Probo; nam tantum coetibus extat femineis, quantum supereminet ille maritos. ceu sibi certantes, sexus quid possit uterque, hunc legere torum. taceat Nereida nuptam Pelion. o duplici fecundam consule matrem felicemque uterum, qui nomina parturit annis! “So Proba adorns her children with vestment rare, Proba, the world’s glory, by whose increase the power of Rome, too, is increased. You would have thought her Modesty’s self fallen from heaven or Juno, summoned by sacred incense, turning her eyes on the shrines of Argos. No page in ancient story tells of such 19 20

Kent (1994: 278-279, no. 502 pl. 19) and Schade (2003: 126-127, pl. 4.8); see also Kantorowicz (1960: fig. 23a). Relevant here are Veyne (1978: 81-123) and Foucault (1997: 98-109, 193-240).

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a mother, no Latin Muse nor old Grecian tale. Worthy is she of Probus for a husband, for he surpassed all husbands as she all wives. ’Twas as though in rivalry either sex had done its uttermost and so brought about this marriage. Let Pelion vaunt no more that Nereid bride. Happy thou that art the mother of consuls twain, blessed thy womb whose offspring have given their name for its own.”

3. Beauty and eroticism In the divine sphere, beauty and eroticism belong to the goddess Venus. A mortal woman of the Roman society was associated or even identified with this goddess in order to emphasize these qualities.21 The same also went for the late antique period: Upon the silver casket from the Esquiline treasure, Proiecta sits in her chamber, adorning herself (fig. 7). She looks in the mirror while inserting a hairpin. Directly above this scene, on the lid of the casket, Venus is depicted sitting in a shell with almost the same gestures and toilet articles. The flanking Centaurotritons and Cupids turn towards the goddess in a similar way as the maids towards the domina Proiecta in the lower scene (Schneider 1983: 28-29, 31-33). The representation of Venus at her toilet is reminiscent of her characterization in the epithalamium for the emperor Honorius and his wife Mary, again by Claudian. The poet describes Venus enthroned in her chamber, adorning herself with the help of the Graces. Her son Cupid arrives and reports to her that he was victorious with his arrows against Honorius. Afterwards, Venus goes in triumph across the sea to the imperial bridal couple (Claudian, Epit. de nupt. Hon. Aug. 99-106, 122-201). On the Esquiline casket, Venus and Proiecta refer to each other. The reciprocal association of the goddess and the mortal woman was an intentional part of its iconological concept: Venus, decorated with attributes of status and fashionable hairstyle, paraphrased the lifestyle, prestige and ceremonial selfrepresentation of the domina; the portrait of the latter took up elements of the traditional iconography of the goddess – being as beautiful as Venus. But in spite of the various allusions, any direct reference to the actual character of the goddess of love was strictly avoided. Eroticism was transferred from everyday life to the mythological sphere of Venus, Cupid, the Graces and the Nereids. In other words, with the help of mythical allegories, it was possible to allude to the erotic qualities of the portrayed woman behind the normative representation of her virtues and status.22

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Wrede (1981: 306-323, no. 292-338 pls. 37-39), D’Ambra (1996: 219-232) and Alexandridis (2004: 84-88, pls. 2, 13, 44.3, 47.3, 47.4). See Muth (1998: 197-248 and passim) and Schade (2003: 133-135).

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Figure 7: Silver casket from the Esquiline Treasure (front view). London, British Museum. © Trustees of the British Museum, PS 019915

A remarkable exception to this principle is the decoration of the silver casket from the Seuso treasure. On its back a woman is depicted undressing, assisted by her maid (see above, n. 9). The woman probably is identical with the domina in the toilet scene at the front of the container, discussed above. Bucket, basin and spout localize the scene in the baths. Beside the lady’s maid there are two other women, completely naked. Their elegant postures associate them with the Graces. Thus, it may be assumed that the domina in this context is portrayed as Venus or the third Grace. In either case her nudity is a mythical idealization, but nevertheless the erotic directness of baring her abdomen is quite unusual. Voyeuristic glances at female nudity were here legitimized on the one hand through mythical allusion, and on the other hand through the seemingly innocent character of personal hygiene evoked by the setting of the scene. In addition to the erotic connotation, nudity also had a social dimension. The moral judgement on nudity and sexual shame depended on social status and the related social context. As John Chrysostom notes, in one of the public baths of Antioch a well-to-do lady exposed her body in front of her servants without any shame; her white skin was covered only with splendid jewellery (John Chrysostom, Hom. 28 in Hebr. 6; see Brown 1988: 316). The social difference between the lady in the baths and her retinue was unmistakably demonstrated through her wealth and luxury lifestyle. In contrast, poor girls, who worked as prostitutes or actresses, and exposed their bodies in front of a great audience, “had no right to sexual shame” (Brown 1988: 316).

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4. New tendencies: the body of the empress To sum up, both the social roles of mother and wife as well as the conventional female virtue of beauty – which could to a certain degree include erotic allusions – were still central themes in the social concepts of late antique Roman society. As the discussed examples show, the visualization of these norms was linked to gender characteristics deriving from pagan Roman culture. In other words, the emphasis on the female body in late antique portraits was associated with typical female virtues as conjugal fidelity, motherhood and beauty. Affirming these norms and virtues, the physical shapes and boundaries of bodies were maintained. However, there were new tendencies as well. The famous small marble statue of a woman of the Theodosian period, about A.D. 400, today in the Cabinet des Médailles in Paris,23 wears a splendid diagonally draped dalmatica, the imperial diadem and – according to the carved traces on the marble – a jewelled collar (fig. 8). Undoubtedly the statue portrays a Theodosian empress, most likely Aelia Eudoxia or Aelia Flaccila. Remarkably, instead of reproducing a traditional sculptural type, the body of the statue represents an entirely new creation. Although the classical pose of contrapost was adopted, the physical conception of the figure generally differs from the past: there are no female curves showing through the clothes, the chest is flat and the hips are slim. Also the face of the empress takes up this androgynous style. the physiognomy is idealized to an extent that it is hard to decide whether it represents a young male or a female. Only the hairdo, the garment and the jewellery unequivocally indicate the sex of the person. Body and face, in contrast, are neutral to a degree that radically reduces the semantic spectrum of physiology and physiognomy.24 What was the reason for these physical eliminations in the image of the empress? The beginning of the present contribution touched upon the Christian ascetic literature. Indeed, Christian eschatology, in the texts by Paulus, Origen and the Gnostics as well as in the later opposing patristic theories, included the idea of sexual neutrality: in Christo nec masculus nec femina sumus, as Augustine notes (Ver. rel. 78.21).25 Furthermore, the ascetic movement of the fourth century created the spiritual idea ἀνδρειοτέρων τῆς φύσεως γυναικῶν (Palladius, Hist. Laus. praef.; ed. Butler 1967: 4): a woman would be able to

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Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Cabinet des Médailles, Inv. 13; see Delbrueck (1933: 163-165, fig. 58 pl. 62-64). Schade (2003: 136, 147, 204-206, no. I 46 pl. 54.1, 54.2). For a general introduction to this subject, see Brown (1988); see also Aspegren (1990: 99165), Ebner (2000: 159-178), Müller (2000: 197-198) and Lund Jacobsen (2006: 67-94). In general see Wittern (1994), Feichtinger (1995) and Stahlmann (1997).

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Figure 8: Statue of an empress. Paris, Musée du Cabinet des Médailles de la Bibliothèque Nationale de France (photograph C 80466)

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escape the constraints of ‘this life’ when she denied her sex and appropriated male virtues. The pious ladies around Jerome, for example, avoided jewellery (Epist. 130.3), veiled their head and wore rough black garments (Epist. 43.3). They never had a bath without clothes; and according to Jerome, the virgin Eustochium should blush if she would see her own naked body (Epist. 107.11). These simultaneous tendencies in the field of asceticism seem to be analogous in negating femininity – but nevertheless they have nothing to do with the new concept of the imperial image. As mentioned previously, ascetic literature and portraits fulfilled different medial functions: the transportation of theological ideologies on the one hand and the social representation on the other. Ascetic militancy and hostility to the female body can hardly explain the official representation of the empress. On the contrary, she gained highest prestige with the ability to give birth to heirs in order to guarantee the imperial dynasty. Ultimately, her portrait denies female forms; however, it is neither male nor – as the traditional female attributes ensure – completely asexual. A better way to explain the innovative representation of the empress is the new concept of imperial mastery – the idea of “Kaiser von Gottes Gnaden”,26 the emperor by the grace of God. The emperor was considered as the deputy of Christ on earth by God-given grace, and the imperial body became a reflection of the two-natured Christ. For this reason the emperor had a natural as well as an immortal body (Kantorowicz 1957: 47-50). This idea also had consequences for imperial representations. Whereas in the earlier Graeco-Roman culture “the body had its rightful place in a great chain of being that linked man both to the gods and to the beasts”, Christian “emperors no longer showed their unchallenged power by posing in the nude, thereby recapturing the heroic ease and readiness associated with the deathless gods”, as Peter Brown (1988: 27, 438; for examples, see Hallett 2005) stated. The new concept did not require the presentation of physical reality; moreover, it was enough to reduce the bodily presence to the front view of the portrait. Instead of physical qualities, inner values became important. They were visualized with abstract codes at the surface of the neutral body.27 But while the physical form was neglected, the body was covered with splendid jewellery and heavy imperial robes. The image of the empress expresses this concept. Her body was generalized to give a picture of eternal beauty. It displays the supernatural quality of the Christian imperial mastery, with the human female component being expressed by hairstyle, jewellery, specific attributes, distinguished gestures, and only in certain times by physiognomical features (Schade 2003: 147-148, 156157). Combining traditional characteristics of female identity with new asexual

26 27

Enßlin (1942) and Fears (1981: 1103-1159). In general Lindemann (1996: 146-175, esp. 152-153 and 168-169) and Lipp (2000: 22-24).

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elements, the gender boundaries in the image of the empress became permeable. Emperor and empress together represent the late antique imperial institution, the empress embodying the female part of its abstract and ornate ceremonial.

5. The image of the Virgin Mary In A.D. 431, at the ecclesiastical council in Ephesus, the dogma of the twonatured Christ was affirmed, and his mother Mary was raised to the status ‘Theotokos’, the birth-giver to God (Klauser 1981: 1084-1095). On this basis she herself became a subject of worship. However, there was no evidence of authenticity, which was necessary for the ritual practice: no grave, no biography and no material testimonies. Furthermore, Mary’s actual appearance was unknown: neque enim novimus faciem virginis Mariae, as Augustine notes (De trin. 8.5.13-15; ed. Mountain 1968: 277). In other words, it was necessary to construct an authenticity in legends, to make relics available, and to create an ideal portrait of the Holy Virgin.28 For this, the complete spectrum of late antique female portraiture was appropriated. The image of the Virgin incorporates all the elements that had previously been created for the clarissimae feminae and the empress (Schade 2003: 163-165). She wears the garment of the Roman matron of the fifth century – tunic, palla and bonnet. As a sign of her royal superiority, her tunic is mainly crimson and decorated with golden stripes. Some pictures in Rome show her with the ornate diagonal dalmatica and the imperial regalia.29 Over time, the most important and successful creation was the image of the enthroned Virgin with Child, in which motherhood is put on display in a conspicuous manner.30 The throne with suppedaneum and the baldachin with curtain were also taken over from the iconography of the empress. In blue, purple and golden robes the Theotokos represents the heavenly dominion and the divine motherhood. The artificial portrait of the Mother of God had to incorporate, in its physiognomy, the opposites of divine and human being, of virginity and ‘matronality’. Therefore in many images Mary’s ideal face was brought to life with soft and subtle features. A well-known example is the ivory diptych in the Museum für Byzantinische Kunst in Berlin from the 6th century A.D. with Christ

28 29 30

On the genesis of autonomous images of the Holy Virgin, see Lange (1969), Freytag (1985), Belting (1990: 60-91, 131-153) and Andaloro (2000: 416-424). E.g. in S. Maria Maggiore, S. Maria in Trastevere, S. Peter (today in Florence), S. Clemente; see Lange (1969: 18, 42, fig. p. 41), Belting (1990: 146-147, pl. II fig. 76) and Andaloro (2000: figs. 5 & 6). For examples, see Schade (2003: 163, with ns. 1082 & 1083 pl. 20.2 and 21.3).

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Figure 9: Ivory diptych (right panel). Berlin, SMB SPK, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst (photograph 565a)

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on the left and the enthroned Virgin with Child on the right panel (fig. 9).31 Her face combines youthful smoothness and matronly portliness; she has a double chin as well as so-called Venus’ rings. Obviously her physiognomy is stylized in a pattern that had been designed for the iconography of contemporary female portraits: features of beauty and motherliness in the portraits of the clarissimae feminae, a mixture of superiority and femininity in the image of the empress. All these elements were adopted for the face of the Holy Virgin. However, in contrast to the portraits of mortal women, they were actually associated with an imposing spiritual idea: ‘virgomatronality’ (Schade 2003: 164), i.e. to be virgin- and mother-like at the same time. It is interesting to note that the double chin, lap and bosom of the Virgin in the Berlin ivory diptych are emphasized in such a manner. At first glance, this phenomenon seems to contradict the spiritual nature of the Holy Virgin. In fact, however, the emphasis on the sexual characteristics gives the reason for the latter: it was the female body of Mary that had served the fulfilment of the divine destiny. Mary had carried out all natural tasks of a mother – she had received a son, been pregnant, given birth and breast-fed. Her body, however, had remained unscathed; neither sexual intercourse nor ‘natural’ childbirth had strained it. In other words, the Virgin’s body was free from the polluted side of earthly existence; therefore it was worthy to be visualized in the image – the new ideal female portrait: “Soft as a fleece to receive the Word of God into herself, she had remained solid and unfissured as unalloyed gold” (Brown 1988: 444).32

31 32

Berlin, Staatliche Museen / Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, Inv. 565. See Effenberger & Severin (1992: 140-141, no. 53 and frontispiece). I thank Thorsten Fögen and Mireille M. Lee for the possibility to publish this contribution in the present volume. This article summarizes one hypothesis of my book Frauen in der Spätantike: Status und Repräsentation. Eine Untersuchung zur römischen und frühbyzantinischen Bildniskunst, published in 2003. My thanks also go to Justin Theiss and Claudia Näser for reading the first and the second draft of this paper.

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Bibliography Editions and translations: Butler, Cuthbert (ed.) (1967): The Lausiac History of Palladius (vol. 2), Hildesheim (repr.). Mountain, William J. (ed.) (1968): Sancti Aurelii Augustini De trinitate libri XV (Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina 16.1), Turnholt. Platnauer, Maurice (ed.) (1990): Claudian (vol. 1), Cambridge, Mass. & London. Secondary literature: Alexandridis, Annetta (2004): Die Frauen des römischen Kaiserhauses. Eine Untersuchung ihrer bildlichen Darstellung von Livia bis Iulia Domna, Mainz. Andaloro, Maria (2000): L’icona cristiana e gli artisti. In: Serena Ensoli & Eugenio La Rocca (eds.), Aurea Roma. Dalla città pagana alla città cristiana, Rome, 416424. Arata, Francesco Paolo (1993): La statua seduta dell’imperatrice Elena nel Museo Capitolino. In: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Römische Abteilung 100, 185-200. Aspegren, Kerstin (1990): The Male Woman. A Feminine Ideal in the Early Church, Uppsala. Belting, Hans (1990): Bild und Kult. Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst, München. Blanck, Horst (1969): Wiederverwendung alter Statuen als Ehrendenkmäler bei Griechen und Römern, Rome. Brown, Peter (1988): The Body and Society. Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, New York. Clark, Elizabeth A. (2006): Genesis 1-3 and gender dilemmas. The case of John Chrysostom. In: Barbara Feichtinger & Helmut Seng (eds.), Die Christen und der Körper, München & Leipzig, 159-180. Clark, Gillian (1993): Woman in Late Antiquity. Pagan and Christian Lifestyles, New York. D’Ambra, Eve (1996): The calculus of Venus. Nude portraits of Roman matrons. In: Nathalie Boymel Kampen (ed.), Sexuality in Ancient Art, Cambridge & New York, 219-232. Davies, Glenys (1985): The significance of the handshake motif in classical funerary art. In: American Journal of Archaeology 89, 627-240. Deichmann, Friedrich W., Giuseppe Bovini & Hugo Brandenburg (1967): Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage. Vol. 1: Ostia und Rom, Wiesbaden. Delbrueck, Richard (1929): Die Consulardiptychen und verwandte Denkmäler, Berlin & Leipzig.

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Delbrueck, Richard (1933): Spätantike Kaiserporträts. Von Constantinus Magnus bis zum Ende des Westreichs, Berlin & Leipzig. Douglas, Mary (1974): Ritual, Tabu und Körpersymbolik. Sozialanthropologische Studien in Industriegesellschaft und Stammeskultur (transl. Eberhard Bubser), Frankfurt am Main. Ebner, Martin (2000): Wenn alle „ein einziger“ sein sollen ... Von schönen theologischen Konzepten und ihren praktischen Problemen: Gal. 3.28 und 1 Kor. 11.216. In: Elmar Klinger, Stephanie Böhm & Theodor Seidl (eds.), Der Körper und die Religion, Würzburg, 159-178. Effenberger, Arne & Hans Georg Severin (1992): Das Museum für Spätantike und byzantinische Kunst. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Mainz. Ennabli, Abdelmagid (1986): Les thermes du thiase marin de Sidi Ghrib (Tunisie). In: Monuments et mémoires. Fondation Eugène Piot 68, 1-59. Enßlin, Wilhelm (1943): Gottkaiser und Kaiser von Gottes Gnaden, München. Fears, Jesse Rufus (1981): s.v. “Gottesgnadentum”. In: Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum (vol. 11), Stuttgart, 1103-1159. Feichtinger, Barbara (1995): Apostolae apostolorum. Frauenaskese als Befreiung und Zwang bei Hieronymus, Frankfurt am Main. Fittschen, Klaus & Paul Zanker (1983): Katalog der römischen Porträts in den Capitolinischen Museen und den anderen kommunalen Sammlungen der Stadt Rom. Vol. 3: Kaiserinnen- und Prinzessinnenbildnisse, Frauenporträts, Mainz. Foucault, Michel (51997): Sexualität und Wahrheit. Vol. 3: Die Sorge um sich (transl. Ulrich Raulff & Walter Seitter), Frankfurt am Main. Freytag, Richard L. (1985): Die autonome Theotokosdarstellung der frühen Jahrhunderte, Augsburg. Hallett, Christopher H. (2005): The Roman Nude. Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC – AD 300, Oxford. Jensen, Anne (1992): Gottes selbstbewußte Töchter. Frauenemanzipation im frühen Christentum?, Freiburg im Breisgau. Johansen, Flemming (1995): Roman Portraits III. Catalogue Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Kopenhagen. Jones, Arnold H. M., John R. Martindale & John Morris (1971): The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire. Vol. 1: AD 260-395, Cambridge. Kantorowicz, Ernst H. (1957): The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology, Princeton, New Jersey. Kantorowicz, Ernst H. (1960): On the golden marriage belt and the marriage rings of the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. In: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 14, 1-16. Kent, John P. C. (1994): Roman Imperial Coinage. Vol. 10: The Divided Empire and the Fall of the Western Parts (AD 395-491), London. Kiilerich, Bente & Hjalmar Torp (1989): Hic est: hic Stilicho. The date and interpretation of a notable Diptych. In: Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 104, 319-371.

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Klauser, Theodor (1981): s.v. “Gottesgebärerin”. In: Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum (vol. 11), Stuttgart, 1071-1103. Krumeich, Christa (1993): Hieronymus und die christlichen feminae clarissimae, Bonn. Lake, Stephen (2006): Fabiola and the sick. Jerome, epistula 77. In: Barbara Feichtinger & Helmut Seng (eds.), Die Christen und der Körper, München & Leipzig, 151-172. Lange, Reinhold (1969): Das Marienbild der frühen Jahrhunderte, Recklinghausen. Laurence, Patrick (1997): Jérôme et le nouveau modèle féminin. La conversion à la ‘vie parfaite’, Paris. Lindemann, Gesa (1996): Zeichentheoretische Überlegungen zum Verhältnis von Körper und Leib. In: Annette Barkhaus, Matthias Mayer, Neil Roughley & Danatus Thürnau (eds.), Identität, Leiblichkeit, Normativität. Neue Horizonte anthropologischen Denkens, Frankfurt am Main, 146-175. Lipp, Wolfgang (2000): Körper, Körpersymbolik und Gesellschaft. In: Elmar Klinger, Stephanie Böhm & Theodor Seidl (eds.), Der Körper und die Religion, Würzburg, 9-26. Lund Jacobsen, Anders-Christian (2006): The constitution of man according to Irenaeus and Origen. In: Barbara Feichtinger & Helmut Seng (eds.), Die Christen und der Körper, München & Leipzig, 67-94. Müller, Daniela (2000): Askese und Ekstase. Im Körper Gott erfahren. In: Elmar Klinger, Stephanie Böhm & Theodor Seidl (eds.), Der Körper und die Religion, Würzburg, 185-203. Mundell Mango, Marlia & Anna Bennett (1994): The Sevso Treasure (= Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 12.1), Ann Arbor. Muth, Susanne (1998): Erleben von Raum – Leben im Raum. Zur Funktion mythologischer Mosaikbilder in der römisch-kaiserzeitlichen Wohnarchitektur, Heidelberg. Petersen-Szemerédy, Griet (1993): Zwischen Weltstadt und Wüste: Römische Asketinnen in der Spätantike. Eine Studie zu Motivation und Gestaltung der Askese christlicher Frauen Roms auf dem Hintergrund ihrer Zeit, Göttingen. Reinsberg, Carola (1983): Concordia. Die Darstellung von Hochzeit und ehelicher Eintracht in der Spätantike. In: Herbert Beck & Peter C. Bol (eds.), Spätantike und frühes Christentum. Ausstellung im Liebieghaus, Museum alter Plastik, Frankfurt am Main, 312-317. Schade, Kathrin (2003): Frauen in der Spätantike: Status und Repräsentation. Eine Untersuchung zur römischen und frühbyzantinischen Bildniskunst, Mainz. Schneider, Lambert (1983): Die Domäne als Weltbild. Wirkungsstrukturen der spätantiken Bildsprache, Wiesbaden. Schneider, Lambert, Burkhard Fehr & Klaus-Heinrich Meyer (1979): Zeichen – Kommunikation – Interaktion. Zur Bedeutung von Zeichen-, Kommunikations- und Interaktionstheorie für die Klassische Archäologie. In: Hephaistos 1, 7-41. Shelton, Kathleen J. (1981): The Esquiline Treasure, London. Stahlmann, Ines (1997): Der gefesselte Sexus. Weibliche Keuschheit und Askese im Westen des Römischen Reiches, Berlin.

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Steininger, Christine (1997): Die ideale christliche Frau. Eine Studie zum Bild der idealen christlichen Frau bei Hieromymus und Pelagius, St. Ottilien. Thraede, Klaus (1972): s.v. “Frau”. In: Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum (vol. 8), Stuttgart, 197-269. Veyne, Paul (1995): Die Familie und die Liebe in der frühen Kaiserzeit (1978). In: Id., Die römische Gesellschaft (transl. by Heinz Jatho), München, 81-123. Wittern, Susanne (1994): Frauen, Heiligkeit und Macht. Lateinische Frauenviten aus dem 4. bis 7. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart & Weimar. Wrede, Henning (1981): Consecratio in Formam Deorum. Vergöttlichte Privatpersonen in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Mainz.

Early Christian and Judicial Bodies Judith Perkins Abstract: In the second century A.D. Christian discourse took a decidedly material turn. The nature of Jesus’ body and of the resurrected human body became a major focus for debate and dissention. These topics polarized Christian communities, creating boundaries between Christians and “heretics”. What prompted this turn towards the material body? This paper argues that Christian resurrection discourse with its focus on material, abject bodies and a future court intervenes in a larger social dialogue around courts and bodies taking place in the period. In the early imperial centuries, the Roman criminal justice system was being restructured to the detriment of many free subjects. A boundary between the elite and the others in their society was in the process of being fixed in the Roman legal code through the judicial dichotomy between the humiliores and honestiores, resulting in differential punishments according to status. The bodies of the elite were generally spared harsh physical punishments. Christian resurrection texts refigure this contemporary paradigm. They insist that the body of every human person must be raised so that it, body and soul, may be judged. Christian texts stress that there are no exceptions. By resisting the social practices that exempted some bodies from punishment, Christian resurrection discourse challenges the juridical fictions and symbolic networks that position the upper stratum, the educated and cultured people, as superior and too refined for the humiliation and brutality of the contemporary penalty system.

The human body, Mary Douglas writes, “is a model which can stand for any bounded system” (1966: 115).1 As her comment reflects, a society’s perceptions of bodily space play a key role in its spatial perceptions generally and in the social constructions metaphorically erected upon such perceptions. The human body has traditionally functioned as a paradigmatic metaphor for society, for the body social. This usage is problematic, however, because the human body in reality is not a body; it is not securely contained or sealed off; its boundaries do not hold. Julia Kristeva’s study of the horror associated with “the abject” – all that issues, leaks and flows out from the body – focusses on this reality and its subversion for symbolic uses of the body to denote bounded 1

For resurrection in the early imperial centuries, see Bynum (1995) and Setzer (2004). Setzer (2004: 3 n. 6) provides a survey of the pertinent literature on the topic. Bynum’s work has been fundamental to this examination and to my papers on resurrection (Perkins 2005, 2006, 2007) that I draw from in this study. See Daley (2003) for a survey of patristic eschatology.

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systems (Kristeva 1982: 102). Working from Mary Douglas’ premise that disgust is caused by “matter out of context” (Douglas 1966: 36), Kristeva offers that nothing about the body is intrinsically dirty or defiling. What causes humans to react with horror at the abject is not its inherent filth, “but what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules” (Kristeva 1982: 4). As Douglas suggests, we are disgusted by food caught in a moustache or shoes on a table, but food and shoes are innocuous in their proper place, in a dish or on the floor. Disgust is a reaction to disrupted boundaries. What is horrifying about the abject is the evidence that ultimately no amount of surveillance or policing can secure the boundaries of a “clean and proper body”, personally or socially. The boundaries of bodies are porous, as Kristeva (1982: 3) points out: “These bodily fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands, hardly and with difficulty, on the part of death. There I am at the border of my condition as a living person. My body extricates itself, as being alive, from that border. Such wastes drop so that I might live, until from loss to loss, nothing remains in me and my entire body falls beyond the limit – cadere, cadaver.” 2

For Kristeva, the excremental leaking from the body rehearses the corpse with its final liquefaction into rot, and both prefigure the ultimate fragility of any symbolic system (Kristeva 1982: 70). For if the body is not solid, if it is, in fact, oozing steadily away into the fluidity of the “cesspool” that Kristeva calls the corpse, this inherent fluidity, this leakage challenges the very notion of a “body” as solid, self-identical, whole, bounded, as this and not that, as here and not there. The excremental and the putrefying corpse unsettle any notion of a securely bounded body, a clean and proper body, and the loss of this prototypic body confounds and infracts the basis for the exclusions and sorting that go into shaping the social body. If margins do not hold, if boundaries do not seal off and separate, if in every system there is always a residue, then the artificiality and vulnerability of any ordered entity, of all our self-representations and understanding of a body, individual and social, are exposed (Grosz 1994: 195). The corpse with its slimy indeterminacy offers the original deconstructive marker. It is, as Kristeva recognizes, an inherent affront to metaphysical notions of being as presence or essence. The material body’s impermanence, its susceptibility to change, also provided an “ontological” affront to Greek philosophers (Bynum 1995: 56). Par2

Bodel (1986: 34-35) adduces a passage from Papinian’s monograph on the care of cities directing city managers to prohibit the dumping of dung or corpses in city streets (Dig. 43.10.5). The ancients had more experience than we in seeing the overlap in these signs of human “waste”. See Kyle (1998: 128-154) for problems with disposal of corpses from the arenas.

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menides, for example, forecloses the reality of change by defining Being as “what is”. This “what is” is ungenerated, indestructible and unchangeable and allows for no coming into being or passing away (fr. B8 Diels & Kranz). Mortals believe change occurs, because they are misled by their faulty sense perceptions. Plato’s Socrates similarly dismisses the mutable. If all things were in flux, he maintains, there could be no knowledge (Plato, Crat. 439-440). For just as someone made an attempt to know or speak about a mutable object, it could change into something else. As Socrates asks rhetorically: “How then can that which is never in the same state be anything?” (Crat. 439c). Knowledge and real being are possible only in the ideal realm of the changeless and the immutable – in the realm of the Forms, for example, where absolute Beauty is “always such as it is” (Crat. 439d: τοιoῦτον ἀεί ἐστιν οἷόν ἐστιν). The body caught up in the flagrant changes of its natural processes provides the inverse of such stability. Marked by the natural flux and inherent change of the material world, the body is relegated to being an incidental appendage to the self/soul destined to decay and drop away at death. The body functions as the paradigmatic example for something “which is never in the same state”, for the not “anything”. This stance toward the body and its flux had a long life in philosophic thinking. In the second century A.D., Numenius of Apamea dismisses the body on the basis of its mutability: “And if body (σῶμα) flows and is carried along by immediate change, it flees and does not exist” (fr. 8 Des Places).3 In this cultural thought world, the body with its constantly changing, mutable materiality was understood to be a hindrance to the attainment of the divine. The degradation of the material body holds implications for the body social. The body traditionally has provided an essential symbolic domain for mapping social hierarchies. Societies regularly associate the upper body with the upper social stratum and the lower body with the underclass (Pile 1996: 175). 4 Through this symbolic move, societies code lower social groups as “dirty”, “soiled” and “contaminated” and invest them with the same disgust as the abject. This type of social coding can be seen to operate in Greek and Roman culture. Both societies held that certain kinds of work were debasing in themselves and prevented people from living a virtuous life. Cicero and Seneca, following Greek models, provide lists of occupations that mark people as either respectable (liberales) or base (sordidi). Hired labourers, retailers and artisans (opifices) fall into in the sordid category (Cicero, De off. 1.150-152;

3 4

See Dillon (1977: 361-379) for Numenius’ Platonism. Pile (1996) draws for his discussion from Stallybrass & White (1986). For this kind of social coding, see Plato, Tim. 69e-70a, 90a.

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Seneca, Epist. 88.21).5 Such language metaphorically fashions labourers, wage earners and tradespeople as tainted and even soiled by their work (Joshel 1992: 68-69). Using derogatory and filth-related language for the non-elite was not uncommon. Cicero, for example, refers to the Roman plebs as “the filth and dregs of the city” (Cicero, Att. 1.16.11: sordem urbis et faecem); sordidus and related terms recur in references to the under stratum.6 Through such language, the elite project onto the lower stratum the disgusting and shame-laden aspects of the material body and position themselves as different and better than these others associated with their animal body (Nussbaum 2004: 97). In the second century A.D., some strands of Christian discourse began to challenge this cultural inscription of the body as base by insisting that Jesus’ assumption of a material fleshly body erased the shame associated with the body and that his resurrection in a flesh-and-blood body guaranteed the resurrection of the human material body and its immortality. This period experienced a major shift in Christian discourse on the resurrection. The nature of Jesus’ body and the precedent it offered for the resurrected human body became a central focus and a source of debate among Christian groups during the early imperial centuries. Christian treatises began to argue for the resurrection of the very same body of flesh (sarx or caro) and blood that was worn during life (Bynum 1995: 26). Central to these Christian arguments on the resurrection of the flesh was the contention that the essential human person was not the soul alone, but a composite of both body and soul. Justin,7 in his treatise On the Resurrection, emphasizes that the resurrection pertains to both material body and soul (Res. fr. 107.8): Ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ κέκληκεν αὐτὴν ἐπὶ τὴν ἀνάστασιν καὶ ἐπαγγέλλεται τὴν αἰωνίαν ζωήν. Ἔνθα γὰρ τὸν ἄνθρωπον εὐαγγελίζεται σῶσαι, καὶ τῇ σαρκὶ εὐαγγελίζεται. Τί γάρ ἐστιν ὁ ἄνθρωπος, ἀλλ’ ἢ τὸ ἐκ ψυχῆς καὶ σώματος συνεστὸς ζῷον λογικόν; “He has even called the flesh to the resurrection and promises to it everlasting life. For where he promises to save man, there he gives the promise to the flesh. For what is the human but the reasonable animal composed of body and soul?”

Tertullian similarly emphasizes the novelty of an immortal material body; no philosophy ever offered a resurrection of the flesh (Tertullian, Marc. 5.19.7). 5 6 7

Cicero refers to Panaetius and Seneca to Posidonius as sources; see Treggiari (1980: 48-51). Meijer & van Nijf (1992) review attitudes towards trade and traders. See Yavetz (1969: Appendix 1) for a listing of adjectives for the under stratum and MacMullen (1974: 138-141) for a “lexicon of prejudice”. Justin’s authorship for this treatise on resurrection is not established. Prigent (1964: 50-61), Bynum (1995: 28-29) and van Eijk (1971) favour his authorship. I follow Setzer (2004: 78) in referring to the author as Justin without taking a stand on the issue. The text is that of Marcovich, included as an appendix to his Athenagoras edition (2004).

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In the second and early third centuries A.D., Christian writers began to insist on a conception of bodily resurrection based on the immortality of a composite self, both body and soul or spirit. And it will be this composite self that will be raised. This “raising” is necessary because, as Christians recognized, the flesh, as anyone might observe, does change, dissolve and melt away. Justin, rather than being horrified by the abject, reads the dissolution of the flesh as evidence that the promise of the resurrection could only have been made to the material body: “The resurrection concerns the flesh that has fallen (τοῦ πεπτωκότος σαρκίου), for the spirit (πνεῦμα) does not fall” (Justin, Res. fr. 109.10). Kristeva (1982) holds that the body falling away into the cadaver offers a horrifying spectacle. But Justin and other Christians were using the oozing demise of the body as proof that this material body is precisely what the Lord promises to raise up, since the soul needs no raising. Tertullian echoes this argument: “Nothing will expect to rise again, except that which has previously fallen” (Res. 18.5: succiderit).8 The dead body must be raised, Tertullian continues, for only it has fallen, as its very name testifies (Res. 18.8: a cadendo cadaver). In their advocacy of a material resurrection, Christians write with dispassion about the most ignoble aspects of bodily dissolution. Tertullian, unlike Kristeva, shows no horror at an etymology promising the decomposition and dissolution of every human body. And Athenagoras calmly reviews the most macabre details of the human body’s disintegration as he proves that it would be no more difficult for God to reconstitute bodies at their resurrection than it was to create them. Athenagoras describes the process of reuniting the parts of the body (Res. 3.3): τὸ διατεθρυμμένον πλήθη ζῴων παντοδαπῶν ὁπόσα τοῖς τοιούτοις σώμασιν ἐπιτρέχειν εἴωθεν καὶ τὸν ἐκ τούτων ἀγείρειν κόρον, διακρῖναι μὲν ἐκεῖθεν, ἑνῶσαι δὲ πάλιν τοῖς οἰκείοις μέρεσι καὶ μορίοις, κἂν εἰς ἓν ἐξ ἐκείνων χωρήσῃ ζῷον, κἂν εἰς πολλά, κἂν ἐντεῦθεν εἰς ἕτερα, κἂν αὐτοῖς ἐκείνοις συνδιαλυθὲν ἐπὶ τὰς πρώτας ἀρχὰς ἐνεχθῇ κατὰ τὴν φυσικὴν εἰς ταύτας ἀνάλυσιν. “To separate out that which has been torn apart and devoured by numerous animals of every kind which are accustomed to attack bodies like our own and satisfy their wants with them; and he can reunite the fragments with their own parts and members whether they have gone into one such animal or into many, or whether they have passed in turn from them into others and after decomposition been resolved along with their destroyers into their principal constituents and so followed the natural course of dissolution back into them.” (transl. Schoedel)

8

Van Eijk (1971) discusses the Christian formula that may underlie the similarity in these passages.

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Any sense of ignominy associated with this devoured, digested and dissolved human body, or any revulsion at donning it again, is missing from Athenagoras’ account. He offers this abject body as completely worthy of reconstitution and immortality. Christian proponents of the resurrection of the flesh founded their belief on Jesus’ assumption of a fully human material body. His material resurrection supplies the template for the risen human body. The incarnation sanctions the resurrection of the flesh; Irenaeus explains (Adv. haer. 5.14.1): εἰ γάρ μὴ ἔμελλεν ἡ σὰρξ σῴζεσθαι, οὐκ ἂν ὁ Λόγος τοῦ Θεοῦ σὰρξ ἐγένετο. “For if the flesh were not in a position to be saved, the Word of God would in no way have become flesh.”

And Tertullian argues that the nature of Christ’s body will “lay down the law for our own resurrection” (Carn. Chr. 1.2). This insistence that both Christ and the resurrected human had fully material bodies polarized the Christian community. Strict boundaries began to be drawn. On one side of this boundary were those who believed Jesus’ body was fully material and that the resurrected body was precisely the same body as that worn in life, and on the other side were those who denied a fully material body for Jesus and for resurrected humans. Justin articulates this orthodoxy in his Dialogue with Trypho; he warns against people who are called Christians but “say there is no resurrection of the dead, and that their souls, when they die, are taken up to heaven; do not imagine that they are Christians” (Dial. 80.3). Second- and early-third-century Christians who believed in a resurrection of the flesh solidified their position by rejecting those who held a different position as heretics. Anything less than total support for Jesus’ fully material human body, a body vulnerable to suffering and experiencing natural bodily processes, was rejected. Irenaeus, for example, indicts the teaching of Basilides, who denies that Jesus suffered and that the corruptible body would experience salvation (Adv. haer. 1.24.5). Irenaeus similarly criticizes the Valentinians for denying the materiality of Jesus’ body. They hold, he says, that Christ was the son of the Demiurge and “passed through Mary as water passes through a tube” (Adv. haer. 1.7.2).9 In the second century A.D., belief in the full humanity and materiality of Jesus’ body and its mandate for a material human resurrection was becoming a determinate in establishing Christian identity.

9

Since the discovery of the Nag Hammadi documents there has been considerable discussion of how fairly the Christian heresiologists reflect their opponents’ views. See Le Boulluec (1985) for a review of this topic. On individual “heretics”, see Marjanen & Luomanen (2005). My interest is not in the reality of the Christians’ charges, but in how they use the “heretics” to construct their own position.

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Caroline Bynum poses the crucial question about this turn towards an emphasis on materiality: “Why not Docetism? Why did powerful voices among Christians of the later second century reject more spiritual or Gnostic interpretations of the resurrection body?” (Bynum 1995: 27). Bynum reminds that in the early centuries, the materiality of Jesus and of the resurrected body were still open questions. In the early centuries, Christians did not appear to find it difficult to entertain divergence and ambiguity around the nature of Jesus’ resurrected body and the resurrected human body. Bynum’s question “Why not Docetism?” is a real one. What changed that made a spiritual understanding untenable? What transpired in the latter second century A.D. that prompted some Christians to polarize their community with their vigorous rejection of anything less than a fully material understanding of Jesus’ body and the human resurrected body? Bynum (1995: 43) suggests that a concern for the mauled and unburied bodies of martyrs was an important factor. And she is surely right. Even so, the doctrine of material resurrection must be recognized as more than a simple reaction to martyrs. It would also encourage martyrdom and contribute to creating a culture of martyrdom.10 Christian proponents of material resurrection criticize Christian opponents for their paucity of martyrs (Irenaeus, Adv. haer. 4.33.9; Tertullian, Scorp. 1.5).11 Believing one will rise again forever in the very same body makes the fear and terror of violent death more bearable. Another version of Bynum’s question “Why not Docetism?” might read “Why martyrs?” Why in the second century did some Christians begin to insist on a particular understanding of resurrection – one that would encourage martyrdom?12 I suggest that the critique of the contemporary justice system inherent in both the martyr acts and in the discourse around material resurrection points towards an answer to this question. Christian texts that feature courageous Christians rebuffing the demands of Roman judicial officials and projecting a future court righting earthly wrongs register a discontent with contemporary legal arrangements. Basic to both sets of Christian texts is the premise that the justice system and its courts and procedures are flawed and unjust. By staking out this position, these Christian texts intervene in a larger social discourse around courts and justice that was going on in the period. In the early imperial 10 11 12

Ignatius of Antioch reflects the importance of Christ’s material body for martyrdom: “For if these things were accomplished by our Lord only in appearance (...). But why have I handed myself over to death, to fire, to the sword, to wild beasts?” (Syrm. 4.2). Clement of Alexandria (Strom. 4.17.1), however, notes the number of martyrs from those “not really of our number but sharing the name”. Eusebius (5.16.21) writes that the Marcionites are attested to have many martyrs. Setzer (2004: 144) connects resurrection discourse to martyrdom in Jewish texts: “Belief in the body being raised up appears explicitly as a response to its destruction in 2 Maccabees 7 and 12.”

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centuries, the Roman criminal justice system experienced major restructuring to the detriment of many free subjects, with the exception of the imperial elite. A Christian discourse challenging the courts and justice system might have had particular resonance during a period when many imperial subjects were seeing an erosion of judicial rights. This contemporary judicial environment helps to contextualize the emphasis on the resurrection of the fleshly body in Christian texts. The nexus connecting material resurrection to judgement deserves attention. The author of 2 Clement conveys the importance of the flesh to the judgement by repeating the word (sarx), as Claudia Setzer notes, seven times in five lines in a passage that begins “And none of you should say that the flesh is neither judged nor raised” (2 Clement 9.1-5; see Setzer 2004: 72)13: By repetition Clement stresses the novelty that it is the flesh that is raised, judged and rewarded or punished.14 The connection of resurrection with judgement is so fundamental that Athenagoras feels he must rebut the many (πολλοί) who hold that judgement is the whole cause (πᾶσαν αἰτίαν) for resurrection.15 Athenagoras argues that what demands the resurrection is not the judgement alone, but the nature of the human person, a being composed of a body and soul that must live forever (Res. 15.6). Rather, the judgement is necessary so that humans can experience equitable justice. Athenagoras recognizes that earthly justice is intrinsically unfair: “For neither do the good in this life obtain the rewards of virtue nor the bad the wages of their wrongs” (Res. 19.5). The fleshly body must be raised up, Athenagoras holds, because the laws were given to the complete human person (ἄνθρωπος) and not only to the soul. It is this complete person, body and soul, who must pay the recompense for faults (Res. 23.1-2).16 This concept that the whole person, body and soul, must be present for judgement, for reward and punishment is the foundation of the second century’s emphasis on a material resurrection. As Athenagoras summarizes (Res. 18.5): ἵνα ζῳοποιηθέντων ἐξ ἀναστάσεως τῶν νεκρωθέντων καὶ πάλιν ἑνωθέντων τῶν κεχωρισμένων ἢ καὶ πάντῃ διαλελυμένων, ἕκαστος κομίσηται δικαίως ἃ διὰ τοῦ σώματος ἔπραξεν εἴτε ἀγαθὰ εἴτε κακά.

13 14

15 16

Setzer (2004: 72) refers to Pheme Perkins’ statement that the period saw “a general shift to the incarnation as the central image of salvation” (Perkins 1984: 337). Justin (1 Apol. 8) emphasizes this difference between Christ’s judgement and the one that Plato describes being delivered by Rhadamanthus and Minos (Plato, Gorg. 523e-524a). In the Christian judgement, punishment will be given “to the same bodies, united with their souls”, not as in the Platonic paradigm to souls alone, and not just for a thousand years, but for eternity. Athenagoras (Res. 14.6) holds that the resurrection of infants proves resurrection could not be for judgement alone. See Hällström (1988: 61-62) on this passage.

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“So that when the dead are revivified through the resurrection, and what has been separated or entirely dissolved is reunited, each one may receive his just recompense for what he did in the body, whether good or evil.” (transl. Schoedel)

At the last judgement, the human body and not only the soul must be produced for judgement. This same premise supports Tertullian’s arguments. He writes that the reason (ratio) for the restitution of the dead body is judgement. The body with the soul must stand in judgement (Apol. 48). Minucius Felix suggests that some persons might even wish that their bodies would be annihilated after death, so they could avoid giving an account of themselves. But Christian proponents of the material body denied the body’s annihilation at death. Instead, as Gunnar af Hällström writes, they held “that resurrection is necessary in order to make possible divine recompensation to the body. Evil deeds must be punished and good ones rewarded” (Hällström 1988: 93).17 And the body will share in this recompense. This intense focus in Christian texts on the necessity that the body be physically present in court is of interest because it can be read as an indictment of judicial procedures that exempt certain bodies from judicial punishment. In the early imperial centuries, numbers of imperial subjects were finding their bodies newly liable to physical punishment. A boundary between the elite and the others in their society was in the process of being fixed in the Roman legal code through the juridical dichotomy between the humiliores and honestiores, the “more humble” and the “more honourable”. The latter designation encompassed Roman senators, knights and municipal decurions, as well as military veterans. Thus, with the possible exception of veterans, it was reserved for wealthy and prominent individuals. Walter Scheidel (2006: 42) suggests that the honestiores composed only about one percent of the population. The term humiliores was used to designate all those free persons not included among the honestiores. In A.D. 212, Caracalla extended Roman citizenship across the empire through the Constitutio Antoniniana, thereby increasing the numbers of people falling within these categories. But long before this change, Roman legal procedures had been influencing provincial legal practices (Carrié 2005: 274275).18 The effect of drawing these new boundaries separating the humiliores 17 18

Hällström makes this comment about Athenagoras, Justin and Tertullian specifically, but it applies to other proponents of the material resurrection as well. In his discussion of Roman law in provincial cities before Caracalla’s grant of citizenship in A.D. 212, Carrié (2005) offers that as long as the local laws did not contradict Roman laws, they had their place. He rejects the thesis that provincial cities lost their laws and constitution as a consequence of the Constitutio Antoniniana. Rather these laws and constitutions had been lost at the time of the Roman conquest, “which ended the juridical independence of Hellenic cities and subjected what remained of their legislative activity to the approval of the

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from the honestiores was to erode the free non-elites’ judicial equality. By the beginning of the third century A.D., Roman law regularly allotted different punishments for the same crime to individuals according to their status. The initial phases of this system probably occurred during the first century A.D., as it already shows considerable development by the Hadrianic period (Garnsey 1970: 170).19 As is the case for so many imperial initiatives, Augustus likely launched the process that eventually inscribed a systemic inequality into Roman criminal law, when he revived the office of urban prefect. Tacitus writes that Augustus said he appointed the prefect “to coerce the slaves and that part of the free population (civium) whose boldness makes it unruly, unless it fears force (nisi vim metuat)” (Tacitus, Ann. 6.11.3; see Garnsey 1970: 91-92).20 Two assumptions appearing in this account prove decisive for the direction of criminal law over the next centuries: first, that free low-status citizens and slaves form a single social aggregate, and second, that this group must be controlled through fear. By assimilating slaves and citizen have-nots, Augustus depreciates the legal differences between these groups. In the Roman Republic, citizens, in contrast to slaves, were not liable to violent treatment. Augustus divides the civic community along a new boundary line based on status rather than the possession or lack of possession of civil privileges. In this opening move, Augustus already forecasts the shape of the legal system that by the early third century A.D. would be firmly in place, status based and permitting violence against free persons.21 Richard Bauman describes the import of Augustus’ action as follows: “Roman society was always elitist (...) but Augustus took the first step in institutionalizing elitism” (Bauman 1996: 199 n. 43).

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provincial governor” (Carrié 2005: 274). It was Roman dominance that reduced local laws “from nomoi (laws) to ethê (customs) – customs kept in force by the force of good will of the Roman authority” (Carrié 2005: 275). Rilinger (1988) in his thorough study of the honestiores / humiliores division has argued on the basis of his dating of the Pauli Sententiae that the honestiores / humiliores system was not in place until the fourth century. Others suggest an earlier date for the Pauli Sententiae (Robinson 1997: 113). Pölönen (2004: 218 n. 3) suggests that “the principle of status differentiation in punishment is pre-Severan, although it was not systematically expressed in terms of the humiliores-honestiores dichotomy”. Rilinger (1988: 274-279) offers his social interpretation for the legal alterations. In 26 B.C., Augustus appointed Valerius Messala Corvinus urban prefect, but he resigned almost immediately. Leaving Rome in 16 B.C., Augustus appointed Titus Statilius Taurus to this same office. Some time after this, Augustus appointed Lucius Calpurnius Piso, and the position then became standard. See Tacitus, Ann. 6.11. That is not to say that slaves did not still experience harsher treatments than free persons (Aubert 2002: 129-130). As the laws demonstrate, the so-called dual-penalty system was in actuality a tri-penalty system with different penalties for slaves, humiliores and honestiores. On the supposed equalization of slave and free penalties, Bauman (1996: 135) concludes: “The evidence for equalization (...) does not come anywhere near a general assimilation of the slave and the humilior”.

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In this first step, as Tacitus’ report demonstrates, Augustus utilizes a conventional manoeuvre for instituting hierarchy: he conflates the urban crowd with an unruly animal, both controllable only by fear and force. In ancient societies, slaves were regularly assimilated to the animal, and like animals, they were vulnerable to beatings and violent treatment (Bradley 1990: 110). By destabilizing the boundary line between slaves and other non-elites, Augustus opened new categories of people to the same social disregard as animals. Augustus’ imagery comparing the urban population to an uncontrollable beast invokes the elite’s traditional perception of the urban mass as the sordid, unruly “other”, tainted by association with the lower body. Augustus’ innovations enabled the institution of more fearsome judicial punishments. By empowering the judicial hearing (cognitio) system, where a single delegate of the state, the emperor himself, the urban prefect, the praetorian prefect or the provincial governor heard and decided cases, Augustus uncoupled these courts from the standing juries (quaestiones perpetuae) of the republic and their statutes (leges) prescribing specific crimes and punishments. In the cognitio system, judges had the autonomy to recognize and define crimes and set punishments for them (Robinson 1995: 10). The system contributed to the proliferation of the new crimes (crimina extraordinaria) and savage punishments appearing in the early empire. It also played an essential role in establishing the differential punishment system based on status (Garnsey 1970: 171). The criminal laws of the early empire make terrifying reading, with their prescriptions of horrific punishments – the convicted being crucified, burned alive, thrown to the beasts.22 What strikes a modern reader about these extreme penalties is that not all offenders are equally liable to them. The laws clearly articulate a differential standard. Law after law exhibits the same discriminatory stance. They exempt the elite from the most terrible penalties. Poisoners, for example, must suffer a capital punishment, unless exempted by status, as “regard must be given their rank” (dignitatis respectum); if exempt from capital punishment, they will be deported (Dig. 48.19.28.9). Those who cause sedition and disturbance are sentenced “according to their social standing” (pro qualitate dignitatis); accordingly, they are “either hanged from the furca, thrown to the beasts or deported to an island” (Dig. 48.19.38.2). For those who intentionally and maliciously forge a will, the penalties are for more elite criminals (honestiores) to be deported to an island, and for the non-elite (humiliores) to be sent to the mines or crucified (Sententiae Pauli 5.25.1). All 22

The XII tables (8.10) permitted persons to be bound, beaten and burned alive for treachery or arson (Kyle 1998: 73 n. 129). Nippel (1995: 25-26) locates the use of extreme punishments of the free lower stratum to deter crime in the empire and not the republic. For the severity of these punishments, see MacMullen (1990), Millar (1984) and Grodzynski (1984).

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these examples are from the writings of Severan jurists, but testimony places the initial stages of the differential penalty system earlier (Bauman 1996: 125). The laws are notoriously difficult to date confidently, but the advice the younger Pliny gives to a friend on administering provincial justice shows that the principles underlying differential punishment were already present in his period: “You should maintain the distinctions between ranks and degrees of dignity” (Epist. 9.5; see Garnsey 1970: 78). A rescript attributed to Hadrian on moving boundary stones also reveals the operation of the differential perspective (Bauman 1996: 126-128). The rescript directs the judge to take into consideration “the status (condicione) of the offender and his intention (mente)”. It then sets out different penalties for the high-status perpetrators (splendidiores), as opposed to “the others” (Dig. 47.21.2). This passage lacks only the stable vocabulary (honestiores vs. humiliores) of the developed differential system. By the early second century A.D., it would seem free imperial subjects were experiencing a differential penalty system calibrated to their status. Richard Bauman notes that exemption from the harsher bodily penalties “virtually acted as a certificate of status”, especially for decurions and veterans (Bauman 1996: 129). Bauman cites Callistratus’ pronouncement (Dig. 48.19.28.5): Et ut generaliter dixerim, omnes, qui fustibus caedi prohibentur, eandem habere honoris reverentiam debent, quam decuriones habent. est enim inconstans dicere eum, quem principales constitutiones fustibus subici prohibuerunt, in metallum dari posse. “Generally speaking all those whom it is not permissible to beat with rods should be shown the same respect for their rank as decurions are shown. It is inconsistent to say that anyone exempted from the rods by imperial rescripts can be sent to the mines.”

This passage testifies to the establishment of a legal hierarchy linking people’s social position to their body’s liability to, or exemption from, physical punishment. This same situation had held in Republican Rome, but then the partition separated free from slave. In the early imperial period, a process began to shift this boundary. Callistratus observes that imperial rescripts had specified (Dig. 48.19.28.2): Non omnes fustibus caedi solent, sed hi dumtaxat qui liberi sunt et quidem tenuiores homines: honestiores vero fustibus non subiciuntur. “It is not the custom for all people to be beaten with rods, but only freemen of less substance (tenuiores homines); men of higher rank (honestiores) are not to be beaten with rods.”

Not only slaves, but all persons who were not honestiores were becoming eligible for beatings. And this eligibility, this legal vulnerability to bodily hu-

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miliation, provides the warrant for every other degrading legal penalty. Callistratus’ pronouncement articulates this logic. If persons could not be struck, then they could not be sentenced to hard labour in the mines; no beating, then no crucifixion, no burning alive, no beasts. In the early empire, numbers of free people were newly being taught their lack of social position and worth by their body’s vulnerability to the legal imposition of pain. 23 In her thorough examination of the social message inscribed on beaten bodies in the first century A.D., Jennifer Glancy submits that the beaten body invariably acts as a “token (...) of dishonor, abasement, and servility” (Glancy 2004: 134). In the Roman context, she argues, the circumstances of the beating matter very little; every beating degrades, humiliates and marks the body as servile: “Citizen or not, free or slave, a beaten body was a dishonored body” (Glancy 2004: 124). And the subjects of a beating were rendered “morally degraded” and tainted by their subjection and submission to violent treatment (Glancy 2004: 111).24 That persons were legally vulnerable to beatings and violence already contributed to their social debasement. Across the empire in the imperial period, a judicial perspective was evolving that branded all the people without sufficient status, wealth or position to belong to honestiores as dishonoured and debased on the basis of their body’s potential for humiliating treatment, animal treatment. The honestiores, the more honourable, the elite and their agents, were identified by their bodies’ freedom from degrading punishments. As the trans-empire alliance of elite administering the empire solidified its power, the elite initiated judicial changes that resulted in rendering new groups of persons contemptible and disgusting. As Kristeva (1982) outlines, disgust is intrinsically about defining and identifying boundaries; in the early imperial period, the elite were drawing stricter boundaries between themselves and the others in their society. In his book on disgust, William Miller (1997: 195) describes the close correlation between disgust and cruelty. Disgust leaves little room for sympathy or fellow feeling; it engenders cruelty. As Miller describes: “Disgust is less benign for the lower in the pecking order. It works to prevent concern, care, pity and love” (Miller 1997: 251). Disgusting persons repulse, so they deserve elimination, even eradication. Miller (1997: 251) maintains: “Hierarchies 23

24

The significance of the numbers actually suffering these supreme punishments is unclear, but the very institution of these measures seems to have provoked anxiety. Brent Shaw (2003: 533-563) has illustrated the centrality of judicial proceedings to Christian collective memory in the early centuries. Artemidorus testifies to the frequency of nightmares involving dying a painful judicial death. In the Onirocritica, he offers interpretations for dreams “resulting from a judge’s verdict” (2.49), those dealing with “beheading” (1.35), “being burned alive” (2.52), “being crucified” (2.53) and “fighting with wild beasts” (2.54; see Shaw 2003: 537). Glancy (2004: 111) adduces Matthew Roller’s statement: “Physical and legal degradation corresponded in Roman society to moral degradation” (Roller 2001: 226).

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maintained by disgust cannot be benign”. The proliferation of savage and brutal judicial penalties during the first three centuries seems to attest to the operation of disgust. By losing their immunity from violent treatment, free subjects were debased by their assimilation to the slave and the animal and became objects of disgust to the elite. This context points to an increasing lack of reciprocity between the elite and the others in their communities during the imperial period.25 Bound to each by ties of education and privilege, the imperial elite were forming themselves into a trans-empire community with connections to the imperial center. The legal system, with its differential punishment setting off the elite from others in their community, facilitated the construction and the display of this new trans-empire imperial identity. Across the empire, numbers of people were learning their place by being made newly liable to brutal treatment and horrific deaths, and their “betters” were largely unaffected by the changed legal system. One can imagine that the free lower stratum resented the assault on their persons and their judicial position that these legal changes effected. In the ancient Mediterranean, non-elite people were not unused to being treated badly by their social superiors; but traditionally in Rome and other cities incorporated into the empire, there had been a semblance of shared civic rights across status lines. The legal system evolving in the early empire destabilized this equilibrium. Its savagery directed at citizens and free people were innovations. Its grievances therefore were new and lacked the camouflage of traditional wrongs. It is reasonable to think the humiliores must have felt resentment. Forty years ago, Ramsay MacMullen (1966) referred to the resentment that the poor ‘must have’ felt in the early empire as a result of the alliance forged between Rome and provincial elites. He observed: “The poor then must have looked on Romans as accomplices to the rich, and must at times have cursed them both in the same breath – must have, according to speculation, nothing more” (1966: 189). MacMullen relied on speculation because he found little testimony to this resentment in the historical record. The situation may be different for the differential justice system; testimony may survive. It is my contention that resentment of the evolving differential penalty system and the status realignments it tokens contributes to the thematic emphases of secondcentury Christian resurrection discourse and to their appeal. Two motifs prominent in Christian writings on the resurrections – the emphasis on the Last Judgement and the refusal of any disgust for the material 25

Brent Shaw summarizes the effect of the new imperial arrangements as “a more stable and efficient structure for the exploitation of inferiors” (2000: 372). De Ste. Croix (1981: 465) notes that, during the early imperial period, “the propertied classes tightened their grip on those below them and placed themselves in even a more commanding position than they had previously”.

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body, no matter how abject – seem to challenge the social perspective supporting the contemporary legal restructuring. This perspective enables the social hierarchy by first fashioning some persons in the society as more associated with the body and its disgusting aspects than others on the basis of their work, status or gender, and then denigrating these people as tainted, disgusting and unworthy of regard or respect and available for animal-like treatment. Christian texts contest this perspective. Their contestation carries, I suggest, social as well as religious ramifications. The insistence of the Christian judgement discourse that every person is equally a body and a soul, and that body and soul alike must be judged after death, seems to have particular resonance. Brent Shaw has pointed out that the theme of an individual judgement at a final court is a Christian innovation: “the conception of a ‘last’ or ‘final’ court (...) is singularly absent from the central Jewish inheritance [of resurrection discourse]” (Shaw 2003: 555 with notes). In their representations of this last court, I suggest, Christians voiced their dissent from the contemporary legal system, where some people were not being required to bring their bodies to court to the same extent that others were. As we have seen, elite bodies might appear in court, but they were not presented for physical punishment. As the laws demonstrate, the elite’s dignity and status regularly exempt their bodies from the brutal physical punishment of the under stratum. On the basis of their status, their bodies are excused from any humiliating treatment. Christian writings on the resurrection, in contrast, emphasize that everyone’s body must appear in court for punishment or reward. This necessity to produce the material body for judgement, as previously noted, provides a major motivation for raising the flesh. Christian texts stipulate that the same bodies worn during life must pay the penalty or reap the reward for their earthly activities. They insist that there are no exceptions. All persons will present their bodies for judgement and physical punishment, regardless of rank or position. Justin, for example, warns the emperor Antoninus Pius that he “will not escape the coming judgement of God” (1 Apol. 68). Martyrs remind their Roman judges that their day of judgement will come. In the Passion of Perpetua, male martyrs convey to the governor Hilarianus: “You have condemned us, but God will condemn you” (Passio Perp. 18.8, ed. Bastiaensen & al.). When the proconsul threatens to burn Polycarp, he dismisses the threat of a fire that “burns for an hour” and warns the proconsul of the eternal fire of the coming judgement (Polycarp, Mart. 11.2). Tertullian envisions emperors, magistrates and philosophers all suffering grievous penalties after their judgement (Spect. 30.3-4). While the martyrs’ focus on future punishments suggests a certain desire for revenge, the overall emphasis in the resurrection discourse seems to be on

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equitable justice more than payback. This equity will occur only when every person is present, body and soul, to be judged. This repeated refrain that everyone’s body must be produced for judgement would seem in this historical moment, when only some bodies were experiencing harsh physical punishment, to have social as well as religious relevance. Christian resurrection discourse seems to challenge the juridical fictions and symbolic networks that position the upper stratum, those identified with the soul/mind, as superior and too refined for harsh physical punishment. Christian texts stress that there are no exceptions; everyone’s body must be presented at court and, if guilty, endure harsh punishment. By resisting contemporary practices that exempted some bodies from punishment, the Christian texts refigure this contemporary paradigm and undermine its social implications. No group is allowed to deny its members’ embodiment or to foist the body onto an “other”. To achieve this end, Christians refigured prevailing notions of the human person and the unworthiness of the material body. Every human person is held to be equally an amalgam of body and soul. The body is a full partner in human being. And every person as an immortal body and soul will experience equitable judgement.26 Christian refusal to find the material body disgusting was the key to the challenge of the operating hierarchical social paradigm supporting differential legal penalties. If bodies are not disgusting, then there is little basis to disparage those associated with bodies. The dispassionate acceptance given in resurrection texts to the most abject scattered, devoured and dissolved bodies subverts their repulsiveness. Christians reinscribe the material body; Jesus’ incarnation has trans-valued it. Irenaeus emphasizes Jesus’ fully physical and emotional humanity in his rebuttal to the charge that Jesus simply passed through Mary like water through a pipe. If that were the case, Irenaeus argues, Jesus would not have eaten, hungered, wept over Lazarus, sweated blood, or poured out blood and water when he was stabbed, as he has been described. These actions testify to Christ’s real flesh-and-blood humanity (Adv. haer. 3.22.2). Irenaeus’ description emphasizes the body’s fluid boundaries – eating, weeping, sweating and bleeding. By accepting a human fleshly body, Irenaeus teaches, Christ reconciled the flesh that had been alienated from God since Adam’s disobedience and perfected and saved it. This process of salvation will be complete in the resurrected body and its eternal life (Unger 1992: 185 n. 11).27 By destabilizing the premises for debasing the body, its mutability and 26 27

Stroumsa (1990: 42) offers that the conception of the human identity as a composite of body and soul is a Christian innovation. See Osborn (2001: 97-140) for the centrality of recapitulation (ἀνακεφαλαίωσις), the idea that Jesus “sums up” everything in Irenaeus’ thought. On this particular passage, see Osborn (2001: 97-107).

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mortality, Christians destabilized the grounds for the hierarchical configurations symbolically erected upon that body that demeaned those associated with the body. In his Contra Celsum, Origen preserves the horrified reaction of a philosophically inclined contemporary to these Christian teachings on the resurrection and the incarnation.28 In his True Doctrine, likely written near the end of the second century A.D., Celsus offers a critique of Christianity, portions of which have been preserved in Origen’s response. In one passage, Celsus calls the Christian hope in a material resurrection “the hope of worms” and asks: “What sort of human soul would have any desire for a body that is rotted?” The soul might expect everlasting life, but Celsus quotes Heraclitus on the body’s worth: “Corpses ought to be thrown away as worse than dung”. And he describes the “flesh as full of things not even nice to mention” (Origen, Contra Cels. 5.14). Celsus cites the intra-Christian disagreement on material resurrection to support his perspective. He argues that the fact that some Christians cannot accept the flesh’s resurrection “shows its utter repulsiveness, and that it is both revolting and impossible” (5.14). What Celsus finds disgusting is the body’s abject nature, its propensity to rot and seep away. How could such a body merit resurrection?29 The idea that a god, a divine being, would take on a mutable body also repulses Celsus. He writes: “A god would not have a body such as yours”, nor would a god be born or eat the foods that Jesus is described as eating (Origen, Contra Cels. 1.69). Celsus’ revulsion at the conjoining of divine and material emerges in his rejection of the virgin birth (Origen, Contra Cels. 6.73): τί ἐδεῖτο εἰς γυναικὸς γαστέρα ἐμπνεῖν; Ἐδύνατο γὰρ ἤδη πλάσσειν ἀνθρώπους εἰδὼς καὶ τούτῳ περιπλάσαι σῶμα καὶ μὴ τὸ ἴδιον πνεῦμα εἰς τοσοῦτον μίασμα ἐμβαλεῖν. “Why did he [God] have to breathe into the womb of a woman? He already knew how to make men. He could have formed a body for this one also without having to thrust his own spirit into such pollution.”

Celsus sees the human body as miasmatic, contaminating, disgusting and unworthy of a god. Celsus sums up his time-honoured perspective (Origen, Contra Cels. 4.14)30: ῾Ο θεὸς ἀγαθός ἐστι καὶ καλὸς καὶ εὐδαίμων καὶ ἐν τῷ καλλίστῳ καὶ ἀρίστῳ· εἰ δὴ ἐς ἀνθρώπους κάτεισι, μεταβολῆς αὐτῷ δεῖ, μεταβολῆς δὲ ἐξ ἀγαθοῦ εἰς κακὸν καὶ ἐκ καλοῦ εἰς αἰσχρὸν. (...) Καὶ μὲν δὴ τῷ θνητῷ μὲν ἀλλάττεσθαι 28 29 30

The translations in this section are from Chadwick (1965). See Frede (1994: 5208) for Celsus’ metaphysics and theology. Celsus holds that only immortal beings are made by God, and that eliminates the body (Origen, Contra Cels. 4.52). Chadwick (1965: 192) offers that Celsus draws on Plato’s Republic (381b-c) and Phaedrus (246d).

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καὶ μεταπλάττεσθαι φύσις, τῷ δ’ ἀθανάτῳ κατὰ τὰ αὐτὰ καὶ ὡσαύτως ἔχειν. Οὐκ ἂν οὖν οὐδὲ ταύτην τὴν μεταβολὴν θεὸς δέχοιτο. “God is good and beautiful and happy, and exists in the most beautiful state. If then he comes down to men, He must undergo change, a change from good to bad, from beautiful to shameful (...) it is the nature only of a mortal being to undergo change and remoulding, whereas it is the nature of the immortal being to remain the same without alteration. God could not be capable of this change.”

Celsus affirms the traditional conception that change is negative and detrimental and abhorrent to true being and that the material body is the very epitome of change and its inherent shame. In terms similar to those of Irenaeus, Origen defends the incarnation. Jesus assumed a human soul and body and combined this with his divine characteristics to bring salvation to human beings (Origen, Contra Cels. 3.28). By becoming human, by assuming a material body, Jesus transformed that body and erased the shame associated with it. Like Celsus, Christian opponents of the material resurrection were unable to accept a blatantly material body for the divine. Tertullian reports that Marcion also rejected the flesh “as full of dung” (Marc. 3.10: stercoribus infersam). And he accuses Apelles and Valentinus of devising something other than human flesh for Jesus (Res. 5.2, Carn. Chr. 15.1). These reactions demonstrate how, in the early imperial centuries, some persons held the material body in so much contempt that it was simply impossible to imagine its connection with the divine. This contempt for the body then spilled over onto the people culturally associated with their bodies and rendered them contemptible. And this contempt justified the social and legal structures that discriminated against the under stratum. Christian resurrection discourse interrupted the basis for bodily contempt. Jesus’ human body had refigured the human material body. It was no more the “servant and the handmaid” to the soul; it was the soul’s “consort and coheir”, a full partner in human being (Tertullian, Res. 7.13), to be accepted, rather than dismissed as repulsive. And the body’s rehabilitation had relevance for the people associated with it. The abject body was paradigmatic, not abhorrent, for Christians. Tertullian offers Lazarus’ body, which had lain in the tomb for three days, as the very model for the resurrected body (praecipuo exemplo). To emphasize the abject condition of this body, Tertullian uses repetition (Res. 53.3): caro iacuit in infirmitate, caro paene computruit in dedecorationem, caro interim putuit in corruptionem, et tamen Lazarus caro resurrexit, cum anima quidem, sed incorrupta. “The flesh lay prostrate in weakness, the flesh was almost putrid in its dishonour, the flesh stank in corruption, and yet it was as flesh that Lazarus rose again – with his soul no doubt. But that soul was incorrupt.”

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Tertullian dismisses the survival of Lazarus’ soul as incidental – it is immortal and has no need to be raised – and directs attention instead to that other half of the human person: its putrid, stinking, rotting flesh. Lazarus’ body is precisely the sort of abject body with its rotted, oozing, indistinct margins that horrified both Kristeva and Platonic thinkers. Tertullian’s representation of Lazarus’ body challenges any notion of the human body as solid and bounded; he offers, rather, a viscous body, mutable, in the process of becoming other. Embedded in this description is a social message. The dominant philosophic thinking of the period was premised upon an ideology that defines stability, fixity and immutability as the only “real” and as the ultimate good. This perspective denigrates the material for its constant change and flux. Such a perspective, disallowing change could collude in maintaining the social position of the elite especially in a society as hierarchical as that of the early empire. Christianity, with its concept that change – even the utterly devastating change of bodily dissolution – does not destroy, opens conceptual space for societal change. And if the cultural body has implications for the social body, Christian resurrection discourse projects a social body with porous boundaries, a paradigmatic open body that contests the increasing importance of hierarchy in imperial society.31 Christianity with its concept that change does not destroy, even the utterly devastating change of bodily dissolution, opens conceptual space for societal change. And if the cultural body has implications for the body social, Christian resurrection discourse projects a social body with porous boundaries. And with this paradigmatic open body, it can be seen to contest the increasing hierarchization of imperial society reflected in the evolving boundaries between honestiores and humiliores.32

31

32

That Athenagoras and Minucius Felix emphasize material resurrection but never mention Jesus suggests the importance of resurrection in the promulgation of the Christian message in the period. Lieu (2004: 89) notes that Theophilus and Tatian also do not mention Jesus and comments that “the Apostolic Fathers and Apologists are striking for their relative lack of interest in the life of Jesus”. The message of the Final Court and Judgement may have been recognized as having more appeal in contemporary circumstances. A version of this paper appears as chapter six in Perkins (2009).

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Bibliography Editions, commentaries and translations: Bastiaensen, Antoon A. R. & al. (eds.) (1987): Atti e passioni dei martiri. Introduzione, testo critico e commento, traduzioni, Rome. Chadwick, Henry (ed.) (1953): Origenes: Contra Celsum. Translated with an introduction and notes, Cambridge (repr. 1965). Clarke, Graeme W. (ed.) (1974): The Octavius of Marcus Minucius Felix. Translated and annotated (Ancient Christian Writers 39), New York. Colson, Francis H., George H. Whitaker & Ralph Marcus (eds.) (1929-62): Philo. With an English translation (12 vols.), Cambridge, Mass. & London. Dekkers, Eligius & al. (eds.) (1954): Quinti Septimi Florentis Tertulliani Opera (Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina 1 & 2), Turnhout. Des Places, Édouard (ed.) (1973): Numénius: Fragments. Texte établi et traduit, Paris. Diels, Hermann & Walther Kranz (eds.) (1954): Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. Griechisch und deutsch, Berlin. Ehrman, Bart D. (ed.) (2003): The Apostolic Fathers. Edited and translated (2 vols.), Cambridge, Mass. & London. Evans, Ernest (ed.) (1956): Q. Septimi Florentis Tertulliani De carne Christi liber: Tertullian’s Treatise on the Incarnation. The text edited with an introduction, translation and commentary, London. Evans, Ernest (ed.) (1960): Q. Septimi Florentis Tertulliani De resurrectione carnis liber: Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrection. The text edited with an introduction, translation and commentary, London. Evans, Ernest (ed.) (1972): Tertullian: Adversus Marcionem. Edited and translated, Oxford. Fisher, Charles D. (ed.) (1906): Cornelii Taciti Annalium ab excessu divi Augusti libri, Oxford. Huschke, Philipp Eduard, Emil Seckel & Bernhard Kübler (eds.) (1908-11): Iurisprudentiae anteiustinianae reliquias in usum maxime academicum compositas (2 vols.), Leipzig. Marcovich, Miroslav (ed.) (2000): Athenagorae qui fertur De resurrectione mortuorum (Vigiliae Christianae Supplementa 53), Leiden, Boston & Köln. Marcovich, Miroslav (ed.) (2001): Origenes: Contra Celsum libri VIII (Vigiliae Christianae Supplementa 54), Leiden, Boston & Köln. Mommsen, Theodor, Paul Krueger & Alan Watson (eds.) (1985): The Digest of Justinian. Latin text edited by Theodor Mommsen with the aid of Paul Krueger. English translation by Alan Watson (4 vols.), Philadelphia. Musurillo, Herbert A. (ed.) (1972): The Acts of the Christian Martyrs. Introduction, texts and translations, Oxford. Radice, Betty (ed.) (1969): Pliny: Letters and Panegyricus. With an English translation (2 vols.), Cambridge, Mass. & London.

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Roberts, Alexander, James Donaldson & A. Cleveland Coxe (eds.) (1885-96): The Ante-Nicene Fathers. Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D. 325 (10 vols.), Buffalo (repr. Grand Rapids 1978). Rousseau, Adelin & Louis Doutreleau (eds.) (1952-82): Irénée de Lyon: Contre les hérésies. Édition critique: Introduction, notes, text et traduction (5 vol.), Paris. Schoedel, William R. (ed.) (1972): Athenagoras: Legatio and De Resurrectione. Edited and translated, Oxford. Unger, Dominic J. (ed.) (1992): St. Irenaeus of Lyons against the Heresies. Translated and annotated. With further revisions by John J. Dillon (Ancient Christian Writers 55), New York. Secondary literature: Aubert, Jean-Jacques (2002): A double standard in Roman criminal law? In: JeanJacques Aubert & Boudewijn Sirks (eds.), Speculum Iuris. Roman Law as a Reflection of Social and Economic Life in Antiquity, Ann Arbor, 94-133. Bauman, Richard A. (1996): Crime and Punishment in Ancient Rome, London & New York. Bodel, John (1986): Graveyards and groves. A study of the Lex Lucerina. In: American Journal of Ancient History 11, 1-133. Bradley, Keith R. (1990): Animalizing the slave. In: Journal of Roman Studies 80, 110125. Bynum, Caroline Walker (1995): The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200-1336, New York. Carrié, Jean Michel (2005): Developments in provincial and local administration. In: Alan K. Bowman, Averil Cameron & Peter Garnsey (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 12: The Crisis of Empire, A.D. 193-337, Cambridge, 269312. Daley, Brian (2003): The Hope of the Early Church. A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology, Peabody, Mass. De Ste. Croix, Geoffrey E. M. (1981): The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World. From the Archaic Age to the Arab Conquests, London. Dillon, John M. (1977): The Middle Platonists. A Study of Platonism, 80 B.C. to A.D. 220, London. Douglas, Mary (1966): Purity and Danger. An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, New York. Eijk, A. H. C. van (1971): Only that can rise which has previously fallen. In: Journal of Theological Studies n.s. 22, 517-529. Frede, Michael (1994): Celsus philosophus Platonicus. In: Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II 36.7, 5183-5213. Garnsey, Peter (1970): Social Status and Legal Privilege in the Roman Empire, Oxford. Glancy, Jennifer A. (2004): Boastings of beatings (2 Corinthians 11, 23-25). In: Journal of Biblical Literature 123, 99-135.

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Grodzynski, Denise (1984): Tortures mortelles et catégories sociales. Les summa supplicia dans le droit romain aux IIIe et IVe siècles. In: Du châtiment dans la cité. Supplices corporels et peine de mort dans le monde antique (Table ronde, Rome, 9-11 novembre 1982), Rome & Paris, 361-403. Grosz, Elizabeth (1994): Volatile Bodies. Toward a Corporeal Feminism, Bloomington. Hällström, Gunnar af (1988): Carnis Resurrectio. The Interpretation of a Credal Formula, Helsinki. Joshel, Sandra R. (1992): Work, Identity, and Legal Status at Rome. A Study of the Occupational Inscriptions, Norman. Kristeva, Julia (1982): Powers of Horror. An Essay on Abjection, New York. Kyle, Donald G. (1998): Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome, London & New York. Le Boulluec, Alain (1985): La notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque, IIe-IIIe siècles, Paris. Lieu, Judith (2004): Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World, Oxford & New York. MacMullen, Ramsay (1966): Enemies of the Roman Order, Cambridge. MacMullen, Ramsay (1974): Roman Social Relations, 50 B.C. to A.D. 284, New Haven. MacMullen, Ramsay (1990): Judicial savagery in the Roman Empire. In: Ramsay MacMullen (ed.), Changes in the Roman Empire. Essays in the Ordinary, Princeton, 205-217. Marjanen, Antti & Petri Luomanen (eds.) (2005): A Companion to Second Century “Heretics”, Leiden. Meijer, Fik & Onno van Nijf (eds.) (1992): Trade, Transport, and Society in the Ancient World. A Sourcebook, London & New York. Millar, Fergus (1984): Condemned to hard labour in the Roman Empire. In: Papers of the British School at Rome 52, 124-147. Miller, William Ian (1997): The Anatomy of Disgust, Cambridge, Mass. Nippel, Wilfried (1995): Public Order in Ancient Rome, Cambridge. Nussbaum, Martha C. (2004): Hiding from Humanity. Disgust, Shame, and the Law, Princeton. Osborn, Eric Francis (2001): Irenaeus of Lyons, Cambridge. Perkins, Judith (2005): Resurrection in the Acts of John and the Acts of Peter. In: JoAnn Brant, Christine Shea & Charles Hedrick (eds.), Ancient Fiction. The Matrix of Jewish and Christian Fiction, Leiden, 217-238. Perkins, Judith (2006): Fictive ‘Scheintod’ and Christian resurrection. In: Religion and Theology 13, 396-418. Perkins, Judith (2007): The rhetoric of the maternal body in the Passion of Perpetua. In: Todd Penner & Caroline Vander Stichele (eds.), Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourse, Leiden, 313-332. Perkins, Judith (2009): Roman Imperial Identities in the Early Christian Era, London & New York. Perkins, Pheme (1984): Resurrection. New Testament Witness and Contemporary Reflection, Garden City, N.Y.

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Pile, Steve (1996): The Body and the City. Psychoanalysis, Space, and Subjectivity, London & New York. Pölönen, Janne (2004): Plebeians and repression of crime in the Roman Empire. From torture of convicts to torture of suspects. In: Revue Internationale des droits de l’Antiquité 51, 217-259. Prigent, Pierre (1964): Justin et l’Ancien Testament. L’argumentation scripturaire du ‘Traité’ de Justin contre toutes les hérésies comme source principale du ‘Dialogue avec Tryphon’ et de la ‘Première Apologie’, Paris. Rilinger, Rolf (1988): Humiliores – Honestiores. Zu einer sozialen Dichotomie im Strafrecht der römischen Kaiserzeit, München. Robinson, Olivia F. (1995): The Criminal Law of Ancient Rome, London. Robinson, Olivia F. (1997): The Sources of Roman Law. Problems and Methods for Ancient Historians, London & New York. Roller, Matthew B. (2001): Constructing Autocracy. Aristocrats and Emperors in JulioClaudian Rome, Princeton. Scheidel, Walter (2006): Stratification, deprivation and the quality of life. In: Margaret Atkins & Robin Osborne (eds.), Poverty in the Roman World, Cambridge, 4059. Setzer, Claudia (2004): Resurrection of the Body in Early Judaism and Early Christianity. Doctrine, Community, and Self-Definition, Boston & Leiden. Shaw, Brent D. (2000): Rebels and outsiders. In: Alan K. Bowman, Peter Garnsey & Dominic Rathbone (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 11: The High Empire, A.D. 70-192, Cambridge, 361-403. Shaw, Brent D. (2003): Judicial nightmares and Christian memory. In: Journal of Early Christian Studies 11, 533-563. Stallybrass, Peter & Allon White (1986): Politics and Poetics of Transgression, Ithaca. Stroumsa, Gedaliahu G. (1990): Caro salutis cardo. Shaping the person in early Christian thought. In: History of Religions 30, 25-50. Treggiari, Susan M. (1980): Urban labour in Rome. Mercenarii and tabernarii. In: Peter Garnsey (ed.), Non-Slave Labour in the Graceo-Roman World, Cambridge, 49-64. Yavetz, Zvi (1969): Plebs and Princeps, London.

Shifting Species: Animal and Human Bodies in Attic Vase Painting of the 6th and 5th Centuries B.C. Annetta Alexandridis Abstract: The paper analyses the iconography of three myths of metamorphosis in Attic imagery of the 6th and 5th centuries B.C.: (1) Actaeon, (2) Circe casting a spell on Odysseus’ companions, and (3) Peleus and Thetis. All three myths represent different types of metamorphosis according to the function the act of transformation assumes in the story and according to the human, animal and divine actors involved in it. The myths thus explore varying degrees of hybridity. The images make a corresponding distinction in the way the metamorphosed bodies are rendered. The bodies of transformed humans are shown either wrapped into animal skin (the outside of an animal) or as a mixture of animal and human body parts, thus suggesting an internal merging of both natures. In contrast, the anthropomorphic body of the divine shape-shifter is never affected by metamorphosis; animals are attached to the outside of the body. On the other hand, the iconography of all three myths undergoes similar changes about the middle of the 5th century B.C. that can be related to each other. This suggests that the images rely upon general concepts of human, animal and divine bodies that interact. In the archaic and early classical world the images (mainly of human metamorphosis) belong to a Dionysiac context. Drunkenness, enchantment and masquerade provide the frame for the transgression of boundaries of species. By the middle of the 5th century transformation is visualized as a more ambivalent status of being. Human and animal natures merge ever closely. Whereas in the earlier images both parts remain clearly distinguishable, even in hybrid figures, it now seems that the boundary has shifted into human nature itself.

1. Introduction The polarization of kinds to mark differences, be it gender, ethnic or species, is a specific feature of Greek culture (DuBois 1982). Work on the various faces of the Other (the woman, the barbarian, the slave, the animal), that are constituted this way, abounds. But what about cases in which both poles cross over, more specifically in which the corporeality of a being changes from one pole to the other? How was this transgression or blurring of boundaries imagined, and visually rendered? In which contexts do these images appear and what do

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they tell us about concepts of the human body? I will explore three cases of metamorphosis in which a human or divine being is transformed into an animal: Actaeon, Circe casting a spell on Odysseus’ companions, and Peleus and Thetis. My focus will be on the way in which the merging human, animal and/or divine nature is visually represented in a specific context, namely on Attic vases from the 6th and 5th centuries B.C. Based on the assumption that both the idea of clear boundaries between human, animal and divine as well as the possibility of (temporal) dissolution or blurring of these boundaries were operative in Greek culture, the aim of the paper is twofold. First, I want to discern some structural characteristics by which the boundaries between animal, human and divine bodies were made visible. Second, I want to see whether the changes that occur in the myths’ iconography over time offer some insight into how human and animal bodies were conceived. More specifically, I want to explore whether we can interpret some common general features as indicating a shifting of boundaries, either within the specific context in which the images were looked at, for instance the symposium, or in relation to a general change in the understanding of human and animal (and divine) nature. The myths I have chosen therefore deal with three different types of metamorphosis according to the function the act of transformation assumes in the story, and according to the human, animal and divine actors involved. In the myths of Actaeon and of Circe and Odysseus’ companions, humans are transformed into animals. In the case of Actaeon the metamorphosis is an act of punishment by the gods (Zeus or Artemis depending on the version of the myth). Accused of having dishonoured the gods by transgressing their sphere – he either had attempted to seduce Zeus’ beloved Semele, or he had hunted in Artemis’ sanctuary – the hunter Actaeon is transformed into a game animal (a deer) and then hunted himself and killed by his own dogs. Actaeon loses his human aspect forever: he dies as an animal; his transformation is irreversible. The metamorphosis of Odysseus’ companions follows a different pattern. Their transformation is not an act of punishment, but the result of a magic spell cast on them by the sorceress Circe. In Homer’s narrative, she transforms them into swine, though the visual representations also depict other domesticated or half-domesticated animals. The metamorphosis is reversible and temporary. Unlike the first two myths, the encounter of Peleus and Thetis presents a goddess as shape-shifter. In order to escape the advances of the mortal Peleus, she transforms herself into different wild and dangerous animals, before she finally surrenders. She is subject and object of her transformation at the same time. In the mythical story the goddess changes her shape from one animal into another without, as it seems, going back into a human form in between. The multiple metamorphoses are a sign of divine power.

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I should say at the outset that I am not primarily concerned with how metamorphosis is represented as a process in time, 1 but with the particular ways of merging or combining different bodies, which in the images always appear to be static. In Metamorphosis and Identity, Caroline Bynum calls for clearly distinguishing between hybridity and metamorphosis: “Hybrid reveals a world of difference, a world that is and is multiple; metamorphosis reveals a world of stories, of things under way” (Bynum 2001: 31). While this may be true on a strictly narrative level, it cannot be directly applied to images which have only restricted options for visualizing process in time.2 The different solutions the Athenian vase painters choose to depict a change of form shall therefore be interpreted less in narrative terms than in relation to the specific content of the stories and the figures involved in it. Another point of clarification: I define as metamorphosis all the transformations of shape humans and gods undergo. Christan Zgoll has recently established the ancient meaning of metamorphosis for Augustean literature (Zgoll 2004: 133-141, 175-179, 217223). On a lexical basis, he draws a clear distinction between the irreversible transformation of human beings (metamorphosis), their magic transformation, for instance by a witch, and the shape shifting of gods (allophanie). 3 This classification matches, as we will see, the principal visual distinctions between the three types of bodily transformation. Nevertheless, I do not want to stick to a terminological corset which may prove to be too rigid to grasp all the allusions and overlappings that are so fundamental for the often comical or subversive effects of an image.

2. Actaeon The story of Actaeon was the most favoured episode of mythical metamorphosis depicted in Greek and Roman times.4 The earliest renderings of Actaeon pursued by his dogs emerge in the 6th century B.C. They all have a more or

1 2

3 4

See, for instance, Himmelmann-Wildschütz (1967), Snodgrass (1982), Raeck (1984), Davies (1986), Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 74-93) and Giuliani (2003). And even on a narrative level the corporeality of a creature in metamorphosis, for instance of a human being transformed into an animal, is presented as a succession of several steps of hybridity. See for example Ovid’s description of the metamorphoses of Daphne, Callisto, Actaeon, Arachne or Myrrha, to name but a few (Ovid, Met. 1.547-556, 2.476-481, 3.194-197, 6.140-145, 10.489-514). Sharrock (1996) argues for a close connection between both concepts, hybridity and metamorphosis, in literal and visual tradition. See also Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 74-93) and Coelsch-Foisner (2005: 42). On Ovid in particular, with some critical remarks on Zgoll’s strictly philological classification, see Holzberg (2005: 37-50). See Schauenburg (1969), Guimond (1981), Schlam (1984), Mugione (1988), Forbes Irving (1990: 80-90, 197-201) and Frontisi-Ducroux (1997: 435-454; 2003: 95-144).

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less explicit connection to the Dionysiac world, especially the consumption of wine at the symposium. Some late archaic black-figure vases, mainly lekythoi, from Athens simply show a bearded, naked man attacked by several dogs who bite him on the legs, waist, chest, throat or head (fig. 1).5 Actaeon runs away; only in one instance, on an alabastron, does he defend himself with a sword.6 Although the images do not visualize transformation, Actaeon is assimilated by his beard, nudity and in some cases the erect penis to a satyr, that is a halfman, half-animal figure. His appearance as well as the general theme of hunt point to the wild Dionysiac world with all its implications of unrestrained sexuality.7 Occasionally vines in the background allude to an accordant setting. 8 Apart from their decoration the vases’ shapes are also related to the symposium: Food could be served on plates, while alabastra and especially lekythoi provided the oil or other essences for body-care (Heinemann 2003: 29-41). Together with the consumption of wine and the resulting conversation, the display of a beautiful body played an important role during the gathering.9 One of the earliest images that represent the act of transformation is on the neck of the famous red-figure amphora by the Eucharides Painter in Hamburg of about 490/80 B.C. (fig. 2). 10 In contrast to the depictions on the blackfigure vases it explicitly explores different corporealities, human and animal, male and female. Actaeon, bearded, is kneeling on the ground, helplessly facing the four dogs that attack him and bite him on the belly and chest. His transformation into a deer is visualized by the animal skin knotted on his chest. Actaeon’s body is displayed against the skin as if against a screen. He is in disguise: his animality seems to be external, as opposed to an essential aspect of his na-

5 6 7 8

9 10

Athens, Nat. Mus. A 488 (CC. 883), 489 (CC. 882). See Guimond (1981: 455-456, nos. 2*, 3*); see also nos. 1 (plate, formerly Bomarzo, Schlam 1984: pl. 1), 4 (lekythos, London, coll. Winslow) and 5 (lekythos, Athens, Agora Mus. P 1024). Athens, Nat. Mus. A 12767; see Guimond (1981: 456 no. 6*). See Schöne (1987), Lissarrague (1988; 1990b; 1993: 207-215) and Schnapp (1997: 403-452). The meaning of the women who occasionally frame the scenes remains vague. Similar figures can be part of various Dionysiac scenes such as processions towards a mask of the god. They also act as spectators and contribute to a certain theatrical effect of the event, see Frontisi-Ducroux (1991: 101-113, 121-135; 1997: 534). For care of the body, see Lee (2009, in this volume). Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe 1966.34; see Hoffmann (1967) and Guimond (1981: 457 no. 27*). For similar representations on Attic red-figure vases, see Athens, Nat. Mus. G 180/ACR 760 (frgs. of a volute-krater; see Guimond 1981: 457 no. 26*); Certosa di Padula, Mus. 164 (kalpis attributed to the Pan Painter: see Nabers 1965-84: fig. 1-3; Guimond 1981: 457 no. 28); Kopenhagen, Thorvaldsens Museum 99 (amphora attributed to the Geras Painter; see Jacobsthal 1929: 4 fig. 6; Guimond 1981: 457 no. 29); Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum 85.AE.476.1-6. and 86.AE.199.5. (pelike by the Geras Painter; see Neer 1997: 14 no. 15 pl. 338-9); Paris, Musée du Louvre G 224 (pelike: Guimond 1981: 457 no. 30*); Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum H 5356 (frg. of a white grounded cup; see Guimond 1981: 457 no. 33a).

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Figure 1: Lekythos. Athens, National Museum A 488 (CC883). Neg. DAI Athens (D-DAI-ATH-NM 3014, photograph: Hermann Wagner), all rights reserved

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Figure 2: Neck-amphora by the Eucharides Painter (detail). © Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe 1966.34.

ture. Only at certain points do human and animal nature seem to refer to each other. So the widespread legs of the animal skin repeat Actaeon’s right arm, outstretched in a gesture of calling for help. Additionally the dog sitting on his master’s left shoulder bites the skin knotted on his chest: blood comes out, as if he bites the human body like his companion dogs do. Finally Actaeon’s head is doubled by the animal scalp. The inversion of hierarchies is a crucial element of the story itself, which makes this punishment particularly cruel: the hunter becomes his own prey. The representation on the Hamburg amphora intensifies the tensions and paradoxes inherent in the structure of the plot. The human hunter is disguised as the hunted animal; his double nature and status are still visible. Artemis approaches from the left. She just has shot an arrow in order to kill the hunter/hunted. The killing of the human/animal by the dogs is repeated by the shooting of the human/animal or hunter/hunted by the goddess. The human/animal is trapped between the divine and the animal sphere. Furthermore the image plays with the sex of human and animal or hunter and hunted. The deer’s skin on closer examination proves to be that of a hind, as the scalp has no antlers. While this may on the one hand underline the victim’s weakness, it also adds to the general inversion of hierarchies: the stag’s

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hunter has become Artemis’ companion animal and thus incarnates a part of the goddess whose sphere he is guilty to have trangressed. At the same time, the female goddess, superior to the male human she wants to punish, is about to shoot a part of her own.11 A similar confusion occurs on the opposite side of the amphora, which represents another myth of metamorphosis. Io, transformed by her lover Zeus (or by the jealous Hera) into a heifer, is guarded by Argos.12 The scene shows Hermes killing Argos at Zeus’ insistance in order to free Io. The god’s beloved appears to be in complete animal form. But on closer examination, the heifer turns out to be a bull, whose genitals are prominently displayed. While the twist may be an allusion to the presence of Zeus, it challenges the structure of the encounter as told in the myth: Io, originally in an inferior position both as a mortal woman and as a female animal, has assumed the shape and gender of the male god himself who often abducts his mortal lovers in the guise of a bull. These doublings or inversions as well as, in the case of Actaeon, the interplay of human body and animal skin, leave the real nature of the event and the figures involved in it in a state of uncertainty. Nevertheless, as for Actaeon, human and animal nature remain separated as to their corporeality. The human is clad in an animal skin, but both natures do not really merge. Actaeon seems to be in disguise, the whole setting a masquerade. The case is a bit more complicated for Io. Here, the change of sex may indicate that the human female is not completely identical with the animal into which she has been transformed. Structuralist interpretations aside (Frontisi-Ducroux 2003: 106), the fact that both human victims do not fit their (new) skin, as if they had donned the wrong costume,13 certainly had a comical effect. Both images adorn the neck of an amphora, an elegant vessel that was used for keeping either wine or water for the Greek symposion. Shifting species and shifting sexual nature as well as masquerade might have been part of the imaginary evoked in the context of cheerful conversation and drunkenness that is always linked to the Dionysiac world. The images of the Hamburg amphora support this idea by the fact that on both sides of the neck one of the figures, Actaeon and Hermes respectively, is crowned with a wreath like a symposiast.14 11 12 13 14

In other depictions she wears a deer’s skin herself: Boston, MFA 10.185 by the Pan Painter (here, Actaeon does not show any signs of transformation); see Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 117 fig. 27). For an overview of literary and visual sources, see Yalouris (1990). This does not imply the image depicts a stage scene, as Jacobsthal (1929: 9) and Nabers (1965-84: 40), among others, have suggested. Against the tradition of interpreting vase paintings as reflections of ancient drama, see Krumeich (1999: 41-51). As far as I can see, this detail has been overlooked, because the added white is flaked off. For a good reproduction, see Hoffmann (1967: 9 fig. 1) and Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 96 fig. 22). For symposiasts with wreaths, see Lissarrague (1990a: 21, 32-35 figs. 9, 18-21). For mytho-

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Figure 3: Bell-krater by the Lykaon Painter. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 00.346. © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 2009

This way the beholder could identify directly with protagonists in the mythical event. In the second half of the 5th century B.C. depictions of the myth of Actaeon address transformation in a new manner: human and animal nature merge in one body. A bell-krater by the Lykaon Painter in Boston, from about 440 B.C., shows on one side Actaeon’s punishment (fig. 3).15 All protagonists are identified by inscriptions. Zeus on the left and Artemis (with torch, not bow and arrow) on the right watch the scene. Three dogs attack Actaeon, but they seem less aggressive compared to the earlier depictions. Only two dogs are shown in direct contact with their master’s body. Neither bites him; rather,

15

logical figures with wreath on a sympotic vase see Zeus and Ganymede on a Nolan Amphora attributed to the Pan Painter from about 470 B.C. (Boston, MFA 10.184). Boston, MFA 00.346; see Guimond (1981: 462 no. 81*).

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they seem to sniff around him. In any case: we see no blood. The dogs’ rage is visualized by a personification: a woman wearing a short dress under an animal skin, and the head of a dog on her own head, approaches from the left. The inscription tells us that she is Lyssa, the personification of canine madness (Borg 2002: 147-150). Both her hybrid body and the animal skin that resembles a Maenad’s attire point to a situation of transgression. Actaeon’s transformation into a stag is indicated by the antlers and ears emerging from his head, and even by painted markings of fur (Schlam 1984: 91). Human and animal nature are intermingled in one body: in contrast to the depiction on the Eucharides Painter’s amphora, the hunter’s human ears are replaced by animal ones. But, whereas the earlier depictions, in which Actaeon seems to be more in disguise, show him as the victim in an inferior position, this later image is more ambivalent as to the result of the fight. Although the gods are not directly involved in the action, their static figures, which frame the scene as well as the approaching figure of madness, imply that there is no escape for the victim. On the other hand, despite Actaeon’s merging with the hunted animal’s physique, the dynamic position of his youthful body as well as the double spear in his right hand suggest that he will be able to overcome the attack.16 Whereas the earlier images of Actaeon in animal skin or disguise offer a joyful and confusing play with human and animal nature, they retain the defining outlines of both. The animal skin is added to the human body; it is removable. The iconography thus suggests the idea of a clear and distinct boundary between human and animal body, a boundary which can be subverted or parodied, but the existence of which remains nevertheless unquestioned because it is constitutive for the comical effect of the masquerade. In contrast, the later images show a fusion of human and animal bodies. The animal parts (ears), are not added to Actaeon’s body, but replace the correspondent human organs. Although Actaeon has assumed physical characteristics of the hunted and inferior animal, he retains his superior human position. Here, the boundary between both species has been moved into human nature itself. 16

See also Cohen (2000: 121-131). For a similar depiction on an Attic vase, see the calicekrater from about 450/440 B.C. (Basle, private collection; see Guimond 1981: 462 no. 83a*). At about the same time we also find representations that show Actaeon in entirely human form: Boston, MFA 10.185 (bell-krater attributed to the Pan Painter; see Guimond 1981: 456 no. 15*); Paris, Musée du Louvre CA 3482 (volute-krater; see Guimond 1981: 456 no. 16*). The theme also appears on ‘melian’ terracotta reliefs of the 5th century B.C.; see Jacobsthal (1929: 20-21, 65-66 pl. 7a) and Guimond (1981: 458 no. 39*, 40). The motif of Actaeon’s merging animal and human nature is especially popular during the 4th century B.C. on South Italian sympotic vessels; see for example, with different accentuation, Guimond (1981: 457459 nos. 32*, 33*) for a calice crater and oinochoe (Cività Castellana, Mus. 6360 and 1601), no. 46* (plate; Taranto, Mus. Naz. 5163), no. 49* (scyphos, Karlsruhe, Badisches Landesmuseum 76/106); p. 462 no. 83b* (oinochoe, Taranto, Mus. Naz.); p. 464 no. 110* (volutekrater, Naples, Mus. Naz. SA 31).

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In both cases the vessels’ forms prove an almost exclusive connection of the theme with the symposium.17 On the earlier vases the relation to the Dionysiac world is made explicit by iconographic elements such as the vine, ivy wreaths or an assimilation of the hero to satyrs. Masquerade is a fundamental element of Dionysus’ world. But even beyond a strictly religious or theatrical context we can easily imagine how the consumption of wine transformed the revellers’ minds and bodies (Frontisi-Ducroux 1995: 95). Parody or imaginary fusion of both human and animal natures thus formed one of the enchantments of a banquet.

3. Circe casting a spell on Odysseus’ companions The theme of Circe casting a spell on Odysseus’ companions appears about the middle of the 6th century B.C. in Attic imagery. In the archaic and classical period it remains limited to vase painting,18 and almost exclusively to sympotic vessels.19 One of the earliest examples is the depiction on one side of the famous merrythought cup in Boston of about 550/540 B.C. (fig. 4). Two groups are facing each other. On the left stands Circe, behind her are two of Odysseus’ transformed companions, one of them with a boar’s head, the other one, who seems to flee, with a lion’s head. In between them Odysseus is approaching brandishing his sword. On the other side we see three transformed companions, one with a boar’s head, the next with a ram’s head, the third with a wolf’s head. A fourth man in entirely human shape strides away. In contrast to the passage in the Odyssey (Homer, Od. 10.135-547), the men are not transformed into swine, but into different wild and domestic animals. This magic and, as we know from the story, reversible metamorphosis, is represented in a different manner than the one Actaeon experiences. The men retain their human torso and human legs, but all of them have an animal head and most of them animal limbs instead of human arms and hands. Unlike the earlier depictions of Actaeon, in which the hunter is shown with an animal skin, Odysseus’ companions do not seem to be in disguise. On the contrary, human and animal bodies are one entity, but not in the same way as on the later depictions of Actaeon. The transformed companions look like hybrid or mixed crea-

17

18 19

Most of the depictions from archaic and classical times stem from sympotic vessels. Guimond (1981) definitely identifies 47 Greek objects dating from these periods as showing Actaeon’s metamorphosis. 36 among them are sympotic vases; see Guimond (1981: nos. 1-8, 15-17, 26-30, 32-34, 44-51b, 81, 83a-b, 88, 110-112). See Touchefeu-Meynier (1968: 81-131), Brommer (1983: 70-80), Snodgrass (1982: 4-9), Canciani (1992), Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 61-94) and Giuliani (2003: 186-202). With one exception: an arula (Paris, Louvre CA 5956; see Canciani 1992: 51 no. 4*). On the vases used in a symposium see above.

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tures such as satyrs, centaurs or the Minotaur, in the depictions of which animal limbs or heads are stuck to a human body or vice versa.20 Although their transformation is conceived to be reversible, the iconography suggests that they are ‘stuck’ in hybridity as are all the wild and frightening mythical mixed creatures.

Figure 4: Merrythought cup. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 1899.518. © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 2009

Nevertheless, the inter-species appearance of the bewitched companions is strongly linked to sympotic enchantment, too, as Detlev Wannagat (1999) has shown. Both the rendering of the figures in the scene as well as their relationship to the beholder and user of the cup support this interpretation: Circe, naked, stays in the centre mixing the magic potion in a cup while simultaneously handing it over to one of the companions. In a synoptic conflation of time, he has already been transformed into a boar. The gestures of his still-human arms and hands imply that he is having a conversation with the sorceress. He seems eager to get to drink the kykeon – like the others who have lined up waiting for the drink – and like the symposiast who holds a cup of similar shape in his hand. The scene on the opposite side of the cup shows another scene of enchantment and drunkenness linked to the adventures of Odysseus: the preparation for the blinding of Polyphemus. The giant is shown crouching in the centre, a drinking cup in his hand. His inflated red belly assimilates him to figures of dancing komasts whose pot bellies are often squeezed into short red shirts. The iconography of the cup as a whole thus relates metamorphosis to the magic forces of wine, the transgression of species boundaries to the enchanting, if not comical effects of drunkenness. Furthermore, Circe’s naked body corre20

See Lissarrague (1990b: 54-55), Padgett (2000: 43-59; 2004) and Morawietz (2000).

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sponds to images of naked hetairai, maenads or other women and thus alludes to sexual seduction, which is also a constitutive part of the banquet. An Attic black-figure neck-amphora of about 510 B.C. explicitly connects the scene to sexuality and libidinous behaviour that characterizes the komos (Lissarrague 1990b: 55-66).21 Circe is sitting in the middle, mixing the kykeon in a cup. The vines in the background suggest a Dionysiac setting. Two of Odysseus’ companions transformed into donkeys stand on either side. Whereas the companion on the left seems to dance or at least to perform agitated movements with his hands, the second one in front of Circe tenderly touches the sorceresses’ throat with his fingers and draws his mouth towards the potion. Both companions have human torso and limbs, but the heads as well as the tail and the ithyphallic genitals are those of a donkey or mule, the Dionysiac animal par excellence, which is often shown with erect penis to illustrate his libidinous behaviour and virility (Lissarrague 1988; Dierichs 1993: 42-43 figs. 63-66). Animality is especially linked to animal sexuality in this case. The waterbirds in front of the bewitched men might allude to fertility, like the socalled phallos-birds (Boardman 1992). In any case, their long sweeping necks repeat or mirror the shape of the mens’ large phalloi and tails. On red-figure vases of about the mid-5th century B.C. the scene is depicted differently. First of all, the images are closer to the epic text. All the companions are represented as transformed into swine with animal heads and tails. The torso and the limbs are usually human. The focus of the (visual) narrative is on the negative effects of the magic drink. On a pelike in Dresden from about 440 B.C., for instance, the transformed human resists the potion (Canciani 1992: 51 no. 8*). The companion, depicted with animal head and hooves, moves away; with his right hand he refuses the drink Circe is offering him. On a Nolan Amphora in Berlin of about the same time (fig. 5) the companion – who has human feet – is shown from the back as he leaves Circe. Touching his front he discovers what has just happened to him.22 Whereas in the earlier examples the transgression of interspecies boundaries takes place in the Dionysiac context of consuming wine and of enchantment, in the later ones metamorphosis seems to be a problematic experience. The figures struggle with their double nature. This change in iconography reflects a shift in the concept of how human and animal nature and how interspecies boundaries were conceived. In all cases a model of oppositions seems to be effective. But in the archaic and early classical images human and animal 21 22

Private collection Rolf Blatter, Bolligen; see Blatter (1975: pl. 29.2), Canciani (1992: 51 no. 5 bis*) and Frontisi-Ducroux (2003: 71 fig. 12). On an earlier black-figure lekythos in Taranto (Canciani 1992: 51 no. 5*) the companions’ movements are ambiguous. Some are approaching Circe, whereas the two men close to her strive away, their heads however drawn back by the kykeon as if by a magnet.

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natures mark two different poles. They get intermingled only in a situation out of control. The images of the high classical period in contrast place the antagonism of both natures within the human being itself.

Figure 5: Nolan amphora. Berlin, SMPK-Antikensammlung F 2342. © Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin

All the images of reversible transformation by a magic spell are related to the symposium in a more explicit way than the stories of irreversible metamorphosis. Unlike Actaeon, Odysseus’ companions have lost their human face, which has been substituted by an animal one. This transformation not only recalls the tradition of masking in Dionysiac cultic contexts, but during the symposium itself. The vessels themselves could function as masks. The so-called eye cups or face vessels – wine cups the bottom sides of which were decorated with a pair of eyes, sometimes also a nose or ears – transformed the face of the revel-

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ler into Dionysus himself, as he drank from the cup. Rhyta with bodies in the shape of a donkey’s or mule’s head made him into an animal.23

4. Peleus wrestling with Thetis In the last part of my paper I explore how a divine body was imagined in relation to human and animal ones, and whether its change of shape can also be related to the symposium. Representations of Peleus pursuing or wrestling with Thetis enjoy a greater popularity on archaic and classical vase painting than any other story of metamorphosis, be it human or divine.24 The iconography therefore shows more variations in detail than the other myths I have discussed so far. I will focus only on some important characteristics. Most of the vases depicting the myth are related to the consumption of wine or could have been used in a sympotic context, as for instance lekythoi, aryballoi and alabastra for body-care (Heinemann 2003: 29-41). A funeral context, which scholars often take as backdrop for relating the depictions to rites of passage from maiden to wife, must not have been the prevailing one. Apart from the fact that a passage from virgin to woman can also be understood as metamorphosis, we should consider the images in the context of sympotic enchantment with all its erotic phantasies, instead of relating them to specific religious rites in real life (Danali-Giole 1989/90: 113-116; Barringer 1995: 87-94). Among the 112 relevant representations listed by Vollkommer (1994, 1997) more than half (63 = ca. 56 %) show Thetis without any sign of shape-shifting, whereas 49 (ca. 44 %) depict her metamorphosis into different animals (mostly snake, panther, lion) or into fire.25 Both types appear with great prevalence on sympotic vessels of the late 6th and early 5th centuries B.C. It is therefore impossible to (re)construct either a homogeneous ‘development’ of the iconography or to link it to different contexts of usage in which the images were viewed. But in general the depictions feature strong links with Dionysiac imagery. In contrast to the other types of metamorphosis I have discussed, Thetis’ anthropomorphic body is neither wrapped in animal skin, nor is it a merging of human and animal bodies. The animals or parts of animals spring from her 23 24 25

See Lissarrague (1990a: 56-59) and Frontisi-Ducroux (1991: 7-13, 177-187; 1995: 34, 100103). See Krieger (1975), Vollkommer (1994: 251-252, 255-265, 268-269; 1997: 7-9, 13-14) and Barringer (1995: 69-94). Without metamorphosis: Vollkommer (1994: nos. 51-58, 62, 63, 67-70, 80, 81, 84-87, 89, 109, 111, 113, 116, 119-125, 127-132, 135, 137, 138, 140-143, 147-152, 154, 156, 158, 168, 170, 171, 173-175) and Vollkommer (1997: nos. 9, 10, 15). With metamorphosis: Vollkommer (1994: nos. 65, 73, 82, 83, 88, 90, 110, 112, 114, 115, 117, 118, 126, 133, 134, 136, 139, 144-146, 153, 155, 159-167, 169, 172, 176, 177-179, 188-190). Vollkommer’s lists represent a selection; for a more complete catalogue of the evidence, see Krieger (1975: 155-184).

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body or touch it, but they act independently (Vollkommer 1994: 269; 1997: 13-14). For example, on a black-figure neck-amphora in London of about 510 B.C. (fig. 6), a dragon’s head springs from Thetis’ shoulder. A panther sits on Peleus’ back. He touches Thetis’ arm with his waist and rests on her right shoulder. A similar arrangement can be found on the tondo in a cup by the Peithinos Painter in Berlin of about 500 B.C.26 A lion sits on Peleus’ elbow and back, and three snakes bite his body. Two of them are twined around Peleus’ calf. Only the third one is in direct contact with the goddess. The snake has wrapped itself around her wrist and bites Peleus in the front. The sequence of different metamorphoses the goddess undertakes in the myth is visualized by the simultaneous appearance of several different animals. The anthropomorphic body of the goddess never changes, the animals are added externally. And often they have more physical contact with the body of the mortal they attack than with the divine body who engendered them or of whom they are a transformation. Although there is no explicit hint to enchantment or disguise, some elements of the setting of both images can be understood as a reference to the Dionysiac or sympotic world: the group on the London amphora is typologically similar to groups of satyrs attacking maenads (Krieger 1975: 59-60; Vollkommer 1994: 269; Barringer 1995: 78-87).27 In addition, it is framed by two siren-like hybrid creatures, one male and one female. Their bodies are formed by eyes. Big isolated eyes on amphorae usually belong to Dionysus, like the ones on cups (Frontisi-Ducroux 1995: 100-103). Some late blackfigure lekythoi and other vessels of about the turn of the century even display the scene against a typical Dionysiac background of vines. Depictions of Thetis holding a snake in her hand assimiliate her to a maenad (Vollkommer 1994: nos. 83*, 112*). The Peithinos cup puts the mythological scene into a context of hetero- and homosexual courtship, which is shown on the outside and which plays an important role in a sympotic context (Skinner 2005: 45132, with further references). Vases that show the encounter of mortal man and immortal woman without any signs of metamorphosis at all have survived in larger numbers, but in archaic and early classical times they offer a similarly close iconographical connection to the Dionysiac world.28 About the middle of the century and until about 420/410 B.C. the depictions seem to avoid any allusion to metamorpho-

26 27 28

London, British Museum B 215; Berlin, SMPK-Antikensammlung F 2279. For example Paris, Musée du Louvre G 2 (Barringer 1995: pl. 91). Danali-Giole (1989/90: 114) also mentions the ivy wreaths that Peleus and Thetis are sometimes shown with. Pace Danali-Giole (1989/90), I see these in the general context of Dionysiac imagery. See, for example, Vollkommer (1994: nos. 65*, 80*, 81*, 84*, 86*, 113*, 115*, 119*-124*, 127*, 128*, 137*, 147*).

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Figure 6: Neck-amphora. London, British Museum B 215. © British Museum, London

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Figure 7: Dinos. Würzburg, Martin-von-Wagner-Museum L 540. © Martin-von-Wagner-Museum der Universität Würzburg (Photograph: K. Öhrlein)

sis, be it by divine power or by intoxication (fig. 7).29 The absence of Thetis’ metamorphosis into animals in these images thus coincides with the iconographical shift I have outlined above for the other two myths which explore the ambivalence and the problematic status of merged human and animal nature. However, the divine body and its shifting shapes are not part of a discourse on conflicting natures within the human body itself. The divine body in these later representations becomes completely humanized; it offers an undisturbed human body. Or is this already a sign for the boundaries between humans and gods becoming blurred?

5. Conclusion In the iconography of Attic vase painting of the 6th and 5th centuries B.C., the transformation of a human or a divine being into an animal is visualized differently according to the type of metamorphosis that has taken place. The bodies 29

It is only in the late 5th century B.C. that the motif of transformation returns, this time also on shapes intended for women, like the epinetron: Athens, National Museum 1629; see Vollkommer (1994: 262 no. 172*). Moraw (1998: 29-65) observes similar features in the iconography of maenads in Attic vase painting.

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of transformed humans are shown either wrapped in animal skin (the outside of an animal) or as a mixture of animal and human body parts, thus suggesting a merging of both natures. In contrast, the anthropomorphic body of the divine shape-shifter is never affected by metamorphosis, but animals are added on its surface. The images also make a distinction between the two types of human metamorphosis: The irreversible transformation into an animal, which is a punishment in the case of Actaeon, is visualized either by a second/animal skin, by the addition of animal parts to the human head (the stag’s antlers) or by the replacement of human parts by animal ones (ears). Face and hair remain human. In contrast, Odysseus’ companions, who are the victims of a magic spell, are shown with entirely animal heads, sometimes even with animal limbs like the mixed creatures of Greek myth. Despite these very clear distinctions the iconography of all three myths undergoes similar changes about the middle of the 5th century B.C. This suggests that the images rely upon general concepts of human, animal and divine bodies that interact. In the archaic and early classical world the images – mainly of human metamorphosis – belong to a Dionysiac context. Drunkenness, enchantment and masquerade provide the frame for a ludic transgression of species boundaries (among others). Animal nature seems to be part of a world in opposition to the civilized one evoked in the symposion. By the middle of the 5th century transformation is visualized as a more ambivalent or conflicting status of being: the superiority or inferiority of Actaeon in his fight remains unclear; Odysseus’ companions struggle with their double nature. Human and animal nature merge ever closely. Whereas in the earlier images the boundary between both species is always visible, because both parts remain clearly distinguishable, even in hybrid figures, it now seems that the boundary has shifted into human nature itself. On the other hand, as Catherine Keesling observes in this volume, in the early classical period, statues of animals gain a certain autonomy as dedications and can even be considered as ‘portraits’ (Keesling 2009). Humans become zoomorphized, animals anthropomorphized. The iconography of Thetis’ self-transformations changes in a significant way, too, although it is meant to visualize divine power. At a time in which human metamorphosis is linked to the Dionysiac world, the wrestling couple of Peleus and Thetis is assimilated to figures of satyrs and maenads; it is placed in a Dionysiac setting and often accompanied by numerous different animals. About the middle of the 5th century B.C., when the fusion of human and animal nature engenders an ambivalent, if not problematic, unity, the body of the goddess is represented as entirely anthropomorphic. It seems that, as the

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boundaries between humans and animals become permeable, human and divine bodies are also blurred.30

Bibliography Barringer, Judith M. (1995): Divine Escorts. Nereids in Archaic and Classical Greek Art, Ann Arbor. Blatter, Rolf (1975): Frühe Kirkebilder. In: Antike Kunst 18, 76-78. Boardman, John (1992): The Phallos-Bird in archaic and classical Greek art. In: Révue Archéologique 2, 227-243. Borg, Barbara E. (2002): Der Logos des Mythos. Allegorien und Personifikationen in der frühen griechischen Kunst, München. Brommer, Frank (1983): Odysseus. Die Taten und Leiden des Helden in antiker Kunst, Darmstadt. Bynum, Caroline Walker (2001): Metamorphosis and Identity, New York. Canciani, Fulvio (1992): s.v. “Kirke”. In: Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (vol. 6), München & Zürich, 48-59. Coelsch-Foisner, Sabine (2005): Metamorphic changes in the arts. In: Jürgen Schlaeger (ed.), Metamorphosis. Structures of Cultural Transformations, Tübingen, 39-56. Cohen, Beth (2000): Man-killers and their victims. Inversions of the heroic ideal in classical art. In: Beth Cohen (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal. Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, Leiden & Boston, 98-131. Danali-Giole, Katerina (1989/90): Dionysos and Peleus. Problems of interpretation in Athenian black-figure vases. In: Archaiognosia 6, 109-119. Davies, Malcolm (1986): A convention of metamorphosis in Greek art. In: Journal of Hellenic Studies 106, 182-183. Dierichs, Angelika (1993): Erotik in der Kunst Griechenlands, Mainz. DuBois, Page (1982): Centaurs and Amazons. Woman and the Pre-History of the Great Chain of Being, Ann Arbor. Forbes Irving, Paul M. C. (1990): Metamorphosis in Greek Myths, Oxford. Frontisi-Ducroux, Françoise (1991): Le dieu-masque. Une figure du Dionysos d’Athènes, Paris & Rome. Frontisi-Ducroux, Françoise (1995): Du masque au visage. Aspects de l’identité en Grèce ancienne, Paris.

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The article is part of a book project on “Shifting Species: The Iconography of Metamorphosis and Zoophilia from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period”, which I was able to start in the wonderful atmosphere of the Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington, D.C. (2005/06). I would like to thank all participants of the colloquium, especially Mireille Lee and Alex Purves, for their helpful comments on my paper. Alexander Heinemann generously allowed me to read and use the manuscript of his unpublished dissertation (Heinemann 2003). I am grateful to Philip Lorenz and the two editors for proofreading this text.

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Frontisi-Ducroux, Françoise (1997): Actéon, ses chiens et leur maitre. In: Barbara Cassin & Jean-Louis Labarrière (eds.), L’animal dans l’antiquité, Paris, 435-454. Frontisi-Ducroux, Françoise (2003): L’homme-cerf et la femme araignée. Figures grecques de la métamorphose, Paris. Giuliani, Luca (2003): Bild und Mythos. Geschichte der Bilderzählung in der griechischen Kunst, München. Guimond, Lucien (1981): s.v. “Aktaion”. In: Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (vol. 1), München & Zürich, 454-469. Heinemann, Alexander (2003): Der Gott des Gelages. Bildwelten des Dionysos auf attischem Trinkgeschirr, Diss. Heidelberg. Himmelmann-Wildschütz, Nikolaus (1967): Erzählung und Figur in der archaischen Kunst (Abhandlungen der Mainzer Akademie der Wissenschaften und Literatur. Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftliche Klasse 1967.2), Wiesbaden. Hoffmann, Herbert (1967): Eine neue Amphora des Eucharides-Malers. In: Jahrbuch der Hamburger Kunstsammlungen 12, 10-34. Holzberg, Niklas (2005): Formen des Wandels in Ovids Metamorphosen. In: Herwig Gottwald & Holger Klein (eds.), Konzepte der Metamorphose in den Geisteswissenschaften, Heidelberg, 37-50. Jacobsthal, Paul (1929): Aktaions Tod. In: Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft 5, 1-23. Keesling, Catherine M. (2009): Exemplary animals. Greek animal statues and human portraiture. In: Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin & New York, 283-309. Krieger, Xenia (1975): Der Kampf zwischen Peleus und Thetis in der griechischen Vasenmalerei. Eine typologische Untersuchung, Münster. Krumeich, Ralf (1999): Archäologische Einleitung. In: Ralf Krumeich, Nikolaus Pechstein & Bernd Seidensticker (eds.), Das griechische Satyrspiel, Darmstadt, 4173. Lee, Mireille M. (2009): Body-modification in classical Greece. In: Thorsten Fögen & Mireille M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin & New York, 155-180. Lissarrague, François (1988): Les satyres et le monde animal. In: Jette Christiansen & Torben Melander (eds.), Proceedings of the Third Symposium on Ancient Greek and Related Pottery (Copenhagen, August 31 - September 4, 1987), Copenhagen, 335-351. Lissarrague, François (1990a): The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet. Images of Wine and Ritual, Princeton. Lissarrague, François (1990b): The sexual life of Satyrs. In: David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler & Froma I. Zeitlin (eds.), Before Sexuality. The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, Princeton, 53-81. Lissarrague, François (1993): On the wildness of Satyrs. In: Thomas H. Carpenter & Christopher Faraone (eds.), Masks of Dionysus, Ithaca, 207-220. Moraw, Susanne (1998): Die Mänade in der attischen Vasenmalerei des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., Mainz.

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Morawietz, Georg (2000): Der gezähmte Kentaur. Bedeutungsveränderungen der Kentaurenbilder in der Antike, München. Mugione, Elena (1988): La punizione di Atteone. Immagini di un mito tra VI e IV sec. a. C. In: Dialoghi di Archeologia III 6, 111-132. Nabers, Ned (1965-84): A new hydria by the Pan Painter. In: Apollo. Bollettino dei Musei provinciali del Salernitano 5, 31-45. Neer, Richard T. (1997): CVA United States of America 32, Malibu 7. Molly and Walter Bareiss Collection, Malibu. Padgett, J. Michael (2000): The stable hands of Dionysos. Satyrs and donkeys as symbols of social marginalization in Attic vase painting. In: Beth Cohen (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal. Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, Leiden & Boston, 43-70. Padgett, J. Michael (2004): Horse men. Centaurs and Satyrs in early Greek art. In: J. Michael Padgett (ed.), The Centaur’s Smile. The Human Animal in Early Greek Art, New Haven & London, 3-46. Raeck, Wulf (1984): Zur Erzählweise archaischer und klassischer Mythenbilder. In: Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes 99, 1-25. Schauenburg, Konrad (1969): Aktaion in der unteritalischen Vasenmalerei. In: Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes 84, 29-46. Schlam, Carl C. (1984): Diana and Actaeon. Metamorphoses of a myth. In: Classical Antiquity 3, 82-110. Schnapp, Alain (1997): Le chasseur et la cité. Chasse et érotique dans la Grèce ancienne, Paris. Schöne, Angelika (1987): Der Thiasos. Eine ikonographische Untersuchung über das Gefolge des Dionysos in der attischen Vasenmalerei des 6. und 5. Jhs. v. Chr., Göteborg. Sharrock, Alison (1996): Representing metamorphosis. In: Jaś Elsner (ed.), Art and Text in Roman Culture, Cambridge & New York, 103-130. Skinner, Marilyn B. (2005): Sexuality im Greek and Roman Culture, Malden & Oxford. Snodgrass, Anthony M. (1982): Narration and Allusion in Archaic Greek Art, London. Touchefeu-Meynier, Odette (1968): Thèmes odysséens dans l’art antique, Paris. Vollkommer, Rainer (1994): s.v. “Peleus”. In: Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (vol. 7), München & Zürich, 251-269. Vollkommer, Rainer (1997): s.v. “Thetis”. In: Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (vol. 8), München & Zürich, 6-14. Wannagat, Detlev (1999): Die Bostoner Kirkeschale. Homerische Mythen in dionysischer Deutung? In: Antike Kunst 42, 9-20. Yalouris, Nikolaos (1990): s.v. “Io 1”. In: Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (vol. 5), München & Zürich, 661-676. Zgoll, Christian (2004): Phänomenologie der Metamorphose. Verwandlungen und Verwandtes in der augusteischen Dichtung, Tübingen.

Exemplary Animals: Greek Animal Statues and Human Portraiture Catherine M. Keesling Abstract: This paper examines ancient Greek embodiments of animals in sculpture and their afterlives in the Roman imperial period. Statues of animals, both lifesize and lifelike, were prototypical votive and funerary monuments, characteristic of the classical period (ca. 480-323 B.C.). Lions, bulls and other animals were dedicated to the gods in their sanctuaries as ἀγάλματα (pleasing gifts), as emblems of the identities of their divine recipients, and as perpetual sacrificial victims. The most famous of these statues in antiquity was Myron’s cow, a bronze statue that originally stood on the Athenian Acropolis, but was later removed to Rome. Though representations of animal bodies could not be mistaken for human portraits, many were later reinterpreted as “portraits” of animals that had benefitted humans by their virtuous deeds. A principal example is Pausanias’ story about a bronze bull dedicated by the people of Corcyra at Delphi to represent the bull that had miraculously led them to a gigantic tuna catch (10.9.3-4). The stories generated by animal statues are treated by Pausanias and other authors of the Second Sophistic as moralizing exempla, a typical feature of Roman discourse in this period. While the accretion of oral traditions over time to earlier animal statues never challenged the literal boundary between animal bodies and human ones, earlier monuments were reimagined as products of mainstream Hellenistic and Roman portrait culture.

1. Introduction Pausanias, in his account of the buildings, statues and other monuments in Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi, tells a series of stories about remarkable animals, each story occasioned by a statue. According to Pausanias 10.18.4, the people of Ambracia dedicated a bronze donkey to commemorate the donkey whose braying in the night had saved them from a surprise attack by the Molossians. In another story (10.14.7), a wolf that led the Delphians to a stolen hoard of sacred gold, hidden by a temple robber in the Corycian cave high above the sanctuary, was represented by a bronze statue of a wolf. Perhaps most astounding is the story of a bull commemorated by the people of Corcyra with statues both at Delphi (Pausanias 10.9.3-4) and at Olympia (5.27.9). According to Pausanias, the bull had stood on a bluff overlooking the sea on Corcyra and bellowed incessantly until a cowherd noticed a large shoal of tuna in the sea at

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just this spot. At first, the Corcyreans were unable to catch the fish, but after they consulted the Delphic oracle and obeyed its order to sacrifice the bull to Poseidon, they experienced a record tuna catch. Thereafter the Corcyreans rewarded Apollo and Zeus with a tithe of their profits from the catch by dedicating bronze bull statues in the two most prominent panhellenic sanctuaries of mainland Greece, Delphi and Olympia. In an important study of Pausanias’ account of Delphi, Léon Lacroix saw a variety of identifiable story patterns and other external circumstances at work behind Pausanias’ tall tales about animals in book 10 of the Periegesis (Lacroix 1992: 159-168). In this contribution, I would like to place the Delphic animal statues described by Pausanias within the larger context of Greek and Roman attitudes towards animal bodies and their representation in art. Statues of animals, both lifesize and life-like, served as prototypical dedicatory and funerary monuments in the Greek world. Yet the representation of animal bodies in Greek sculpture is a subject that receives far less attention than divine representation and human portraiture. The preponderance of evidence for monumental representations of animals in freestanding sculpture – from Pausanias and other literary sources, inscribed statue bases, and surviving statues – dates to the archaic and classical periods, with the largest concentration of evidence in the fifth century B.C. Just as human nature and appearance were successfully mimicked by Greek sculptors, so were the nature and appearance of animal subjects. Greek bronze horses represent a stellar technical achievement that cast its shadow over attempts by later sculptors to achieve versimilitude. Greek lions, represented by the enigmatic archaic marble statues on Delos and the monument over Leonidas’ tomb at Thermopylae (Herodotus 7.225.2), lived on both as collective grave markers for the war dead and as the objects of Renaissance collecting. Equally important were statues of other animals, either emblematic of the gods or representing the gods’ favoured sacrificial victims, dedicated in Greek sanctuaries. But perhaps more interesting than the animals themselves are the curious afterlives enjoyed by some of them in the Hellenistic and Roman imperial periods. The most famous example is Myron’s cow, which inspired a long series of literary epigrams hailing it as a particularly successful example of Greek sculptors’ ability to reproduce animal nature.1 Other statues of animals in Greek sanctuaries seem to have inspired moralizing stories about the animals’ exemplary deeds. Pausanias and other sources of the Second Sophistic show a noteworthy tendency to reinterpret archaic and classical Greek representations of animals retrospectively as honorific “portraits” of famous animals whose exemplary behaviour proved worthy of praise and commemoration. While the accretion of oral traditions over time to earlier 1

Judith P. Hallett’s study of Ovid’s Pygmalion narrative in this volume (Hallett 2009) explores the tension between the sculptural human body and its representation in poetry.

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animal statues never really challenged the physical boundary between animal and human representation, it surely marks a shift in perception, removing animals from the category of pleasing gifts to the gods and perpetual sacrificial victims in order to reinvision them in two distinct ways: by seeing them as analogous to human portraits, and by treating them as historical exempla of a type familiar to a Roman audience.

2. Greek animal statues: protective, symbolic and sacrificial Animal representation in Greek art took a variety of forms, and an up-to-date synthetic treatment is sorely needed (cf. Richter 1930; for the archaic period, see Ridgway 1993: 220-229). Cross-cultural comparison proves both interesting and instructive. Greek religion featured fewer examples of gods worshipped in half-animal or pure animal form than did the religions of Egypt and cultures of the ancient Near East; on the other hand, the representation of large-scale, freestanding animals on their own and for their own sake was perhaps more commonplace in the ancient Greek context than it was elsewhere (Collins 2002, Kawami 1986). Both the choice of animals and the specific contexts in which they were displayed are relevant when considering why the Greeks embodied animals in art, and particularly in sculpture. Small votive figurines in terracotta and bronze have been found on their own or mixed with human and divine images in a wide variety of Greek sanctuaries (Schmaltz 1980; Sinn 1981: 40-43; Bevan 1986 [vol. 2]: 346-482; Bodson 1989: 71; van Straten 1995: 54-57; Niniou-Kindeli 2003). Large-scale Greek animal figures were produced for two major contexts: funerary and votive. The entrance to Alcinous’ palace in the Odyssey was guarded by a gold and a silver dog made by Hephaestus (Od. 7.91-94; Faraone 1992: 18-21). Similarly, large animal figures and Mischwesen (primarily sphinxes), employed as funerary monuments beginning in the seventh century B.C., may be interpreted as guardians of the tomb. A stone lion dating to the seventh century B.C. was found in the same cemetery on Corcyra as the early grave epigram in honour of Menecrates (CEG 143; see Crome 1938 and Rodenwaldt 1939: 176-189). A series of marble lions and sphinxes, some of them pairs, dating to the sixth century, has been found in the Kerameikos cemetery in Athens (Jeffery 1962: 126, nos. 1-5; Niemeier 2002: 33-40). After a fifth-century gap, funerary lions reappeared in Athenian cemeteries and continued to be common there throughout the fourth century B.C. (Mertens-Horn 1986: 45-51; Polojiorghi 2004). It is less clear when statues of bulls and dogs began to be used as grave markers, but both are found alongside lions in large numbers in the Kerameikos and elsewhere in the fourth century B.C. Perhaps the best example is the mid-fourth century marble bull found in the Kerameikos, erected in the tomb enclosure for an Athenian

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named Dionysius, son of Alphinus, of the deme Kollytos (IG II2 11169 and CEG 2 no. 593; figure 1). The lion erected over the tomb of Leonidas at Thermopylae in 480 B.C. was both an allusion to Leonidas’ theriophoric name and a fitting tribute to his courage. It seems to have inaugurated a tradition of placing colossal stone lions over πολυανδρεῖα, collective graves for the war dead: such monuments were erected at Amphipolis, Chaironeia, and other battle sites of the classical and Hellenistic periods (Mertens-Horn 1986: 51-53). The motives behind the dedication of large-scale votive animal statues in Greek sanctuaries, on the other hand, are not readily apparent from the dedicatory inscriptions that accompanied them, even when these inscriptions survive. As was typical in the archaic and classical periods, the inscriptions on votive animals give only the names of the dedicator and the recipient deity, and sometimes the name of the sculptor as well, but not the motive or the historical occasion behind the offering. The inscription on the base for a bronze statue of a bull dedicated by the Eretrians at Olympia around 480 B.C. reads simply: “The Eretrians to Zeus. Philesios made it” (Eckstein 1969: 50-53, no. 6); the inscriptions on four bases for bronze cows dedicated to Demeter Chthonia at Hermione similarly specify only the dedicator, the recipient deity and the sculptor (Jameson 1953). A variety of possible motives emerge from the study of extant animals, literary sources and inscriptions (Bodson 1989; Shapiro 1988; Chamoux 1991: 24-32). Horses may be the largest category of non-sacrificial animals to be represented by large-scale statues in Greek sanctuaries. In the fifth century and later, victors in equestrian contests dedicated portraits of themselves on horseback or full four-horse chariot groups at Olympia, Delphi and other sanctuaries; Pausanias also mentions examples in which equestrian victories were commemorated by statues of one or more horses alone, without riders or other human figures (Serwint 1987: 75-76). In addition to several examples of archaic equestrian groups in marble, the Athenian Acropolis has also produced marble horses without riders (Schuchhardt 1939: 240-241, no. 320). One example of an inscribed base for a marble horse from the Acropolis (DAA no. 196) shows that it was dedicated by a carpenter (τέκτων), and therefore the dedication may have been intended to represent a horse as a pleasing gift (ἄγαλμα) for Athena rather than to commemorate an equestrian victory (Keesling 2003: 90). The dedication of animal figures to commemorate a successful hunt is attested by epigrams in the Palatine Anthology, and by dramatic statue groups such as one at Delphi depicting Alexander the Great and his friend Craterus hunting a lion in Syria, dedicated after Craterus’ death by his son (Pliny, Nat. hist. 34.64; Jacquemin 1999: no. 350; for another example, see Pausanias 6.15.4). Another likely example of a hunt dedication are the iron heads of a lion and of a wild boar dedicated to Dionysus at Pergamon, mentioned in passing by Pausanias

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in his account of the sanctuary at Delphi (Paus. 10.18.5). Some extant animal statues, such as the two archaic marble dogs found on the Acropolis, could also fall into this category (Brouskari 1974: 57-58, no. 143 and fig. 102). Prayers for the health and safety of work animals, including horses, oxen and dogs, could be accompanied by representations of these animals dedicated in sanctuaries (Bodson 1983: 316-317). This type of dedication figures prominently among the dedicatory epigrams on animals in the Palatine Anthology (cited and discussed by Vitry 1894: 349-352 and Bodson 1989: 72-73). Since bovines predominate among votive deposits of animal figurines found in sanctuaries in multiple locations across the Greek world, the dedication of these figurines may have been intended to place the most valuable livestock under the gods’ protection (van Straten 1995: 54-55). Other types of Greek animal statues were linked more closely to the gods and their identities than they were to the concerns of their dedicators. Some animals functioned as symbols or attributes of particular gods, and images of these animals could be dedicated to secure the gods’ favour (Bodson 1978: 121-151; Burkert 1985: 65). The large archaic marble owl found on the Athenian Acropolis is an obvious example (Brouskari 1974: 23 and fig. 11). Hera was associated with the cuckoo, and one stood on top of the scepter held by Polycleitus’ cult statue of Hera in the Argive Heraion (Parisi Presicce 1989: 130-135); a representation of a peacock, another bird associated with the goddess, was dedicated in the same sanctuary by Hadrian, according to Pausanias (2.17.6). Deer were associated with both Apollo and Artemis (Purvis 2003: 108-115). At Delphi, the people of Dion in Macedonia dedicated an image of Apollo holding a deer (Paus. 10.13.5; Jacquemin 1999: no 276); an inscription from Selinus in Sicily records the dedication in the sanctuary of Apollo there of a golden deer (ἔλαφος) as a thank-offering for a victory in battle (Manganaro 1995).2 Statues of lions were a particularly common type of dedication in the archaic period, but these votive lions are poorly understood. Archaic marble lions have been found in large numbers in Asia Minor, but since most are out of context, it is not certain which were votive and which funerary in function (Strocka 1977; Ratté 1989; Ridgway 1993: 220-223). Since both Asia Minor and mainland Greece have produced archaic marble lions in pairs, it is possible that some lions may have been set up flanking the entrances to sanctuaries and temples as guardian figures, a use for statues of lions and other animals that is well attested in Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Hittite contexts (Faraone 1992: 21-22). Lions were most closely associated with the goddess Cybele, the “Great Mother”, but most examples of votive lions in both Asia Minor and the Greek

2

For the association between bears and Artemis, see Bevan (1987).

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mainland can be associated with Apollo, Artemis and their mother Leto. A series of between nine and sixteen Archaic marble lions were set up on Delos, where it is not certain whether they should be connected with Apollo or with Leto (Kokkorou-Alewras 1993; figure 2). Croesus dedicated a golden lion at Delphi (Herodotus 1.50.3), and it has been pointed out that lions were associated not only with the recipient deity Apollo, but also with the Lydian royal house (Ratté 1989; Kurke 1999: 62). In the early third century B.C., the Phocians of Elateia also dedicated a lion to Apollo at Delphi, this one made of bronze, to commemorate a military victory.

Figure 2: Archaic marble lions, Delos (SEF / Art Resource, New York)

Since real animals played such an important role in Greek religion as sacrificial victims, it is not surprising to find large-scale and realistic representations

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of sacrificial animals dedicated in Greek sanctuaries. The most obvious functions of such statues were to commemorate and perpetuate the memory of actual sacrifices, and to serve as permanent substitutes for the bodies of sacrificial victims.3 Liliane Bodson (1989: 73-74) points out that dedications of statues representing sacrificial animals may also have involved an element of compensation for the (necessary) death of the innocent animal. The gods themselves were sometimes depicted together with the animals they preferred to receive as sacrificial victims. From both Pausanias and Pliny the Elder, we learn of elaborate statue groups explicitly evoking animal sacrifice (PirenneDelforge 2001: 113). At Delphi, the people of Orneae in the Argolid dedicated a bronze statue group representing a sacrificial procession, supposedly after they were unable to fulfil a vow they had made to sacrifice real victims daily to Apollo (Paus. 10.18.4).4 We may see evidence of a simpler group, a man leading a bull to sacrifice, in archaic marble sculptural fragments from the Samian Heraion.5 Two enigmatic groups on the Athenian Acropolis depicted the “postkill” aftermath of animal sacrifice. One of these groups illustrated an episode from the mythological story of Phrixus, who was shown watching the thighs burn on an altar after sacrificing the ram that had carried him ashore in Colchis (Paus. 1.24.2). Another bronze statue group, attributed by Pliny the Elder (Nat. hist. 34.81) to a Cypriot sculptor named Styppax, showed a man roasting the σπλάγχνα (“innards”) of a sacrificial animal. Bovines (bulls, oxen and cows) are the primary sacrificial animals known to have been embodied by lifesize statues dedicated in Greek sanctuaries. They also figure prominently on the Parthenon frieze, where ten cows on the south side and four on the north represent the ideal hecatomb sacrificed to Athena at the Panathenaea (figure 3). The reason why we seldom hear of large-scale, freestanding representations of other sacrificial animals could be related to the pattern that Folkert van Straten has observed in the depiction of sacrificial victims in vase painting and votive reliefs (van Straten 1995:170-186). Compared with sacrificial calendars that list the species, genders and ages of real sacrifi3 4 5

For an example from Cyrene in which the dedication of multiple bovine statues commemorated the sacrifice by a private individual of a hecatomb to Artemis, see Chamoux (1991: 2629). For a painting showing a similar group, see the description in Herondas’ Mimiambus 4.66-71 of a painting by the fourth-century painter Apelles showing a bull led to sacrifice by a man, with a woman walking behind. Manolis Korres (1994: 88-89, no. MB 11) has published a statue base that may have supported a similar statue group of the classical period in bronze showing a man leading an animal to sacrifice. Though Korres reconstructed the animal as a feline or centaur, the positioning of the feet would work well for a sacrificial animal of medium size, such as a pig, goat or sheep. The base probably dates to the classical period, but the original inscription was erased and replaced with an inscription of the first century B.C. (IG II2 3432) in honour of a Cappadocian king.

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cial victims, Attic vase paintings of sacrificial scenes drastically over-represent bovines as victims. This idealized distortion of reality must be a reflection of the substantially higher cost and prestige of bovine victims, which would lead them to be depicted in preference to less expensive animals. In marble votive reliefs, which as private dedications tended to represent scenes of private, familial sacrifice, pigs are similarly represented far more frequently than less expensive (but more common) sheep and birds.

Figure 3: Herdsmen leading a bovine to sacrifice, south frieze of the Parthenon. © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, New York

Greek bovine statues would have been striking and technically sophisticated reminders of the lavish sacrifices offered to the gods in their sanctuaries by Greek states and private citizens alike. The earliest known example is the fragmentary, lifesize bull, made of silver and gilded silver in the σφυρήλατον technique, found buried beneath the Sacred Way at Delphi and dated by Pierre Amandry to the first half of the sixth century B.C. (Amandry 1977; figure 4). No inscribed base for the silver bull was found and thus the dedicator is unknown; we may compare it to the Lydian king Croesus’ dedication of statues of

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golden cows in the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesus (Herodotus 1.92). H. Alan Shapiro lists seven examples of votive bulls, oxen and cows known from all sources (Shapiro 1988). Of these, five can be dated, and all five date to around 480 B.C. Though he mentioned several statues of bovines in the sanctuaries he visited, Pausanias explicitly linked only two of these with sacrifice. He noted that the bronze ox he saw in front of the temple of Triptolemus in the Athenian Eleusinion looked as if it were being led to sacrifice (1.14.4). The bull of Corcyra at Delphi, mentioned above, was interpreted by Pausanias as a representation of an animal sacrificed to Poseidon by the Corcyreans after the bull had alerted them to the presence of a large shoal of tuna in the sea. This type of dedication, typical of the classical period, was imitated in the second century A.D. by Herodes Atticus, who placed a lifesize marble bull in front of his nymphaeum at Olympia, inscribed with a dedication to Zeus by Herodes’ wife Regilla (Schörner 2003: 99-100).

3. The afterlives of Greek animal statues None of the original functions attested for large-scale Greek animal representations discussed above – guardians of the tomb, symbols of divine identity and power, or commodities in the votive exchange between worshippers and gods – quite prepares us for how these statues were perceived in later periods. Since a large percentage of the Greek votive animals of the classical period were made of bronze, nearly all have been lost. Marble animals, both funerary and votive, and in particular lions and dogs, began to be removed from their original contexts and collected by the Romans. Cornelius Vermeule, in his studies of Greek funerary animals, includes examples found in Italy and argues that classical and Hellenistic Greek types were widely copied there as well (Vermeule & von Kersburg 1968; Vermeule 1972). 6 Both originals and copies found themselves reused by Roman patrons as ornaments for gardens and fountains. Even a surviving Greek bronze heifer dating to the second half of the fifth century B.C. was evidently reused in a fountain in Herculaneum (Chamoux 1991; figure 5). The reuse of Greek animal statues as decorative objects resumed in the Renaissance and continued through the modern period. For the Venetians, the lion became a symbol of St. Mark, and as a result ancient lion statues were eagerly collected. The famous bronze lion standing atop 6

Vermeule (1968: 96): “The museums of Italy and western Europe are full of Roman copies of Greek animals carved from the fifth century B.C. to the late Hellenistic period. Not only did the Romans order copies of famous beasts from Greece or Asia Minor, they also demanded new versions of Italic, south Italian, and Sicilian animals of the golden epochs of Greek art or of the days when sculptures were created in Republican Rome as memorials, images of cult, or emblems of early Italian prowess.”

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a tall column in the Piazza San Marco has been found to be a late classical or early Hellenistic winged lion or griffin reused not once but twice, first in late antiquity and once again by the Venetians (Scarfì 1990: 86-113; Belozerskaya & Lapatin 2000; figure 6). The afterlives of Greek animal statues were not limited to copying and reuse. Even statues that remained in their original sanctuary contexts in the Greek world underwent significant vicissitudes that make their original circumstances difficult to recover. The most famous animal statue of antiquity was Myron’s cow, the subject of 36 epigrams ranging in date from the early Hellenistic period through late antiquity. The statue itself began its life as a votive offering on the Athenian Acropolis. It was taken to Rome at some point after the late Republic (Cicero mentions it still in Athens at Verr. 2.4.60 and 2.4.135), and eventually it was moved to Constantinople (Corso 1994). The epigrams (Anth. Pal. 9.713-742, 9.793-798 [Overbeck 1868: nos. 550-591] and Posidippus, Epigr. 66 Austin & Bastianini) take as their starting point the statue’s amazing realism and play up the conceit, claiming that the statue was so lifelike it could be mistaken for a real heifer. These epigrams constitute a purely literary afterlife that seems, after the first epigrams were written, to have achieved its own momentum, sustained by literary tradition rather than by the statue itself (Gutzwiller 1998: 245-250; Kosmetatou 2004: 200-203; Männlein-Robert 2007).7 Without the statue, it is impossible to say whether Myron’s cow was truly an extraordinary example of its genre, or whether it was merely famous for being famous. Since a hecatomb of cows, partially depicted on the Parthenon frieze, was sacrificed to Athena at the annual Panathenaea (IG II2 334 = Rhodes & Osborne 2003: 396-402, no. 81), Myron’s cow was most likely intended to represent an ideal sacrificial victim. In Rome, the statue was eventually placed in the gardens of the Flavian Forum Pacis, in which setting it may have evoked the theme of bucolic peace and prosperity; Pausanias himself thought of two bovine dedications he saw at Delphi (the dedications of the Plataeans and the Carystians, 10.15.1 and 10.16.6) in similar terms, suggesting that they were dedicated at Delphi after the Persian Wars to symbolize the Greeks’ freedom to till their own land that resulted from defeating the Persian invasion. Are both the Roman context for Myron’s cow and Pausanias’ thoughts on two other Greek bovines authentic representations of Greek attitudes, or are they expressions of a post-classical sensibility conditioned by the genre of bucolic poetry?8 7 8

Gutzwiller (1998: 246): “But as Myron’s cow evoked so many epigrams because of its status as a cultural commonplace, known even to those who knew nothing of art, so in turn the serial repetition of the epigrams contributed to the continuing fame of the statue”. Chamoux (1991: 25) and Lacroix (1992: 160) both take Pausanias’ comments as an anachronistic rationalization. In contrast, Corso (1994), in an exhaustive study of the literary sources

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Evidence for changes in the interpretation of Greek animal statues, and the richest material for a consideration of the statues’ afterlives, comes from Pausanias’ account of animal statues in the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. As the catalogue at the end of this paper shows, Pausanias mentioned eleven animal statues at Delphi, compared with only fifteen in all of the other sanctuaries he visited in Greece. One naturally asks whether Pausanias chose to concentrate his treatment of animal statues at Delphi, just as he chose to mention only a handful of athletic portraits at other sanctuaries, while describing close to 200 of them at Olympia. Preservation may be one factor behind Pausanias’ seeming selectivity. For example, at Hermione in the Argolid, Pausanias (2.35.5-7) describes the unusual sacrificial ritual performed in the sanctuary of Demeter Chthonia, in which four cows were led into the temple and slaughtered inside by four elderly women, yet he does not mention the four lifesize bronze cows dedicated in the sanctuary in the fifth and fourth centuries B.C. The latter are attested by a series of inscribed statue bases (Jameson 1953, Fittschen 1996). It may be that the statues had already disappeared by the second century A.D. when Pausanias visited the sanctuary; the bases for three out of four of the cows were found outside the sanctuary, built into a 17th-century Venetian tower. Lacroix (1992: 159-168) has attempted to identify the origins of the stories Pausanias tells about three of the animal statues at Delphi, all three mentioned at the beginning of this paper: [1] the Corcyrean bull (10.9.3-4), [2] the Delphian wolf (10.14.7), and [3] the Ambraciot donkey (10.18.4). The bases of only three of the eleven animal statues at Delphi mentioned by Pausanias – the Corcyrean bull, the Argive Trojan horse and the bovine group dedicated by the Carystians – survive, and only one of these, the Carystian dedication, preserves any part of its dedicatory inscription. 9 It seems unlikely in any case that

9

for Myron’s cow, advocates a late date of ca. 425-420 B.C. for the statue, and suggests that it was originally intended to commemorate the Peace of Nicias. Myron is normally thought to be a sculptor working in the early Classical period (ca. 480-450 B.C.), and Corso’s date also seems far too late given that Myron’s son Lycius signed a dedication on the Acropolis dated to the 440s or 430s B.C. (Raubitschek 1949: 146-152, no. 135). For the fragmentary inscription on the Carystian base, see Gauer (1968: 113-115); the original inscription on the front of the base seems to have been copied verbatim on the back in the Hellenistic period. From the dowel holes on the top surface of the base, the dedication can be identified as a bronze cow suckling her calf, and not an ox as Pausanias says. A cow suckling a calf was depicted on coins of Karystos (Jacquemin 1999: 59). Gauer conjectures that the calf may have been gone by Pausanias’ time, contributing to his confusion about the dedication. The inscribed base associated by Marcadé (1953-56: I 106 and pl. XX.3) with the Corcyrean bull has been shown to belong to a colossal statue of Apollo (Jacquemin & Laroche 1988); Claude Vatin (1981: 450-453) mistakenly associated the same inscribed base with the bull of the Plataeans. The base for the Corcyrean bull has been identified from its location near the entrance to the sanctuary; Vatin’s (1981: 440-445) readings of several irregular inscriptions on this base are not to be trusted (SEG XXXI 546-556).

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Pausanias’ information about the animal statues at Delphi came from inscriptions. In general, Pausanias relied far more heavily upon inscriptions as a source at Olympia than he did anywhere else in Greece; his account of Delphi in particular (with the exception of his lengthy description of the paintings in the Cnidian Lesche at 10.25-31) is remarkably devoid of information that might have been derived from inscriptions of any genre (Zizza 2006: 21-79, esp. 33). For Pausanias and other sanctuary visitors of his time, guides and other expounders of local knowledge were an important source, helping to fill the many gaps left by standing monuments and their inscriptions. These individuals may in fact have drawn Pausanias’ attention to animal figures at Delphi more frequently than his informants did in other sanctuaries, causing him to mention a much larger number of animals at Delphi than he had anywhere else in Greece.10 Pausanias called local informants ἐξηγηταί (“expounders”); he does not mention their specific role at Delphi, though certainly does elsewhere in the Periegesis (Jones 2001). Plutarch, on the other hand, is a good source for what he calls the περιηγηταί (“guides”) and their importance at Delphi, the sanctuary where he himself served as a priest in the first century A.D. The thematic links between the stories Pausanias relates about different animal statues may point to ἐξηγηταί or περιηγηταί as a common source. In the stories of both the Corcyrean bull [1] and a billy-goat dedicated by the people of Kleonai (10.11.5), the Delphic oracle called for the dedication of an animal statue; in both [1] and [2] (the Delphian wolf), an animal serves as a guide, bellowing or howling to get humans’ attention; similarly, in story [3], the Ambraciot donkey is the saviour of his people because his braying alerts them to the presence of hidden enemies.11 As Lacroix has pointed out, the Corcyrean bulls at both Delphi and Olympia can easily be explained as representations of Poseidon’s favourite sacrificial victim, and Poseidon was the god the Corcyreans thought responsible for their miraculous tuna catch. Lacroix further notes that both Poseidon and the bull may have had deeper significance to the Corcyreans because they claimed descent from the Phaecians in the Odyssey, islanders who in turn claimed Po10

11

Jacquemin (1999) includes in her catalogue the following Delphic animals not mentioned by Pausanias: the golden lion dedicated by Croesus (no. 343); the base for a statue of a horse dedicated by the people of Pharsalos (no. 389); another base for a horse dedicated by the Thessalians (no. 466); a half-lifesize bronze ram (no. 533); and the silver bull, the remains of which were buried long before Pausanias visited the sanctuary (no. 534). In the volume accompanying a recent museum exhibition on the role of the bull in ancient Mediterranean cultures, Antoni Nicolau i Marti (2003) repeats a Spanish oral tradition remarkably similar to the story of the Corcyrean bull. On the island of Menorca, a group of monks saw a light on a mountaintop and tried to reach it, but their way was blocked by an angry bull. After calming the bull with their prayers, the monks were led by the bull to an image of the Virgin Mary, the source of the mysterious light. A shrine to Our Lady of the Bull was subsequently inaugurated on the spot.

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seidon as their ancestor. Thus the bulls the Corcyreans dedicated in the two sanctuaries may be viewed as both emblematic of Poseidon and sacrificial at the same time. According to Plutarch (Pericles 21), the bronze wolf dedicated by the Delphians was already in place in the fifth century B.C., when first the Lacedaemonians and then the Athenians under Pericles’ guidance had their grants of προμαντεία (“priority of oracular consultation”) inscribed upon the statue. The choice of a wolf may seem unusual, but it should be remembered that the association between Apollo and wolves, most evident in the common epithet Lykios, was of long standing. A recently published archaic inscription from Olbia on the Black Sea, interpreted as an oracular text from Apollo’s sanctuary at Didyma, seems to refer to Apollo as both a wolf and a lion (Burkert 1994). In contrast to the other three examples, the Ambraciot donkey suggests no obvious alternative explanation to the one given by Pausanias. Still, it is easy to imagine that such an unusual animal statue standing in the sanctuary at Delphi would have required some justification, and over time the story that a donkey had saved the Ambraciots might have emerged to serve this function. A classical animal on the Athenian Acropolis, a bronze lioness standing in the Propylaea, similarly became the subject of an elaborate story about a courtesan named Leaina (“Lioness”), tortured and killed by the Athenian tyrant Hippias for her involvement in the assassination of Hipparchus in 514 B.C. (Keesling 2005: 57-64). What I find most striking about both the Leaina story on the Acropolis and the stories about Delphic animals surveyed here is their attempt to explain animal figures standing in Greek sanctuaries as “portraits” of famous animals. The Corcyrean bull was interpreted in Pausanias’ time as a representation of a specific bull, the one that led the Corcyreans to a shoal of tuna; the Delphian wolf, also a fifth-century dedication, by Pausanias’ time was thought to represent the wolf that led the Delphians to their stolen gold. Arguably, the statues of horses dedicated by victorious athletes at Olympia and elsewhere were understood as “portraits” of the specific horses that helped them win their victories. Still, it seems unlikely that statues of bulls and other bovines dedicated in Greek sanctuaries in the classical period were intended to represent something other than sacrificial victims; wolves, lions and other animals were closely associated with their recipient deities. The assimilation of animal statues to human portraits that we see reflected in Pausanias should be a post-fifth-century development, for one simple reason: portrait statues were not yet a common type of dedication at Delphi, where the real explosion in the dedication of statues representing human (rather than divine or heroic) subjects took place in the fourth and third centuries B.C., as may be observed from Jacquemin’s catalogue of monumental offerings at Delphi (Jacquemin 1999). Over the course of the late classical and Hellenistic periods, it became customary in the Greek

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world to set up honorific portrait statues in prominent public spaces: agoras, theatres and sanctuaries. In Athens and other cities, such portrait statues were conceived of as the summit of a pyramid of highest honours that might be awarded by decree to generals, civic benefactors and other worthy individuals, ranging from golden crowns to σίτησις (free meals for life in the prytaneion) (Gauthier 1985). The stories of the Corcyrean bull, the Delphian wolf and the Ambraciot donkey at Delphi, as related by Pausanias in the second century A.D., reinterpret earlier animal statues as honorific portraits, but of animal rather than human subjects. This interpretation of Pausanias’ animal stories finds further support in the work of a second author of the Second Sophistic, Claudius Aelianus, who wrote in the early third century A.D. Aelian devoted an encyclopedic work, De natura animalium, to the minutiae of animal behaviour, from insects to domesticated animals to the exotic African fauna imported for Roman arena spectacles. Apart from its anecdotal interest, Aelian’s De natura animalium has a pronounced moralizing intent: Aelian’s animals are presented as more industrious, pious and virtuous than men (Hübner 1984; Kindstrand 1998: esp. 2962-2968; Hekster 2002; Fögen 2007: 57-61). This tendency emerges strongly in Aelian’s most familar animal tale, the story of Androcles and the lion (De nat. anim. 7.48). After having been provided with food and hospitality for three years by a lion, the runaway slave Androcles at first failed to recognize the lion when they met once again in the amphitheatre. The lion, exhibiting the virtue of gratitude because Androcles had long ago removed a thorn from his foot, saved Androcles from a leopard; in response to acclamations from the crowd, both Androcles and the lion were rewarded with their freedom. Aelian even alludes in one instance to virtuous animals that were rewarded with “portrait” statues (De nat. anim. 12.40): after repeating in abbreviated form the story of the Delphian wolf, Aelian adds that on Samos a man named Mandroboulos dedicated a sheep because a sheep had discovered sacred gold, and that the Ambraciots revered the lioness because a lioness had killed their tyrant Phaÿllus. In other instances, Aelian and other Second Sophistic authors mention animals rewarded for their exemplary behaviour with lesser honours. Both Plutarch (Mor. 969e-970a) and Aelian (De nat. anim. 7.13) tell the story of a dog that foiled a robber of the Athenian Asklepieion and was rewarded with care and feeding for life, a variation on the real civic honour of σίτησις. Versions of another such story are told first by Plutarch (Mor. 970b = Cato maior 5.3) and then by Aelian (De nat. anim. 6.49): a mule that had worked particularly hard hauling building blocks for the Parthenon up to the Athenian Acropolis, despite being put to pasture in his old age, came back to the Acropolis on his own and urged on his fellow mules to work harder: this mule was likewise rewarded with σίτησις. Like Pausanias’ Delphic stories inspired

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by animal statues of the classical period, Aelian’s stories of exemplary animal behaviour often take place within a classical historical setting: Aelian (Var. hist. 2.28) even claimed that the Athenians were motivated to resist the Persian invasion of 480 B.C. by seeing the spirited fight put up by a pair of roosters (Bodson 1983: 317). Attitudes towards animals and their representation clearly did not remain static over the course of the nearly 700 years that elapsed between the dedication of animal statues in sanctuaries and Second Sophistic authors such as Pausanias and Aelian. The first major shift in Greek attitudes towards animal bodies may have taken place already in the fifth century B.C. Aristophanic comedy seems to exemplify a tendency towards humanizing animals and their behaviour (Rothwell 2007: 81-90). Annetta Alexandridis elsewhere in this volume sees a blurring of the boundaries between human and animal bodies in the depiction of human-animal metamorphosis in the High Classical art of the second half of the fifth century (Alexandridis 2009). The moralizing stories about animals that appear in Pausanias and other authors of the Roman imperial period hint at further development towards humanization. Bodson has characterized the period of the Second Sophistic, the first to third centuries A.D., as a “time when people reconsidered the philosophical and ethical theories previously elaborated in ancient anthropology, broadened the debate, and focused on the human-animal bond more systematically than ever before” (Bodson 1983: 312). Though moralizing tales featuring animals can be found in earlier Greek literature – for example, in the story told by Herodotus (3.32) in which the tyrannical Persian ruler Cambyses is reminded of his murder of his own brother Smerdis by the sight of a puppy rushing to help its brother fend off a lion cub in a staged fight – the tendency to compile and repeat moral exempla has been seen as characteristic of Roman rather than Greek culture. Matthew Roller has identified four components of what he calls Roman “exemplary discourse”: [1] a deed exemplifying crucial social values, [2] witnesses who observe the action, [3] commemoration of the deed by a monument, and [4] a desire, either implicit or explicit, to imitate the deed (Roller 2004: 46, 32-33). Earlier commemorative monuments, and statues in particular, seem to have been particularly prone to reinterpretation as exempla. Within this context, the stories Pausanias repeats about the animal statues he saw at Delphi begin to make some sense. Statues of animals that had been standing in the sanctuary for as long as 700 years were reinterpreted as portraits of animals who deserved to be remembered for exhibiting human-like virtues. A preoccupation with exemplary moral behaviour typical of the Roman imperial period began to be retrojected back onto these fifth-century monuments, reshaping their interpretation to fit contemporary needs. Thus I would suggest that earlier attitudes towards the embodiment of animals in Greek sculpture had given way

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by Pausanias’ time to an attitude that saw animal bodies as much more closely associated with the human than with the divine. Ultimately, the exemplary animals of the Roman imperial period set the stage for the prominent role played by animals as exempla for both virtues and vices in the Middle Ages (Berlioz & Polo de Beaulieu 1999).

4. Conclusion As the 21st century begins, 18th- and 19th-century portraits of dogs and horses are collected just as avidly as human portraits; the 19th-century French animal sculptor Antoine-Louis Barye has been the subject of a major museum exhibition (Johnston & Kelly 2006); and lifesize, whimsically decorated cows appear walking down the streets and sidewalks of cities as diverse as Chicago and Athens (fig. 7). Among the portraits of human subjects displayed in public places around the world are to be found occasional portraits of famous animals. 12 The present resurgence of interest in animal representation should probably be considered in tandem with urgent debates about the ethical treatment of animals and animal rights.13 In a period of renewed interest in animal bodies, ancient Greek animal statues deserve to be reconsidered. The embodiment of animals, both domesticated and wild, in Greek sculpture of the archaic to Hellenistic periods served a variety of purposes, not all of them mutually exclusive. Marble lions, bulls and dogs were common grave markers in the fourth century B.C., continuing a tradition that had begun in the archaic period. Lifesize statues of a great variety of animals in marble and in bronze were produced to serve as votive offerings dedicated to the gods in Greek sanctuaries. In the beginning, these statues were frequently conceived of as symbolic emblems of the gods or as perpetual sacrificial victims. As such, animal representations were both pleasing gifts to the gods and adjuncts to the principal ritual of Greek religion, animal sacrifice. In the Roman imperial period, 12

13

An example worth quoting is the inscription on the base for the lifesize portrait of a champion cow set up in Carnation, Washington, in 1928: “Here lived and gave her service to mankind Segis Pietertje Prospect, World’s Champion Milk Cow, born 1913, died 1925. Twice she registered production records that set her fame above all dairy cattle of any age. In each of two years she exceeded 16,500 quarts of milk and 1,400 pounds of butter, yielding for the two a total of 33,922 quarts of milk, 2,865.18 pounds of butter. Sired by a King and of purest Holstein strain she herself bore sons and daughters of champion achievement. Finest type of the noble patient animal that is most justly named ‘the foster mother of the human race’. Her queenly worth deserved the gratitude in which this tribute is erected by her owner, Carnation Milk Farms, 1928” (Stuart 1938: 59). An exemplary animal, indeed! For a timely collection of essays on the intersection between animal representations, attitudes towards animals and animal rights in a variety of cultures, see Waldau & Patton (2006). For a research bibliography on animals in the ancient world and modern approaches to them, see Fögen (2006).

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Figure 7: Δούρειος βοῦς (“Trojan Cow”), artist: Elena Papademetriou, Athens Cow Parade, summer 2006

Greek animal statues were not only collected and copied, but also reinterpreted by their observers. In a series of stories derived from oral traditions, Pausanias and other authors of the Second Sophistic explained generic animal statues as portraits of famous animals, using them as moralizing exempla. These exempla typically reinforced the idea that animals, like humans, could be remembered for their virtuous deeds. While the accretion of oral traditions over time to earlier animal statues never challenged the literal boundary between animal and human representation, it marks a significant shift in the perceived purpose and value of animal representations, removing them from the realm of communication with the divine and reinvisioning them as products of mainstream Hellenistic and Roman portrait culture. In this sense, the embodied animals displayed in Greek sanctuaries migrated over the course of time from a close association with the divine to the realm of human concerns.

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Appendix: Votive animal statues in Pausanias’ Periegesis I have excluded the following from the catalogue: mythological animals (Pegasus, sphinxes, griffins), horseback riders and chariot groups, groups combining representations of gods or heroes with animals and miscellaneous groups including horses (the dedication by the people of Tarentum at Delphi representing horses and captive Messapian women, Pausanias 10.10.6-8). 1.14.4 1.23.1-2 1.23.8 1.24.2 1.27.9-10 2.13.6 2.17.6 5.12.5 5.26.9 5.26.9 6.13.9-10 6.14.4 8.30.6 9.17.2 9.31.2 10.9.3-4 10.9.12 10.11.5 10.13.1 10.14.7

Bronze ox walking as if to a sacrifice, in front of the temple of Triptolemus in the Athenian Eleusinion Bronze lioness (“portrait” of the courtesan Leaina) next to a statue of Aphrodite in the Propylaea on the Athenian Acropolis Bronze Trojan horse on the Athenian Acropolis (late 5th c. B.C.) Bronze bull dedicated by the Boule of the Areopagus on the Athenian Acropolis Marathonian bull dedicated by the deme of Marathon on the Athenian Acropolis (= statue group with Theseus?) Gilded bronze she-goat in the agora of Phlius, worshipped to keep the vines from being blighted Golden peacock with precious stones dedicated in the temple of Argive Hera by Hadrian (2nd c. A.D.) Horses (under lifesize) dedicated by Cynisca, inside the temple of Olympian Zeus (4th c. B.C.) Bronze ox dedicated by the people of Corcyra at Olympia (same motive as dedication at Delphi, 10.9.3-4) (first half of the 5th c. B.C.) Bronze ox dedicated by the Eretrians at Olympia, made by Philesius of Eretria (second quarter of the 5th c. B.C.) Mare of Pheidolas at Olympia Small bronze horse dedicated by Crocon of Eretria at Olympia Stone tortoise in the ruined sanctuary of Akakesian Hermes in the agora of Megalopolis Stone lion in front of the temple of Artemis Eukleia at Thebes, said to have been dedicated by Heracles Ox in the sanctuary of the Muses on Mount Helicon Bronze bull dedicated by the people of Corcyra at Delphi, made by Theopropus of Aegina (Jacquemin 1999: no. 122) (first half of the 5th c. B.C.) Bronze horse dedicated by the Argives at Delphi (= Trojan horse?), made by Antiphanes of Argos (Jacquemin 1999: no. 067) Bronze billy-goat dedicated by the people of Kleonai at Delphi to stop a plague (Jacquemin 1999: no. 319) (ca. 430 B.C.?) Bronze bison head dedicated by Dropion, king of the Paeonians, at Delphi (Jacquemin 1999: no. 386) Bronze wolf dedicated by the Delphians at Delphi to commemorate a wolf that led them to stolen sacred gold (see also Plutarch, Per. 21.3; Jacquemin 1999: no. 213) (before the mid-fifth c. B.C.)

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Ox dedicated by the people of Plataea to commemorate victory in the Battle of Plataea in 479 B.C. (Jacquemin 1999: no. 412) Bronze nanny-goat dedicated by the people of Elyros in Crete at Delphi, shown suckling two children of Apollo, Phylacides and Philandrus (Jacquemin 1999: no. 281) Bronze ox [originally a cow and calf] dedicated by the people of Carystus at Delphi from the Persian spoils of 490 B.C. (Jacquemin 1999: 59 and no. 318) Horse dedicated by the Athenian Callias at Delphi from his personal share of the Persian War spoils (480 B.C.) (Jacquemin 1999: no. 093) Bronze donkey dedicated by the people of Ambracia at Delphi to commemorate a donkey that saved them from an attack by the Molossians (Jacquemin 1999: no. 015) Bronze lion dedicated by the Phocians of Elateia at Delphi to commemorate withstanding a siege by Cassander (early 3rd c. B.C.) (Jacquemin 1999: no. 280)

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Index locorum Aelian De nat. anim. 6.49: 300; 7.13: 300; 7.48: 300; 12.40: 300 Var. hist. 2.28: 301

Aeschines 3.167: 49

Ammianus Marcellinus 12.7.3: 79; 16.10.2-10: 64; 16.10.13-14: 64; 22.7.1-6: 79; 24.4.7: 79

Anaxagoras VS 59 A102 Diels & Kranz: 32

Lys. 151: 168; 662-663: 171; 686: 171; 938947: 170 Nub. 46-52: 171; 333: 49; 362-363: 53; 443-451: 58; 445: 49; 449-450: 49; 966-972: 45; 979-983: 45; 983: 49; 1002: 45; 1004-1008: 58; 1071-1082: 45 Pax 732: 49; 813: 171 Plut. 1064: 169 Ran. 892: 50; 897: 49; 1069-1071: 49 Thesm. 53: 50; 100: 50 Vesp. 1030-1035: 52; 1034: 52

Aristotle

9.713-742: 296; 9.793-798: 296

De gen. anim. A 18 722b10: 89 De part. anim. IV 10 687a20-21: 32 Hist. anim. I 10 492a1-13: 30; II 8 502a1618: 33; II 8 502b3-4: 33 Probl. 13.9: 171 Rhet. I 1 1355b1-3: 23; III 1 1403b20-22: 23; III 1 1403b36-1404a3: 23

Antoninus Liberalis

Artemidorus

Met. 41.6: 145

Oneir. 1.22: 166

Apollodorus

Athanasius

Bibl. 3.13.8: 126

Prolegomena in Herm. De statibus (Rhet. Gr. XIV p. 177.3-8 Rabe): 23

Andocides Myst. 35: 103

Anthologia Palatina

Archilochus fr. 114 W.: 52; fr. 120 W.: 54

Athenaeus

Aristophanes

Deipn. 1.20c-d: 21; 1.21f-22a: 21; 12.534e: 107

Ach. 381: 52; 852: 171 Av. 1374: 49 Eccl. 12-13: 168; 60-61: 167; 65-67: 167168; 523-525: 170; 841-842: 171; 878: 169; 928: 169; 1072: 169; 1117-1118: 170 Eq. 56: 52; 77-79: 52; 137: 52; 197: 52; 205: 52; 248: 52; 256: 52; 274: 52; 511: 52; 526-536: 47, 53; 621: 49; 692: 52; 696: 52; 863: 52; 919: 52; 976: 52; 1015: 49

Athenagoras Res. 14.6: 244; 15.6: 244; 18.5: 244-245; 19.5: 244; 23.1-2: 244

Augustine Conf. 1.6.7-1.19.30: 22 De trin. 8.5.13-15: 230 Ver. rel. 78.21: 227

312

Index locorum

Aulus Gellius

Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL)

Noct. Att. 1.5: 36, 58; 3.5: 36; 6.12: 36; 11.2: 36

1.2.1203: 186; 1.2.1204: 186; 6.18795: 191; 6.30957: 199; 6.33914: 182; 10.8222: 196; 11.139: 205; 15.7182: 190

Callimachus Aetia fr. 1.26-28 Pfeiffer: 47, 51 H. Ap. 105-112: 47; 111-112: 56

Cassius Dio 55.12.2: 74; 56.46.2: 140; 56.42.3: 140; 57.8.2: 74

Cicero Att. 1.13.3: 127; 1.16.11: 240 Brutus 80: 55; 142: 23 De leg. 1.27: 29 De nat. deor. 2.150-152: 32 De off. 1.150-152: 239 De orat. 3.41: 35; 3.96: 57; 3.98: 57; 3.100: 57; 3.103: 57; 3.185-186: 57; 3.199: 35, 57; 3.213: 23; 3.213-227: 24; 3.220: 28, 29, 57; 3.221: 29; 3.223: 19 Orator 30-31: 55; 39: 55; 42: 46; 54-60: 24; 55: 24; 69: 55; 228: 57; 229: 57 Tusc. 5.47: 35 Verr. 2.4.60: 296; 2.4.135: 296

Cratinus fr. 198 Kassel & Austin: 53; fr. 203 Kassel & Austin: 54

Cyril of Scythopolis Vit. Sabae p. 142.16-21 Schwartz: 76-77; p. 142.28-143.1: 77; p. 143.11-12: 77; p. 173.24: 79

Demetrius De eloc. 47: 52; 48: 52; 183: 55-56

Demosthenes Orat. 19: 53

Dio Cassius s.v. “Cassius Dio”

Diodorus Siculus Hist. 4.6.5-7: 96; 22.11.1-4: 129; 32.10.2-9: 129

Claudian

Diogenes Laertius

Epit. de nupt. Hon. Aug. 99-106: 225; 122201: 225 Paneg. Prob. et Olyb. 192-204: 224-225

1.58: 35; 5.48: 23

Claudius Mamertinus Grat. act. 28.1: 79; 28.3-4: 79

Clement of Alexandria Strom. 4.17.1: 243

Constantine VII Porph. De cerimoniis p. 406.4-13 Reiske: 63-64; p. 415.17-18: 77

Corippus In laudem Iustini Aug. minoris 3.179-180: 65; 3.182-187: 65; 3.255-263: 64-65

Dionysius Halicarnassus De comp. verb. 11: 46; 22: 55; 23: 55; 24: 54; 25: 56 Dem. 4: 46; 5: 55; 18: 46; 19: 46, 56; 20: 56; 28: 54; 32: 56; 53: 23 De orat. vet. 1: 56, 57 Isoc. 2: 46 Thuc. 29: 55

Empedocles VS 31 B57-62 Diels & Kranz: 89; VS 31 B63: 89

Ennius Sat. fr. 69 (p. 211 Vahlen): 32

Index locorum

313

Epicurus

Herondas

Ep. ad Herod. 75-76: 22

Mim. 4.66-71: 290

Erasmus

Hesiod

Adagia 3.1.60: 181

Eh. fr. 17a.14-18 Merkelbach & West: 90 Erga 216-217: 48; 219: 48; 287-292: 48 Theog. 986-987: 145

Eunapius Vit. soph. 476-479: 79

Hippocrates Eupolis fr. 95 Kassel & Austin: 52

De aere aquis locis 14: 177 Epid. 2.5.2: 52

Euripides

Homer

Bacch. 235: 170; 479: 54; 821-861: 143; 914-944: 143 Melan. fr. 484 K.: 90 Orestes 1110-1113: 170

Il. 2.820: 130; 5.127-128: 131; 6.490-492: 139; 13.71-72: 131; 17.588: 46; 21.196-197: 54; 21.600: 131; 23.740745: 140 Od. 6.149-161: 132; 6.229-237: 131; 7.1938: 130-131; 7.41-42: 131; 7.91-94: 285; 8.266-366: 91; 10.135-547: 270; 11.321: 146; 13.429-438: 131; 16.173175: 131; 16.430-433: 131; 17.484487: 130; 21.295-298: 139; 23.153163: 131

Eusebius Vit. Const. 3.10.5: 78

Galen De anat. adm. IV 1 (II 415-416 Kühn): 32 De usu partium I 22 (III 79-81 Kühn): 32; III 3 (III 182 Kühn): 32; III 16 (III 263-265 Kühn): 32; XIII 11 (IV 123128 Kühn): 32; XIV 6 (IV 158-160 Kühn): 129; XV 8 (IV 251-252 Kühn): 32

Gellius s.v. “Aulus Gellius”

Heraclitus

Horace Serm. 1.4.21: 54; 1.6.78-80: 197; 1.10.50: 54

Hyginus Fab. 189.7-8: 145

Ignatius of Antioch Syrm. 4.2: 243

VS 22 B82-83 Diels & Kranz: 32

Irenaeus

Herodian

Adv. haer. 1.7.2: 242; 1.24.5: 242; 3.22.2: 252; 4.33.9: 243; 5.14.1: 242

5.5.3-5: 127; 5.8.1-2: 127

Isocrates Herodotus

Phil. 75.3: 50

1.10.3: 157; 1.92: 293; 1.195: 170; 2.37: 173; 2.104: 173; 3.32: 301; 4.191: 170; 4.194: 170; 7.69: 170; 7.225.2: 284

Jerome Epist. 43.3: 229; 45.5: 215, 216; 107.11: 229; 130.3: 229 In Epist. ad Eph. 5.3-4: 77

314

Index locorum

John Chrysostom

Macrobius

Hom. 28: 226

Sat. 3.13.4: 207

John Lydus

Martial

De mag. 1.6: 72-73, 74-75; 2.9: 73 De mens. 4.112: 73

2.29.9-10: 204

Josephus

Aspis 242: 126 Samia 69: 126

Ant. Iud. 11.331-334: 79

Justin Dial. 80.3: 242 Res. fr. 3.3: 241; 18.5: 241; 18.8: 241; 107.8: 240; 109.10: 241

Justinian Nov. 8 iusiur. (pp. 89.45-90.8 Schöll & Kroll): 71

Juvenal Sat. 3.171-172: 207

Libanius Orat. 1.129: 79; 18.155: 79; 64: 21

Livy 1.16: 140

Longinus Rhet. Gr. 1.2.195 Spengel & Hammer: 23

Lucian De salt. 37-61: 21; 62: 21; 64: 21; 67: 21; 71: 21 Rhet. praec. 1: 58; 3: 58; 9: 59; 11: 36, 59; 12: 36

Lucretius De rer. nat. 5.1021-1023: 22; 5.1028-1033: 22; 5.1041-1055: 22; 5.1056-1090: 22

Lysias Orat. 1.14: 169

Menander

Numenius of Apamea fr. 8 Des Places: 239

Origen Contra Cels. 3.28: 254; 4.14: 253-254; 4.52: 253; 5.14: 253; 6.73: 253

Ovid Amores 1.11: 116; 1.12: 116; 2.10.24: 134; 3.7.35: 134; 3.9: 123; 3.14: 112; 3.15.3: 115 Ars amat. 1.505-524: 142; 1.681-704: 144; 1.720: 144; 2.21-95: 116; 3.33-40: 142; 3.101-125: 142; 3.685-746: 145 Ex Ponto 2.5.1: 115; 3.2.40: 19; 4.13.17-23: 19 Fast. 2.305-359: 126, 127 Her. 9.57-128: 126 Met. 1.21: 141; 1.89-162: 141; 1.474-490: 143; 1.547-556: 263; 1.599-600: 130; 2.1-18: 140; 2.189: 132; 2.206: 132; 2.410-416: 142; 2.414: 132; 2.425: 142; 2.476-481: 263; 2.485: 127; 2.866-867: 132; 3.1: 131; 3.183-185: 143; 3.194-197: 263; 3.203: 127; 3.275-279: 144; 3.289-312: 144; 3.316-338: 132; 3.701-718: 143; 4.6-7: 138; 4.53: 133; 4.218-224: 143; 4.228233: 143; 4.276: 133; 4.279: 132-133; 4.280: 132; 4.284: 133; 4.285-388: 133-135; 4.320-328: 132; 4.354-355: 136; 4.373-379: 91; 4.388: 141; 4.521: 138; 4.611: 130; 4.661: 135; 4.722: 132; 5.388-389: 143; 5.483: 132; 6.2627: 144; 6.103: 131; 6.103-126: 130; 6.113: 130; 6.123: 132; 6.140-145: 263; 6.386-388: 151; 6.616: 128; 6.644-646: 128; 7.257: 138; 7.665865: 145; 7.687-688: 144; 7.781: 132;

315

Index locorum 8.122: 131; 8.131-137: 147; 8.159: 147; 8.191-192: 115; 8.193: 115; 8.198-200: 115; 8.199-204: 150; 8.226-227: 116; 8.322-323: 147; 8.847-874: 136; 8.873: 132; 9.639: 139; 9.668: 136; 9.678-679: 137; 9.697-701: 137; 9.699: 137; 9.710: 137; 9.712-713: 137; 9.715: 137; 9.725: 137; 9.726-763: 151; 9.734: 137; 9.743-744: 138; 9.763: 138; 9.766-770: 137; 9.770-772: 138; 9.786-789: 137; 9.794: 138; 9.796797: 138; 10.79-85: 135; 10.152-154: 135, 139; 10.238-297: 111-124; 10.489-514: 263; 10.568: 142; 11.302: 142; 11.310: 132, 142; 12.169-209: 139; 12.204: 134; 12.459-476: 139; 12.493: 140; 12.500: 140; 12.506: 140; 12.522: 140, 141; 12.530: 140; 13.162-169: 147; 13.670-671: 140; 13.692-699: 140; 13.755-884: 147; 13.922: 132; 14.326-332: 133; 14.609771: 147-149; 15.317-321: 135-136; 15.319: 135; 15.408-410: 135-136 Rem. am. 47-72: 142 Trist. 1.1.114: 128; 1.7.19-20: 128; 3.14.4750: 19; 4.10: 113; 4.10.15-40: 151; 4.10.21-26: 114; 4.10.53-54: 114, 123; 4.10.122: 114; 5.7.55-58: 19; 5.10.3537: 19; 5.12.57-58: 19

Palladius Hist. Laus. praef.: 227-229

Parthenius Path. 15.2: 143

Pausanias 1.14.4: 293, 304; 1.19.1: 126; 1.23.1-2: 304; 1.23.8: 304; 1.24.2: 290, 304; 1.27.910: 304; 2.13.6: 304; 2.17.6: 288, 304; 2.35.5-7: 297; 5.12.5: 304; 5.26.9: 304; 5.27.9: 283; 6.13.9-10: 304; 6.14.4: 304; 6.15.4: 286; 8.20.4: 143; 8.30.6: 304; 9.17.2: 304; 9.31.2: 304; 10.9.3-4: 283, 297, 304; 10.9.12: 304; 10.11.5: 298, 304; 10.13.1: 304; 10.13.5: 288; 10.14.7: 283, 297, 304; 10.15.1: 296, 305; 10.16.5: 305; 10.16.6: 296, 305; 10.18.1: 305;

10.18.4: 283, 290, 297, 305; 10.18.5: 288; 10.18.7: 305

Petronius Sat. 30: 203; 32.1-33.1: 203; 57.9: 207; 103: 190

Pherecydes FGrHist 3 fr. 34: 145

Philodemus Rhet. 1.196 Sudhaus: 23

Philostratus Gymn. 56: 157-158 Vit. Soph. 491: 20

Phlegon of Tralles 4-10: 129

Pindar Isthm. 7.19: 52 Nem. 7.51: 49 Ol. 1.1: 52; 1.11: 49; 6.72-73: 49; 9.47: 49 Pyth. 2.85: 49; 3.103: 49

Plato Crat. 439-440: 239 Euthyd. 288b8: 50 Euthyphro 15d2: 50 Gorgias 482c4-5: 53; 485d4-e2: 49; 485e78: 49; 494b2: 53; 494b6: 53; 494d1: 53; 511a4-5: 50; 523e-524a: 244; 527d6-e1: 53 Hipp. Maior 289a-b: 32 Ion 541e7: 50 Laches 196b1: 50 Nomoi 2.653d9-654a3: 21; 2.672d: 21; 2.673c11-d5: 21; 7.814d10-815d5: 21; 7.816a3-7: 21 Phaedo 90c3-5: 50; 110b: 89 Phaedrus 247b6-e6: 100; 248c5-e3: 102; 252e2-253c2: 102; 253b7-e2: 102; 253d4-e5: 51; 253e6-256a6: 99-100; 278d9: 50

316

Index locorum

Rep. 381b-c: 253; 398e1-10: 46; 404d1-e1: 46; 410d-e: 46; 411a6-b4: 46, 56; 452c: 157; 516e8-517a7: 108; 620b: 147 Symp. 172a1-178a5: 97; 175e7: 102; 181c: 102; 185c4-e5: 97; 188a: 102; 188e2189a6: 97; 189e2-4: 126; 189e5190a4: 88-89; 190a4-8: 96; 190a8-b5: 89; 190b5-c1: 89, 101; 190d4-6: 9596; 190d7-e2: 89; 191d4: 94; 192c2-4: 94; 192c7-d2: 94; 192d3-e4: 90-91; 193a3-7: 96; 193c8-d5: 96; 202b10e1: 101; 205d10-206a1: 98, 100; 209e5-210a2: 101; 211a7-b1: 100; 211e3: 101; 212a2: 99; 212a3: 99; 212a5: 99; 212c4-6: 98; 213b7-9: 107; 215b3-6: 104; 215b7: 102; 215d3-6: 104; 216d6-217a2: 104; 218d2: 102; 219c5: 102; 221e3: 102; 222a8: 102; 222b3: 102; 222b5: 102; 222e1-2: 107; 223b8-9: 97; 223c6-d8: 97 Theaet. 144b5: 46, 56 Tim. 69e-70a: 239; 90a: 239

Polycarp Mart. 11.2: 251

Posidippus Epigr. 66 Austin & Bastianini: 296

Procopius Aed. 1.10.18-19: 69 Anecd. 15.13-15: 68; 30.21-30: 66-68 Bell. 4.9.12: 70; 8.21.1-3: 76

Propertius 4.9: 127

Pseudo-Aristotle Phys. 812b14-19: 168-169

Pseudo-Longinus De subl. 11.3: 54; 13.1: 54, 56; 13.3: 54; 33.5: 54; 35.4: 54

Quintilian Pliny the Elder Nat. hist. 7.36: 129; 8.44: 136; 11.138: 29; 11.139-157: 30; 11.143-144: 30; 11.262: 129; 13.3: 170; 28.50-52: 159; 28.58: 27; 33.29: 202; 34.64: 286; 34.81: 290

Pliny the Younger Epist. 9.5: 248 Pan. 64.2: 79

Plotinus Enn. 5.5.3

Plutarch Alc. 16.1-2: 107 Cato maior 5.3: 300 Lyc. 15.5: 138 Mor. 219e: 126; 245e-f: 138; 304c-e: 126; 845b: 23; 969e-970a: 300; 970b: 300 Per. 21: 299

Inst. orat. 1.5.36-37: 27; 1.8.2: 26; 1.11.1: 26; 1.11.3: 28-29; 1.11.3-19: 26; 5.12.17-21: 34; 6.3.107: 27; 8 pr. 1928: 34; 8 pr. 20: 181; 8 pr. 32-33: 35; 8.3.6-11: 34; 10.1.43: 34; 11.3.1: 24; 11.3.5: 23; 11.3.6-7: 23; 11.3.14: 24; 11.3.14-65: 26; 11.3.19: 26-27; 11.3.23: 27; 11.3.25: 27; 11.3.30: 27; 11.3.32: 26; 11.3.43-45: 27; 11.3.6365: 27, 28; 11.3.66: 20; 11.3.75-77: 29; 11.3.85-87: 30; 11.3.87: 20; 11.3.88-91: 29; 11.3.92-124: 30; 11.3.137-149: 33-34, 207; 11.3.143: 24; 11.3.150-153: 28; 11.3.177-184: 28; 12.10.40-47: 34

Rhet. Her. 3.19: 23, 24; 3.19-27: 24; 3.22: 26, 35; 3.26: 28; 3.27: 24

Script. Hist. Aug. Verus 8: 20; 10-11: 20

Seneca rhetor Polemon De phys. 1.160-164 Foerster: 36

Contr. 1 pr. 7-9: 35; 2 pr. 1: 35; 2.2.12: 151 Suas. 2.23: 35

Index locorum

Seneca

Tacitus

De clem. 1.24.1: 204 De tranq. an. 1.8: 189 Epist. 52.12: 38; 80.9: 192; 88.21: 239-240; 114: 35 Nat. quaest. 7.31.1-3: 35

Ann. 2.87: 74; 6.11: 246

Servius In Aen. 6.445: 146

Simplicius Phys. 371.33: 89

Statius Ach. 1.259-381: 126

St. Augustine s.v. “Augustine”

St. Jerome s.v. “Jerome”

Strabo 14.2.16: 135; 17.2.5: 173

Suetonius Aug. 40: 199, 204; 44: 200; 53.1: 73-74; 100.4: 140 Cal. 36: 127 Iul. 78.1: 76 Nero 21: 127; 51: 203 Tib. 27.1: 74

317

Tertullian Apol. 48: 245 Carn. Chr. 1.2: 242; 15.1: 254 Marc. 3.10: 254; 5.19.7: 240 Res. 5.2: 254; 7.13: 254; 53.3: 254 Scorp. 1.5: 243 Spect. 30.3-4: 251

Theocritus 1.27-56: 140

Theophrastus De od. 42: 171; 57-60: 171

Tibullus 1.3: 123

Valerius Maximus 8.10 ext. 1: 23

Vergil Aen. 1.282: 199; 1.314-320: 130; 5.605620: 144; 5.647-649: 130; 7.401-403: 138; 9.592-637: 150; 9.641-642: 150 Ecl. 3.35-48: 140

Vitruvius De arch. 2.8.11-12: 135

Sulpicia

Xenophon

3.8.11-20: 118-119; 3.10: 120-121; 3.11: 120-121; 3.11.13-18: 121; 3.12: 120121; 3.13.1-2: 117, 122; 3.13.3-5: 121; 3.13.7-8: 117

Cyr. 1.3.2: 170; 8.1.41: 170 Mem. 1.4.11: 32; 2.1.21: 50; 2.1.22: 51, 169; 2.1.24: 51; 2.1.26: 51; 2.1.27: 51; 2.1.28: 51; 2.1.29: 51; 2.1.30-33: 51 Oec. 4.23: 170; 6.10: 169; 10.2: 169; 10.11: 163 Symp. 2.3-4: 171

Sulpicius Severus Dialogus II 5.7-9: 78-79